I’ve stopped asking questions, stopped watching the news, I don’t Google or engage in Googling. I’ve even mastered techniques to change subjects quickly and cleanly when there’s a likelihood of hearing unwelcome information. My new theory is: if I don’t know, for God’s sake don’t tell me.
I have no idea what caused this change or when it started. Probably has to do with Santa Claus and him being pantsed as a fraud. By a horrible older sister who gloried in my torment. Had I instituted my new philosophy much earlier, Santa would still be as real as the FedEx guy.
Shortly after the Santa episode, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy went down, too. Year five was a bad one for me and make-believe. I didn’t bother trying to come up with an imaginary friend. I didn’t have the heart for it.
I have one now, though. His name is Hector. We don’t talk much.
It’s lately become necessary to build up the courage to do basic things, like go to the mailbox. There could be news in there, after all, news that isn’t good. My account is overdrawn, for instance. Or my aunt is coming for a two-week stay. Things like that.
And then there are doctors, the scariest people in the galaxy. Who would voluntarily visit one and learn all manner of deeply horrifying details? Not me. Not even at gunpoint would I go to a doctor’s office. If I’m going to die, what’s the point in telling me ahead of time? Surprises are good, I like surprises, so don’t ruin it for me.
And the sharing, am I the only one who thinks there’s just too much of it going on? Don’t you think it needs to stop?
People know way more than is good for them. We don’t have to know everything. We need mysteries and epiphanies and serendipity, not more knowledge for crying out loud. So if someone attempts to let you know or keep you in the loop or bring you up to speed, run like Hell.
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