Pacing and wringing my hands

Always a sign of worry overload. WHAT I am worried about is not exactly clear.

I’m worried that my son’s toothache will turn into SOMETHING DIRE. What, I’m not sure. I’ve only gotten as far as the capitals.

Then there is the bank, which may somehow manage to LOSE MY MONEY. Hasn’t happened yet, but it might.

I have a slow sink upstairs, which MIGHT BE SOMETHING.

And of course, just the general bomb dropping. That worries me. But I live so close to the airbase, it would all be over before I ever woke up. If I ever sleep again. And the house would be flattened, so no foreign troops would notice that my kitchen wasn’t immaculate.

Then there is my brother Clark, who has his own category of worry, named CLARK!.

Then there is the OH, NO! worries; the rising gas price worries, the will it ever sell worries, the something is worn in my brain because I cannot start a sock worries….I found myself worrying that I couldn’t open up a checking account in a different back. (Okay, I know that is just a crazy worry.)

We talked about the wee bit of carpet to go up in the hotel (just my bedroom) and thought we’d just use the same stuff we have in this house…wears like iron, isn’t hideous, nice neutral color and THAT sent me into hand wringing.

What I want to do is get a teardrop trailer, put my own bed in it and then drive around the country. Then all I would have to worry about would be where are we? (Who cares?) and what’;s for dinner? (French onion soup.) I wouldn’t have to worry about a bad bed or worse pillows. When I travel, those are the only things I fret about. The bed and the pillows. And nice sheets. Give me a teeny trailer where that is pretty much all I have and I’d be fine.

But in the meantime, I’ll be up, pacing and wringing my hands.

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