Little by little, the layers of worry slough off as you get older. I never worry anymore about my barrettes being aligned evenly in my hair. This was a cause of fretfulness when I was six or seven. Braids, or as we called them then, pig tails, made short work of that concern.
I worry no more about what I’ll do if I break one of the heels on my shoes. I never wear spike-heeled shoes anymore. Sneaker heels hardly ever break.
Getting homework done on time was never a worry. Parents took care of that concern.
Whether or not I’ll be able to get a taxi in the rain is no longer of any concern. Nor do I care if the bus is late or the subway is held up.
Every year, another worry leaves me.
Older and wiser now, it is finally dawning on me that my mother was right most of the time. Don’t worry about things you can do nothing about, she used to say. “Kathleen, you can’t change the world – it’s been here too long.”
I used to worry a lot about pleasing my parents. Later, it was more important to please my friends, then my husband – finally, I grew up and decided to quit worrying about pleasing others.
Once upon a time, smudged makeup would put me right into a frenzy. That was easy to cure – no makeup works.
Did I look too heavy in blue or should I wear a poncho to cover everything? Such concerns used to fill my days.
I worried as a parent about nutrition, well planned meals, even giving consideration to appearance. (Today it’s called ‘presentation’.) What difference did it really make, when corn, potato and hamburg was all mixed together eventually? I found, as I got older, that peanut butter sandwiches taste as good as steak, if a little boy is ready for supper. Feed them oatmeal cookies and cold milk for breakfast – better than sugar coated cereal.
I never worried about gray hair, but I wasn’t prepared for thin hair getting thinner. Things happen over which you have no control – and worrying about them can make your blood pressure rise. That’s something you can control.
Worrying about how the house looks turns some women into neurotic maniacs. Whole industries have evolved which cater to those afflicted with this worry. I worry not about the many books and magazines piled everywhere, but whether there’s one I haven’t read.
Over the years, I’ve learned that in a pinch, cats will eat dog food and vice versa. It’s okay to wear something more than once without washing it, and clean, rinsed dishes will dry just fine in the drainer. No one will starve if supper isn’t on the table at 5 p.m. and Jello can be used as a substitute for Kool Aid. Things work out.
Nowadays, I worry about whether I will be able to afford to live out my years in my hometown, given the ridiculous cost of shelter. I guess if I’d spent more time worrying about that when I was younger, I’d have made sure I married someone who would have provided this – but it’s too late to worry about that now.
Today, I confine my worries to the really important things such as whether I’ll be able to maneuver through the Friday night traffic on Route 302 in the summertime and if I can find matching barrettes.
Stop worrying. It really is a waste of time.
See you next week.
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