the meaning of words

I love words. I love them in English, I love them in Spanish, I love them in Greek. I love them when I don’t understand them, when they’re terrifyingly complex, when they roll of the tongue, when they’re perfectly simple and succinct. When they’re strung together, when they’re alone – hopelessly, or happily, I love them.

On my weekly lunch date with my Argentine lady friend today (go ahead, call me a Golden Girl), we deviated from our usual topics of family, embarrassing memories and daily stressors, and dove in to the linguistic pool. We started and ended our conversation with the spanish words ocupar – to be busy, and preocupar – to worry.

Silvia dissected the latter into two parts: 1. pre and 2. ocupar. 1. Before and 2. to be busy.

A lightening rod of enlightenment electrified my body – its tissues, nerves, synapses.  To worry, preocupar, is nothing more than to busy yourself, ocupar,  before it’s necessary to. It is nothing more than wasting precious mental energy centralizing thoughts on an event before it even happens, if it even happens at all! It was there in Luna Red restaurant, sitting across from Silvia, and at a table next to a woman in her late fifties whose breasts noticeably defied the natural pull of gravity, that I realized how much time I’ve been wasting busying myself with thoughts that don’t even deserve the time it takes to be thought up. No more.

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