I’m on a train where I just walked past a mom and, standing next to her, her little boy who has dumped on his seat an entire parking lot’s worth of toy cars. He is deep into a brrm brrm brrrm fantasy, which reminds me of traveling with my daughters when …
I’m trying to figure out how many future unborn generations I should worry about. Down to my great grandchildren seems reasonable. But if I care about them, shouldn’t I care about their children and grandchildren and so forth? There is no end. It’s like one of those photographs of someone …
The splendid thing about being a worrywart with a blog is that you awaken worrying how you’ll come up with an idea for your next post, even though you know that one worry after another will pop up into your head all day long like a CNN ribbon winding itself …
This may sound cockeyed but–without a religious streak strong enough to be sure prayers get answered–I feel doomed to a lifetime of worry. Yet I spring to action each evening when the stars show up. I realize, of course, that if I tell you my nightly wish on a star, …
A worrywart can benefit from a connection to God. If I believed prayers were answered, I wouldn’t need to worry anymore. Even though I’m an agnostic, I consider my relationship with God a pretty good one. Like those halfway-decent, parallel-play marriages between two independent sorts, God and I go into …
I wrote “worry” on my to-do list to remind myself to buy the book with that title. When my oldest daughter caught sight of my list, she thought that my chores for the day were to call the dentist, roast a chicken and worry. She knows me well. What …
Sometimes I play a game in which I name an object and then try to associate a worry with it, just to see if I can stump myself. “Venetian blinds,” I say. “Peeping Tom!” I answer without having inhaled. “Tomatoes,” I try. “Salmonella poisoning!” Another way to play is to …