My Pain Threshold Is Low
Recently a shard of a kidney stone decided to break free from the pack and to make its way through parts of my body normally reserved for the passing of yellowy water. Sharp, solid objects, narrow passageways blended with a low threshold for pain make for a human who is not able to focus on things that require deeper thought. Or any thought.
What little thought does occur makes itself known in grunts, screams and utterances, both loud and rage filled, interspersed with deep breaths searching in vain for air to fill the lungs of said person who just hollered non-sensical ravings to the maximum extent of his voice box. I had begun to wonder how something so small could feel like an inflated, toxic blowfish passing through my sensitive areas.
But this raises the pertinent question that no one is asking — nor cares to ask — what other topics cause me, and other humans pain? I won’t descend into rants about government, or sitting through awards shows, like the crappy Oscars, or plucking that errant, wild, evil nose hair. No, I am talking about something simpler that causes societal pain across the globe.
Why is it that when people walk and text or look at their ‘smart’ phones they slow down their walking pace almost to a crawl? I have run into men, women, children, transgender folks, likely hermaphrodites, religious zealots, misguided youth, the aged, and smart and dumb people, who all decided that that text, that email, that Facebook post was so crucial, so vital to their existence on earth, they had to stop in the middle of a moving stream of smelly humanity (one of them must have eaten 14 cloves of garlic, I swear) to whip out their respective devices and cause me to smash into someone else. And then they get mad at me.
Splitting the Brain
I contend, without any scientific knowledge or alternative facts, that it should be possible to walk AND look at your damn phone simultaneously without losing pace and putting on the brakes. What if you were being chased by Peruvian killer bees or an aggressive carpet salesman and you got a text? Would you slow down then? Would you stop and jeopardize your life and those of others around you because your aunt Frannie posted a picture of herself and her new, post-divorce bohunk Raoul on the beach, swilling rum-laced fruit drinks?
How much brain power does it take to walk and use your eyes? Trump can do it, and sexually harass a woman at the same time, while saying “this is gonna be huge.” That’s three things at once without slowing down.
What is it about the damn mobile phone that turns us into immobile idiots? Are our brains so weak and unevolved that all motor skills, particularly those that involve humans walking in front of me, have to cease, thus causing me to awkwardly dive to the left and smash into the aforementioned hermaphrodite selling some kind of alternative literature that no one reads?
This state of affairs leaves me nonplussed and in pain. Metaphorical pain mostly, and physical pain, too. But that last one has more to do with the kidney stones. Clearly it has affected me.
Curmudgeonly and hairy,