I’ve noticed that, overall, worriers tend to marry non-worriers. My husband Pat, for example, doesn’t worry about anything except mold (which is abut the only thing that I, a zealous worrier otherwise, never worry about). Perhaps on some cellular level, I was attracted to him because I knew he had mold covered. I probably knew he’d deal with damp towels and poorly sealed Tupperware containers, freeing me up to worry about things that really matter like rare blood diseases and home invasion. Aside from mold, however, Pat is worry free. He certainly never worries that I might have an affair. If he discovered me naked, in the arms of another man, he’d most likely assume that I had been surprised in my bath by a naked neighbor who needed instant comfort.
Pat is also maddeningly unconcerned about anything that might occur in the future. Take, for instance, this typical exchange about our oldest son, Spencer:
ME: What if Spencer never falls in love?
PAT: What makes you think he wouldn’t fall in love?
ME: He doesn’t seem to have a crush on anyone.
PAT: He’s nine.
ME: I don’t want him to be alone.
PAT: Spencer has tons of friends. He’s social. He’s not going to be alone.
ME: Unless he develops schizophrenia in his teens.
PAT: We have no reason to believe that he’s schizophrenic.
ME: That’s because it doesn’t show up until your eighteen or something. Nancy from Sid and Nancy was a little off, but in the normal range, before she was a teenager. Then she flipped out, moved to London, and got stabbed by Sid Vicious.
PAT: You think Spencer might develop schizophrenia sometime down the road because he doesn’t have a crush?
ME: …AND because he’s obsessed with facts. I just think it’s something to watch for.
PAT: Of course you do. Don’t eat that cheese. The end of it looks a bit funny.