I
am worried about not having enough to worry about. The list I maintain
entitled "Stuff I Should be Worried About" is currently down to only two
items:
1. Someone will discover that I wasn't really all that "sick" during many of the sick days I took as a teacher in Hingham.
2. I will run out of Gold Bond powder. (Don't ask!)
Now
to fully appreciate the importance of this shrinking list, you have to
know the context. I have been a compulsive worrier for as long as I can
remember.
(Note to self: Should I be worried that I can't remember back as far as I once did?)
One of my earliest lists contained this bullet point:
...I am worried that my second grade teacher, Miss Finan, hates Jews.
She didn't. She just hated me.
As
an urban Jew born shortly after World War II, I felt that the ability
to worry compulsively over all sorts of large and small concerns was
part of my birthright. Kind of like the wonderful Italians I knew who
felt they should be able to lay stone at a moment's notice or the many
delightful Irishmen in and around Boston who took some of the worst
moments in their lives and turned them into melodic Guinness-infused
songfests. Worrying was the gift my ancestors bequeathed me and I was
going to wring every last drop out of this sad offering.
Hey, let's go to Bermuda...What if there's no parking?
Look, it's the ice cream truck...What if he doesn't have correct change?
How
about taking the trolley into Boston...What if the electric thingie
comes unhinged and we have to transfer and I lose that little transfer
paper and I have to pay again and then I don't have enough money for a
slice of pizza that I was counting on and...well, you get the idea.
I
wrapped myself in WORRY. I loved WORRY. I could always count on WORRY
to help me get through the good times and return me to the comfortable,
miserable place I coveted. Misery was my happy place.
Until
recently, I never had to search for worry and misery. There was plenty
of it everywhere I looked. Heck, from October, 2006 until October, 2009 I
had enough Worry and Misery to begin my own Worry Export business. We
had such a surplus, we were able to export tons of worry to former
worry-free locales like Shangri-La and Machu Picchu. Both of these
places used some of that start-up seed worry to open Avalanche Insurance
companies that are the envy of the industry. Also, if you look
carefully, many of the Tibetan monks now have safety pins holding their
saffron robes in place, a nod to some of the worry I was able to export
to these formerly carefree folks. Yes, I had so much worry during those
years I was more than happy to spread it around.
My
supply decreased some when I moved to Florida in 2010 but there was
still more than enough to go around. I remember worrying that the minute
someone on the Panhandle heard me speak, he or she would shoot me with a
semi-automatic weapon. Because of that worry, I only nodded my first
year down here.
Then I was worried that I would have to eat okra. That caused a few sleepless nights, believe me.
Of
course the granddaddy of all worry-makers occurred last July. That was
when older son Josh informed me he had stomach and esophageal cancer.
Yes, that news topped off my stock of worry to record levels. Somehow,
the concern about okra didn't seem quite so...worrisome. And with Cindy
and the twins, Sam and Sara, in the mix...well, I was experiencing new
levels of worry previously thought to be unattainable except for a few
shamans and senior accountants at Enron.
Last
week a highly skilled surgeon at Brigham and Women's Hospital in Boston
blithely removed the source of all that worry: Josh's stomach, spleen,
and a small part of his pancreas, leaving me temporarily at a loss for
what to worry about. I say temporarily because in a couple of weeks Josh
will get the results of a pathological study that may provide some new
reason to worry. And he is bound to have more chemo infusions to endure
which are a great source of worry and vitamin D.
Then
there is Nancy, a new and very welcome addition to my life. She is
bound to discover that I am not as funny as I seemed to be over that
first salad we shared.
The
Red Sox will be another good fountain o' worry, as they have been for
me since I first heard Curt Gowdy say, "Hi neighbor, have a 'gansett."
By the way, they still make that crap, which really makes me worry.
Other
current worry providers: My so-far successful diet. My golf swing. My
Second Amendment rights. (I'm worried I may be tempted to assert them if
Wacky Wayne LaPierre utters even one more word in public.) Estonia.
(You really have to be a worrier to be worried about Estonia.) The
Bruins' power play. My hair and body wash products.
Yes, when I stop to think about it, I guess there will always be enough for me to worry about.
Even without Josh's stomach.
Ain't life grand?
J
