. . . . on a long list of worries
A GOOD TRICK to stop yourself from going bonkers is to write a list of everything you’re worried about on the back of an envelope. If you’re fancy, use a clean piece of paper. Wherever you write it, read over it dispassionately and decide then whether you should lose the plot, or keep it together for the time being. It’s like the opposite of gratitude journaling, where you write down what you’re happy about. I imagine people who keep gratitude journals are the same people that sip patronisingly from an oversized mug of green tea and talk about how great India is when you can see past the poverty. Then I imagine the scalding tea spills on their yoga pants and they need skin grafts. I know that’s lousy of me. I’m just jealous, and I shouldn’t be. I have things to be grateful for. Like realising how incredible pecan nuts are when you toast them, my tweezers, that time last week when Bruce Springsteen got me up on stage to sing with him and everyone remarked on how young I looked.
My list of worries, I’m sorry to say, is much longer. I have arranged them in bullet point form so you can take little breaks and not get overwhelmed.
l Recently, two of my sisters had babies. They won the prize! (baby = prize). Anyway, I am worried that my little niece and nephew won’t realise that I am their favourite aunt. You see, they have all these other aunts who live nearer to them than I do and spend lots of time with them. I try to counteract that by whispering into their baby ears “I’m your real Mam” so that when they’re older they will feel a bond with me that they can’t exactly explain, I just don’t know if that’s enough.
l I have a healthy diet, but every now and then I do that thing a lot of women do and eat crummy food as a treat/punishment. I’m afraid that on one of those days, I will die in an unusual way and need an autopsy.
And if it’s a slow news day, the media will be all over the contents of my stomach. I’ll be mortified in the afterlife at headlines like “Beautiful dead woman’s last supper bought in Topaz garage: three jambons and a tear-and-share packet of peanut MMs that she clearly did not share.”
l I’m afraid that I will accidentally kill one of my enemies, and everyone will assume I did it on purpose and I’ll be sent down. While in prison, I’m not confident that I could keep myself motivated enough to read and do exercise like the woman in Terminator 2. I’d probably just end up watching TV and emerge as a boring 60-year-old with wasted muscles and nothing to say for myself.
l I dread sitting on a busy train opposite an old man who begins to eat a series of plums loudly and realising only then that I’ve forgotten my headphones.
l Career wise, I fear that I will resort to doing panel shows for money and one day find myself saying cruel things about celebrities then taking a drink out of a mug and looking pleased with myself.
l I’m in a style rut that makes me wonder if I will forever be drawn to retro dresses and end up gurning my way to old-age like Bette Davis in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane, with ringlets in my hair and piles of rouge on my cheeks.
l I fret that my tendency towards being passive aggressive will bloom into me never actually saying what I feel about anything. Do I mind if you borrow my book and never give it back, but talk a lot about how you must give it back soon? No, not at all. Don’t be silly! IT’S ONLY A BOOK. Actually, yes. Deeply. You’re nothing but a goddamn thief! Give it back at once.
l I live quite near Dublin Zoo and worry that the wolves will tunnel out (they’re worse than Tim Robbins for the tunnelling) and slink up to my house, in the cat-flap and surround me with their yellow eyes. I’ll be marooned on my waterbed, screaming for help, but everyone will think I’m playing a prank because I used to work on a hidden camera show.
l What if I fall in love with a married guy or a psychopath or a bore and my friends don’t like him but are too polite to say so?
l I am terrified that I will end my days in a nursing home where they have inexplicably banned tweezers.
l In my darkest days, I fear that people will believe me when I joke about having a water bed.
So, that is today’s list. I’m going to have an egg-white omelette and some blueberries (are you listening Dr Marie Cassidy?) and begin to work through it. I’d advise you to do the same – makes the day much more manageable.
Róisín Ingle is away
In other news . . . I love James Thurber and have just ordered The Thurber Carnival and can’t wait to read it