I worry too much about things. Yes, I know, big discovery, “epiphany” isn’t just a name black people call their daughters, but I’ll live a happier life if I can sort this out.
(A joke from a 2008 episode of “American Dad!”, so please don’t write in to complain…)
At least today one big worry’s been lifted from my shoulders: my mother’s PC hasn’t died, so I don’t have to go home this weekend to fix it for her (judging from the symptoms she described, it would have been a dead hard drive — so a new HD and a full Windows reinstallation there, not to mention sending the dead one back under warranty…). Now, while I’m always happy to go home and have the chance to climb with Mumsy (and eat my grandmother’s cooking), this weekend I shall very likely be helping “best mate” with the resolution of his own great worry: he’s finally found a new place to live (indeed, it’s close to the Castle, so we’ll be able to climb together a lot more!), and will need assistance moving his stuff, though he’s hoping to borrow his brother’s van. Good for him, his four MONTHS of couch-surfing is coming to an end at last! And it was a similar worry I had in early 2012 that made me physically sick (except I had a definite time limit), so I have some sympathy for his condition.
However, there are other things that I tend to worry about for ages, sometimes having unpleasant conversations in my head, before discovering that I was making a fuss about nothing. The other night I came home from seeing my personal torturer, to discover that my “Ethernet over powerlines” connection (which enables you to have a wired connection to your router via the powerlines in your house — essential for me as the wireless signal sucks up here) had mysteriously connected me to a completely different router than the one we have in our lounge. Leaving aside the prospect that our powerlines are somehow connected to those of next door (!), I knew that my housemate — yes, the problematic one — had unplugged the one in the lounge, and I began worrying that he’d thrown it out, and would grin smugly at me in the belief that I couldn’t do a thing about it… but in fact he’d just not known what it was, and barely knew once I’d explained it, but actually had no problem!
It happened earlier this year, with someone I actually like: during my post-holiday blues, the nice lady at work (the one whose support got me through the bad times in late 2011/early 2012 — I was fortunate she was “between pregnancies” at the time!) wanted me deal with some files in our archive; when I discovered that they were in a totally rubbish state (how did social workers even use them before passing them down to us?!), I was expecting an argument or a telling-off… but in fact she agreed with me, and we passed the task to the two admins upstairs, who had provided the things to us in the first place!
And then there’s the apprehension I feel about fictional things that I think will horrify me… such as “The Great Escapo”, a Kenny Everett sketch from 1983 in which he plays an escapologist (with the obligatory comedy German accent) who gets ground up in a cement mixer, minced in a mincing machine and liquidised in a blender, the idea being that his lovely assistant will then drink him, “and zen, I shall escape!”. I was deeply traumatised when my folks let me watch this as a five-year-old (my mother telling me it was just a dummy, ice cream etc. didn’t help), and I was still disgusted as a young adult when I saw it again on my friend’s compilation tape. So, in 2012, back when I still used to fink off to the toilet to watch things on my media player, and I was working my way through the works of Cuddly Ken, I felt a great deal of trepidation as this, S3E3 of The Kenny Everett Television Show, approached… and, as usual, I’d worried about nothing, because I didn’t puke, or even feel nauseous! It’s almost as though I’d become a different person…
(Neither did I when I watched the Japanese anime movie “Akira” for the first time in years… though the awful “dubtitles” may already have deadened me to nausea!)
So, I’m going to avoid worry from now on, if I can — yoga will certainly help, and perhaps I can thus stop feeling apprehension whenever I’m on a 12m. wall at the climbing centre (which I can be more often now, thanks to “best mate” moving nearby!). And, of course, I’ll try not to worry about what girls might say to me if I try to chat to them, or what they might think of me if I only chat up one girl and not another… yeah, good luck with that, Dave.
What I won’t worry about, however, is the notion that even though I said “Hatred” would be the last negative emotion I explore, I’m still using the same category in my posts — I might do one on “Sadness” too, if I can find enough YouTube clips about the moments in fiction that make me teary-eyed. Perhaps sadness and worry aren’t entirely “negative”, but ambivalent? Or maybe this blog is being written piecemeal and would undergo a shedload of editing and rearranging if it ever became a book — which it won’t, “e” or otherwise!