I woke at four this morning and floated in between sleep and reality until the alarm went off at six. My brain kicked in and I knew, as I tried to fight it, I'd never fall back into a deep sleep. When the alarm sounded, I vaguely heard NPR's business report..."this recession could be as bad or worse than the one in the 80s."
I'm not sure why I'm worried about money. I'm not rich, that's for sure, but I'm not going without, either. My savings account will keep me alive, if need be, for awhile and my "income supplements" (dog walking, freelance writing) have kept me from dipping into my savings too deeply. Yesterday, I had a lunch meeting with a former colleague and friend who asked me to apply for a job he will be posting in January or February. I have another lunch meeting today for a short-term writing project, though it may turn into something longer. And I know, as I venture into these various business transactions, one thing often leads to another.
True, I haven't opened a single statement from my investment firm for fear that the amount in my retirement fund will be hovering next to zero, but as my financial planner says, "You've got 15 to 20 years of work ahead of you. Don't worry about one or two bad years." Still, I wake up wondering, will they tell me if it hits zero and can it go into the red without my knowing about it? Will I owe them money if everything continues to tank?
But...we owe nothing on our car, we pay off our credit cards every month (and we only have 2), and my only long-term debt, aside from the mortgage, is my graduate school student loan, which everyone from my financial planner to the mortgage woman we often seek advice from agree that a student loan doesn't really count as bad debt. Still, it would be nice to have that extra $170 a month in my pocket and not floating off to Sallie Mae and all her former connections to Fannie and Freddie. As for the house, Seattle has been hit by the falling home prices, but nothing compared to other parts of the country and we are in an area that everyone seems to think is the hottest real estate market in the state. "You're sitting on a gold mine," our mortgage broker told us.
So, why am I worrying? Partly because it's my nature. Yesterday, in my meeting with my potential boss (if I decide to apply for the position and that's still up in the air) he explained the role of the new position he is creating. It is, in essence, a portion of his current job that he can no longer do well because his workload is too great. (I'm being particularly vague about this position because I don't want to jinx it and he asked me to be discreet. I value our friendship and therefore, even in this semi-anonymous blog, I am honoring his request.) When I asked him why he chose the one half of the job over the other half he was offering me, he said that he liked what the job had turned into.
"That's because you are really good at it," I said.
"You are, too," he offered.
"No, I'm good at faking it. You're good at actually doing it and liking it. I'd chew off my arm with worry if I had to do your job."
He laughed and said, "That's why I'm married to a psychiatrist! He keeps me from gnawing limbs off."
So, worrying is who I am to one extent and I've learned, through the years, to practice calming my worries because I know I cannot make them go away completely. I'm also worried about money because I listen, read, and watch too much news. There's an urgency and panic in the words of every reporter as they attempt to analyze the current situation and predict the future impacts. Even the comedians don't soothe my worry with laughter. It all just becomes fodder for my early morning panic attacks.
Okay, this morning wasn't an attack, it was just a nagging tug at my worry bone, which is somehow attached to my pelvis. What finally snapped me out of it was the sound and feel of the dog groaning and stretching in between us at the end of the bed. He is a dog without worry. Though he can be a nervous Nelly in certain situations, he knows how to relax and he definitely knows how to sleep.
He had a big day yesterday and played very hard on a number of long walks. After dinner, he fell fast asleep in his favorite spot -- wedged in between the ottoman and the couch in the TV room. Ann and I sat on the couch watching reruns of Top Chef with our legs stretched out. All of the sudden, the ottoman moved about 6 inches. We looked at each other and then laughed. Neither of us had moved the heavy piece of furniture. It was the dog. He'd done one of his famous full-legged stretches and pushed the ottoman out from under our feet.
He has no worries about money. He just spends his time playing, eating, wagging, and moving furniture. Not a bad philosophy for life.
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