I’m a world class worrier. That doesn’t mean I’m a half glass empty kind of gal. I consider myself an optimistic person who also believes that if you don’t plan for the worst while hoping for the best you’re asking for the hounds of hell to besiege you.
Most certainly the past two years has been a feeding frenzy of worry for people like me. Now add in Russia and Ukraine and I’m all sorts of freaked out. I don’t think there’s a vaccine or booster shot for nuclear annihilation.
Fortunately, I have a coping mechanism for this level of stress. It’s called attempting to micromanage my children’s lives through intense fretting. I know I do this because while I have zero control over Russia and what the next coronavirus variant will be I like to think that I do have control over my children. Who cares if they’re adults?
Most certainly I have less authority over my son because he’s what I call a confirmed adult. This means he’s off the family gray train – almost. His official commencement ceremony for this will be next month when he turns 26 and ages off our health insurance plan. It’s the very last vestige we have of being financially connected to him.
This makes me a little sad and I don’t really know why. My son has a theory and it’s that I’m upset that I’m losing the last bit of my “butting in power.” When he said that I pretended to agree with him while trying not to howl at his naivete. Please, my so-called “butting in power” hasn’t even hit its peak.
The fact that he’s going off our insurance has though thrown me into a mid-level panic. What this means is that I’ve embarked on a campaign to remind my son to make sure he’s on his company insurance plan by no later than 12:01 a.m. CST on his birthday.
I’ve told him if there’s even a slight lapse in his health insurance coverage then he should brace himself for having some sort of costly medical emergency because he’ll be tempting fate and fate always seeks retribution. Of course, I know I sound crazy, so I included links to news articles that, sort of, prove my hypothesis that a catastrophe is lurking.
Luckily for me I have much more micromanaging power over my daughter. Since she’s in college and her entire existence is predicated on our financial support this means, to me at least, that it’s my duty to be her worry overlord.
I’m currently in what I’ve dubbed the “Spring Break Distress Zone.” My daughter is going to Mexico for her school break and I’ve texted her a lengthy safety checklist that she’s been instructed to read out loud every morning as a daily reminder on how to stay alive.
Just ugh on going out of the country for spring break. I’d like to find out who’s the idiot that invented this whole trend of everyone feeling the need to leave town for a school holiday? Curse them!
Back in my day you stayed home for spring break and sat around watching the offerings of the three channels that were on your television sets. The highlight of the week was fighting with your siblings over who was going to get up and change the channel because the TV remote was just a dream.
I’m not saying it was #GoodTimes but it didn’t require a checklist with the phone number to the U.S. Embassy in Mexico.
Well, enjoy your day. I’ll just be staring at my phone, tracking my daughter’s location and texting her that I want proof of life and that she’s using at least a 70 SPF sunscreen.
Snarky in the Suburbs 