A Worry Song

You know, a body could spend a lot of time worrying. There’s plenty of trouble to go around: the world economy, climate change fears, and, closer to home, my RRSP stocks are plummeting, my car is getting old and crotchety, and my aging body is somewhat the worse for wear.

I woke up this morning wondering whether to call my bank and tell them to sell low, high, or medium, whatever, just sell. I can’t afford to wait out another downturn in the markets—retirement is only a year away. On the other hand, I can’t take it with me. True enough, but I might be able to put it to good use until I go to where I can’t take it. 

Well, after working myself up into a bit of a lather stressing about a financial world I can do nothing about, I defaulted on that call to the bank—for now. Maybe things aren’t as bad as people fear.  Hmmm… On the other hand, if I sell all my stocks, the market will fall further, contributing even more to the recession. Don’t want that on my conscience.

On to my aging car, now over five years old in human years—probably closer to 30 by Canadian winter standards. It needs major adjustments. (Actually, so does the Canadian winter, but I can’t worry about everything). The muffler is gone, one tire keeps losing air while the rest are going bald, and I just don’t want to think about the brakes, the cracked windshield, and my defunct remote starter. Mufflers and tires and brakes, oh my.

Yet, compared to my delapitated body, my deteriorating vehicle seems like a zippy James Bond sportscar. Lately it’s harder for me to move. My joints protest loudly with cracks and moans when called upon to do the least little thing. Pretty soon, I’m going to need a recliner with an ejector button to catapult me to my feet so I can go get a snack. 

That’s why, when all is said and done, I’ve decided that although these may be the golden years, they’re not mine. No sir. They really belong to the banks, the auto repair shops, and the drug companies that supply the pain meds and tranquilizers I need to survive them.

And that’s my worry song for today.

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One Response to A Worry Song

  1. The Fighter says:

    Sometimes worry is all I have to think about, what else would I worry about if there was no worry?
    hmmm?

    Like

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