Pick and Pendulum

I wish I could say I don’t get riled up much anymore, but at least it ain’t like when I was young and had a head full of hair. These days, I mostly save my energy for keeping track of Post-it notes and remembering where I put my glasses—usually on my head or, once, in the cereal box.

But, ever now and again, something on that glowing rectangle we call the Internet gets me close to writing a comment. Take yesterday, for example. I’d just poured myself a cup of afternoon coffee—hot and muddy—and plopped down in front of my old Dell desktop.

It makes a faint noise like a hungry horse when it boots up. I clicked on my homepage, a mess of little squares filled with people yelling about things and trying to sell me pants I would never wear. And right at the top, like it had been waiting on me, was a post from a woman talking about how disgusted she was by all the people she’s seeing picking their noses while driving.

I squinted at the screen, took a sip of coffee, and started typing a reply, “Maybe you should mind your business and you wouldn’t see driving nose-pickers.”

There. That’ll show’er.

But then, as the cursor blinked at me like it was having second thoughts, I reread the first few words. “Maybe you should mind your business…”

Sitting back in my chair, I felt it creak under me like an old porch step and realized I was just about to do the thing I was accusing her of doing. Ain’t that a trick? It was like trying to shush someone in a library and realizing you’re the loudest one there.

So I deleted the whole thing—poof—and sat there looking out the window, where an old Dodge pickup rumbled past. Faded red, dented fender, and yes, the fella driving had one finger up his nose and a look of deep concentration, like he was defusing a bomb.

Now, I don’t condone it. I don’t encourage it. I certainly don’t want to shake hands on it. But I understand it.

Folks do strange things in cars, on porches, and at the kitchen sink when they think nobody’s looking. We all have our ways of passing time or soothing nerves. Mine is writing down things. His is nostril excavation.

What struck me more, though, was the woman’s complaint. See, you gotta watch other people closely to notice all that, like hawk-close. I don’t know how she does it unless she’s swerving from lane to lane with binoculars. Maybe if folks kept both hands on the wheel and their eyes on the road, they wouldn’t have so much time to monitor what’s going on in the cab of the next car.

But I reckon that’s the way of the world now. Everybody’s looking sideways instead of ahead, watching other folks for what they’re doing wrong instead of minding their mile markers.

Anyway, I closed the webpage and got back to something more productive—like teaching my dogs how to open a beer bottle without taking a swig. We’re on week three, and progress is slow.

If there is a moral, it’s keeping your hands on the wheel, your fingers out of your nose, and your eyes on your lane. Life’s smoother that way—and we’d be less offended.