Member-only story
I fantasize about being in the spotlight. Mike in my hand and a vast audience in front. Delivering a compelling speech that leaves everyone gasping in astonishment. The sound of the thundering applause gives me goosebumps. Lying on my bed staring at the ceiling, I bask in this imaginary glory. I often get so excited that I lose my sleep.
But when I have to confront a shopkeeper who sold me a broken pair of glasses, I turn into a bundle of nerves.
Lying on my bed staring at the ceiling a day before confronting him, I imagine going berserk at him. But as soon as I step out of my house, I feel weak in the knees. Trepidation lingers on the way. And the moment I step inside the shop, I am on the verge of a panic attack.
I return home with the same pair of glasses. Often fixed with glue. On the way back I feel terrible. And to compensate for my lack of machoism, I rationalize that the shopkeeper was a good person. He did not have to face my wrath.
On those days, I lie on my bed, stare at the ceiling, and fall asleep.
I idolized Federer as a kid. I pulled several all-nighters watching the gripping Federer vs Nadal Wimbledon finals at the lush green Centre courts. I loved his demeanor and his smooth…
