Dispelling the Worry Demon

I have a close personal relationship with worry, and apparently we have been together for a long time. I don’t remember how old I was when my mother bought me a copy of Dale Carnegie’s How to Stop Worrying and Start Living. It had a lot of good ideas but no real, long-term effect.

I’ve been worrying a lot lately. I have list of topics to worry about. After 9/11, I worried about how life as we know it can change on a dime. Then, I worried about the war in Iraq and the thousands of servicemen and woman who were killed or wounded beyond repair. I worried about politics nonstop. Of course, my current worry is the economy, which is helped along by an unending flow of news and commentary on how bad it is and how the world is slip sliding away into a depression. I worry about my family a lot. When something is bothering one of my daughters, I ruminate on her problem until I find myself skipping meals and waking up at night.

Of course, I know worry is as useless an emotion as guilt. It gets me nowhere and certainly doesn’t lead to doing anything constructive that might dispel it. According to Wikipedia (yes, I really did look it up):

“Worry is an emotion in which a person feels anxious or concerned about a real or imagined issue, ranging from personal issues such as health or finances to broader issues such as environmental pollution and social or technological change.” Well at least I'm worrying about the same things other people are.

“About one in four people, have chronic worry … which can cause heart attacks, high blood pressure, ulcers, gastrointestinal problems, muscular aches and pains, skin rashes, eczema, respiratory problems and asthma.” That is very scary.

So, what to do? Being a modern, savvy traveler in cyberspace, I Googled my topic and found Dr. Edward Hallowell, psychiatrist and author of Worry. He suggests the following:

• Don’t worry alone; talk to a friend.
• Find out more about the issue; check your facts.
• Make a plan and take action.
• Take "care of your brain" (sleep, exercise, eat healthy).
• Seek human contact (hugs are good).
• Let go of the problem.

I’m sure this is all good advice, but it is nothing I haven’t heard before. Actually, it seems a bit simplistic. When I was worried about the war in Iraq and talked to my friends, they were all equally worried, and we just reinforced each other’s anxiety. The same is true of the present state of the economy. The only thing on that list that makes any real sense is “let go of the problem.” That’s tough but doable. It will take an act of sheer will to put my pet demons out of my mind.

As I wrote that line, I could just imagine myself shoving a little demon out the door, turning the key, and stacking tables and furniture against it to prevent him from getting back in. I’ll bet neither Dale Carnegie or Edward Howell ever thought of that.

Memories of my Mother

I am feeling quite philosophical. For one thing, my mother died 10 years ago today. For another, tomorrow is my birthday (not great timing). While it sometimes seems that time is dragging, when I realize that it has been a decade since I last spoke to my mother, I am stunned. I have often felt that, in some inexplicable way, she is more present now than when she was alive. Today, as I think of her, I am rereading what I wrote 10 years ago. Every word still resonates.

First and foremost, my mother was her own person — a liberated woman long before anyone ever heard that phrase. She spoke her mind; she did her own thing; and she exhibited a strength few women I know can equal.

She lived every minute of her 91-1/2 years. She was bright, funny, engaging, and fully engaged in life. She celebrated every birthday as a gift and didn’t seem to notice her age until this past year. But even as she began to slow down a bit, she still managed to read a book a day.

She was intelligent, multi-talented, and capable. It always seemed to me that anything I could do, she could do just a little bit better — from knitting and sewing to finding mistakes in something I had just proofread.

She knew the value of education and went back to work twice to help send both of us to college. Her own education was a result of voracious reading and constant honing of her abundant skills.

She had a direct, personal relationship with God and talked to Him every day. She lived her Judaism in spirit and in deed and honored her own mother by keeping the Sabbath holy.

She had a razor sharp wit, an indomitable sense of humor, and a will of iron. Her face and gestures were eloquently expressive; her love of books was contagious; and her pride in everything we achieved propelled us through life.

She forged and sustained a tightly knit family and instilled in us a strong value system that we, in turn, have tried to keep alive for our daughters.

Most of all, she loved us — all of us — her husband, her daughters, her sons-in-law, and her three beautiful granddaughters. She loved completely, as she lived life, with spontaneous affection, generosity, and zest.

Of all the things she gave us over the years, the gift we will treasure most is her love.

The Reality of This Recession

Sometimes, I think I live in a cave. Its not that I don’t know we’re in a recession. It’s not that I don’t hear about it 10 times a day on NPR, which is the only news that squeaks through my blockade. It’s not that I am unaware of the thousands upon thousands of people who are laid off each week, or the stores that are closing all around me, or the 75 percent off sales everywhere I look. But after eight years of orange alerts and dire warnings and fear, I have become somewhat inured to bad news. It was so bad for so long, and I felt so helpless, that I stopped reading, watching, or listening to the news.

What finally brought the reality of this recession home to me were two conversations about education. One was with the St. Louis Community College, where I teach writing. Registration for my non-credit class is down this semester, as it was last semester. And it’s not just my class; it’s all classes, on all campuses of the community college. People are cutting back, and one of the ways they’re doing it is by not taking classes they don’t need. How many people really need to learn how to write a nonfiction book?

The community college discontinued the separate catalogs for each campus, which people were used to receiving. That probably confused a lot of would-be students. They seem to have discontinued the person who interacted with the instructors, as well. That definitely confused me. I have no idea whom to call when I have a question. So, I call the continuing ed office, where I am told they are in the midst of reorganization. What does that mean? I ask. "It means we may not even be offering the program in the future," I am told. What program? "The continuing education program." I hang up in a daze.

This morning, I was telling a friend about this development. “My daughter is on the strategic planning committee for one of the branches of the university,” she says, "and she just heard they might be closing." Closing? Closing what? I ask. “That branch of the university,” she replies. “I don’t know how she will get her degree if they close the whole campus.”

Suddenly, I am hit with the enormity of this recession — how widespread and deep it is, how it reaches into ever crevice of our society, how many lives it is touching and in many cases ruining. There is no response to my friend’s dismal observation. What can one say?

A Very Bad Day ... or Two or Three

Ever have one of those days? You know, the kind where everything goes wrong from the minute the alarm goes off until you finally escape your little black cloud by diving into bed and burying your head under a pillow. Today was definitely a day for the books, or the blogs, as the case may be. It actually began the a couple of days ago when I left my cell phone and Bluetooth earpiece in the pocket of my workout pants and then dumped them into the washing machine. They emerged from their dunking clean but useless.

The phone was insured; the Bluetooth was not. I had a choice between a replacement phone or upgrading the whole soggy mess for $200 and walking out of the Sprint store fully functional. I opted for the replacement, which was promised by overnight mail. The only proof that it had arrived was the UPS sticky note on the ground half way down my stairs. I was home all day, waiting for the UPS guy, who apparently knocked on my door with a feather. He didn’t return on Friday or Saturday or Sunday, so I still have no phone.

People couldn’t call me, and I couldn’t call them if I was out and about. Friday evening, I used my landline phone to confirm my dinner date with a friend. “OMG,” she said, “I completely forgot and have made other plans for the evening. I’m so sorry.” This was not really a tragedy because it was too cold outside to want to go anywhere. She felt terrible; I said, “Don’t worry about it. I’ve done that more than a few times in my life.” We rescheduled.

Saturday disappeared in a flurry of activity — working out, looking at my daughter’s new choice of wedding ring (it looks nothing like the Jared ring, by the way), pursuing our search for the perfect dress, grabbing a bite to eat, grocery shopping, and finally collapsing. It would have been a lovely day except for one little thing: I completely forgot that I had plans to meet another friend for dinner.

I woke up Sunday morning with a sinking feeling that something was amiss. I checked my calendar and there it was — the missed dinner date. I called my friend, overcome with remorse. “What happened to you?” she asked. “OMG,” I said, “I completely forgot. I got all tied up with wedding stuff and just spaced out. I’m so sorry. I feel absolutely terrible.” “Well you should,” she replied. I was devastated.

Still in a cloud of amnesia, I went off to fulfill my greeting duties of the Ethical Society, only to find I was there on the wrong week. I’m a greeter next Sunday, not this one. Eventually, the day ended. Thinking myself safe from further catastrophe, I pulled down the bedspread, and there was an open pen, sitting in the middle of a spreading blue circle of ink. The bedspread, of course, is white. I did a lot of screaming — “Out, out damn spot!” — but to no avail. All attempts to purge it made it ten times worse. I think this is the end of my beautiful bedspread. The ink, of course, soaked through to the duvet cover and the comforter. I went to bed with the washing machine chugging fitfully and the bathtub full of water and bleach.

When I was a little girl, I read all the Mary Poppins books. In every book there was a chapter called Bad Tuesday or Bad Wednesday, in which Jane or Michael had a very bad day where things went wrong left and right. In the end, of course, everything worked out fine, thanks to magical Mary Poppins. Some never-to-be-forgotten lesson was learned by the remorseful culprit, and Mary Poppins put everyone to bed. End of chapter.

Well, this was my bad Sunday — or more accurately Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. As it finally came to a close, I couldn’t help wishing I had a Mary Poppins to set things right, put me to bed, and end this particular chapter.

“He got it at Jared.” A Cautionary Tale

My daughter (T) became engaged over Thanksgiving. She and her fiancé found the perfect ring at Jared, the Galleria of Jewelry. There it was, right in the case, just waiting for them. It was kismet. Rather than purchase a center diamond, they wanted to have their own “sentimental” diamond mounted in the ring. (A little side note: this diamond was guaranteed and upgradable) “Of course, no problem,” said the store manager, who kept the ring to set the diamond.

That’s when the problems started. It is l-o-n-g story, especially if you are the bride to be, but I will try to give you the abbreviated version.

• The Jared technician cracked the diamond while setting it.
• The store manager offered to replace the cracked stone with a “perfect Jared diamond.”
• The ring was sent to headquarters to search for that perfect diamond; the search took weeks.
• In the meantime, T made many phone calls and trips to the store to check on the status of her ring.
• No calls were returned; no one had any information.
• T began to express impatience. Where was her ring?
• Finally, after many behind-the-scenes phone calls, the ring and the perfect diamond arrived, separately. The stone would have to be mounted at the store.
• T finally received her ring the day before Christmas.
• Meanwhile, back in the manager’s office, the news was not good. The diamond, though perfect, was neither guaranteed nor upgradable. ,
• Why? Because it was a “replacement diamond,” and that was Jared’s policy.
• T tried logic, reminding them that she wouldn’t have a replacement diamond if they hadn’t cracked her original one.
• Logic did not prevail; policy was sacrosanct.

T is what we call a “consumer vigilante” (a phrase coined by Faith Popcorn in The Popcorn Report, 1991). She swung into action.
• She wrote to the president of Jared and the district manager, explaining the sequence of events and the problem. No one responded.
• She called the president, who apparently does not speak to customers, and the head of customer service, who apparently doesn’t either.
• By this time, it was mid-January.
• In the meantime, T made many phone calls and trips to the store to check on the status of her request.
• No calls were returned; no one had any information.
• Meanwhile, back in the manger’s office, the news was not good. The manager had a copy of the letter to the president, but no decision. She would have to call her district manager to resolve this matter.
• Finally, after many behind-the-scenes phone calls, Jared issued its verdict: it declined to guarantee its own diamond but agreed to upgrade it.
• T said no thank you; she wanted to return the ring. That, unfortunately, was no longer an option.
• Why? Because it had been purchased more than 30 days ago, and that was Jared’s policy.
• T tried logic, reminding them that the ring had not been in her possession for 30 days because Jared had sent it back to headquarters; that when she tried to resolve the issue through letters, phone calls, and visits to the store, no calls were returned, and no one had any information; that these delay tactics had effectively “run out the clock.”
• Once again, logic did not prevail; policy was sacrosanct.

It is a maxim of customer service that when a person has a bad experience, he or she will tell at least 11 people, who in turn may each tell 11 other people, and so on. In today’s world, telling only 11 people is a pretty obsolete approach. As the mother of the now-distraught bride to be; a blogger; and member of Facebook, twitter, and several other widely read social networking sites, I thought it would be more effective to tell 11 million people.

So the next time someone tells you he’s going to Jared, you might want to share this story.

Addendum to story: After all of the above, Jared agreed to take the ring back. Lots of bad PR for no good reason. That's why corporations should not have "personhood" status. They don't behave like people.

Closing Out the Year

This is my least favorite time of the year because it is time to get my finances in order to send to my accountant. While I am under the impression I have worked hard all year to keep track of income and expenses, file receipts in the right folders, and regularly add the figures to my Excel spreadsheet, I have been kidding myself. What should be a fairly straightforward task turns into an annual nightmare as I realize I have done none of the above.

First, let me say I am not a numbers person. I don’t particularly like numbers, and anything with dollar signs and decimal points gives me a stomachache. This doesn’t augur well for the task at hand. Where to start is always a problem. I guess the best place is with the pile of paid but still unfiled bills, scattered receipts, and check stubs that seem to have no discernible organization.

Then, there is trying to figure out to whom I paid what during each month of the year, so I can put the figures in the right cells of my empty spreadsheet. It’s not pretty. This year, in desperation, I called my bank and begged for a listing of 2008’s online business payments, all the time thinking, Right. Like that’s going to happen. Miracle of miracles, the lovely woman on the phone said, “Sure. I can do that. I’ll print it out and put it in the mail today.” And she did.

My income is divided into three parts: writing fees, book sales, and social security. That doesn’t sound too complicated, but fighting my way through PayPal and Amazon to see how many books I sold and how much I actually made, after the fees and humongous discounts have been deducted, almost drives me to tears.

Of course, there are the mountains of forms I get every month from Medicare, Blue cross/Blue Shield, and my Medicare Part D insurer. I guess I never look at them before I stuff them into file folders, but now I must. It’s pretty scary reading material. Insurance is it’s own private hell. When you’re self-employed, there seem to be 50 kinds, all out of pocket or deducted from something. And taxes. I never realized how many kinds of taxes there are, none of which are deducted from anything, so they are all out of pocket.

Finally, it is time to add up all these numbers (I swear I’ll eat out less, cut down on hair cuts, and find a cheaper grocery store), attach W9s (or whatever they’re called), and bundle up last year's proof of what is going on my tax return … just in case.

I do this every year, but, somehow, it never gets any easier. This is when I swear once again to hire a virtual assistant (VA). But if she’s virtual, as in — simulated, artificial, imitation, make-believe, computer-generated, online — will she come here and do all of this for me next year?

The Year That Got Away

While I wasn’t paying attention, another year slipped away. No sense asking how it happened or where it went, the annual cliché questions. In reality, all we did was flip a page on a man-made calendar, which informed us that 2008 was over and 2009 had begun. In truth, geologically speaking, at midnight on December 31, we are actually celebrating 4,600,000,001 (or in that neighborhood), since that’s how old our little planet is. Whatever the real date may be, it feels to me that time is speeding up as I get older. That isn’t such a bizarre notion. Time really does fly or drag, according to Einstein. Sometimes, it even stands still. When I was young, it moved very slowly, and I thought I had forever. Now, I know I don’t.

I find it puzzling that we in the West don’t believe we’re ever going to die. Of course, that isn’t rational. Intellectually, we know everyone dies. We hear about death every day. We see it on the news. We lose loved ones. Yet, until we come face to face with death through illness or accident, we just refuse to accept it will ever happen to us. Because we think we are immortal, many of us sail through our days in a daze. We don’t pay attention to the here and now because we’re busy doing other things.

Our minds are elsewhere — in the past, which seems better than it may have been when we were there; in the future, where we plan or worry about events that may never happen; or nowhere in particular, where we just wander and float. It seems very difficult to stay put, right here, right now. I’d say it’s the human condition, but there are humans on the planet who actually do pay attention to what is going on in their lives at the very moment it is happening. And they’re not all Buddhist monks.

In 1970, a Harvard professor who experimented with LSD, studied with a guru, and changed his name to Baba Ram Das, wrote a book called Be Here Now. Hippies loved it; personal development experts loved it; those in search of a new way to be loved it. Now, some 40 years later, the idea is back in fashion. "Mindfullness" is all the rage. Old concept (way older than Baba Ram Das); new packaging. The idea, however, still has merit.

If we were really here, now, right this minute, at the end of 2009 (or 4,600, 000,001), would we all be asking what happened to last year? I doubt it.