What are my worst habits?
In the broadest terms, worrying is my worst habit. I can worry myself into a stomach ache, an acne breakout, a binge-eating session, a long run, a massive closet clean-out, or a good cry, sometimes all in the same day.
Worrying is in my blood. My Mamaw is a worrier, so is my Aunt Gloria. My father worries, my sister worries, I worry. We all worry.
Here’s a photo of worriers, taken in February:
I think Mamaw and Aunt Gloria would agree that we’d love to stop being worriers. What’s the point anyway? Does it help anything? No. Is it the best way to spend our time? No. Is it a practical way to relieve stress? Um, no.
I once read that worrying is the same as telling God, “I don’t think you can handle this stuff so I’m gonna handle it myself.” It’s a point of view that bothers me because I’ve not once been mouthy like that with God. Instead I’m always like, “GOD PLEASE HELP ME BECAUSE I JUST CAN’T.”
And then I sit and worry.
I have a lot of bad habits, like nit-picking and rolling my eyes and being sarcastic with my kids. I chew the inside of my mouth when I’m thinking hard about something and I forget to update the checkbook too often. I let the recycling pile up for weeks until our garage looks like a landfill. I’m terrible about replying to text messages in my brain but not actually doing them for real.
But if I could remove one bad habit from my life, it would be worrying. What a freakin’ waste of time.