Under the buzzing fluorescent lights of the 34th Street Wal-Mart in St. Petersburg, Fla., my roommates raced toward the butter. I dragged behind, pushing a cart.

I heard their cackling from aisles away. Ben Koski waved his hands, his face red from laughing. Erika Alexander clutched her stomach, doubled over.

I stared randomly at the gleaming tile as I pushed.

Wal-Mart looked so clean it made my head throb. I'm sure that dirt streaked the tiles, but I didn't notice.

All I could think of that Sunday night were the two steno pads tucked in my book bag, filled with notes on VFW Post 39. All I could think of was the pressure of turning them into a story -- my first story here at the Poynter Institute -- and the pressure of meeting Tuesday's noon deadline with all the speakers lined up between now and then.

I didn't have a car. I was stuck. Stuck with people who didn't seem to get just how much was at stake with this first project. Ben had said he would drive me to Poynter to work on my story. That was an hour and a half ago. Now it was approaching midnight.

I rolled closer. I was going to tell them we needed to leave. Then something from the left caught my eye: Tostitos.

I threw the bag of chips in the cart. And I tossed a jar of salsa on the cart's baby seat.

***

I think my problem developed in ninth grade - when enjoying and living each moment began to escape me.

High school introduced a different grading system. Instead of a letter, our report cards now showed percentages. Suddenly, A's weren't good enough. My parents had always said that if I did my best, that's all that mattered. But for some reason, I couldn't let myself settle for less than 100 percent.

Beyond that demand, I landed the lead in the school musical. That year I also joined the track team and ran as one of the key sprinters. I kept up my piano lessons and continued playing for various community events.

But instead of enjoying each activity, I could only think about what else I had to do. In study hall, I hunched over physics problems while my friends talked and laughed. I rehearsed lines in my head as I stretched on the field. I created a mental to-do list while my piano teacher explained a technique.

In college, it only got worse. With three minors, I spent my nights working in front of a glaring computer, wishing I could make it to the movies with my friends. On even the smallest break between classes, I called a source for a story instead of going out to lunch. I sat through dinners with visiting family members and kept one eye on my watch, anxious to get home and study.

Junior year, I decided to rebel. I was sick of being the friend who wasn't there half the time. I skipped my easy classes to grab lunch with friends. I went out Thursday nights. I glued myself to the couch instead of performing in musicals.

Within a few months, my social life rocketed. Even my grades stayed high. I was finally normal -- almost.

As much as I fought it, stress still brought me down more than the people around me. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't let go of those nights were I'd pass on a drink for a routine assignment they would have blown off. When I was out at the bars, I wondered what I was missing at the activities I had given up. Those evenings on the couch, I couldn't shake the anxiousness I felt to sing, to study, to do something.

I just didn't understand: Why couldn't I be like everyone else and relax?

***

Toward the end of the six weeks at Poynter, my roommate Toru Fujioka sat at the kitchen table in our suite. I stood across from him fixing a salad.

I told him I was worried about whether I'd finish my story by deadline. He shrugged. He wasn't done either, but he looked so damned relaxed.

"Can I tell you something?" Toru asked. He tilted his head and looked at me, a mix of compassion and concern. "You care about so many things. But you don't need to worry so much."

I couldn't believe it. Despite the past two years of consciously trying to relax, I still couldn't fool myself or anyone else. I was busy, stressed and obsessed with my work.

I realized then that even my attempts at relaxation were forced and busy. Last summer, when I made a balanced lifestyle top priority, I woke up, exercised, worked at my internship, came home and went out with friends and family. I even made a list of all the things I would do with the free time I had left that summer: read, draw, learn world history from my sister, who had just studied the subject.

For all my effort, Toru's comment proved nothing had changed.

***

But this realization would come weeks after that Sunday night at Wal-Mart.

As I shoved the cart toward Erika and Ben after picking up salsa and chips, I couldn't believe I saw them still laughing.

I had a lede unfolding in my mind for that first story, and I just had to get it down before I lost it. I knew it was time to break up the party.

"Hey guys!" I called. Their heads snapped toward me -- eyes wide and mouths gaping.

"Watch out!" Erika screamed.

But it was too late: The salsa fell through the leg hole of the baby seat.

I heard a crack and felt warm liquid on the bare skin of my foot. I was sliding. The cart rolled away. My arms flailed as my feet slipped out from under me. I landed hard on my butt, somehow smacking my right shin off the wet tile.

But I wasn't aware of the real sequence of events until my roommates told me afterward. What I knew at the time was this:

I opened my eyes to find myself sprawled on Wal-Mart's floor, covered with salsa in a bed of shattered glass.

"Code white in Aisle 15! Code white in Aisle 15!" a voice boomed over the loudspeaker.

Erika and Ben hovered on my right. The smell of spiced tomato pierced my nostrils.

"Don't move, OK?" they told me. "I think there's blood."

Wal-Mart employees swarmed around me. One had a first-aid kit. Another carried a gallon of water. Still another snapped pictures of me, zooming in on my oozing foot.

"We might have to tweeze the glass out," the woman with the first-aid kit said.

She washed my foot. Erika wiped the salsa from my sandals, and Ben filled out the incident report. I guess I did break up their fun.

I never got to Poynter that night, and the truth is, I haven't changed. Learning to live in the moment will have to come one lesson at a time.

For now, I've learned at least this much: Always make sure groceries are secure inside the cart. Especially glass jars.

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