My front door makes a maddening squeaky-creaky noise when opened. I could solve that problem by putting a bit of WD-40 on the hinge. Every day, for three years, I have considered doing just that. But every day, for three years, something else seemed more important at that moment.
My life is peppered with these little tasks that are just below the threshold of being worth doing. And that threshold is a moving target, depending on how busy I am. At one point in my life, I had a full-time job at the phone company, a full-time job doing Dilbert, and I was writing a book. I think I went four years without getting my car washed. Toward the end, it looked like a divot with an eating disorder. I sold it to a guy who only wanted it for the gravel.
I was reminded of this when I read the story of the dentist who is accused of fondling the breasts of 27 female patients. One woman alleges she was molested six times in two years. Six times?
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/21325760/wid/11915773?GT1=10514 [no longer active]
I figure the woman who got fondled six times must have had a busy schedule. I wonder about her thought process while driving to her dental appointment after the first three or four consecutive fondlings:
“I don’t like it when he plays the melon farmer game, but I’m too busy to shop for a new dentist either. Maybe he’ll get tired of doing it.”
As a workaholic myself, I realize it’s sometimes difficult to know when to throttle back. For example, I’m not comfortable that the guy who strings my tennis racket needs to know if I dress left or right, but I assume he has his reasons. I figure he’ll remember on his own someday and not need to check.
And I don’t know why my optometrist needs to cup my testicles and ask me to jog in place while I’m reading the eye chart, but it probably has something to do with checking for astigmatism. I don’t have time to be asking a bunch of questions every two years.
And I don’t know why the cable TV guy needs to give me a colonoscopy every time he does his weekly signal strength inspection. I always intend to ask him, but by the time the sedative wears off, he’s already gone. I plan to Google it, possibly after I get that stupid door oiled.