Last night, my husband and I assumed our usual positions; I, in the brown recliner. He, in the overstuffed armchair with footstool. Between us, a lamp sits on top of a shelf. Strategically placed, this shelf holds our cups full of tea or water, an assortment of pens, a bunch of books for me, my knitting and crocheting, an old Game Boy, well you get the idea. We are consummate couch potatoes. Our skill at avoiding getting up is evident in the materials we have within arms reach.
Picture us sitting there, mindlessly watching TV. We speak little. Each is absorbed in whatever each is absorbed in. So, it was a bit of a surprise, when I suddenly said,"I think I'm a better worrier than you."
This kind of statement is sure to capture the interest of my husband. He looked at me as if my head had turned into the Medusa, snakes for hair, writhing about my head like a halo. Of course, his look communicated a question and I'm never one to let a question go by unanswered.
"No, honestly. I think I have more experience in living with worry."
Again, he stared at me in semi-horror.
"Okay, here's the deal." I worry all the time about absolutely everything. It's crazy worry. I'm used to living with it. I'm pretty sure this crazy worry isn't something you indulge in."
Obviously, this statement needs to be backed up with evidence. He, still looked at me with mouth agape.
"Do you know that I come from a long line of worriers, who worry about everything? For example, do you know that I worry about an earthquake hitting while I'm in the middle of the Glen Jackson Bridge? It would be curtains for anyone caught on the bridge."
"What about the Marquam Bridge," he says. "Do you worry about going off the edge on that one?"
He already knows I hate the Marquam and why. He just didn't know that I worry about driving off the edge every time I cross it.
"Why, yes, I do."
He replied, "You know the van wouldn't be able to jump the barrier."
Being a male, he had some fancy name for this barrier which I can not remember. The look of horror on his face relaxed but only slightly.
"You're not being rational." He announced this like he's Mr. Spock.
With a sassy but playful curtness, I replied, "Don't you think I know it's irrational? Doesn't change a thing in the worry center of my brain. Worry still swirls in my head like a constant storm."
His face relaxed a bit more but he still looked at me like I'd suddenly grown a second head but this time without the writhing snakes. This looks still goaded me on. Mr. Spock needed more evidence.
"Well, if I'm driving and I'm any where near home and an ambulance or a fire truck goes by, my first thought is something has happened at home."
I could tell by the wrinkles between his eyes that he thought I might be nuttier than he first thought. That and his physical recoil in mock horror as the word, "no" fell from his mouth.
He quickly added with a quizzical tone, "Are you kidding me?"
"No," I said, nodding my head with dramatic vigor.
"This is just a small sample of the worry that haunts my head on a daily basis. You should be trapped in this body with this mind."
I jabbed my finger at the airspace between my head and cranium.
His face relaxed slightly. I could tell he was thinking he's grateful that he wasn't me. He shook his head, still baffled by the irrational me. I'm not finished with this topic yet and said,
" When it comes to worry, I'm a veteran. You can let it drive you crazy or learn to live with it. I've tried crazy. Learning to live with it is the better option"
Sighing, I added, "Besides, I'm too tired for crazy. It takes too much energy."
The fact that I was wearing pajamas, feet up in a recliner with a drink at the ready helped to prove my point. That's as sane as it's going to get. Then the words that all this self-centered conversation prepared for came from my lips, "I worry about you. You've got to find a way to worry without it being so hard on you."
I worry that he worries too much. Worry that overwhelms or slows us down doesn't serve a useful purpose. Worry that wakes us up, makes us a little more careful, points us toward a greater awareness of what we value most, is a worry that I can live with. By now, my husband looked at me with sleepy eyes. My chatter had begun to turn into a low and distant droning. He opened his mouth as if to speak but before he did so, his mouth closed. He shook his head and turned his attention back to the flickering TV screen.
We quietly resumed our separate pursuits and soon trudged down the hall to bed. After a quick goodnight kiss, we quickly fell into an easy slumber. Worry was placed on the shelf for another day.
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