Here I am, two days before my reading/signing at Indigo in Burlington, Ontario, and you’d think by now this would be old hat. Well, it is. Sort of. Yet it remains that for several weeks before every gig I obsess: did the books arrive? I check the shipping confirmation for the 20th time. Did I send the promotional posters and bookmarks? I check that shipping confirmation yet again. Have I promoted the event? Yep, Facebook, blog, Chapters Community, Goodreads, Linkedin and Twitter; perhaps media in the region. Ah, check the media in the region to see if newspapers have actually printed the article for which I was interviewed.

But, then, there’s the whole public image thing, and that’s what really sends me into a tizzy. I’m a very large woman, and public perception of fat people is they’re lazy, stupid and gorge, people of no talent and no consideration. Just look at the Susan Boyle phenomenon. What’s more, arthritis has taken a great deal of the mobility and grace for which I was known when younger, and so people assume I lumber about because of weight, little realizing that every step I take, every hour I exist, is one of pain.

Because of those public misconceptions I fuss with hair styles, hair products, trying out enhancing my unruly curly hair, straightening my unruly curly hair. Maybe I should just shave my head and wear outrageous hats. No, just go with the curl. It’s what I usually end up doing, that and a little mousse to help things stay where they should.

I tamp teeth whitening strips onto my mashers, carefully folding my lips over the thin films so as not to disturb them and count off the time, while trying not to swallow, until I can remove the vile, gooey things. I look in the mirror, grinning like some manic cartoon character. Are my teeth any whiter? Haven’t a clue. But at least there’s a hope they’re whiter. Flash that smile.

Then there’s the ‘I have nothing to wear’ argument I wage with myself for days and days. I often feel like the main character in Margaret Atwood’s Cat’s Eye, viewing the expanse of her rump in a mirror and despairing that anything is going to look flattering. I vacillate between doing the artistic bo-ho thing, or the crisp corporate look. I usually opt for something in-between, so I don’t know why I fuss and fret, and wake up at 2:00 of the blessed a.m. thinking about clothes.

Usually by the time I get to the event I’m quite collected. All the pre-performance jitters vanish and I go into automatic pilot, a winning smile at the ready. I shake hands with staff. I settle myself for show-time, and the metaphorical curtain goes up and I sail through the next three hours, engaging in what I hope is articulate conversation. It’s second-nature. Why had I obsessed so?

And the event winds down, I make the journey home again, home again, jiggity-jig, and start the whole process over again for the event the following month.

Who ever said neuroses can’t be part of a healthy life-style?