Sure, I’m having bouts of panic, like everyone, but they don’t hang around. I say things to myself like, we’re alive and well, the dog is just old, we are not yet out of cheese. By the time I’ve listed half a dozen real and good things I’m ready to quit worrying for a bit.
I have literal heart ache from time to time as well. Even if we don’t get anywhere with worrying, there’s so much suffering in the air all around the world, how can we not soak it up some of the time? We will, of course.
The trouble with worrying, is that it begins to feel like work, like it’s our job. “Somebody needs to worry about that,” is not actually a valid statement. “Somebody needs to sort that out,” is more like it. So if worry isn’t work, it seems logical that working would help with our worries.
People are complaining about their neighbor noises, but maybe running back and forth or vacuuming all day is their way of feeling productive. Let ’em do their thing. Maybe think how nice it is that they have all that energy. The toddler upstairs is getting very heavy-footed, but honestly, I just like to imagine his parents have turned the entire apartment into a playground. Slide!
It turns out that this might not be the best time to improve on time management. Huh. Right now, I just watch my schedule slip and careen into other days. Somebody laughed at me when I said a mid-day movie wasn’t on my agenda–but forsooth–I was going to have to move my budget review over to make space for a film. I am currently a more serious person about time, after all.
I am also a person who is bad at tortillas. My efforts produced a pile of things that were essentially giant crackers, and while they were edible they tasted exactly like something that might be classed as inedible.
Anyway, I have lots of energy and put a lot of my energy into making sure I’m using my energy in a helpful way. I’m not going to vacuum obsessively, that’s what the robot vacuum is for. Instead I walk the dog a lot. No matter how feebly he moves around indoors, outdoors he is still a cheetah with a ravenous nose.
It’s not easy to do anything else while walking him, but I do get packages and mail just the same. This morning, brimming with constructive ideas and listening to a podcast about constructive ideas, I stopped to check for mail. To my dismay, I found that the mailbox had been rearranged since my last stop.
My key didn’t work in any of the boxes near where mine had been. I kept trying, becoming more and more aggravated and mentally composing a very stern message for the U.S. Postal Service. What did they think they were doing, rearranging mailboxes at a time like this. How was anyone supposed to get mail now?
Eventually, I gave up and turned to go home, fuming but not at all confused.
It turned out I was at the wrong building entirely.
When I got to the right building, my mailbox was right were it belonged, with a pushy postcard about the census in it.
There’s no point arguing with reality, even when you already know this, you have to remember, I guess.
Thank you, U.S.P.S., for not actually being part of my tiny imaginary dystopian tragedy.
Love,
yermom
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