This is what I'm like when I relax

 

Dear Sigmund, via Sidney,

I haven’t been worrying as much recently and I can’t tell if that is because I’m learning to worry less or that I simply have fewer things to worry about recently. Now, I know that the response to that, especially the latter part is that “if you are serious about your worrying, you will find something to worry about regardless of the reality.” I’m not sure if that’s true. I DO have things to worry about but they are categorically different from the usual cycle of worry that I have perfected over the last 25+ years. All the professional worries (I am, you see, a professional worrier) that are endemic to the summer are not as soul-crushing this summer, either because I am mastering the summer (and its parts) better or because I have set lower goals so I have less pressure.

And, yes, I have supplemented the standard complement of things I worry about with a revue of all new material. Fortunately, I am the father of two humans who present me with more to worry about than I know what to do with (something I also, then, worry about). You’d think that, as I can’t shake a stick at the volume of things to worry about, that I would be my usual bundle of frayed nerves. Frayed? Not. But am I worrying less because I have grown into someone who takes more things in stride (evidenced by my being able, albeit occasionally, to sleep through the night)? Or is it that they are not giving me the same quantity and quality of concerns that I have grown to know, love and expect? Because when I stop and count my stressings there do seem to be ample opportunities for some expert level, stomach turning problems.

The familiar (by this time familial) butterflies have alit for the time being and I’m borderline concerned that I am not concerned. The world is still on fire and, no, this is not fine. While I have no travel plans, others do and vicarious worry is at least 80% as effective as first-person worry (according to a recent study that I just invented). I still have aches, pains and all the mystery troubles that men of a certain age have to look forward to (including my propensity for ending sentences with a preposition or two). Work still looms large in my front view mirror and the bank has not taken a holiday nor have my bills been postponed. Is it possible that I am mellowing? My sense is that that isn’t the case because when push comes to shove, I still end up on the floor in fetal position. My quota of indignation is consistently filled and people still point out to me that my obsession with being obsessed is a raging success.

Is this a matter of reigning in neuroses or having to look deeper for fish to fry?