My Year with Eleanor Read Online Free

dubious.
    Chris was even less charitable. “It sounds a little crazy.  I would hate to see you in a straitjacket, Noelle. They’re really unflattering. They just add bulk.” He added, “Though I have to admit, the idea of taking a year just to focus on me does sound pretty appealing.”
    Maybe it was crazy. Then again, our culture constantly sought lifestyle advice from celebrities, many of whom rose to fame on nothing more than sex tapes or a willingness to argue with others on camera while living in mansions provided by television networks. Wasn’t that crazy? Eleanor was more than a celebrity—she was a role model. This was an anxious girl who grew up to become a social activist and a First Lady who held regular news conferences, wrote a newspaper column six days a week, and carried a pistol. In her downtime, she helped form the United Nations and establish the state of Israel. She assisted Franklin in carrying out the New Deal. It was an experiment in which the government poured resources into various programs to restore growth and public morale.
    I told myself that this experiment could be my own New Deal: investing in myself now to create future growth. But part of me wondered if Chris was right and this was simply an exercise in self-indulgence. Shouldn’t I be serving others? Then I remembered what Dr. Bob said about anxiety reducing our effectiveness in the world. Wasn’t living a fearful life also self-indulgent? I wasn’t fully contributing to the world if I was pulling back from it all the time. Not only that, worriers are draining to other people. I didn’t want to keep dragging others down. If Dr. Bob was right about fear perpetuating fear in ourselves, my fears probably touched those I came in contact with in ways I couldn’t even comprehend.
    I went into Microsoft Word and opened up the blank document: “My One-Year Plan.” Finally I knew where to begin. I started with the things Dr. Bob and I had talked about. The bowling and the karaoke . . . what was I really afraid of there? I wrote down, “Public humiliation. Failure.” Then I thought about other things I’d been avoiding lately. My friends. Meeting new people. Public speaking.
    â€œRejection,” I typed. Talking to my boyfriend about the future. “That Matt will leave me and I’ll be alone.” I paused and reread that line again, jarred by an anxiety I hadn’t previously admitted to myself. “Leaving this world with nothing to show for it but excessive knowledge of celebrity scandals.” Thinking of my lifelong fear of an untimely death, I wrote, “Leaving this world before I’m ready.”
    Words were pouring out now, the cursor gliding easily across the screen as I attempted to list every fear I’d ever had, everything I’d backed down from or taken pains to avoid. When I finally stopped writing ten minutes later, I was astounded at the amount of sheer wussiness before me. The things I had listed ranged from physical fears (heights, flying, crashing into things) to more emotional fears (public speaking, criticism, confrontation, regret, disapproval) to the slightly ridiculous (sharks, sober dancing, the time I lied and told my dad I voted for McCain).
    As I looked at the list, I saw how this could actually work. I really could confront a fear each day. Some of them could be grand gestures, like jumping off a cliff or skydiving; others could be small things, like telling someone what I really thought of them. Fear is relative. To some people, stepping on a stage is no big deal, but for me, the mere thought made my heart race. If something gave me butterflies or an inclination to flee, then it was worth trying. Just as I was about to pull up a calendar page on my computer and plot out my life for the next 365 days, I remembered something else that Eleanor said. I grabbed a book and flipped around until I found it: “You cannot use