I’m a worrier. I tend to worry about all kinds of things, and I have a particular knack for worrying about things that don’t really matter.
For example, let’s say a few coworkers are going out to lunch. If we haven’t extended the invitation to everyone in the entire office, I spend the whole time wondering if someone is hurt because they weren’t included.
This isn’t new. One of these days they’re going to scope my stomach and find it’s lined with ulcers.
My coworker, Gladys (whom you met in a previous post), loves to tell me I need to just let go. I suppose I should, but it probably won’t happen until my little girl turns 45. Until then, I think I’m going to be a basket case.