It happened again this morning. I woke up at 4:30 and couldn’t get back to sleep for an hour and a half. Lying in the early morning dark, I felt angry and confused. It’s not like I wanted to rip out a ninety-minute chunk of precious slumber. I have a two-year-old to chase after all day. I needed that sleep.

This keeps happening, and I’ve come to the conclusion that there isn’t much to be done about it, aside from taking sedatives. And I’m not a fan of medications in general (okay, except for ibruprofen).

When I was younger, I expected that by this age (34, if you’re wondering), I’d be this totally calm, happy person who didn’t worry about anything. Yes, I had a few delusions (still do). (And I overuse parentheses.) (I have problems.)

But I really thought I’d have things figured out. I guess it’s because most adults I knew seemed to self-assured. In control. Now I know it was just a veneer.

As I stood groggy-eyed in the kitchen this morning, I told my husband, “I don’t understand why I can’t top worrying about things. Seriously, I’m too old for this crap. When am I going to finally relax?”

He smiled. “Oh, in about seventy or eighty years, I’m sure you’ll be very relaxed.”

I laughed.

It wasn’t one of those light bulb moments, like, “Oh! So that’s just the way I am.” I already know I’m a fretter, a cuticle-picker, a basic Nervous Nellie. But I haven’t embraced it yet. I’ve held out hope that I’m going to magically change someday. And while I’ve mellowed a bit with age, this is who I am at the core.

A worrywart isn’t so bad, though, right? It doesn’t cost anything, it’s not physically addictive, and it’s legal. True, it’s not very good for me, but neither are the cookies I eat everyday. We all have our vices, right?