I worry about weird things. For example, Caroline was coughing last night. So I gave her some cough medicine. She stopped coughing. I worried she was dead. I laid awake thinking, “Did I give her too much? Wrong medicine? Expired medicine? Is she having a reaction?” Yes, dummy, she’s not coughing any more; that’s the reaction. I had to keep checking to be sure she was breathing. Now I’m tired, so I’m worried I’ll be too tired to cook my dad the birthday dinner he requested (lobster paella – give me a break – couldn’t it be something easier? And cheaper?).
I worry that I will never make a career out of writing. This blog isn’t off to an auspicious start: no one is reading it. Yes, one could argue that it’s a secret blog, and I haven’t told anyone about it. But, I would reply, I have told four people about it, and they’re not even reading it. Okay, someone in Iran read it, but I can’t really count that. I even asked my husband to be my first follower and he deadpanned, “No way. I’m a leader.” Laugh all you want; there’s still a big fat zero over there. I worry that I’m going to end up a barista at Starbucks talking about how I could have made it big if only the stars had aligned.
I worry about melanoma and undiagnosed heart problems and that someday my boobs will actually touch my knees without me bending over. I worry about being a bad parent OR a good parent and having my kids leave the nest without a backwards glance. I worry about getting really fat. I worry about being homeless (this is usually connected to my worry about fire) and I worry about osteoporosis. I worry about the fact that my neighbors walk unnaturally slowly to school and I worry about all the tardy slips they’re probably amassing. I worry about natural disasters, cell phone radiation, urban violence, kids growing up too fast and the moral and ethical decline of our society. I worry that my house will never actually look cute because by the time I finish decorating it everything will be out of style. I worry about my kids and my husband and my in-laws and my siblings. I worry that I am going to be really, really, really, really sad when my dog dies and that I’m not going to be able to get over it. Then I worry I’m incredibly self-absorbed to sit down and write about all these worries.
But, on the bright side, I guess it’s the only way my new Iranian friend is ever going to get to know the real me.