Worrying Your Way to Better Health and Long Life

As someone very wise once said, most of what we worry about never happens. That has been my experience also. And that is precisely why I worry: It works.

Plenty of bad things I didn’t have the wisdom and foresight to worry about have happened. I wasn’t worrying when the airline lost my luggage. I wasn’t worrying when I got food poisoning on my vacation. And I wasn’t worrying when another driver ran a red light, totaled my car, and landed me in the emergency room. Or, at least, I wasn’t worrying about those things. I now try to worry about them a little bit each day, and I don’t think it’s a coincidence that none of them has happened since.

Despite its effectiveness in preventing accident, injury and even death, non-worriers tease us about our stewing habit. They call us “worry warts,” which I find offensive—not that I don’t worry about warts.

And they’re forever trying to persuade us to stop worrying so much. Many books have been written on the subject: There’s How to Stop Worrying and Start Living, Kicking the Worry Habit and my personal favorite, Worrying: Robbing Life from Your Years and Years from Your Life. I know that makes me feel less anxious.

Predictably, all of the above were written by non-worriers. People who never did worry much. People whose idea of worrying is wondering if they turned the thermostat down. People who can rest during dental work. What do they know about worry and its many benefits?

Non-worriers tell us to set aside time to worry. In other words, pencil in the word “fretting” on your calendar from, say, 7 to 8 p.m. Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Then when 7 o’clock rolls around, go to it. Scan the horizon for impending disasters. Worry, brood, fuss, stew, then do it again. And when your time is up, stop. It’s as easy as that.

Actually, as the mother and designated worrier in my family, I’ve used this method fairly effectively for many years—all except the stopping part. I set aside the hours between midnight and morning.

Non-worriers also recommend we ask ourselves trite questions about what’s bothering you. “Is this really going to matter in ten years?” Like there won’t be plenty of other things to worry about in ten years. And they’ll probably be bigger. Or “What’s the worst thing that could happen?” I’m sure they found great solace in that at the Alamo.

Anyone who finds that question comforting simply lacks imagination. And a good imagination really is the key to effective worrying. Who else but a real hand-wringing, blood-sweating worrier can fret about the safety of people they’ve never met and illnesses they’re showing no symptoms of?

Which leads me to a final tip from the non-worrying crowd: They suggest we write about our worries as a cheap form of therapy, get them down on paper and out of our system. Maybe they have a point. With imaginations like ours, we may be able to channel our worries into soap opera scripts.

Still there’s so much in life to worry about that I sometimes worry that I may be worrying too much. I’m working on finding a balance, cutting back just enough to save my sanity without jeopardizing my safety. I definitely do not plan to stop worrying altogether. On those rare occasions when I’m not worrying, I worry I may be missing something. If things are going too well, I worry it can’t last. And if I sleep too well at night, I worry I may not hear an intruder.

Excerpted from Dorothy’s book, I Used to Think I Was Not That Bad and Then I Got to Know Me Better. Contact drosby@rushmore.com.