I have a very limited quotient of things I can’t control that I worry about.
I worry that, in my senility, I’ll speak lovingly to my wife about past (and not so past) romantic entanglements.
I worry that my hoard of McClellands will go flat and tasteless.
I worry that York Peppermint Patties will turn into crap like all the other American candy have.
I worry that I won’t be able to buy my next car with a manual transmission.
I worry that my beloved Pennsyltucky will turn blue.
I worry that my 50-year roof won’t outlast
my life.
I worry that they’ll stop making the shoes I’ve been wearing for the past 30 years.
I worry that Disco will become fashionable again.
I don’t worry about much else, except maybe whether or not I’m getting enough cheese in my diet.