The Fine Art of Worrying

I worry. I really worry a lot. Not because someone in my family is deathly ill or because I'm in great financial debt.

I worry because I can't help myself. I was born a worrier and I'll probably die a worrier. That worries me.

I don't worry about the big things in life like terrorist bombings or natural disasters, although maybe I should. I worry more about bad hair days, what my horoscope rally means and the drip drip drop under my kitchen sink that won't seem to stop.

People say, “Don't Worry. Be Happy.” But those people worry me. I mean, how we as a human race would ever have survived if back in primitive days cave men just sat back on their rocks and relaxed, instead of worrying about the beast just around the corner.

No, you constantly have to be on the alert and worried all the time.

Worrying no doubt has saved me countless times on airplanes when I, with clammy palms, sat clutching my arm rests every time we hit an air pocket and I sweat bullets. I worry that if I hadn't worried so much we might have crashed.

Worrying has been the fuel, too that has fed my car when I – too worried about being late, getting lost, etc. - forgot to put gas in my car. Then, I worried all the way to the gas station on an empty tank and thankfully made it home alive.

The only thing that really worries me about worrying is when I know I ought to be worrying about something but I can't remember quite what it was.

You know, like the feeling you get when you're driving to the airport on the way to a nice vacation in Hawaii and everything seems too good to be true, and suddenly out of nowhere, you break into a cold sweat, thinking, “Now, what's wrong with this picture? Did I forget my bathing suit, my socks, my tickets?” Then, finally as you've reassured yourself that everything's OK, you sit bolt upright in your seat in the middle of take-off and you know with absolute certainty that you left the kitchen stove on and that the drip drip drop in your kitchen has not yet stopped.

Then, once you've worried yourself into a tizzy and go full circle with all of your fears, you'll feel a whole lot better once you realize that the kitchen stove long ago set the house on fire, but that the flood that ensued from the dripping faucet has put the fire out.

Then, you can sit back and relax knowing full well that all your worrying wasn't in vain.

(Readers can e-mail Lisa at lisal@thegrid.net.)