What, Me Worry?!

Night Thoughts

It will come as a shock to those of you who read the pieces I write – so cool and rational; so filled with irony and wit; so controlled and understated – that I am often completely consumed by the crazies.

Everything between the dashes in the previous sentence is a tongue-in-cheek joke, by the way – an example of that notorious irony and wit. In the REAL world: My name is Randy, and, I admit it, I’m a craziholic.

If a thing can be worried about, I worry. If it shouldn’t be worried about – because there’s no likelihood it will ever happen, nothing one can do about it if it does, isn’t worried about by 99% of people, who mostly don’t even know it’s a possible subject for worry – I worry about it anyway. I can turn a mole hill into a mountain in a minute, and not look back for a moment. And that’s a “Randy Minute” (shall we call it), which makes a New York Minute look like sloth-speed.

Lately I’ve been worrying, mostly at night after a few hours of fitful sleep, and at the start of a few more of restless tossing and the compulsive turning on&off of the bedside light, about the prospect of dying lonely and terrified, a pathetic, sad old man who has not secured his place in history, nor spawned the children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren who would see him into a blissful, peaceful eternity. Or who would at least visit him in the nursing home once a year, or maybe every two or three.

Of course, this is something that most people, who have, wisely, taken the descendant track, needn’t worry about. And I say to them, “Lucky you. Your night-dreams must be a never-ending joy of white-petaled daisies dropped from the beaks of songbirds fluttering in blue skies. Can you even imagine the talon-wielding birds of prey that fill the gloomy skies of my dreams? But why should you, as you contemplate the clamor from adoring blood-tied loved ones, vying to hold your hand as you slip into that other realm, paradise, where they will see you again one day soon?”

I will now change the subject, lest we all sink into a La Brea Tar Pit of depression, preserving our angst in amber, for the amazement, and schadenfreude of future, AI-generated generations. (Yes, I know these metaphors, or whatever they are, are all mixed up – but, to quote a dear friend, “I don’t give a s***.” I’ve got more worrisome worries to worry about now!)

I’ve just read an article – in the New York Times, so it must be true – about the growing threat of “check washing.” And so now I’m worried that every check I’ve ever written, which has not been returned to me, and shredded in my annual between-Christmas-and-New-Year shredding, that every one of them is for sale somewhere in cyberspace, to check washers just itching for the chance to drain my checking account with their nefarious perversion of the “washing” that always seemed so virtuous when applied to hands, especially during COVID, and even tatty underwear, anytime. Do you know about check washing? Google it, and join me in worry. (Also, let me know if you spot any of my checks for sale, and I’ll do the same for you.)

This is, for me, a new worry, in the category of identity theft – and that’s a worry which I’ve tried for years to convince myself was one of the “Baroque” variety - more flourish than substance, not really worthy of worrying about. Who would want to steal my identity? Many days, I barely want to own it myself. And yet, apparently there are gangs of Russian mobsters (or are they Chinese? It’s so hard to be sure when it’s all online, and so one must rely on social media word-of-mouth) clamoring to be ME! Are they too benighted to know that “fat, grey, gay, old, American man” is not an identity to be aspired to in this day of diversity and youth? Much less PAID for with real Bitcoin on some insecure trumped-up website floating in cyberspace?

By now, I’ve spent three score and ten (plus), dreaming of being someone other than I am – or, at least, someone other than where I am, in terms of wealth, beauty, accomplishment and adulation. If I think about what I’ve accomplished with the time I’ve had and the advantages I’ve been given, I can easily sink into that La Brea of depression, into which even the taloned birds of prey would be sucked as they tried to make a meal (a last meal) of my slashed and mangled ego. So why would anyone – even desperate Russian mobsters, longing to live their last days in Texas – want to steal me?

But this is yet another example of that irony and wit. Though I know you realized it. As Piaf assured us, in her soul-plumbing way: “Non, Je ne regrette rien.” Because, Mon Dieu, this Vie en Rose is too short, too precious, to let regret or worry taint it – to sing anything other than a Hymne A L'Amour. (This diversion into Piaf songs, prompted by an accidental detour on YouTube, as I searched for those fugitive checks on the internet, has nothing to do with the subject of my essay – but isn’t it nice to have a little relief from doom and gloom? An interlude with Piaf is never amiss, even if it wrings a few tears of nostalgic sadness from your eye. And I suspect, as I turn back to my true subject, many of you will be longing for a little Les Amants De Paris – which I heartily recommend.)

And, in conclusion …

Wouldn’t it be nice if I had something upbeat to follow the three dots? Or, maybe, if I were even just concluding? But, no, I have nothing upbeat to offer and no conclusions to draw. Because “conclusion” implies, by it’s generally accepted meaning, an end in sight. And one thing I know for sure by now: my worrying, be it Baroque, Rococco, Fauve or otherwise, will find only one conclusion (shall we call it death?); and, disturbed night-dreams, washed checks, stolen ME not withstanding,  that conclusion I think I may regrette beaucoup, or however you say that in real French (I haven’t got time or energy to worry, too much, about how to say it in any language). Confronting mortality – that’s what this piece is really about, once all the wit and irony are stripped away, isn’t it?) – confronting mortality, when it’s your own, is never comforting. Employ any amount of worry that helps avoid it. I do.

Just the advice of a sad, lonely, crazed old man (who maybe looks a little like ME!), struggling to elude those talon-brandishing night-birds of prey, trying his damnedest not to “give a s***” – and failing.