Gut Check

So with today’s writing prompt, I’m meant to answer “What’s a time you followed your gut and it turned out to be exactly right?” Which is hilarious. Because my gut isn’t some wise, mystical oracle. My gut is just a tight little ball of localized panic. The administrative nightmare of existing inside my own body is trying to figure out where the reasonable caution ends and the anxiety begins. Because my gut weighs in on everything. It has no sense of scale. It treats a slightly-too-cheerful barista with the exact same level of urgency as a dark alleyway. It looks at my phone and screams, “Don’t answer that call! It’s an unknown number, which means it is either a collection agency, a kidnapping ransom, or worse, someone asking you to socialize. Break the device! Break it!” It looks at my closet and goes, “Don’t wear that shirt! Everyone will know you’re a fraud.” And because it overreacts so often, I just ignore it. I have to. Otherwise, I’d be wrapped in tin foil, hiding in a blanket…