Worrying

I worry a lot. About everything. It's not my fault. Seriously. Ever since I was a little kid, I have worried and worried and worried. If you had wanted to meet a macabre 7-year-old who was literally convinced that the world would be incinerated as a result of nucclear war before he turned 21, I was your boy. It's just a part of who I am. I consciously try stave off worry by being "pro-active," being reasonable and thinking about the best manner in which to take care of some problem, not procrastinating, not hesitating to rely on friends and family for assistance or advice, etc. I devised a mantra for myself after college, simply to survive my brain: "I will not worry about that which I cannot control." It helps, somewhat. But what about that which I CAN control or SHOULD control? Well, you bet your ASS I worry about that shit, too.

So now that I'm going to be a parent in like 6 months or something, a deluge of fun, new worries have recently invaded my thoughts. My seemingly ever-waking thoughts.

I worry about not making enough money. I'm not a lawyer or a doctor or some business guy who makes 6 figures and rides around in some car that costs more than every car I have ever owned combined. I probably COULD have done any of those things but in all honesty, they don't interest me whatsoever.

I worry about just plain being a shitty father.

I worry about balancing being a GOOD father while still being able to do things that _I_ like to do, like aikido training and poker playing and music listening and football watching and albeit fairly innocuous stuff. But I still WANT to be able to do these things. Will I?

I worry again about not making enough money. My wife and I do great, for 2 people with limited financial responsibilities who don't live crazy, extravagant lifestyles. We are modest, down-to-earth people. Throw a screaming kid into the mix, though...

I worry about being able to retain the "romantic" aspects of our marriage at their current intensity. (Or at least at their recent intensity.) If you know what I'm saying. And I think you do.

I worry about all the excruciatingly minute decisions every parent makes like 10 times a day in terms of their kid's rearing. What if I make the wrong one? Will I completely fuck my kid up? Will "Decision X" be one of those moments that the kid remembers for the rest of their lives? Will "Situation Y" become tattooed on their brain and color their adolscence and adulthood?

I worry about being physically EXHAUSTED. Can I keep up with a kid?

My wife is--to a fault, maybe, given that I can be such a pain in the ass--supporitve. "It's OK to fail. Every parent does." "Things cost money. It's OK." "You're being such a pain in the ass. Stop worrying." Etc.

It's really not helping.

She seems so comfortable in this new knowledge, as if wrapped in some elegant blanket. As if this--THIS--fits her. And here I am, in the dressing room, trying to cram my fat ass in pants 3 sizes to small.