Fret has a variety of meanings (according to Dictionary.com)
as both a noun and verb.
Fret, the verb
|To feel or express worry, annoyance, discontent, or the like.||me|
|To cause corrosion; gnaw into something.||me|
|To become eaten, worn, or corroded (often followed by away).||me|
Fret, the noun
|An irritated state of mind; annoyance; vexation.||me|
|Erosion; corrosion; gnawing.||me|
|A worn or eroded place.||me|
I’m at a crossroads in my life; privileged enough to have the time and mental space to worry about life’s meaning, too busy with mundane tasks to do much about it. I thought about indulging in a midlife crisis so put a deposit down on a Tesla Model X. I’m #13,422 in line. Then, I realized that at age 49, I’m most likely past the middle of my life and that by the time Tesla makes the 13421 cars that are ahead of me in line, I could be dead. So, while I work to convince my husband to spring for a Model S, I’m taking my woeful state of being pro. Hopefully, my just-past-midlife-I-hope crisis will amuse and enlighten those who are gracious enough to visit.
I worry that I will fall on my face – literally and metaphorically on a constant basis. I worry that my six year old will fall out of a double insulated, 16th floor hotel window, while staring at a beautiful city skyline. I worry that both of my children’s over-tired, bedtime anger won’t morph into shared laughter and understanding thus creating a permanent gulf between my progeny and me. I worry that said offspring will grow up to be unhappy failures and blame me for the result.
I worry that I smell worse than the thinner, faster, sexier gal on the next treadmill. I worry that I am not giving my kids the best multivitamins available. I worry that the reflection I see in the mirror first thing in the morning is the face that everyone sees –– in which case I worry that they are fighting an urge to flee in horror. I worry about our world when I read the newspaper (electronically, I’m not that old) and worry when I feel uninformed.
I worry a lot.
I worry that the beautiful creatures sprung from my heart will one day not look outside of the window in awe because I have squelched their natural sense of wonder due to my fretting about them. There are even days when I worry that Christ, Shiva, or whoever is in charge (I worry, I don’t judge) won’t be able to forgive me for the mess I’ve made of the gift of this life.
I worry that I will not live up to anything near my potential thus making the efforts of friends, family, coworkers, bosses and all of the other teachers who have blessed me with their talents moot. I worry that the hair I chemically straightened for a year will never return to its naturally curly state but will remain an over-processed frizz ball for the rest of my days.
I worry that I sound so very neurotic that you are about to click far, far away from this site.
And I think you worry too. Maybe not as much as I do – I realize that few do — but hopefully enough so that these words of worry sound like music to your fretful soul and thus you will read on, dear reader, read on.