Worry warp

July 17, 2013

Though I’m busy writing stories and editing other people’s work, I’m always looking for ways to fill the gaps in my retirement. Luckily, I have one talent that (unlike my body) never gets old: I am a highly experienced Worrier.

This syndrome appears in many forms, like the did I’s and the what if’s. Did I: lock that door? Scarf down some past-its-prime fish? Remember to pack my hearing aids? What if: that tiny skin patch is the big C? This dangerous heat doesn’t lift like the forecast says? I’ll never get a book deal and might have blown the endgame of my life? You get the idea. (I hope you do. Did I not write clearly enough?)

This is nothing new; even as a kid, I felt an uncommon amount of anxiety, which I didn’t get from my folks. My dad was cheerful, easygoing, and undaunted by rejection from customers for the office supplies he sold. Mom was generally unflappable and fond of saying, “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” with the kind of level-headedness President Obama possessed.

Of course, a certain amount of fear and paranoia is useful if not essential for survival in these times. I just wish mine didn’t always leap forward to DefCon 5 / worst-case mode. The great majority of the stuff I fret about never comes to pass, while the real problems are bizarre and unexpected, like the pandemic and Ron DeSantis.

I could worry myself into a lather over the fact that I worry so much. Luckily I did inherit my parents’ sense of humor, or at least they told me I did (and if you argue with my mother I’m going to get seriously mad!). So I’ll end this by reminding myself to chill and have a little faith. I hope you’ll join me.