You tell me not to worry until it happens. Because I can deal with it then. I’m more than capable. And besides, I don’t know that it ever will.
I appreciate the advice, all the while knowing it’s the kind that sounds good — but is much easier said than done. (For what it’s worth, most advice is easier said than done.)
And instead, my mind tidily ignores your guidance and starts mentally pitching at me, like one of those batting machines. Instead of baseballs, it’s things that other people could do. And instead of swinging, my brain is answering these hypothetical approaches. Over and over again, these imaginary conversations crash into my personal space at every conceivable angle.
It’s a good thing it’s only theoretical — that it’s just my mind pregaming something ad infinitum. Because I can’t hit all of these conversational balls back, at least not easily. It takes me a few minutes to puzzle over some of them, and even then I’m not completely satisfied with my answers. If I’d been having a real-time, in-person conversation, I would have lost my chance. Fallen on my face.
But not in this interminable practice session. I have all the time in the world to respond. The balls hover in midair while I fret. And fret. And fret.
I wish I could take your advice. That I could just set it all aside and not think about it again until it happens (or never again if it doesn’t). But my mind is refusing to cooperate. It has different plans in mind for me.
I can’t help myself. I am worrying until it happens. And the worst part of it is that if it never happens, this means that I’m worrying forever. I’m training for a game I’ll never actually have to play. And it isn’t even fun.