What, Me Worry?
I RECEIVED AN EMAIL TODAY informing me that there are new things for me to worry about. My response to them was, “Bite me.”
Not only do I not need new things to worry about, I have been actively making an effort to pare down the list of things that I do worry about.
According to the email, from a local radio station, I should worry about the possible danger of taking ‘energy drinks” if one has high blood pressure. I don’t want “energy drinks” anyway. I’m enjoying my lower energy level as it is.
Having a lower energy level keeps me from doing stupid stuff like shoveling snow, changing tires, and throwing annoying people through plate glass windows. If I were to knock back an energy drink or two I might want to seek out the buffoon who sent me this email and pitch him out of an upper floor window. The word for today, children, is “Defenestration.” Look it up in that big book called a “Dictionary.”
This same email advised that I should worry about the fact that, as we age, our memory is not as good as it once was. While I can’t argue with that, I don’t see it as something to worry about. I am sure that I am like most people in that there is a boatload of stuff I would rather just forget.
- I would like to forget that I ever bought a 1975 Fiat. It was a piece of junk – the worst car I ever owned.
- I would like to forget my decision to go to Mexico with a certain woman who seemed to transform into a stark raving lunatic without warning. I will not go into details.
- I would like to forget that I was in a production of “Sweet Charity” back in the early 1970s that was so bad that I took it off my résumé after several people said, “Oh – you were in that?”
This email continued to inform me that watching cooking shows on TV could make me fat. Too late, Bucko! And anyway, it’s not the watching the shows that can plump you up, it’s the eating of everything they prepare. Do you go into the kitchen and get a beer every time a Bud commercial comes on the tube? No, of course not. Every other time maybe, but –
I used to be a person who rolled around in worry like it was catnip. All it got me was ulcers and strapped to a gurney with chest pains at the age of 30.
I learned to move on from that, to let go of those things beyond my control, and to go from the clenched fist to the extended middle digit. Nudge, nudge, wink, wink.
Now, as I continue to age I find that more and more becomes less and less important to me – and I like it that way. I think it has made me a better person and an easier person to live with.
You can’t avoid worry in this world. I would imagine that the cliché hermit, who lives in a cave and sees no one else, has to deal with worry. If nothing else, that lifestyle would generate some stress when you are doing the Sunday crossword puzzle and need a seven letter word for green peas and there is nobody to tell you, “Its legumes, you dummy!”
I hope the intern at the radio station doesn’t feel bad about my comment. I don’t want them to worry about it. It is just the ramblings of some geezer who overreacted to a simple Facebook posting. I know I’m not going to lose any sleep over it.