WHAT, ME WORRY?

First of all, thanks to all of you who responded so positively to my first post! And to the ones who expressed some concern, thank you, but I am not in need of a Licensed Mental Health Professional. Not right now, anyhow. Well, at least, not as frequently.

 

In fact, as the comments continued to come in, I said to myself, Hey, Self! Maybe this is the new "thing" you've been looking for since you retired! Maybe you could be the next Erma Bombeck! Maybe you could end up syndicated in the country's five remaining newspapers, or, better yet, become a regular blogger. Heck, you might even start getting advertisers (probably for walk-in showers and retirement villages) and become rich! Maybe this is finally the beginning of freakin' Bonnie 2.0!

 

And then…my brain began attacking me. It said things like, "Oh, you poor deluded thing. First of all, your friends were probably just being nice. What if the next time you post they say, 'Ohmigod, did she think we were serious?'" Or what if I'm seen as one of those too-frequent posters about whom people say, "Doesn't she have anything better to do with her time? (The answer is no.) What if readers mutter, "Why is she writing about all this trivial stuff when, after all, there are Covid spikes and protests in the streets and, well, Trump?"

 

At that point, I almost turned off the computer. Because, like many women, I am a worrier. But I am a championship, award-winning worrier. I am also the Duchess of Doubt, and the Supreme Sovereign of Second-Guessing. Now, some of my worries are relatively normal:

 

• Will I ever lose that last 10 pounds? All right, that last 20 pounds? Okay, fine, that first twenty pounds?

• Along those lines, will Weight Watchers change its program again, and if so, will bananas no longer be zero points?

• When I didn't turn my phone off on the plane, was I actually risking the lives of my fellow passengers?

• Will the dining room set I want to buy be universally admired by all my friends and relatives? If not, can I return it?

• Is David G, the nice guy I was once kind of mean to senior year in college, still upset with me?

• Do people think less of me because I only ever order chocolate ice cream at Baskin-Robbins?

• When I once microwaved my grandson's milk bottle instead of putting it in the warmer, did the microwaves stunt his future intellectual growth?

• After reading that last item, will my son and daughter-in-law ever let me see their child again?

As I said, I realize that most of the preceding items are nothing particularly unusual. But the following worries have also been known to roost in my head:

• If we give away our old couch, will it miss us?

• If I store some old stuffed animals and dolls in plastic bins, will they be able to breathe? (Yes, the bins now have air holes.)

• When, on the advice of a friend, I buried St. Joseph upside-down in my yard in order to sell my house, was he terribly uncomfortable? And is he  annoyed that I never dug him up again?

• What if those happy little M&M characters don't realize that they were put on earth for the sole purpose of being eaten? Shouldn't someone tell them?

• What if my dog sees me without any clothes on and thinks that I've been skinned alive?

• What if my dog sees me without any clothes on and is just disgusted?

Okay. I see it now. The mental health professional may be warranted. Or maybe I should just keep writing, since that's cheaper than therapy. Of course, then I'll have to worry that my therapist will think I don't like her anymore.