Everybody’s crazy, some more than others. I don’t mean to make light of people who have deeply rooted problems that make their lives much more difficult. I’m talking about the large proportion of the population that passes for normal.
Among everyday acquaintances, everyone is bonkers. Some have addiction issues. Some have anger issues. Others are depressed or manic or obsessed. Or they may be chronic liars or habitually late. Do you recognize yourself yet?
You can be introduced to somebody who seems perfectly normal. But once you know them better, they’ll inform you they see dead people. Or they hear imaginary voices in their head. Honestly, I don’t know how the world keeps turning.
I sure don’t know how any business gets done properly. Of course, quite often, it doesn’t. The pervasive wackiness is probably the reason nothing works quite right and very few services are delivered on time or exactly as requested.
When you’re talking to someone at work, you know they’re only listening to you with a small portion of their total concentration. The rest of their attention has wandered off to consider something else, such as: what to have for a snack; or some sexual fantasy; or how can that person wear those clothes; or sex; or what a game that was last night; or sex. This listing may not give enough emphasis to sex.
The extreme manifestation of this occurs in meetings. I’m sure some people really get into the moment and love the verbal exchanges. Me, all I can think of is “how much I want out of here. I have other work to do. I’ve got a blog to write.”
Most people need help. Professional therapists should be the answer. But they’re often the nuttiest of all. That’s why they went into the profession in the first place, to see if there was any way to resolve some of their own problems.
I sometimes wonder if other people know how crazy they are. I’m able to ask this because, objectively, I am the sanest person I know. Okay, maybe I’m slightly off in some minor ways too. For example, I may be a tad delusional.
Separating fantasy and reality sometimes gives me a problem. We were watching the movie Marley and Me on DVD the other night and I had an out-of-body experience. Suddenly I was the family dog and I was wondering why I had never heard about this movie. I realized I’ve got to start paying more attention to the reviews.
I want my trade organization, the Canadian Association for Canine Appreciation – that’s CACA for short – to crank up its publicity machine and strengthen its lobbying. “Enough with the unfair discipline,” I bark on behalf of my behaviourally-challenged pack. During the tear-inducing final half hour, my status within the family had never been higher.
Then the movie was over. My extremities stopped twitching. And I no longer had a craving for kibble. I was back to being human again. Is this normal? Maybe I’ve got a little more to worry about than I think I do.
The preceding story would seem to lead naturally enough into Dad has a New Hobby, and it’s a hoot (toot?).