When I’m worried and I can’t sleep,
I count my blessings instead of sheep.
And I fall asleep counting my blessings.
That might have worked for Irving Berlin and Bing Crosby, but I use a different technique. Whenever this New England Eeyore senses that something bad might happen, she swings into action, both mindful and mindless. Yesterday, while Keith had a routine colonoscopy, I was right there fulfilling my wifely duties. But before and after, I buried my worries in the yard.
Mowing down grass like problems and threatening bothersome weeds within an inch of their lives, I edged and trimmed then swept my troubles into a heavy-duty garbage bag. And yet, disquiet persisted.
Increased apprehension called for extraordinary measures: the pressure washer. Arising from storage in the basement came the ultimate weapon for battle against grime and trepidation of historical proportions. From back deck to front sidewalk, I washed away the slippery green slime of vexation and the encrusted black mold of anxiety. Take that, gritty dilemma, and that, grubby trial and tribulation. With my power washer wand in hand, I was a pulsing, turbo-charged fear buster!
Finally, I turned towards the front steps where the deepest and dirtiest angst resides. The pressure washer suddenly stopped. My magic wand hissed its last stream of water then dribbled limply to nothing. All resuscitation tricks failed: check connections; give it time to cool, recharge; unplug, plug in; test, reset. The On button no longer responded to my touch; the Ready light would not illuminate on command.
What did I do when the pressure failed? I sighed, took a shower and counted my blessings.
What do you do when you’re worried?
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