|My mama and grandma in the mid-1970s|
Grandma worried constantly about everything, and I remember so well telling her not to worry about me, everything would be all right, and I certainly wasn't worried. She tugged at the bottom of her ubiquitous sweater, looked at me crossly and said, "Well, you don't seem to realize. I have to worry; somebody has to!"
And now look what's happened: I have become a world class worrier. Every time I dwell on any decisions I've made, I second-guess myself and begin to worry that I have once again inserted myself into someone else's life and made a mess of it. This comes from years of having done exactly that, and now I find myself feeling a little like the centipede who did just fine walking with all those legs until someone asked her how she managed. Here is the poem, "The Centipede's Dilemma":
A centipede was happy quite,This poem is attributed to my old friend Anonymous. Somehow I find myself in the unenviable position of not seeming to be able to move forward because I've forgotten how to be spontaneous! I'll work on that.
Until a frog in fun
Said, "Pray, which leg comes after which?"
This raised her mind to such a pitch,
She lay distracted in the ditch
Considering how to run.