WOOOOORRRRRRRRRRRYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!

DISCLAIMER: I've not written in a week+ because, after directing some strangers to my blog, I was advised to hold off in the interest of preventing any mediocre entries from appearing at the top of the page until said strangers got to see some decent stuff. But enough time has passed and it's high time to aim low again.

I'm a worrier. Strike that. I'm a champion worrier. In that picture they take of all babies in the hospital nursery when they're all still pointy and sticky, my brow was already furrowed into the "OHNO!" position. My little fists were also pressed to either side of my chin. Either some bored nurse said, "Let's pose this kid to look like Linus leaning on that brick wall" or I was primed to fret.

In my family, they like to call it the "Hawkins Curse" after for my grandmother's family, never ones to dodge mental illness, obsessive concern, or sorrowful thoughts (they were born to mourn, if you will). Call me cursed. I was born with the mark of the Hawkins: a widow's peak and a knack for irrational thought. If I drive by a kid walking down the street with an ice cream cone, I worry for the next three blocks. If I see a kid walking her new puppy, I think, first, of how sad they'd be if it ran away. If I see a kid walking his puppy, digging on ice cream, and leading a bobbing blue balloon NOT tied safely to his wrist...well, forget about it. I'm barely functional the rest of the day.

It usually surprises people to learn I'm such a Debbie Downer. AUTHOR'S NOTE: Okay, it's only a surprise to people who barely know me (my husband's favorite impression of me is to run in circles with his hands above his head, squealing "WOORRRRRRRRRY!"). But anyway...I have been told countless times that I'm, perhaps, a little to smiley. I guess they think I'm some sort of alien-infested Molly-pod or escapee from the Village of the Damned (can I help it if I have lovely blue eyes and like to bleach my hair blonde?). If only they knew that, behind that toothy grin beats the heart of someone who's spent the last hour thinking about her 8th grade picture--niiiiiiiiiiice, dew rag--and worrying that some long-lost classmate is also thinking back on it, scribbling "Bad Person" across her face with a Sharpie.

(Wait a sec. Am I a worrier or just incredibly self-absorbed? Oh, good. Something else to worry about...I was running low.)