Me Me Me

Far more often than I should, I hear myself saying, “I dread that.” I use the word dread so much, I decided to look it up, and the definition might as well be tattooed on the inside of my eyelids: “to anticipate with alarm, anxiety or reluctance.” That just about sums it up! One morning, after I had sighed and lamented over whatever thing I might be dreading that day, my darling husband delivered this earth-shattering pronouncement: “I hardly ever dread anything.”

Isn’t that amazing? And it’s true. I’ve watched him spend a weekend preparing some complicated power-point presentation that he neither dreaded working on nor having to deliver. (Both parts would have been hugely dreaded by me.) He doesn’t dread boring social events, or changing planes, or having to pack and unpack children’s belongings, or endless car rides, or houseguests, or tedious work assignments, or confrontations. Those are merely the tip of the iceberg of things I dread.

Many times, after living through something I dreaded, I am asked by one of the three sunnier members of my family, “That turned out fine, didn’t it?” The answer is usually yes. And I’ve been blessed with very few truly dread-able life events. So why do I forget the positive outcome and begin dreading things all over again? Hey, at least I’m not a worrier! On a sliding scale of neuroses, that one seems a lot worse.