The Woman Worrier

 My son gave me his worry doll the other night and said he thought I might like to have it so I could tell my worries to it.  He made it in class.  Is it that obvious or was it the bag of frozen peas I stuffed in the Tupperware cabinet, only to discover them a day or two later because of leaky green juice that had dribbled onto the floor?  I will admit that I’m a worrier.  Always have been.  My Mom is the self proclaimed worry wart of the family, so I certainly had a terrific role model.  She mentioned to me at Thanksgiving, however, that one of my brothers is an incredible worrier…you’d never guess which one—the richest one.  I, on the other hand, am by no means rich, which is, of course, one of the reasons for my worrying.   I suppose money is all relative, but I can’t help but imagine that if I won the lottery, I wouldn’t change much in my life except for the fact that I might worry a whole lot less about the things that I could control with money.  Notice how I said “control.”  That, I believe, is the root of my worrying: my inability to control things.  So maybe I’m not so much of a worry wart as I am a control freak.  But if I were really a control freak, wouldn’t I be micromanaging my worries?  But maybe I am, and my son is right. I need to speak my worries to the doll and just let ‘em go…