Author’s Note: Now, I am not exactly what one would call a “chill person.” Just last night, I was reading about pancreatic cancer and became convinced that this slight pain in my back meant that I had it (and not, of course, that I had been immobile for several hours googling things like “kesha best friends” and “whale sex” and my body had likely started to atrophy from inactivity) and I had to look up a diagram of the human body to determine where my pancreas actually was and the likelihood that it would revolt against me like The Order of the Phoenix and assassinate me for my tyrannical refusal to feed it anything but cheese and Mountain Dew. I also get stressed out by such terrifying monstrosities as voicemails, the cold, and my clock being wrong, so clearly I am a paragon of calm and comfort. I’m like wet socks personified.
So here are some things people other than just me tend to worry about:
When I sneeze with headphones in and can’t tell if someone said “Bless you” or not so I don’t know if I should say “Thank you” so I sneeze and then say “Thank you” to the world just in case as though thanking the universe for the privilege of sneezing.
When it’s raining and I don’t have an umbrella but still want to smoke so I flatten myself against the wall like the Pink Panther to quickly suck down a cigarette while trying not to get my admittedly mediocre hair-do wet because I have a tendency toward vanity.
The presence of fruit.
When I’m in a public place and can’t find a seat and I know that if I don’t sit down soon my back is going to start hurting because I have the physical fortitude of Olive Oyl from Popeye.
Being able to make a successful pot of coffee.
When I have a random pain and become convinced I’m going to die an immediate, painful death before I ever get the chance to publish a book or try Cookie Crisp.
When anyone but me drives.
The threat of over- or under-cooking something in a microwave.
When I’m talking about someone (even if it’s all good things), I become afraid that I’m accidentally calling them and must check my phone to make sure this isn’t the case. This habit has spread to several of my friends because my greatest influence on the world is my unrepentant neurosis.
The way the horrifying mess of my door-less closet occasionally resembles a person at night.
People noticing the weird way I eat pretzels.