It’s true I am inclined to worry. My mother was a worrier and actively taught me all the tricks and habits of an active worrier. I worry about my husband dying, about the welfare of our sons and their eventual retirement, the grandchildren and other family members. I worry about friends living in red states and my friend who just sold her last floor loom because I have never known her not to have one. It worries me.

I took it upon myself to paint the front doors of our condo building because about three years ago they were painted an ugly color, and I in the past week received an email, to which I responded promptly, and then a letter in the mail, and then a registered letter that I had to sign for, which was, frankly, more frightening than worrying. But I am worried about the hearing the letters say is coming. I understand why they can’t allow residents to paint whatever they please, the four members of the HOA Board. [You won’t convince me that the management company cares about the doors, only so long as they get paid. I still can’t use the remote entry system and I’ll only annoy them if I mention this again.] There is to be a hearing about what I did—a “Hearing”—and so I am worried about that. Because we cannot afford to hire a lawyer or pay a fine. Gary’s first reaction was to suggest we move out, but we do love the building and many of the people who live there. And we have negative equity, which is worrisome.

They might only insist I repaint the doors the other brown, which I’d rather not. Or pay to have someone “professional” paint them, which worries me. The last professional painters dripped paint on my unpainted baseboards, and when they painted the building doors and surrounding woodwork, they also painted the hundred-year-old bronze hinges. I was taught by two professional painters, who demonstrated to me why painters wear white clothing—it’s a brag, like a lion-tamer baring his chest—they are unmarked because they are that good. I use Purdy brushes and good paint. I am a tidy painter. I painted the doors as my gift.

I would like to apply a second coat to those doors, but I thought I’d wait and people seemed to like what I did, to understand my intentions were honorable. It’s not the perfect solution, but the historian in the building approved.

There are other things I could do to pay my penance. I could buy green paint for the west door. There have been two brush-strokes of sample greens on that door for three years. The rumor was that we were supposed to choose a color. I don’t remember which green I preferred, and so far as I remember, we never voted. And anyway, the doors are still unpainted and also ugly, and painting them is never mentioned during the HOA meetings. I worry about that too.

I worry about being given the stink-eye by people I thought were friends who must have liked that brown. Mostly, I know that worrying about being censored by my HOA is useless and accomplishes nothing except raising my blood pressure, which was coming down. But I’ve injured my feet doing planks and I haven’t even taken walks much less run for ten days, so there’s that to worry about.

At bottom, I am a rule-follower. In my life, I’ve spent more time worrying about doing the right thing than everything else put together. Well, I’m the oldest and a daughter. It’s what I am supposed to be, so there’s that. I could worry about that.

And the Marines coming for people of conscience. There’s that, too.