What do you worry about? Earthquakes? Death? GOOD FOR YOU. I mean it – you don’t sweat the small stuff and for that I admire you. I, on the other hand, sweat all kinds of stuff. It’s a constant heatwave for me. If you think it’s petty and unimportant – or just plain weird – I can guarantee I have cried over it at least three times in the last week…
I worry that I have a serious illness almost every day
Google is great for lots of things, like finding out what else ‘Game of Thrones priest man’ has been in so you can continue watching TV without that niggling feeling. But I’d hazard a guess that Google is also the sole cause behind a hell of a lot of unwarranted GP appointments that would otherwise never have been booked.
I’m sorry. I am one of these bookers. White lump on my tonsil? DEFINITELY MOUTH CANCER. Achey leg? DEEP VEIN THROMBOSIS. Slight weight gain? 100% PREGNANT. Who will throw my baby shower? How will I break the news to my nearest and dearest? I hope it’s a boy who eventually needs glasses, like the kid from Stuart Little. He was cute.
I worry about what will happen to my cuddly toys when I die
Lots of people grew out of stuffed animals when they were 10 or 11. Lots more people never really liked them to begin with. But I saw Toy Story a few too many times and turned into the girl who talked to her teddies, bought clothes for her dolls and once counted a Beanie Baby mouse named Cheezer as her only real friend during a particularly difficult year of university.
My cuddly toys mean a lot to me. There’s Puppy, who is actually a vanilla-scented air freshener my great grandmother bought for me when I was three, Patty, who’s a purple platypus (of course), and all their friends and relations I’ve managed to collect over the years.
On my most anxious of days, I picture myself on a futuristic deathbed and an evil grandchild with greasy hair taking my toys to a landfill or a charity shop. HANDS OFF, NICHOLAS. Screw the fine china, if there’s one thing I want taken care of and passed down for generations, it’s my prized collection of stuffed animals.
I worry about Lindsay Lohan
When I was in my mid-teens I read an interview with Lindsay Lohan in a Sunday magazine, to find out if she was thinking of doing a Mean Girls sequel (she wasn’t). At the end of it Lindsay got upset and said to the interviewer: “Thank you for being nice to me. People aren’t normally,” and from that moment I knew that if I ever became some sort of celebrity I would make a bloody beeline for LiLo and ask her if she wanted to go to Nando’s with me. Now, when I see articles that smirk “OFF THE RAILS” and “BOTCHED LIP WORK!” I want to cry. I think about Lindsay a lot. I hope she has kind friends.
I worry I will consume a spider in my sleep
Do you remember that kid from school who’d always tell you the foolproof statistic about swallowing eight spiders in your sleep during your lifetime? What a little pain in the ass. Because of this child (who seemed to inhabit EVERY SCHOOL IN THE UK, same as the kid who regaled us with the story of the boy who swung back on his chair and died) I didn’t sleep properly for years. I can’t cope with spiders when they’re three rooms away from me – how am I supposed to deal with the fact that they also want to enter my MOUTH?
I worry that the plate cupboard will fall off the wall and crush me
The plate cupboard is WITHOUT DOUBT the heaviest cupboard in the whole house. It is home to all of our plates (obv) but also looks after bowls, casserole dishes, the cheese grater and a few egg cups, which I believe probably weigh around as much as me in crockery form. The thought of this cupboard one day coming off the wall and squashing my entire being popped into my head one day and never left. I don’t trust it and try to keep a safe distance from it at all times when lurking in the kitchen.
I worry about the horses who get taken to help the police during riots and demonstrations
LOOK, the police chose their jobs but the horses didn’t. Do you really think Dusty envisaged a life spent visiting EDL protests? Did Clive imagine getting fireworks set off in his face? I get that their size makes them a useful addition to a situation that has the potential to quickly fall out of hand – and I feel for those policemen and women too, plz don’t misunderstand me – but this doesn’t stop me wanting to become a non-creepy Pied Piper, lead the horses to a little meadow and hug them until they forget everything they’ve seen.
I worry that my life will one day turn out to be something like the plot of The Truman Show
What if my boyfriend is actually lying about liking me, and has been for the whole six years we’ve been together, as some sort of elaborate prank? What if everyone is watching me while I type this and laughing at me and my stupid zip-up fleece? What if you can see me talk to myself as I drive to work or practice trying to touch my toes when I’m home alone? This is probably my most narcissistic worry of all and to make matters worse it often turns into another worry, about whether I’m actually just really self-absorbed. My brain hurts but I’m going to go with ‘yes’.
I worry that I will be mugged for my phone and the thief will see all my discarded selfies
All regular selfie-takers know that for every good photo, there are at least 38 disgusting ones. Photos where you are looking in the wrong direction, have a blurry nose, are pouting so hard you’ve crossed the line from sort-of-cute to arrogant or forgot to alter your stance so your legs looked thinner (don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean). As a result, a good two thirds of my image gallery is made up of rejected photos of MY FACE. If an opportunist ever swipes my phone from me as I get off the bus or walk to the cashpoint, I’ll hope they know how to wipe it A$AP. I don’t want my shitty photos to end up being scrutinised on some website called worstselfiesofalltime.com or similar.
I worry about getting into trouble, in ANY scenario
The annoying goody two-shoes of every situation is almost always me. I can’t cope with people being angry with me or the idea of going against someone in authority’s wishes, and I was always really jealous of that girl in science class who told the teacher to fuck off and then threw her shoe out the window for no reason, because that’s something I’d never, ever do.
I once had a sip of Barcardi Breezer at the age of 11 and cried for an hour afterwards because I was convinced I’d stained the family name and would die of alcohol poisoning. In 2003, when I dumped half the contents of my paper-round bag into a local hedge and told my parents I’d “just been really quick this week” I considered moving to Iceland to deal with the guilt. I am not a good liar, nor a crazy rule-disregarder. Them’s the brakes.