These are some of the things I worried about this morning. Should I brush my teeth while drawing the curtains, to save time? Should I get out of the bath at 7.40 a.m. or 7.45 a.m. to be fully clothed for the Tesco home delivery between 8 a.m. and 9 a.m.? Should I instantly pick up the coat hanger that fell off the door handle as I left my bedroom or wait till I return this evening? These are mind-staggeringly boring things to think about. They’re even more boring to write down.
That is the life of the worrier: a new worry dropping into the brain roughly every five seconds. Life is one huge to-do list for us worriers. Once you cross off one worry – spoiler alert: I went back into the bedroom to pick up that coat hanger immediately – another six spring up, Hydra-like, in the frontal cortex. What a life! What a waste of a life.
Except… recently, I’ve started to be grateful for being a worrier. Yes, those examples I’ve listed are a stupidly trivial way to fill your time. Who cares if I throw away a minute of my time by drawing the curtains and brushing my teeth consecutively rather than concurrently? But the itch to do boring things as quickly as possible – which is father to the worry – is a good itch. If applied incessantly, the principle frees up time to do interesting things in life. I’m going to have to pick up the coat hanger eventually. Why not do it now?
My inspiration in these matters is the late Nigel Nicolson (1917–2004), MP, publisher and writer of The Spectator’s Long Life columns. When I was a lazy 20-year-old undergraduate, I read one of those columns that changed my life. When Nicolson was a lazy 20-year-old undergraduate, he had, like me, lived in chaos: dirty clothes on the floor; unanswered letters; unwritten thank you notes. It’s one thing not to care in the slightest about the clothes on the floor; to live in untroubled bliss as the socks rise up alongside you. But the worst thing is to be like the 20-year-old Nicolson and me: not bothering to clean up the clothes but at the same time feeling guilty about not doing it.
And then, in a flash, Nicolson realised that if he did these things immediately – put his clothes directly in the washing machine at the end of the day; send the thank you letter on the Sunday night when you get home – then the boil is lanced and the guilt is killed. Immediately and for ever. The socks that once shouted at you a dozen times before you finally washed them after a week on the floor now don’t get a chance to open their mouths. Overnight, I became a boring-job-killer. But also, overnight, I began that never-ending to-do list, and created the attendant worries that went with it.
My hero became Simon Lotion, Time and Motion Man, the efficiency-obsessed Viz character. Always put your keys in the same tray on the bedside table, so you never lose them. Turn your bike lights on after you’ve unlocked your bike, saving you 0.00001p in battery time and, more crucially, putting off the admin agony of having to buy new bike lights by 0.000001 second.
Of course, obsessive worries over things that will never happen are a waste of time. Will an LA-style wildfire hit my Oxford Circus office? Erm, no. And I don’t suffer from those kinds of apocalyptic worries. But there is a good sort of worry: the worry caused by that itch of guilt or obligation or the feeling that you ought to follow the social contract – do unto others as you would have them do unto you. The main reason I did well in my exams at school and university was worry. The main reason I send those thank you letters is worry that I will have offended my host. The reason I don’t get run over is because I worry about being run over.
The non-worriers end up in a world of chaos and – often, if not always – misery
And look at the people who don’t worry. The morons who cross the road without looking, glued to their phones. The plumbers who don’t come at the time they said they would come – or don’t come at all. The narcissists who are incapable of being punctual. Yes, they get their way – for a moment. Yes, they luxuriate in the bath for an extra hour until the Tesco driver rings the doorbell at 8.45 a.m. Who cares if the poor driver has to wait on the doorstep while you get out of the bath? Who cares if the driver has to see you half-dressed? But there are other penalties for the non-worrier. I won’t use those plumbers again. Who wants to meet the narcissist who’s always late?
The non-worriers end up in a world of chaos and – often, if not always – misery. The socks pile up. The bills never get paid. Non-worriers tend to have high opinions of themselves – so they’re convinced that never-ending to-do list will sort itself out. I’ve got a non-worrying artist friend who was convinced her next exhibition would net her a fortune – while living in her car. Why worry if all your possessions are squeezed into the boot and the glovebox is full of dirty socks? One day, mega-success will come and someone else will wash your socks for you.
I can spot the non-worrier a mile off. They can be charming – the best company. But don’t ever rely on them. And I’ve got an anxious person radar, too. That shy man behind the counter at the bookshop, with the nervous smile playing on his lips? He’s the one to ask whether they’ve got the new Who’s Who in stock. He’s the one who’ll know where it is in the shop. He’s the one who’ll go and get it for you. Want to get ahead? Get worrying.
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