I’ve Been Holding my Breath While I Type This Post, so Please Excuse Me While I Look Up How to Exhale Before I Black Out
I nearly had a full-on anxiety attack the other day while I was driving because I don’t know how to cobble shoes.
I was thinking about one of my shoes, which had broken. Then I was thinking about how I can’t afford to keep buying new shoes every time one breaks. Then I was thinking about how I can barely afford to repair them, either, because the last time I took one in for repair they charged me $1000 just to put a cap on one heel. This reminded me of a newspaper article I read about a very trustworthy shoe repair shop in the area that I’m pretty sure has reasonable rates, but the owner had to close because he has pancreatic cancer. This led to a brief regret that I haven’t learned how to cure cancer yet. But then I realized that even if I knew how to cure cancer, I would still have broken shoes, and the number of master shoe craftsmen is dwindling every day. Which led to the obvious conclusion that I better get on the internet and find a YouTube video about fixing shoes or I am going to be going barefoot for the rest of my life.
And then I started hyperventilating because there are so many things that I need to learn how to do, and there is not enough time.
It was all fine 20 years ago when there was no YouTube, and the only way you could learn how to cobble shoes was to fly your butt down to Italy, and find yourself some old man in a little village who would be willing to take you on as an apprentice. I mean, it was obvious, then, that it was not my responsibility to become an amateur shoemaker.
But now that the skills are only a few keyboard strokes away, I feel that it is incumbent on me to become an expert so I will not cut my feet on shards of glass when the world ends.
The problem is, according to the internet, I also need to learn:
how to automate Windows with PowerShell (I have to confess, I thought we were talking about car windows, which mine are already automated, so this seemed superfluous until I realized this had nothing to do with cars or windows.)
I mean, it just seems lazy to admit that I don’t know how to do something when there are so many free resources available. You might argue that because they are on the internet I don’t need to learn them, just refer to them when the need arises. But what if the internet DIES? And then I need to learn how to be patient with the zombies who are attacking me and the only way to evade them is to dress like Lady Gaga and douse myself in homemade beer to mask my scent? And I could have referred to daguerrotypes of the pop diva if I had ever bothered to learn how to preserve them. I’m going to feel pretty stupid, then, that I didn’t make use of those lessons when I could.
It’s clear now what I need to do.
Quit work so I can learn these valuable skills before it’s too late.
Linked to extended exposure to automobiles equipped with satellite receivers, each variant of the syndrome has it’s own preferred type of carrier, either XM or Sirius. Either can be serious. The severity of the disease appears to be directly proportionate to the time spent in the immediate vicinity of these carriers.
The symptoms are the following: eyes drifting toward the center of your dashboard every time you hear a song you don’t know and would like to identify, eyes drifting toward the center of your dashboard every time you hear a song you do know and want to prove to your competitive but insecure self that you identified it correctly, head banging on the steering wheel because you don’t have a satellite radio subscription like your husband/friend/lover/irritating relative and there are actually no words projected onto your air conditioning vent and/or antiquated cd player, head banging on the steering wheel because you have listened to the same six songs being played on the radio for the last month, and a ridiculously high credit card bill because you keep seeking out songs on iTunes that you heard on your husband/friend/lover/irritating relative’s satellite radio station so you can burn a cd to play in your car that does not have annoying ads, sachharine d.j.’s and repetitive songs.
Treatment: Dump your husband/friend/lover/irritating relative. Or total their car. Or pay the guy at the bar in the seedy part of town to steal the car. Unless they have insurance. In that case, just stick with dumping them.
Possible side effects of treatment: angry husband/friend/etc.. (from hereon to be called Patient Zero), complete ignorance of the existence of any other music that is not Lady Gaga, Bruno Mars, or Rihanna, increased thirst for new music, increased nausea/constipation/suicidal thoughts whenever you hear Adele. However, all of these potential side effects are also possible in the instance of forgoing treatment.
Updated treatment as of 9/29/11: Buy a new car for
me the patient that has a satellite receiver and nav system, too. And make sure it includes any other options Patient Zero contracted during the purchase of his or her auto. To prevent further outbreaks, select additonal luxuries never before obtained by Patient Zero, such as voice control and an electric trunk closer.
I hate this. I had every intention of typing a typically inane blog full of sarcastic comments, and all that wants to come out on my keyboard are silly sentiments about courage and civil rights.
I just watched the movie, The Help, and now I’m watching Stephen Colbert (need to stop doing that while I’m actually trying to write) and he’s interviewing Gloria Steinem. I feel very small.
This internal conflict is putting me in a funk as I consider my non-heroic life, so I have switched to David Letterman, on which he is showing stupid human tricks, which makes me think about stupid pet tricks, leading me to wonder if my bulldog’s Stevie Wonder routine would qualify.
Before I could embark on this hopeful digression, though, my Help/Steinem inspired conscience kicks out the question of the political correctness of comparing my bulldog’s odd behavior to a blind, African-American singer.
I like to think I’m not racist or biased against people with special abilities, but what if I’m one of those people who has absolutely no self-awareness?
So I am watching my bulldog like a hawk, hoping that he will do something less fraught with controversy that I can post to prove that I am a very tolerant person. Being a bulldog, he is stubbornly refusing to perform a Lady Gaga routine, choosing instead to snore on the couch.
The golden retriever is no help either. She is much too mature to perform any stupid pet tricks, and barely tolerates the ones that the bulldog displays.
Apparently I am going about this whole blogging thing wrong, trying to watch T.V. as I write, and attempting to compose something meaningless right on the heels of watching something with meaning. I need to watch a Seinfeld episode and start over again.