Recently I came home from a book fair, bronzed from a glorious day in the spring sunshine.
Some who stopped to chat commented, “You don’t look like a worrywart.” To them I said you don’t have to look like a worrywart to be one. Yet, am I a fraud to call myself a worrywart, given my upbeat nature and tendency toward optimism?
Isn’t it a paradox to be an optimistic worrywart, given that optimism implies a belief that things will work out okay and worry implies concern about future upheaval? I’m at work on this and will get back to you when I have an answer.
This leads me to wonder why religious people would worry. If they believe in the power of prayer, all they have to do is pray.
Whenever I’m worried, I have to pay. My therapist is my Lord.
So I arrived home from the book fair looking forward to an evening of British soap operas on TV. But soon my plans were dashed.
I had used my wheelie bag to tote my books; I had zipped my laptop into the outside pocket. To my shock, when I opened the outside pocket, all I saw was an empty compartment.
- Oh, darn, all I wanted to do was relax and now I’m going to have to drive an hour round trip—surely someone found my computer and turned it in.
- It’s a good thing all my files are backed up.
- If I don’t find my missing laptop, it will be great to get a new one. I’m certainly not looking forward to shelling out for a new laptop, but I have been due for a new one for some time now.
- Let me check the wheelie bag again.
All the while I astound myself by being as calm as a snoozing beagle.
I look in my wheelie and guess what—there it is, my laptop, its black case blending in with the black lining of my suitcase, the way black tank tops do, ones that show up a year or two after a vacation.
Oh good, I thought without a lot of affect, my glee at not having to drive for an hour offset by my disappointment of not having to get a new computer.
This secret hope for a new laptop instead of finding the old one reminds me of the time my brother dropped pins in the goldfish bowl, so they would die, because he wanted to get his marbles from the bottom of the bowl.
What lost and found story do you have?
MARRIAGE, RELATIONSHIPS, PSYCHOTHERAPISTS, AND MORE IN MY NEW MEMOIR . . .
Confessions of a Worrywart: Husbands, Lovers, Mothers, and Others
“Readers of all ages will relate to this deeply personal story, told with comical sensibility by a quirky, startlingly honest mother, daughter, ex-wife, and dog lover, who—à la Nora Ephron—will feel like a dear friend. Confessions of a Worrywart: Husbands, Lovers, Mothers, and Others will stay with you long after you finish reading it.” (adapted from Amazon description and culled from Amazon reviews)
The perfect book for worrywarts or anyone who enjoys a “neurotic, hilarious, poignant,” deeply personal story.