I’m often complimented about my calm disposition. And my patience. And the fact that in a crisis, I can be unflappable.

Sometimes these compliments make me feel like a fraud.

The truth is my mind is constantly whirring, thinking, contemplating. It rarely stops assessing. Strategizing. Remembering.

Because I worry about everything.

I worry because I didn’t say good night to my manager friend at the restaurant where I had dinner a few nights ago, as I always do.  Would he think something was wrong?  Did he even notice?  He always gives me a sweet hug on my way out, and I worry that I’ve broken the spell of our huggy ritual.

I worry about everything I eat now because I just recovered from a stomach bug. Just days after I felt better, I questioned the wisdom of eating sushi for dinner (I felt perfectly fine) and nacho cheese sauce first thing in the morning (I felt perfectly awful).

I worry that I went on a cleanse a couple of weeks ago and ate beautifully clean food for two weeks and that I undid all of that goodness by recovering from the stomach bug with a three day diet of bread and saltine crackers. Followed by said nacho cheese and french fries on Super Bowl Sunday. (But, oh, it was good.)

I worry about typos…oh, the typos that have kept me up at night. I write corporate-y things all year long and the worry bosses have instilled in me over the years when it comes to typos is mighty and powerful. You’d think proper spelling was the answer to achieving world peace. I worry that there will be a typo in this blog and then I’ll feel stupid, because what kind of writer allows that kind of thing to happen?

I worry that pigeons like to sit on my windowsill. Particularly after the morning when one of my upstairs neighbors threw what seemed to be a pot of rice onto the windowsill and I woke up to an entire pigeon family and some of their friends having their morning meal right in front of my window.

I worry that I’ve done something to my upstairs neighbors because there was a period when random food would show up on my windowsill on Sunday morning. Tomatoes. Raw eggs. Rice for pigeons.

I worry that I’m not where I’m supposed to be in my life and not doing what I’m supposed to be doing with people that I’m supposed to be doing it with.

I worry. It’s exhausting.

But sometimes it’s the moments of exhaustion that invite a surrender. Enough, my tired mental muscles seem to say. Enough of all of that.

There’s a place at the end of the day where the worry grows weary and needs a moment. That time between wakefulness and sleep where the day is pure again and everything is enough. And then sleep drifts in, carrying the worry of the day away.

It’s the place where the wisdom of my body kicks in and knows exactly what to do. The automatic reflexes know to save me from myself and my worrisome thoughts.

It is here where the worry is powerless. It is here where I find peace.

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