Just Like My Mother

It has recently been brought to my attention that I worry just like my mother. The title of this blog is really a tribute to this lovely personality quirk that I've picked up somewhere along the way. I worry about everything. And when I'm not worried about something, I worry that I've forgotten something, or that that something else is just on the horizon. I know this is a tedious, useless way to be. I know that worry really does no good at all. Knowing this and stopping the behavior, however, have not followed in succession.

I would like to take a moment and point out that 1) I am not exactly like my mother (she worries more about me than I do) and 2) this tendency is not always a bad thing. For example, I prepare myself for a variety of possible scenarios in most situations. The girl scout motto is "be prepared"...or is that the boy scout motto? No matter. In any given situation you can count on me to have a pen, money, a camera, some kind of self-defense method (usually pepper spray), a light, etc. I'm a walking survival kit. Which is particularly funny because I don't like to camp- bugs, not having a place to pee, and being dirty aren't my favorite things.

That's a lot of preliminary information to explain that I'm in fine form right now because I have plenty to worry about. Since my last post (Unemployed) I've received one job offer and have a promising lead on a second opportunity. So, I went from having to make a decision about moving home vs. taking a less than appealing job, to potentially making a choice between two positions that would make me very happy. Pro-Con lists are a must, separated into two categories: professional and personal. On top of all that, M has been sequestered as part of a Jury on a 1st degree murder trial. So I can't talk through all of this stuff with him. The Divine sure has an incredible sense of humor. Upside? We agreed that at least now no one can say I made my decision based completely on him.

Speaking of M, without getting too mushy, things are just right. I always secretly rolled my eyes when people said their significant other was their "best friend" but I think I'm starting to understand where they're coming from. He gets me (and even when he doesn't, at least he tries), he listens to me (especially important because we disagree often!), and he makes me laugh - hard, and long, and about anything. I'm happy when I'm with him, and I try to make him happy. We balance each other out. Life is good - even if I am worried all the time. I can't help that, it's genetic.