Some advice is absurd. There are a variety of categories of ridiculous recommendations, but the one I’m talking about here is advice that is pointless because it is impossible to follow. The following is an example of this sort of silly suggestion.
I am always angst-ridden. Always. When people learn this, which rarely requires more than thirty seconds of interaction with me, they often tell me I shouldn’t worry so much.
Ridiculous! I’m an incessant, incurable worrier. It’s a core part of me. Without it I’d likely cease to exist.
I was a world-class worrier even as a small child, which is to say when I was young, not necessarily when I was physically small.
And, no, when I say physically small I’m not referring to down there. That’s none of your damn business, unless you’re female and want to date me. In which case, let’s talk.
I have always been short. I’ve also always been at least somewhat, and sometimes considerably, on the pudgy side. So, physically I have always been small vertically, but large horizontally. Thus, depending on how you define it, I have always qualified as small or I have never qualified as such. However, that is likely almost totally irrelevant to a discussion of my anxieties. And it’s certainly an enormous, unnecessary digression from the intended thrust of this post.
The point is that telling me to stop worrying is like telling the Pope to stop being Catholic or a theist of any stripe. It might be excellent advice, but it’s not going to happen until I die. And, if I’m wrong in my belief that there is no afterlife, maybe not even then. What a horrid thought—if there is an afterlife I might spend eternity worrying—and it’s one more thing for me to start worrying about. It never ends. Angst happens.
Categorised as: angst