High Anxiety

My father was a nervous wreck about his family; my mother was (and still is) a happy idiot. I always hoped I'd be more like my mother, but, alas, I am my father's son.

I had coffee with my Rabbi friend last week. We've known each other 15 years, and had deep discussions about faith and family. He had no idea what a mess I am. He went on and on about how fortunate I am to have such a sunny disposition. When I told him about the demons in my head (I can't hear an ambulance without picturing one of my Ds mangled in the back), he was shocked.

He offered spiritual guidance: the number of a psychologist recommended by one of his OCD constituents. I'm guessing that thinking positive thoughts and xanax did the trick for the fellow. I'll stick to the occasional martini or two...

So D2 is in Israel --a PERFECT place for a paranoid father like me. In fact, all was well until Sunday, when the monkeys on the borders decided they'd celebrate their "Catastrophe Day" (when Israel was created) by simply marching across the borders in Syria and Lebanon.

The Syrian and Lebanese governments, in the midst of uprisings due to the "Arab Spring," figured this was a good way to divert attention away from their killing of their own peeps, and so gave the tacit go ahead.

Israel, the grumpy old man who tells you to keep the F off his lawn, reacted as expected: they shot the invaders and killed 15 of them.

Here it comes, my paranoid mind thought: all out war while my lovely D2 was shopping on Ben Yehuda Street.

Well, fortunately, things seem to have quieted down, at least for now. D2 is set to leave at 5 am tomorrow, so then my fears can switch to air travel across that enormous ocean, or, even worse, the Swiss in Zurich, her stopping point...

My mother really has it figured out. No worries. Wifey has my mother's thoughts, too. When I ask Wifey, incredulously, if she isn't petrified about all the things that petrify me about the Ds, she says, nonchalantly: "My mind doesn't go there..."

Back to my ancient mother. She stopped her newspaper subscription 20 years ago, and rarely watches the news. "Why do I need to hear all the bad things?"

She has passively-aggressively manipulated all of us into NEVER telling her any bad, or even possibly unsettling news. She simply keeps her head clear.

Oh, she gets sad. On Saturday she allowed as how she misses talking to her grandchildren. Most of them have simply stopped calling her, and one (her long favorite, who lives less than a half hour away) hasn't visited her in over a year.

But, like the great Eric Idle song, she always looks on the bright side of life. She's 91, so there's wisdom there.

I have a dinner meeting tonight with a quadriplegic client and his family. (My line of work, with death and life ruining injuries, has proven perfect for my anxieties).

I figure I can hang on until tomorrow am, and anxiously await the call Wednesday from JFK from D2, telling me she's on the last leg of the trip.

2 or 3 more martinis ought to be enough...