Paralyzed with indecisiveness, I gazed into the mirror. “What color shirt should I wear for the job interview tomorrow morning — the light blue or the light gray?” I’d try one on, then the other, and then back again. Reaching a final verdict seemed an insurmountable feat. I had once read somewhere that blue represents loyalty, serenity, and calmness. On the other hand, gray is supposed to reflect stability, maturity, and balance. What kind of “statement” did I want to convey? Which choice might give me a psychological edge? It was as if the entire weight of the interview — not to mention my professional career — hinged entirely on an arbitrary textile shade.
Even while I was spinning out on the OCD Hamster Wheel, I knew it was crazy. I kept repeating to myself, “Quit wasting all of your time and energy on this!” But to no avail. Of course, I understood full well that the hue of my shirt wasn’t going to make any difference; what really counted was my professional resume and how I handled myself the next morning. But, the night before the interview, there was nothing I could do about either of those. All I had was a bundle of anxiety…and the ability to decide on a shirt color.
In a manner of speaking, fretting about my shirt was a “little worry” — because the logical part of my brain knew that it didn’t really matter. In contrast, “big worries” concern things that actually are important, but we can rarely do much — if anything — about. Like what happens in the stock market. Or like getting blindsided on the highway. Or watching your elderly parents become increasingly frail. Or even events as mundane as the outcome of a football game or a change in the weather. On the other hand, what about deciding whether to have your eggs scrambled or poached? Or how often to scrub your kitchen floor? Or what color shirt to wear? Now, those you can control.
It dawned on me that, in a sense, “little worries” are actually easy worries: It’s easier to obsess over the trivial things that are controllable because it spares us from obsessing over big things that aren’t. Aha! So, there actually was some functional value to my neurotic worry! Of course, attaining that insight didn’t stop me from doing it — but it did help to dial things back a bit. And, as an added benefit, my whole mental jitterbug became rather amusing to observe.
I don’t remember which shirt I ended up selecting. I don’t remember if I got the job. In fact, I don’t even remember what the interview was for. But this much I do remember: The color of my shirt had absolutely no impact whatsoever on the outcome.
I’m not saying to “simply stop worrying” about the trivial stuff. (That advice is much easier said than done.) As a matter of fact, if worrying about the small stuff distracts or protects you from worrying about the big stuff, then try to take some solace in the worry itself. Just realize why you’re doing it; then you can go back to obsessing about eggs, kitchen floors, and shirt colors.
And for those of us who might even be afraid of giving up some worries out of fear that we’ll be left somehow more vulnerable to bad things that can befall us, here’s my advice: Don’t worry! There will always be something else to worry about…