gear shift: the process.

As Valentine’s Day approaches, I tend to find myself listening to more pop music on my drives around town. It’s easier to live some fluffy fantasy vocalized by such titans of talent as Justin Beiber and Selena Gomez…but seriously — they are catchy. I think back to years ago, when I worked as a (very tired, non-earlybird) barista at a Starbucks. January was the monthwe spun a Buddy Holly collection, and of course for February we were to listen to one of the biggest classics on repeat: the infamous Frank Sinatra.

I’ve always been more of a Buddy Holly girl than a Frank Sinatra one, but there’s something really luxurious in old love songs that just isn’t there anymore. There’s something gorgeous about that initial feeling you know he’s singing about in “Fly Me to the Moon.” I suppose being able to swing my hips to “Peggy Sue” just made more sense to me while steaming milk for lattes and pulling espresso shots.

—T his isn’t working, here’s what’s really on my mind. Prepare for a hard gear shift —

A year ago today, someone tried to lure me into a classic “rape-van.” I was told there were puppies inside, probably because I was walking my beloved dog at the time. The guy yelled to me from the driver’s window multiple times as I laughed and said “oh, one is enough for me, thanks!”

I brushed it off until I got to the end of the block, looked back and saw him still driving slowly and watching me in his mirror…and then I took off. Did that really just happen? Did he really just look at me, size me up, and think “oh she’ll come to me if I tell her I have a litter of puppies in my van.” Does he think I was born yesterday? That I’ve never watched SVU or had the “stranger danger” talk when, oh, I don’t know, I was five years old?

Perhaps my writer’s block really was exhaustion yesterday, and then remembering paralyzing fear today. I keep wanting to write about love and attraction because, let’s face it — it would be incredibly timely and can be a deliciously fun and sexy topic. Valentine’s Day is mere days away at this point. But perhaps what I’ll write about today is the fact that I was not really equipped mentally to deal with that on that day, nor today.

I remember calling my then-boyfriend (who was out of town, where he lived half of the week) who just laughed. He wasn’t concerned; he knew I was smart enough not to get myself into trouble. Still, I was terrified. I had to go back outside and get into my car, just on the other side of the block from where he’d seen me and tried to get me to come to his vehicle. I knew someone would be watching…it was a matter of making it into the car and locking the door before anything could happen to me. Once inside, I could turn up my music, look at my phone and dial in 911 just in case, and drive away from that place. My poor dog, however, would be trapped inside that house until I was off of work.

Even writing it brings back the memory of fear. Fear is primal, uncontrollable, and can give you a the swift kick to the nads of reality if dosed correctly. I’ve told myself over and over: that it really is over.

I’m safe. I’m fine. I never have to go back there again. Nothing happened, but it almost did. It’s the “but” that brings me back. “But it could have.” I have to find a way to work through it and see past the past updates. The Camaro is over. The feral cat in my kitchen isn’t there anymore. The spiders aren’t spinning webs on my freshly washed flatware. My mattress isn’t molding. My tub isn’t threatening to crash into the crawlspace. The kids next door aren’t banging on my door or breaking my windows. There is no longer a man standing outside my window at night, eating and staring through the slits in my curtains. It’s over.

I’m OK.