A few weeks ago, I was at Wawa grabbing coffee before making the drive from the shore back to Philly. It was early, maybe 6:45 a.m., and I was still in my just-waking-up daze. I approached the cashier to pay for my coffee at the same time as an older gentleman.
“Oh, I’m sorry, you can go,” I sort of mumble & smile.
He smiles back. It’s one of those grandfatherly smiles. “No dear, ladies first, I’m in no rush.”
I step up to the counter. “Are you sure? I really don’t mind.” (I’m polite to a fault, thanks Mom & Dad).
He laughs. “Yes, I’m certain. You worry about life too much. Don’t worry so much.”
You worry about life too much.
That phrase stuck with me during my two hour drive and for a few days later. It was such an interesting thing to say to a stranger, but that morning, I needed to hear it.
He was right–I do worry too much. I’ve always been “a worrier,” but my anxiety levels reached a new high after I graduated college. All of a sudden there was no distinct path or structure my life. Every time I looked out into the future, I saw a blank slate. My worry came from not knowing how everything was going to work out. I’m a planner at heart. Type A to a T. I like knowing the who/what/when/where/why/how in every situation I’m facing.
But that’s not how life works. And I think I’ve finally learned (accepted?) that.