We live downwind of a nuclear power facility. At The Partner's day job, the employees are given potassium iodide pills in case of catastrophe (as if one anti-radiation pill is going to help). On a main roads near Tiger Lily, there is a sign that says "Evacuation Route." I saw that for the first time and said, "oh." I rationalized our proximity to the beach (not so proximate, when you think about it) and pictured a flood. It wasn't until we held our first little get-together over dinner at our new house with some locals that we disocovered the evacuation route was, in fact, the road from nuclear meltdown to complete chaos.
It does not make sense to live in fear. I know that. Que sera, sera. But the line between emotional baggage and rational thinking is a thick border crossing not easily traversed. I have a bullshit backpack strapped on ( it's Threat Level Orange, with a reflector strip) and sometimes it feels heavier than others, but it's always there. That's just how it is.
The Partner does not wear a metaphorical L.L. Bean lifetime-warranty backpack like I do. He thinks it's unnecessary and not smart. He focuses on the immediate threats of alarm clocks in the morning and bills paid by Quicken at night. He worries about what is, not what may be.
Sometimes we pick our worries, sometimes they pick us. Que sera, sera.