Why do we spend so much time worrying about the wrong things?
Last month, I was shocked by an email demanding that I pay $1,000 in bitcoins to a hacker who said he had my password, had recorded me through my computer's camera and would release terrible information about me to my family and friends. I made myself miserable for about 6 minutes. The only site I'd visited that might have raised eyebrows was one for discount brassieres, embarrassing only because I bought one in orange (reduced by 70 percent, so understandable).
But rather than keep my worries to myself, I posted a copy of the creepy letter on my Facebook page whereupon my family and friends immediately and blithely reassured me that this was the latest scam.
It's easier to send out a searchlight than remain anxious in the shadows, and often better yet to go onto Snopes.com, where we can all be relieved to learn that what seems unbelievably nerve-wracking shouldn't be believed at all.
If you're like me, and are by nature a worrier, it's a challenge. I'm terrified of getting on airplanes. Yet I fly often because I've been given the good fortune of being asked to speak around the world and I don't think it's fair to get up in front of 400 people, talk about creativity, humor and courage and then say, "Me, personally, I take the bus."
If I let my fear of flying get in my way, it would make it hard to give a talk in Perth, Australia, which I've also done despite the fact that Perth is as far as you can be from my house and still remain on the planet. I know airplanes rarely fall out of the sky, but they remain my full-winged dragons.
I'm worrying about the wrong thing.
I probably should be more frightened of cancer because it took the life of every woman on my mother's side of the family. But having decided, long ago, not to let my fear of death get in the way of my living a full life, I nevertheless make sure, as woman privileged enough to have access to reliable health care, that I get tested.
October is Breast Cancer Awareness month and, with pink ribbons everywhere, you'd think it'd be an easy decision for women over 40 to remember to schedule mammograms. It is for me, but I know plenty of women who fear a mammogram the way I fear a 747. It's another scary machine. You feel helpless. But they can be useful as we make our journeys.
There are many small tasks that require a surprising amount of emotional heavy lifting. Asking to be paid for your work is hard, but worrying about whether you'll be able to meet your bills is harder. Other things causing anxiety, which would be easier just to do rather than ruminate over, include returning calls from people you don't want to speak to, declaring health proxies, clearing out the basement and completing documents longer than three pages.
In part I know this because I spent pretty much all of 1986 worrying about whether or not I'd be able to finish my dissertation. This was not useful anxiety; it didn't offer me incentive or help me focus. All it did was make me frantic.
I'd traipse around my neighborhood for hours, wondering whether it was too late to start another career. I envied everybody who looked fully employed. Worry gnawed the edges of my heart the way a mouse gnaws a fence post.
Finally, I gave up, gave in and rerouted my energy. Instead of trying to escape my obligations, I decided to meet them in a fair fight. The gnawing stopped. A healthy appetite for work replaced it.
The only way to triumph over worry is to act. The only way to win a battle with anxiety is to take responsibility for your decisions.
Hand-wringing has a place but only as a prelude to action. Better to campaign for a candidate than complain about the outcome of an election. Better to alter the outcome than grieve over what might have been.
Buy the orange bra. Report the scam. Face the test. Take flight.