I can spot another Worrier from about a million miles away. I guess it’s in my bones.
I can’t describe why it’s as clear as day to me—when I glance to the left at the same moment there is a look of strife telegraphed across the upper lip of some woman standing in the pasta aisle at Trader Joe’s. Or maybe there is a certain sweaty unsettled expression that accompanies an unwanted duet beside a mate who appears to be unaware of the Worrier’s existence—and the Worrier is so very aware of this—-I am an audience of ONE to this performance.
Sometimes it could be a laugh I hear, space shuttling across a crowded room of festive people, that is attached to a pair of very tired eyes.
Or maybe there is a quick passing glance, on the way inside the AM/PM to get a bottle of water while the gas tank fills up, that I see more furrow than normal and an unusual amount of trying to smile.
The thing is—there is no way to reach out and high five with Worriers because by nature Worriers like to burrow into their own underground fuzzy space, EVEN WHEN THEY ARE UP AND ABOUT WALKING AROUND AMONG OTHER PEOPLE AND THINGS—so when I see one of my tribe, one of my brethren I remind myself to give that dear person a wide berth because that’s what I would desire and then I tell myself that as long as all of us at least see each other, there is an 89.9976 chance that we’ll all remain relatively safe.
Don’t Worry Be Careful,
Yolanda You’re OK In My Book