Worrywart
If I wake up in emotional neutral, I can’t leave well enough alone. I run through my mental card catalog of worries before beginning the day.
This usually starts with a physical self inventory. Am I regular? Why is that foot sore? Is there a headache forming behind the left eye? This is likely to escalate through the day: do I have IBD? Is the foot gangrenous? Will the retina detach?
After the physical accounting, I move on to personality evaluation. Why am I so annoying? Why don’t I ever quite close a drawer? Must I interrupt? Are my posts worth the time you spend on them? Should I care, or is this all about me? I worry.
If I make it to round three, I fret about family and friends. Is Keith romancing the right woman? Will Renee’s book soar or crash and burn? Will Mindy forgive me for being a bad friend who never writes? Is Steve actually getting pleasant in his geezer years? Are my clients conspiring against me?
Add to this my new batch of Invisible Friends. Is Lucy’s Mom doing well with her consignment of sorrows? When will Emily get home where she belongs? What the hell has happened to Pete?
After picking all these bones, I move on to world affairs. Anyone who is worried about this administration, take a step to the left. Anyone who isn’t, well, the You Fall We Haul funeral home will collect you soon because you must be dead.
When all the real worries have taken their toll, there’s always room for the free floating category. Killer bees. Who will make the Final Four. Can Elliot Yamin sing now that his teeth have been fixed?
My resolution every year is to quit worrying about things I can’t help. And it worries me that I will break it until I do. I just may be too worried today to get out of bed.
