Worry Wart

My husband just turned over and said, "Why are you still awake?"
I said, "I don't know."
"Are you worried about something?"
"Yes."
"What?"
"I don't know. I'm always worried about something."
"That's true," he said. And as he turned over to go back to sleep he said, "Can you turn the heater off?"
Sure, babe.
So what am I worried about?
Here's a list in no particular order:
-I haven't been to spinning in almost two weeks. Am I getting pudgy again?
-I don't know how to locate the vendor numbers I need for the end of the year accounting tomorrow.
-I'm really hungry, but is it ok to eat chips and guacamole this late at night?
-Did Christmas really go well, or is everybody just being nice?
-What on earth am I going to do with this much leftover meat?
-I think I might have gingivitis.
-Would lasagna be ok for mom's grad party?
-My fingernails grow very fast while my hair grows slow--why?
-Who am I? Or better yet, who is Erin?
-And how do other people actually see me?
-What do I want to do with my life?
-Do I actually have a career ahead of me?
-And what about this publishing thing?
So, gingivitis and hair care aside, what about this publishing thing? Dad is making a big push for me to send out something--anything--to a publisher. But what to send? And where? And why, oh why, would anyone want to read what I have to say, let alone pay me to say it?
Why don't I send something?
One word: FEAR.
Can you imagine it? My smarmy writing friends banging their heads against their well-worn over-loved and dying typewriters purchased at thrift stores in despair to learn that Erin has been published anywhere. Erin--remember her? The one who gave up a life of pain and suffering for her art to get married and live in the suburbs somehere. Didn't she have a baby? Or two? Remember Erin? The one with no discernable talent other than the uncanny and often irritating, though effortless ability to find the punch-line every single time? She was fun.
I'm afraid of what those smarmy friends would say. I'm also afraid of getting turned down. It's not like I can keep a secret--you know I'd be on here the next day saying, "The New Yorker" turned me down. My smarmy friends would feign sympathy but secretly scoff at my arrogance. "'The New Yorker?' Yeah right!"
So what if I aim low? Shoot for Reader's Digest or Cosmo?
It wouldn't hurt so much to get turned down by magazines designed for elderly potty-goers or desperate twenty-somethings.
I think I'll aim low.