I don’t remember having a “woobie” as a kid.

[I frequenty lugged around a favorite stuffed animal, a Pound Puppy half my size that looked kinda like this, named Fred. But I didn't NEED Fred to, like, function. We gave each other space. He was a good pal, though, and is still kenneled somewhere in the recesses of my childhood closet.]

I find it funny, though, the pacifiers we take on as adults: Cigarettes. Alcohol. Sex. Food. Marathons of The Hills. You know, those instant gratifiers, guaranteed to quickly soothe our daily agitations. Today, for example. Today was one of those days where maybe nothing monumentally bad happens, but three or four people unknowingly chip away at the very core of your sanity.

Chip, chip, chip.

And maybe the words they said, when you say them again out loud? Aren’t even particularly critical. But maybe by afternoon you’re already fragile and teetering on the edge of self-loathing, so any phrase that isn’t wrapped in praise and rainbows sounds like an insult to your competence.

Chip, chip, chip.

I think it was around 4:22pm when I threw up my hands in surrender, cried “You win, Monday!” and bitterly sulked to my car. I instinctively turned to the old standbys - a cigarette on the drive home (just one, mom), anticipation of a few drinks later on (just a couple, dad), but more than anything I wanted the infallible balm to my weary soul: Track two of “Plastic Ono Band” on vinyl, and the hardwood floors of my apartment.

I’ve mentioned this before. But now, I think I can confirm: this is my woobie. This is my Pavlovian response to anxiety, to that-which-I-cannot-control: listening to “Hold On” on repeat and just lying perfectly still. Like today? I busted through the door, dropped my keys wherever they fell, kicked off my shoes, and dove headfirst into our box of records. My heart was palpitating; my fingers couldn’t find it fast enough.

We have a shag rug in the listening room, now, and I actually PULL IT BACK so I can lie DIRECTLY ON THE FLOORBOARDS. I don’t know why this is important, but it just IS. Those poplar panels have been there since 1865, and I often think about the faces that have been pressed against them, cool wood and hot tears.

The song is short, of course, and sometimes requires a readjustment of the needle several times over.

But I’ll be damned if I don’t stand up a new woman, every time.