Growing up, there were a number of relatives, really, really conservative ones, who considered me a wastrel. For those of you who don’t have relatives like mine, a wastrel is a wasteful, good for nothing person. I earned the title for things like listening to “that loud rock and roll music” and reading MAD Magazine.

Remember MAD Magazine? You don’t have to; it’s still around. As is its iconic poster boy—or mascot, depending on who you ask—an odd-looking dude with huge freckled cheeks, lopsided eyes, and a goofy grin with a missing tooth like a hole in a row of piano keys. His name was Alfred E. Neuman and his catch phrase was “What me worry?”

As a wastrel child, I puzzled over that statement. Was it a joke? It wasn’t funny. Was it missing a few words? Like it should say “What are the things that are important to me that I should worry about?” I get that that’s a lot of missing words, and you’re right: somebody should’ve caught that.

And since it was a humor magazine—humor being apparently another wastrel quality—there was always the chance that the phrase had a coded meaning. I mean, the inside back cover was a hidden picture slash joke and they drew cartoons in the margin like serial killers scribble in notebooks.

It wasn’t until much later in life—the day before yesterday—that I learned what the phrase actually meant. Ready?

It means, “I don’t give a crap.”

Alfred was telling us all that no matter what was going on in the world—wars, diseases, health care, and ridiculous presidents—it couldn’t touch him.

Ah, to be like Alfred E. Neuman.

Like most writers and artists, I am practically riddled with anxieties and phobias. Let’s say I need to go to the store. I search for my wallet—I have this innate ability to put it somewhere different every day. I go looking for it, terrified I left it at the restaurant last night and some bad Samaritan picked it up and took it with them.

Yes, me worry!

I find it, breathe a prayer of thanks, and then the mad scramble for my keys begins. I need to buy a house closer to the store.

Keys found, open the garage door, leave, and lock the door. Get in, buckle up, and start down the driveway when the next worry begins. Did I remember to lock the door? Then begins the fevered conversation between me and me.

Did I remember to lock it?

Of course. You always do.

Then why can’t I remember doing it?
If I remembered to lock it, wouldn’t I have that memory?

You do. You just forgot it.

The memory? Or locking the door?

OMG why are you always like this?

I’m not always like this. I’m like this right now, that’s all.
And I wouldn’t be if you’d just stop badgering me and let me check the door.

So you can build a bad habit? No thank you.
Like I want to have this conversation every time I go to the store with you.

Your mother’s a bad habit.

Don’t bring my mother into this.

You started it.

Then I get mad and stop talking to myself and “we” never do get to the store.

Can I borrow some coffee?