Writing class

Tonight I am supposed to take my first writing class. If you remember, I planned on taking a class earlier this month. Unfortunately, I missed it because my Target set up for work took such a long time. This class meets for four sessions and we’ll work on the different aspects of writing a short story.
I’ve got a few excuses to skip this class tucked away just in case I don’t muster the courage to go. I haven’t been feeling well lately or Thursdays are my long days for work, I’m not sure my mind can function well at the end of the day. The class costs more than $15.00, my default spending amount. Anything over $15.00 and I wonder, “Do I really need this?” The only exception to this rule is sporting equipment, in that case no spending limit applies. I would gladly spend $2,000 on a new bike for my husband if it meant he would enjoy riding more. Equipment and gear equals fun in my mind, and who wouldn’t spend lots of money for fun?
I know that I need to take these writing classes. I need to take several, tons of them. For me to step into this class, I need to shore up a water tower full of confidence and courage in order to wrap my clammy hands around a pen and write. I pray that the teacher doesn’t force us to share what we write. I could vomit if that is that case, which could possibly make a great story.

Speaking of throwing up, the sensation of losing my lunch is actually a really good indicator that I am on the right track. Some people experience chills, others can describe a rush of euphoria sweeping across their bodies, or there are a lucky few that see clear images of themselves in moments of the crystal ball nature. Me? I feel like someone's dad just spun me with reckless abandon on the merry go round and I need to lie down or risk spewing in front of all the neighbors at the park. Ironically, all of this all means that I am probably doing the right thing.

Still, I keep coming back to what this year is all about for me. It is about pushing out and finally doing these things instead of just wondering and pondering about them. That means going to class after work when I would probably rather go home and throw my pajamas on and read a story instead of try to write one.