It's a nail-biter.

I'm a happy person. The other 72 percent of the time, I'm nervous.

That's right. I worry. I probably worry more than anyone I've ever met. Except maybe Mom. But I don't worry about serious issues, such as global warming, terrorism or the Armageddon. (Come to think of it, I don't think Mom does either). I worry about whether I left my flat-iron on. If I fed the cats. If The Boyfriend is mad at me. If my next paycheck is going to cover all the bills.

I hate waiting. When I have to wait, I worry. Waiting for a meeting with The Boss, waiting for an anticipated e-mail from a friend, waiting for good news, waiting for bad news. Waiting. Worrying.

I blame my worrisome behavior on pessimism. In general I expect a bad outcome, so waiting for something just leaves more time to worry about its bad-ness. If The Boyfriend says he is going to call, and then doesn't, do you know what that means? He hates me. Or he's injured. Or I'll never see him again. Ever. Nowhere, my friends, do I assume, "Huh. Silly him. He just got busy, or forgot."

According to my trusty, over-used, slightly dilapidated Merriam-Webster, nervous is, first of all, an adjective. But I'd say it modifies Krista, the noun, quite well: easily excited or annoyed; timid, apprehensive; uneasy, unsteady. Gosh, that pegs me to a tee. (I don't think that's a positive thing?).

Webster should probably include nail-biting in his definition. I am the poster child of nail biting. Right now, as I contemplate what other nervous habits I want to reveal, I'm biting my nails. It's not pretty. I do it when I'm nervous, and I tell you, this week has been heck on my nails. I also bite 'em when I'm bored, but I'd say 63 percent of the biting is nerve-related.

If anything positive comes out of my nerve-wrackedness, I'd say it's productivity. My job throws deadline pressure and waiting in my direction, and I seem to work much better when I have those hanging over my head. Probably because I'm too worried about what happens when I miss a deadline. Hmm.

I convince myself that worrying is better than not worrying. I mean, right? If I didn't worry, it would mean I didn't care as much. Right? And I care about leaving my flat-iron plugged in. What if a fire started? Not only would I lose my stuff, I'd lose The Roommate's, and everyone else's who lives in the building. Including my cats, who I probably forgot to feed. I have The Boyfriend's pillow on my bed, and I bet he'd be mad if it got ruined in a fire. And I can guarantee the next paycheck would not suffice in making any of the involved parties feel better about losing everything.

It makes me head spin. But for now, I must sign off. I'm bored.