I worry quite often that I might die in my sleep and no one would find out for days after the fact. As a single girl who lives on her own and has a closeted dependency on Zopiclone – I often wake up in the morning and find that I have done bizarre things in my sleep. There was the phantom phone-call incident where I made a phone-call to a guy I liked and spoke to him for over half an hour that I have no recollection of up to now. There was the brief spate of sleep eating that my vanity has managed to overcome – is there anything worse than picking up dress sizes without even realising that its happening? My friends are worried that one day I will walk into traffic in my sleep and have suggested that every night before i go to sleep I place the front door keys in a glass of water in the fridge. This is supposedly because the water would wake me up should my mind and body ever conspire to betray me in this fashion. It sounds like a solution rooted in biology and psychology – my friends are bankers, accountants and lawyers – I think it is safe to disregard their opinions just this once as, clearly, they are not experts in narcotics abuse or biology. So, I live alone. I am notorious for not answering my phone. I sleep in a lot. It is actually a very real possibility that I might choke on a chocolate chip muffin and expire in the most unimaginative way possible and noone would find the body. This is my life.
I worry that the only way a man would ever marry me is for my money. This, in itself, poses many varied and very real challenges. Firstly, I have no money to speak of. An investment here, a savings account there yes, but nothing remotely within the realm of worth killing for let alone suffering through my myriad of really bad jokes that only my best friend understands. Sometimes I daydream that I am so rich that all my loved ones are plotting to kill me just for the inheritance. It was the biggest struggle of my ‘responsible’ adult life to decide who to name as beneficiary on my life insurance policy. As I was making this momentous decision, it also occurred to me that I am worth more dead than I am live and this was a small comfort – I may yet meet a man who will marry me for my money – then kill me for it! Two daydreams, one stone. Then I remember my loved ones, they are not the kind of people who would resort to such underhanded tactics. Further, my commitment issues run so deep as to reflect in my ever changing hairstyles – how is one to commit to the same person for a lifetime if one cannot actually commit to something as trivial as a look. This is the great conundrum of my life. So, I date these idiots who, in another life, I would never have given the time of day. I know in my head that it is a bad idea going into these situations. But there is a voice within me that constantly reminds me that all the guys that have fit the requirements of ‘the list’ have not endured. This same voice is constantly reminding me (and swiftly being ignored by me) that I should stop keeping romantic company with men predisposed to SMS and just a general douchebag problem. I have yet to listen to these voices. Other than the fact that they only exist in my head and make me sound mental for quoting them, I am convinced they know nothing of the real world and are worth ignoring.
I worry about how vain I am. Other people say enough to themselves to boost their confidence levels or to seem more assertive. They look in the mirror and say things like “I look good, I am going to own this day!” They say thank you when they are given compliments. They have the decency to blush when they wear that one dress that looks incredible and they proceed to spend the day stopping traffic without words. I am not like these people. I get a compliment such as, “You look beautiful” and my default response is “Yeah, I know, this didn’t happen by accident”. I worry when people laugh at this response in a seemingly earnest hope that I am making a less than funny joke and social convention dictates that they respond with laughter. I’m also the worst kind of vain person – the facetiously self deprecating one. Ironically I always say I hate guys that are hot and KNOW it. I am aware that I do not cause eyes to bleed when people look at me– that I am that mythical thing that is a size 8 that doesn’t even try. I say things like, “Agh, I look so big in that picture!” when I’m really actually thinking “Instagram moment!”. The universe has unfortunately enabled my bad habit by giving me some semblance of a fashion sense which is always met and exceeded through one way or another – the details are not necessary but they tie in with the vanity quite nicely.
I worry that I don’t deserve my friends. I have really awesome friends. I know people of such superior calibre that I sometimes fail to reconcile how we are even friends. Women of substance. Men definitely worth writing home about. These people are all-round good people. They have, through to their adult lives, kept all the manners teachers, parents and even nosy neighbours laboured years to instil within us as children that I abandoned with my teenage years. They are supportive and understanding. They are patient and kind. They say nice things about people, to their faces and behind their backs. They don’t snicker at the weird pairing of a geriatric white man and a twenty-something black university student looking lovingly at each other at the next table at the restaurant. They don’t joke about the jungle fever on his part or the dollar signs on her part that inspire this look of love. They don’t make light of important issues – they are nice to every idiot they have been introduced to as “the one” that turned out to only be “the one” for three weeks. As long as something is important to me, it is met with the gravitas that all vital things are met with as well as detailed analysis of all the ways it can be good or bad. They will have one or two drinks and call it a night before they get fall down drunk. They have actual food in their kitchens – not microwave popcorn and lemons that are specifically for making cocktails – real food. Again, I am not like these people. I don’t think I have the capacity to be a better person because that would require a lot of effort that I am not entirely inspired to make yet. But I try i suppose, in my own way. I am obviously not trying hard enough if I still have this worry and this makes me think I should stop trying which leads to a whole other worry so let me stop before this spirals.
In the end, I think the root of my problem lies in the fact that I worry that I worry too much.
Life.
Photo by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash
Can we please just talk about the weather? 
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