I’m a worrier. Far and away, this is my worst characteristic (aside from my nose which I’ve always rightfully believed to be a bit too bulb-y). But schnoz aside, it has to be the worrying. Yes, it’s solidly the worrying. That’s my major downfall.
Nobody likes a worrier, especially when said worrier is also very vocal about their mostly-completely-ridiculous and unfounded concerns.
Not surprisingly, I am a one such worrier.
I’m sure my desire to share every one of my mostly-unfounded-completely ridiculous concerns with my nearest and dearest drives said “nearest and dearest” quite insane.
In fact, I’d worry that I’m somehow driving these loved ones away with my exhaustive yammering on about my overblown anguish, but I don’t really have time for that. I’m far too busy to worry about logical, probably pretty real concerns like that when I have other completely-ridiculous-mostly-unfounded things to obsess over.
Some people have genuine concerns, real, concrete problems. I, for the most part, don’t (though now that I went and said that, I’m worried that I’ve somehow jinxed myself).
By and large though, I’ve got it pretty good and I realize that.
I’m very aware of the fact that my life, in most respects, is pretty gosh-darn awesome–I get it. I legitimately enjoy spending time with my family and I love them a lot, every day, even when (and some times, most especially) when they drive me insane. My friends are far cooler than me but, by some happy miracle, haven’t been smart enough to realize it yet. I can always find shoes in my size. I’m not lactose intolerant. I have Netflix AND HuluPlus. Also, aside from the aforementioned schnoz, I’m not bizarrely-proportioned.
And, oh yeah, I’m a college-educated, middle-class American–I’ve got it pret-tay dang good.
I get that. Trust me. I’m well-aware.
Mark me down as grateful over here.
Given how awesome I think I (and everyone around me) is, I’m actually pretty offended by the common misconception that worry warts don’t appreciate what they have. I can’t argue for other worry warts, but for my part, I’d argue that I’m actually hyper aware of how great I’ve got it. I’m so aware of it that I’ve had the gumption to become hyper-vigilant in preserving it.
This hyper-vigilance, however, has some unfortunate side effects. I won’t elaborate, but let’s just say the seemingly never-ending catalog of actual side-effects on WebMD is not kind to worry-warts of the slightly-hypochondriac variety such as myself.
Some people who are much wiser than I am, have pointed out that my hyper-vigilance in preserving my life ironically causes me to miss out on the whole “living life” thing.
Touche, smarty pants. Touche.
The problem with smarty pants people like this is they are always insufferably sane people who say completely asinine and cliche things like “Mind over matter” or “If you don’t want to think about it, don’t.” These people obviously have a mind that doesn’t matter, or a mind that, at the very least, is not as infinitely creative and powerful as mine.
I’m blaming my super-worrying muscle on genetics. I’m not pulling this out of thin air. It has been confirmed by numerous sources. Quite a few of my family members have blamed my Nervous Nelly tendencies on DNA.
Tellingly though, these same family members never placed the blame on themselves. Maybe they’re worried I’ll hold it against them…