What, Me Worry?

By Jim Hagarty
2017

I might have mentioned this before, but I am a worrier. A confirmed one, at that. I am a registered, card-carrying member of the National Society of Worriers. I always worry I won’t get my dues in on time and my membership might lapse but so far, so good.

The Society holds annual meetings and the directors always worry something will come up to cause the cancellation of the convention but, touch wood, the event seems to always come off without a hitch, in spite of all the drama concerning whether or not there will be enough food, drink and accommodation for all the attendees. And medical services, if, by some unfortunate chance, someone takes sick during the proceedings. There is always lots of concern, as well, about whether or not all the speakers will show up and if they do, how well the sound system will perform and how closely the guest speakers will conform to the established themes. There is also lots of concern about whether or not the convention goers will appreciate the talks, power point demonstrations and videos. Potential food poisonings and reactions by allergy sufferers are also considered.

Being a professional worrier, I am, by definition, not part of that segment of society populated by those who do not worry. These are strange, alien people to me, given their seeming lack of concern about anything and everything but also the way they react to the news that I am a confirmed, lifelong worrier. It somehow offends them that I do worry, or at least, I worry that it offends them. Therefore, some of them have wasted a few breaths trying to talk me out of my lifelong orientation to the world. They offer compelling reasons for me to change my ways and they submit some helpful suggestions.

One piece of advice I was given once, was this:

“Stop worrying!” Well, that seemed clear enough so I tried that. It didn’t work.

Another person, with more in-depth knowledge of the worrier’s condition, offered this:

“Don’t worry!” I tossed that one around for a while and gave it a shot too, but the results were also pathetic.

So I carry on. I have looked up the number for Fretters Anonymous but I worry about getting involved with a bunch of strangers I don’t know, especially people who apparently go about their business nowadays without a care in the world.

So, I stick with the devil I know, and I consider the advice a colourful uncle of mine used to offer:

“If you want to get to Heaven, I’ll tell you how to do it. Just grease your feet with mud and suet and slip right through the Devil’s hands and into the Promised Land.” I don’t know what any of that means, but it sounds good and I am prepared to try it, depending on whether or not I can afford the suet. If interest rates go up, and the Middle East starts restricting the flow of oil …

I hope you liked this story but secretly, I am a little terrified that you won’t.

Author: Jim Hagarty

I am a 72-year-old retired journalist, busy recovering from a lifelong career as an unretired journalist. This year marks a half century of my scratching out little fables about life. My interests include genealogy, humour and music. I live in a little blue shack in Canada and spend most of my time trying to stay out of trouble. I am not that good at it. I also spent years teaching journalism. Poor state of journalism today: My fault. I have a family I don't deserve, a dog that adores me, and two cars the junk yard refuses to accept. My prized possessions include my old guitar and a razor my Dad gave me when I was 14 and which I still use when I bother to shave. Oh, and my great-great-grandfather's blackthorn stick he brought from Ireland in the 1850s. I have only one opinion but it is a good one: People take too many showers.