The Tinfoil Hat

Sometimes I wonder if those people who go around wearing tinfoil hats for protection from some unknown, mysterious "them" might not have something.

I have no doubt whatsoever that my computer is fully aware of both my inadequacies and my frustration level, and that it takes deliberate advantage of them whenever possible. You may see this as paranoia. I see it as irrefutable fact. What other possible explanation can there be for this morning's incident? To wit:

To the left of my computer screen I have what is known, for reasons beyond my understanding, as "the Dock" on which are put "icons" of those programs most frequently used. I have 16 of these little icons at the moment. The one I most frequently use is a tiny file folder titled "Documents," through which I access all my writing projects. This morning, as I was trying to "open" it (I love these quaint technological terms), it vanished. Disappeared. One instant it was there and the next, when I put the cursor (where that name came from is also a total mystery) over the little folder icon and left-clicked (I'm on a roll with computer terminology!) to "open" it, as I do no fewer than 50 times a day, the little folder disappeared. Why it disappeared, how it disappeared, or where it went when it disappeared are, like probably the majority of other things in my life, not for the likes o' me to know.

This same thing has happened before, and when it did it this time, my immediate reaction was the same as it has been every other time something happens for absolutely no discernible reason: I completely come apart at the seams, panic, blubber, curse myself, the computer, and the fates, and then develop a total mind-freeze so complete it prevents me from remembering my own name.

Whenever I have a computer problem I cannot handle (which is to say every time I have a computer problem) my first thought is to call my friend Gary who, with the patience of a saint, drops whatever he's doing and comes over to extricate me from whatever mess I've gotten into. Inevitably, he will resolve the problem with one tap of his index finger on one key.

When some semblance of normal functioning returned in this morning's crisis, I tried with all my might to remember what had been done the last fifteen times to put the little folder back in its place on the "Dock." And I remembered! All I need do is go to "File" and then "Open" and then...well, a whole lot of other things which will eventually bring up, somewhere and somehow, the little Document icon. Then, all I had to do was click on it, hold down the cursor key, and "drag" it over to the Dock! Which is exactly what I proceeded to do. And the instant I took my finger off the cursor key, the file icon disappeared again.

Thinking there was the most remote of chances that I might possibly have done something wrong (I know, hard to imagine, but...), I did the "File"/"Open"/Whatever routine again. Found the folder icon. Placed the cursor on it, held the key down and dragged it to the Dock. Held it there to be sure it wasn't going away. Released my finger and it instantly disappeared again. Tried it a third time. Same result.

Applying my lifelong principle of "If at first you don't succeed, give up," I gave in to desperation and called Gary. (There has to be a special place in heaven for long-suffering best friends.) He dropped what he was doing and came over, sat down at the computer, went to "File"/"Open"/Whatever. Placed the cursor on the Document folder, held the key down, and dragged it to the Dock. Released his finger and there the Document folder icon stayed. Well, of course it did! He did it, not me.

Listening patiently to my pathetic insistence that what he did was exactly, exactly what I had done, he struggled not to show that he didn't believe me for an instant. Getting up from the computer without a word, he left.

I stared at the computer. It stared back. I was sure I could hear it snickering.

I am now going into the kitchen to make myself a tinfoil hat.

New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. In the meantime, you're invited to visit my recently-revised website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@gmail.com. I'd love to hear from you.

Acknowledgement, Acceptance, and Compulsion

It's often far easier to acknowledge the existence of a situation or condition than it is to accept it. And compulsion is rather like trying to force a sheet of metal through a paper shredder. It can't be done, but that doesn't stop someone from trying.

Obsessive and compulsive behavior seems to be a popular theme for "reality" shows of late. Its more extreme forms have their own psychological designation--OCD; Obsessive/Compulsive Disorder. Hoarders, people who wash their hands a hundred times or more a day, people who must jiggle a door knob three times before opening it, etc. all suffer from it. We look at these people and shake our heads, wondering whatever possesses them to do these things, and why they can't just, well, stop doing it.

Yet we all know someone who exhibits some milder form of OCD--the compulsively neat, those who insist on ironing their underwear, or who order their sock drawer by color, or who never go shopping without a detailed list. I pride myself on being totally devoid of any of these types of behavior, though there is one small area in which I must confess might be considered by some to be a bit excessive: my excruciating, continual awareness of the passage of time, the aging process that inescapably accompanies it, and my inability to let go of the past or to resist comparing--negatively--who I am now with who I was.

I view the aging process with a mixture of total incomprehension and, frankly, something akin to horror. If we want to live, we must age; it's a totally irrefutable fact. That I don't understand, or rather can't accept, why is a measure of my compulsive refusal to acknowledge or accept reality.

I'm constantly trying to analyze my actions in light of my aging. I know many if not most of them are based in pure logic, and much of that logic is based on cumulative experience. I frequently regret that I don't laugh nearly as much as I used to. Yet much laughter is founded on the element of surprise, and over the years, experiencing the same or basically the same situation many times, the surprise is dimmed, as is the reaction to it. The hilarity of a wildly popular TV sitcom inevitably dims, the longer it stays on the air. Repetition breeds familiarity, and while familiarity does not necessarily breed contempt, it does breed lack of surprise. And thus it tends to be with life.

As we grow older, we walk more cautiously on ice in winter, not because we couldn't walk more assertively but because we've fallen enough, in the course of the years, not to want to fall again.

Physical changes are simply part of the progression of life. They are inevitable--though some people seem more capable than others in forestalling them--and are the increasingly steep price we must pay for the privilege of living. I acknowledge this fact. Really, I do. But I am, to the depth of my soul, unwilling to accept it, and my failure to do so is my compulsion. I do wish I were able to both acknowledge and accept, as most of the world seems to do so easily. I know acknowledgement and acceptance would save me an incalculable amount of unhappiness and frustration. But I simply cannot.

While I take a certain odd pleasure and even pride in my self delusions, I do not delude myself as to who the winner will be in my compulsive battle against time, aging, and reality. I know they will inevitably win, and when they do that I won't be around to care. But while I'm still here, I'll do my best not to accept those things I want so badly to be different.

Once again I turn to the Serenity Prayer: "God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference." Well, I'm working on the courage, and I definitely know the difference. But as to the serenity part,.... Well, two out of three ain't bad.

New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. Your comments are always welcome. And you're invited to stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@gmail.com.

"They"

I've spent probably an inordinate amount of time, over the course of my life, pondering the riddle of how I can be a part of humanity and yet so often feel totally apart from it. I've come to the conclusion that I view my relation to other people...and specifically to heterosexuals...rather like a cat or dog views people: living among them every day, quite fond of a number of them, hungry for and appreciative of positive attention from them, and yet having absolutely no concept of what it's like to be one of them.

Of course, I suspect that I may not be alone in viewing the rest of humanity as some strange, conglomerate "They." And again, one of the reasons I write these blogs is an attempt to let those who share my thought and views on matters seldom talked--or probably even consciously thought--about know they're not alone. Too often I see my relationship to the rest of humanity as not only a matter of "me" and "them"--but often as a matter of "me" versus "them".

From my infinitely limited perspective, in looking at the rest of humanity as "They," I'm painfully aware that "They" have the unquestioned and overwhelming advantage in everything. "They" glide effortlessly from day to day, cutting through the life's problems like the bow of a ship cuts through a stormy sea, unfazed.

"They" know not only how to read instruction manuals, but how to understand them. ("Carefully undigitize the Prenalyzer from the Bliggerostometer before attaching the Spratzer." Of course! What could be simpler?) For "them," Tab A always, always slips into Slot B without the slightest effort.

When a box of cereal says "lift flap to open," "They" simply lift the flap and the box opens. They don't end up tearing the lid off the box in frustration. And they can close the box again, too, by slipping the tab into the slot. "They" can open a bag of potato chips without spending five minutes tugging and pulling with mounting frenzy until it bursts open with such force that it scatters the contents of the bag all over the room.

"They" can confidently order something online--a pair of pants, say--and, when the package arrives, open it, put on the pants, and go happily on with their business. I have never, ever, ordered any piece of clothing on line that fit, let alone bore the vaguest resemblance to the illustration in the catalog from which I ordered it.

In social situations, "They" always blend in seamlessly with everyone in attendance. "They" always have something interesting or profound or witty to say, and all the other "They's" hang on to every word, laugh at every joke and understand everything everyone else is talking about. If music and dancing are involved "They" unselfconsciously and with great enthusiasm move to the rhythm. "They" all know how to dance, and move gracefully when not dancing. When engaged in conversation with several people at once, "They" speak in complete sentences. "They" never have to stop ten seconds after saying something and wish they'd said it differently. When witty repartee is called for, "They" are at the top of their game, thrusting and parrying to the delight of all. "They" are bubbly as champagne; I tend to be more like stale beer.

"They" are almost never unsure of themselves. "They" waste little second-guessing their actions. "They" are confident of every decision and accepting of--even if not always happy with--the outcome. "They" don't spend inordinate amounts of time wishing they had done something they had not done, or wishing they hadn't done something they did do. "They" accept the past and move on without more than an occasional backward glance.

Still, it's kind of nice to think that if perhaps you might feel pretty much the same way, I might be able to look at the world in terms of "Us" and "They" instead of just "me" and "them." I've always preferred "us" over "me" anyway.

New entries are posted by 10 a.m. Central time every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Please come back...and bring a friend. Your comments are always welcome. And you're invited to stop by my website at http://www.doriengrey.com, or drop me a note at doriengrey@gmail.com.