WIRED TO WORRY - CONFESSIONS OF A WORRYWART

“OCCUPY WALL STREET” ON K STREET, WASHINGTON, D.C.

By susan fishman orlins

The other day, I bike downtown to the Newseum to hear a panel discussion by New York Times columnists. I leave home early enough to swing through McPherson Square, D.C.’s Occupy Wall Street venue.

Soul Power

My immediate sense is a blast from the past, a hippie and flower child commune ambience.

The Lending Library

The Lending Library boasts titles like War and Peace and The Girl With the Dragon Tatoo.

The Kitchen

On a small stove, ground beef is sizzling, almost ready to go into the spaghetti sauce for tonight’s dinner.

Needs

Bengay and Tiger Balm comprise 20% of the Needs, suggesting that occupying Wall Street puts a strain on the muscles.

The Massage

So folks help one another relax.

The Committees and Meeting Schedule

I have been fantasizing about taking my tent and spending a night with this group. Were I in my twenties, I might have moved right in, drawn especially by the camaraderie and excuse to sleep under the stars.

The Committees and Meeting Schedule heighten my envy of this seemingly tight community that contrasts with my comfortable home in a boring, mown-lawn neighborhood.

I would join the Welcome, Comfort and Media committees rather than the Sanitation, Legal and Outreach Committees.

The Art Table

Why isn’t there an Arts or Culture Committee?

Art Table Yield

Signs made at the Art Table are everywhere.

Music Appreciation

There is nothing in the Music Appreciation area–it’s guitar, drums, girls in long skirts, abundance of hair–to suggest this is not 1971.

The "Red Cross"

This medic’s name is Kennedy. He seems to be a regular, but tells me people come to volunteer before they go to work. I ask about toilets. He replies that the protesters are at the mercy of nearby restaurant owners’ generosity.

Harvard Professor Lawrence Lessig speaks

Harvard Law Professor Lawrence Lessig speaks

Harvard Law Professor Lawrence Lessig encourages the crowd to “invite the grassroots in, take in the Tea Party members who do not have a job … those people who have the same recognition” of the fundamental unfairness . . . . (Quote courtesy of occupydc.org.)

Media Circus

The protest is a media magnet, even the media folks are media-worthy.

View from the Newseum Roof

After meandering through the Occupy Wall Street community, I go to the Newseum, Washington’s fabulous news museum, and listen to opinion pages journalists discuss the current political climate and the 2012 election.

Maybe panelist David Brooks is the one who remarks that the Occupy Wall Street movement is not very organized.

I wonder whether he has seen the list of Committees and the Schedule of Meetings at McPherson Square.

Where do you think the Occupy Wall Street movement is headed?

Related Announcement: Don’t miss my Top Ten Do-It-Yourself Halloween Costumes

Poorman's Nation

such as Poorman’s Nation costume in this photo I took last week at “Wall Street’s” Occupy Wall Street demostration in Zuccotti Park.

WORRIED WHAT YOU’LL THINK

By susan fishman orlins

TANGENTIALLY-RELATED ANNOUNCEMENT: See my Home Goes Strong article “Throw an Ugly Sweater Party, It’s all the Rage.”

Everyone has been inviting me to their Ugly Sweater Parties.

Everyone has been inviting me to his or her Ugly Sweater Party.

Even though “everyone” sounds like a truckload of folks, the singular “his or her” is grammatically correct. (Worried, I confirmed this with the grammar police.)

“Their” sounds more conversational. But if I use “their,” will you think I don’t know better? Is it better to write it right and sound awkward? I choose conversational, but I worry what you’ll think.

I wanted you to know I know how to write it right. Just sayin’. . .

Speakin’ of usage, I just looked up “just sayin’” because I was itchin’ to use it and wasn’t sure I was usin’ it right. Still not sure.

From Urban Dictionary (If not interested skip down to “BTW“):

JUST SAYIN’

1. a phrase used to diffuse any ill feelings caused by a preceded remark.

2. a term coined to be used at the end of something insulting or offensive to take the heat off you when you say it.

3. This term is used after you inject your statement/opinion into a conversation. Generally, this statement/opinion is non-factual, so by saying “just sayin’”, you are clarifying that this statement/opinion is unprovable and it is just a thought off the top of your head.
BTW, no one has invited me to their Ugly Sweater Party. Just sayin’ . . .

I hope everyone will weigh in with their comments!

ADDICTED TO WORRY

By susan fishman orlins

Unrelated announcement: A MAGICAL USED COOKBOOK SHOP & A DIVINE COOKIE RECIPE

I’m addicted to worry. Not long ago, I wrote a Huffington Post post, Worry Less: 10 Lessons From Cognitive Therapy, in which I advised, “Be aware that rumination and obsession are like drugs, in a bad way. They activate the pleasure center of the brain, so the more you obsess, the more you are drawn to obsess. It’s an addiction. If you think about it that way, it can help you realize what’s happening and put the brakes on some of that worry.”

So each time my mind flashes on one of my favorite things to worry about, I’m feeding the addiction and it makes me want more.

Who knew it was such a pleasure to worry?

How do you measure up in the addicted to worry category?

TWITTER REUNITES WORRYWART WITH OLD FRIEND

By susan fishman orlins

It all began with a tweet from MaMoosie, even though it originally began 50 years ago with a French kiss lesson.

During one of my maladaptive, obsessive, neurotic checkings of Twitter messages, I see this retweet from one of my followers “MaMoosie” who knows I’m a writer: “’Writing is easy. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein.’ RED SMITH.”

I like this quote and I check out the one who originally tweeted it. It turns out he tweets these writers’ quotes all day long. I click to follow him so I can read more tweets, like “’The beautiful part of writing is that u don’t have to get it right the first time unlike, say, brain surgery.’ R.Cormier”

Then I look at his Twitter profile (All I know at this point is his Twitter name, AdviceToWriters). He has more than 35,000 followers, including Dick Cavett, witty Sixties talk show host, presently a writer.

Seeing the staggering 35,000+ number of followers shoots an adrenaline spike through a blogger like me who takes pride in her 88 followers. A thought bubble inflates overhead, If only I could get him to tweet about my blog, imagine how many new visitors would drop in on Confessions of a Worrywart, maybe even Dick Cavett . . .

I read his actual name. Oh My Lady Gaga! He’s Jon Winokur, Jonnie Winokur Junior High! I go to Amazon and see he’s written dozens of books from Ennui to Go: The Art of Boredom to The Portable Curmudgeon.

Jonnie lived two doors away from George, my first boyfriend. George and I were the power couple in ninth grade when Jonnie was in seventh. But it was fun to pal around with Jonnie despite the age difference.

All these years later, I email Jonnie and he writes back. I sign Sue and explain, “I might forget and sometimes sign Susan, the name I’ve used ever since I reinvented myself in college.”

He emails back, addressing me as Sue/Susan and signs off as Jon/Jonnie, and when he next writes, he uses S/S and J/J. This is just the kind of thing that will stump me for minutes when I email him again and try to decide what names to use.

He says he remembers me as happy-go-lucky; I respond that’s true, but I’ve always been wired to worry.

I also tell him I’m thinking of doing a post about my writing life to see if I can merit a tweet to his 35,000+ followers. He says he’d be delighted to retweet something I compose on the subject of writing and encourages me also to write about George.

Jon/Jonnie offers to send me a copy of his Encyclopedia Neurotica, perhaps perceiving a bit of neurotica in me.

Meanwhile, I write J/J to ask if I’m only imaging that I taught him to French kiss, “egged on I’m sure by George,” I add.

J sets the record straight, “I vaguely remember something about a French kissing lesson, but I’m hazy on the
details. (There have been so many.) Wait, it’s coming back to me now: As I recall the lesson consisted of too much theory and too little practice.”

I’m worried I’ve not come up with insights beyond the banal: Wowee digital connectivity! Nonetheless, I am now going to alert Jonnie to this very post and also call his attention to to my first blog post ever, “To Blog or Not to Blog,” which indeed is about writing.

To find out what happens if Jonnie tweets one of my links, check out my Twitter page and look for a number at the top that is higher than 88.

Have you turned up any blasts from the past on Twitter or elsewhere online?

Unrelated announcement: Have you taken my Organizing Challenge? Soon I’ll be writing about my own organizing success on Home Goes Strong.

MY INNER CAVEWOMAN

By susan fishman orlins

Unlike me, my friend Eleanor never worries about the dark or anything else; she’s more evolved than I am. All my fears and worries I blame on my inner cavewoman, who is constantly on the lookout for danger.

Fear of darkness (myctophobia) made sense 200,000 years before Thomas Edison came on the scene. But that line of reasoning fails when I appeal to my Ice Age alter ego. If only I could to go to sleep at nightfall, I’d experience less darkness during my waking hours. But Cavewoman has to have her way, staying awake with her vigilant eye at times till the moon begins to fade.

I also acquired a touch of the ADD from my hunter and gatherer forebears, which was helpful for detecting predators back in the day. But now, it rustles up a lot of trouble, like inability to finish a sentence without veering off on a tangent. When Eleanor and I have coffee she is always saying “And so . . . And so . . . And so . . . ” Everyone seems to want me to get to the point.

My risk of going public with my fear of the dark is that if terrorists ever capture me and get hold of this information, they could use it to their advantage.

What fears can you trace back to your inner caveperson?

Unrelated announcement: Take my Organizing Challenge, see my new post on Home Goes Strong, 17 Tips for Getting Organized.

“WHITE GIRL WORRIES”

By susan fishman orlins

I worry about appearing frivolous or insensitive to my blog readers, especially those with real problems. A friend, whose daughter has cystic fibrosis, once told me, “When they find a cure for CF, I’ll worry about world peace.” Another friend calls the things I worry about “white girl worries.”

Seven years ago a 200-year-old poplar tree fell on my house, causing damage that took a year to repair. I said to my psychotherapist, “How can I complain, given that we’re safe, while our family friends just lost their son in a car crash?” He responded with the shrink party line, “You’re entitled to your worries.” Entitled? Perhaps. But who can deny that there is a hierarchy of worry-worthiness?

I can’t recall a time that I did not think like a worrywart. As Queen Isabella in the third grade play, the only way I could keep from giggling was to picture my mother dead, something I worried about a lot (she’s now 91). So when I attended a lecture by positive psychologist and author of Happier, Tal Ben-Shahar, otherwise known as the Harvard Happiness Professor, I asked whether people like me are wired to worry. “Yes,” he answered, with no hint of optimism that my brain can be rewired.

Which brings me back to my blog. During my plump years of young motherhood, I wrote a diet tips article (never published) and in the process lost 12 pounds. Now, by examining the imagined fearsome scenarios that pop into my head, maybe I can shed some worry weight, as well as provide commiseration for fellow worrywarts. Others who read my posts may be inspired to give thanks for being non-worrywarts.

CONFESSIONS OF A WORRYWART

“OCCUPY WALL STREET” ON K STREET, WASHINGTON, D.C.

WORRIED WHAT YOU’LL THINK

ADDICTED TO WORRY

TWITTER REUNITES WORRYWART WITH OLD FRIEND

MY INNER CAVEWOMAN

“WHITE GIRL WORRIES”

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