wor·ried; wor·ry·ing
Etymology:
Middle English worien, from Old English wyrgan; akin to Old High German wurgen to strangle, Lithuanian veržti to constrict
transitive verb dialect British : choke, strangle
2 a: to harass by tearing, biting, or snapping especially at the throat b: to shake or pull at with the teeth (a terrier worrying a rat) c: to touch or disturb something repeatedly d: to change the position of or adjust by repeated pushing or hauling
3 a: to assail with rough or aggressive attack or treatment : torment b: to subject to persistent or nagging attention or effort
4: to afflict with mental distress or agitation : make anxious
intransitive verb British : strangle , choke
2: to move, proceed, or progress by unceasing or difficult effort : struggle
3: to feel or experience concern or anxiety : fret
What surprised me is that the first definition is: "to strangle". And the last is "fret". Of course, it makes perfect sense. Cuz when you worry, you are strangling yourself. At least, that's how it feels to me.
Mostly I don't worry anymore. Mostly. Because for the past 2 years, I've become acutely aware that worrying doesn't do jack for good. Worrying is like building a big ol' fire and dumping gasoline on it to put it out. It's just dumb. Nothing good ever comes from worrying, so why bother? Wouldn't it be better to use that energy to better your life? If you spent as much time seeing what you want (rather than worrying about not having it), you'd have so much more to appreciate, yes? I mean, come ON. Worrying never added any zeros to the end of a measly paycheck. Nor did it ever heal a wound. Or feed the dogs. Or fix a leak. Nope. Worrying just drains the crap outta you, and leaves you feeling more frazzled at the ends. Choked. Strangled. ICK.
So how come I was even thinking about the word to begin with?
I was sitting here, looking around my beautiful work space, just letting my eye flow around the room. I was looking for something to inspire a new article I needed to write for my column. I looked out the window and saw the moon, surrounded by clouds but peeking through in all it's silvery glory. It's morning, but still dark. I love it when that happens. The moon in the morning. So cool.
And then my eye traveled back to the wall in front of me. There, on the cork board, I saw a hundred dollar bill pinned up above a funny picture of my cat. It's the last one. A month ago, there were 15 of them. Now, just the one. My last hunny bill. Uh oh. And then the 'worry' tried to sneak in. "Tried" being the operative here. Cuz the moment I felt that rope tighten around my neck, I reached up and unloosed it. Took it off. Threw it on the floor. Laughed out loud and said, "oh no you don't. Not even going there. Stop it. Ya big knucklehead."
Then I remembered something else. Yesterday, out of nowhere, I got this really icky feeling in my gut. I didn't know where it'd come from, cuz mere moments earlier I was groovin' along with a smile on my face and a tickle in my belly. Then...WHAM! Just like that, the Ick arrived. WHUTTHE!#%*!? So, I grabbed my journal and started writing. The words "gonna ditch the Ick" came flyin' out of my pen. DITCH THE ICK. I wrote it about 5 times...and each time I did, I could feel the giggle rising up. So I kept writing it.
ditch the ick
ditch the ick
ditch the ick....
Moments later, the Ick was gone. I had successfully ditched the Ick. Just cuz I focused on the giggle...NOT the Ick. So when I felt that dumb worry crap try to wiggle it's way into my brain, I ditched it too. That hundred dollar bill may be the only one I can see right now...but it's certainly not the only one. There are tons and tons of those things flyin' around the 'verse. Tons and tons. Some of them are mine. All I gotta do is just let 'em come flyin' in. Open the window. Let the wind carry those puppies right on in here. Relax there, Chiquita. The noose is on the floor, remember? Breathe. Relax. Breathe. Relax. And don't forget to giggle. That'll do it every time.
ditch the Ick.
HA!
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