Don’t worry, it’ll be here soon,” the MBTA employee told me.
I left for work thirty minutes early to make sure I wouldn’t miss the train, which, of course, never comes late. Thirty minutes wasn’t enough.
I made the unfortunate mistake of believing this man, and did not worry for the first twenty minutes of waiting. It did not occur to me that the worker had no support for his argument to “not worry” until I arrived late to work, soaking wet with rain drops.
“Don’t worry” is an over-used phrase that often creates more false hope than Lucky Charms cereal. I agree with the leprechaun that the sugary toasted oat and marshmallow cereal is delicious, but I wouldn’t go so far as to say magically delicious. The marshmallows turn my tongue colors, which to some may appear magical, but a lot of artificially colored food does that.
Unlike the T employee, I will support my hypothesis with appropriate facts and examples that the phrase “don’t worry” needs a leash.
Speaking of leashes, I’ve been around too many dog owners who watch their mutts attack random people but tell them “not too worry, she’s friendly.” Last week, a leash-less pup (it was one of those mini-things that bring all dogs to shame, as they look more like large rats than dogs) was biting a chunk of flesh out of my right ankle while its owner smiled and told me not to worry; Sprinkles is friendly, and the fact that she is biting me means she likes me.
While Sprinkles was dining on my leg, I realized that I underestimated the little gal’s power. Her teeth were much bigger than anything else on her rodent-size body. But this is beside the point.
Sprinkles’s owner is an idiot. First of all, she named her dog Sprinkles. You throw sprinkles on top of ice cream, you don’t pet them. Secondly, she believes biting is a sign of friendliness. The only thing that Sprinkles’s sharp teeth showed me was that it’s time to get a rabies shot.
Which reminds me about the doctor’s office where they give vaccinations. And it is also another place where “don’t worry” is used way too often. Before getting a test done recently, the male nurse prepared me with an IV. He told me to lie down, look up at the weird ceiling fixture above my head and, most importantly, “do not worry — it will only pinch for a second.”
I didn’t know that “second” meant an hour. Like a 70-year-old woman, I have veins that are difficult to puncture. That guy stuck me in about five different places like an inexperienced chef poking a butter knife into a chocolate cake to check if it’s done.
And chefs! There are far too many situations where people say “don’t worry, you’re going to love their food,” and you’d rather be eating your goldfish’s food flakes. At a restaurant, you can at least move your food around the plate, spit the nasty chow into the big napkins and pretend you forgot to eat because you were so intrigued with the company you’re sitting with.
When you’re a guest at someone’s house, however, it’s not so easy. They tell you how they found the recipe in some Martha Stewart book — written during her post-jail era — and of course, “don’t worry, I’m sure you are going to love it.” And of course, you end up hating every ingredient in the meal, and your glass of water doesn’t drown out the flavor of the overcooked, spicy plate of crap.
Well you know what, all you optimistic people, maybe I am worried. I am worried about losing my right ankle to a little dog because I know if my name were Sprinkles, I would be eager to displace my pent-up aggression about my dopey name and incompetent owner onto someone else. I am worried about a large doctor mistaking a routine shot for an acupuncture session. I am worried that my dinner host is an awful cook worried that she dripped her sweat into the boiling soup, worried that her bathroom was out of soap when she last relieved herself. But don’t for a second think I’m paranoid. I just don’t like having to force-feed myself a plate of crap if I don’t have to.
And crap brings me back to the dog thing again. I stepped in a pile of dog poop when I was running last week. It wasn’t that of Sprinkles, but of a bigger dog whose name I never learned, but its owner wore a denim Tennessee tuxedo, an American flag half-bandana, half-baseball cap thing and pink Converse sneakers. He told me not to worry about it.
But this man, he told the truth. He didn’t tell me not to worry, it will disappear once I start running again. He didn’t tell me not to worry, stepping in dog poop is good luck in some cultures.
He only told me, “don’t worry, I step in it all the time, and I’m still alive.”
And that, my friends, is how to use “don’t worry” correctly. And how to dress for success.
Megan Murphy, a sophomore in the School of Education, is a columnist for The Daily Free Press. She can be reached at [email protected]