Good Advice

Recently my friend Frances came by the house to gift me with a fabulous birthday present, a painting from her husband I fell in love with the moment I saw it in their Purple-Polka-Dot- House Art Gallery. We sat at the table together with her 90 year old Mother, Matt and myself, told off-color jokes, laughed and smiled sweetly at her 90 year old mother, a Jewish, proper, stern, chalky-faced, unmoving plastic hair, lipstick-wearing woman, did I mention NINETY YEARS OLD? It was a short visit as Mom and daughter had been shopping all afternoon and it was long past time for various medications to ease a variety of symptoms. As we walked to the front door to bid farewell, hugs and kisses, Mom looked me square in the eye and spoke directly into me like it was The Last Time I would see her. She said "Seems like you are doing the right thing here, so may you live to be my age of 90." A bit honored and taken back by her observation I asked inquisitively, "What is your secret?" She simply motioned with her left hand across her right shoulder as if to be brushing off fallen snowflakes, "Honey, just let it roll on by. Don't worry." Don't worry. DON'T WORRY. Don't worry? But it's my job. It's what I do. I worry about my son's insomnia and indigestion, Matt's asthma, Rachel and Emma's reunion, my Mom's diabetes, my brother's ingrown toenail, my nephews learning to drive, W.A.'s cancer, the pain in my wrist, forearm and shoulder, why Ryan & Chris don't return my calls, the cost of a gallon of milk and how will I pay my taxes? I worry about the paint peeling off the upstairs ceiling, the creekhouse and Casa Vistosa. I worry about all the men and women still deployed. I worry about my computer crashing and learning to digital collage someday. I worry about the neighborhood dog that barks all night with the Rooster. I worry about losing the ability to make a great cup of coffee. But now at 50 years old, I have decided to "let it go" like water off a ducks back. Because to tell you the truth, I have plenty of things NOT to worry about that outweigh the above. I am loved at the end and beginning of each and everyday by a marvelous man who stays by my side. I do not worry about Jack, the cost of gasoline, nor the color of my hair. I do not worry about my art, my dusty windows, the shape of my ass or wine-stained jeans. I don't worry about the return of Spring, the magic of fullmoons and the frogs in my pond. I don't worry about my baggy eyes, crooked teeth nor dry skin. I don't worry anymore about the longevity of love, the stability of home and the depth of commitment. I suppose the only thing I have to worry about now is will I reach the age of 90 with grace, health and all my own hair. Deb