I have no reasons to despair. I don't even have any problems, at least no serious ones. I am presently not afraid of death despite the fact that soon enough I will be - again. As it happens every so often.
I worry, obviously. It's a habit, a game. I can get myself deep deep into worry. Like having a bath. Almost enjoyable but too hot and hard to get out of.
When TV series show women wearing low cut sleeveless dresses, those elegant plain coloured ones, beige, off white, grey, short and tight around the hips, while the male characters walking beside them are all tucked up in long sleeved shirts with sensible cotton T-shirts underneath, blazers, ties, even coats, don't these women freeze? I do worry about them, they must be shivering most of the time.
And then I worry about their ridiculously high heels, I see them stumbling over the Persian carpets, fractured bones, broken noses, pearls rolling under the sideboards or in one of these fancy offices, headlong across the shiny boardroom floor, iphone flying through the air, skull against the hardwood conference table, unconscious.
I worry about their eyes too. All those dark bushy lashes. Shaved baby skin all over and a regular forest sprouting around the eyes. Listen, it just takes a single bitsy stray lash getting under a contact lense or simply moving high behind the eye balls. Agony. Inflammation. Blindness.
And another thing: Stop turning to face and talk to each other when one of you is driving. Keep your eyes on the road.
One of the reasons I never go to the theatre is that I worry someone could forget their lines. And then what?