Fruitful obsession

Last night in my continuing effort to get more than four hours of sleep, I tried something new. Usually I push my brain from thought to thought, searching for something soothing to focus on. But since just about everything in my life is worrisome these days—job uncertainty, loved ones with life-threatening illnesses, an adolescent daughter who presents endless absorbing dilemmas—I rarely find a good "resting spot."

I know that I have a kind of worry ceiling. That is, although I worry about many, many things, there is a limit to how much I can worry about any given one. So, cancer, terrifying as it is, takes me only a few steps further into anxiety than, say, my daughter's occasional smoking. Nonetheless, I am capable of distinguishing—and adjusting my anxiety levels to some degree—between serious troubles and life's mere imperfections.

In the wee hours of last night I began to worry about the pears in the fruit bowl: They're getting a little overripe. Will anyone remember to eat them before they spoil? Aha! Even I could tell that this was a trivial concern. Rather than move on to a worthier anxiety, I decided to luxuriate in this petty one. Fruit flies! Brown spots! Liquification! Waste! I embraced them all—and slept eight hours.