I was on the phone with Michelle on Monday night, chatting about this and that when somehow we got around to how crazed we can get, worrying about all kinds of things from the large to the miniscule.
I was telling her about all the things I have going on, and how I feel like I need to get certain things finished in order to have peace of mind. As we continued our conversation, we discussed how most of the pressure we have on our shoulders was placed there by none other than…ourselves.
To me, that’s a more difficult pressure to work with than if it had been placed on me by someone else, because I can’t seem to get away from myself (imagine that!).
I mentioned to Michelle that I have absolutely no reason to be stressed out all the time. Frankly, the things I worry about are often bizarre (ask my family), and it occurred to me that not only can I not remember the last time I didn’t feel worried about something, but I also can’t imagine (in the future) a state of mind in which I’m not worried about something.
On that note, those people who are completely laid back and don’t seem to have a care in the world? DRIVE ME INSANE. They shouldn’t though, right? Their worries (or lack thereof) don’t affect me, and really, I should be happy for them, with their lack of furrowed brow, their unclenched fists, and their ability to remember…well, things. That’s right, I’m totally jealous.
In my case, because of the types of things I worry about, worrying must be a choice. I’m not talking about being worried about things like a family member in poor health, or financial survival, or other major issues: I’m blessed to have a life that is currently devoid of things like that. I worry about the fact that, when I really get into the writing zone, the clutter in my house builds up. I worry about how I never remember to pull something out of the freezer for dinner. I worry about things that are out of my control, because they’re out of my control.
After hanging up with Michelle, I thought about making the choice to not be so tightly-wound all the time. What would that be like? Could I pull it off?
The more I thought about it, the more I started to worry that I wouldn’t be able to.
I think I’ve got some work to do, don’t you?
©2010 Suburban Scrawl