About twenty years ago, my epiphany that not-all-people-think-like-me came when I was telling a new friend a night at the cinema had been ruined by a bobbing head. I was annoyed with myself, but also still with the bobber. She laughed her head off. Didn’t even pretend.
“Don’t you ever feel that way though?” I asked, widening and then narrowing my eyes.
“Oh, nah man, ha-ha-ha,” Angelique said, creasing up, wagging her finger. Once she composed herself: “Nah, never sweat the small stuff, man. Waste of time. Seriously.” And then she cracked up all over again. That’s when the penny dropped, most people wouldn’t have registered an innocent bobbing head. But I had and it had lingered. I realised something needed fixing and nowadays I can safely say I’m happy with bobbing heads, popcorn, mobiles phones -you name it, probably wouldn’t even blink an eye if a fight broke out.
I knew well before talking with Angelique though, that it was all to do with having a mother in a permanent state of horrified anxiety. There was literally nothing this woman could not catastrophise. One day she came home from work, a newly purchased mac as trophy, until she discovered it was a dud, one teeny-tiny part of its check-pattern blurry. As an 11 year old, I wasn’t quite sure how to react to this tragedy of epic proportions.
“It’s not right, it’s all smudged,” she wailed.
“But you can’t really notice it, can you?”
“I’ve noticed it!” she snarled back, eyes flashing. Then, almost weeping, “I’m going to have to go back now and change it. And I went ‘specially,” she said, dropping her head, as if defeated.
So, that’s what she did. Undefeated. Caught the bus, all the way back to Oxford Street. To get her money back on an item she had THIRTY DAYS to return. The disaster COULD NOT BE FIXED unless she acted IMMEDIATELY. This was my template of how to deal with very trifling matters.
On the other hand, my father didn’t worry about much, (certainly not about keeping a job down or spending time with his family) but did enjoy the odd rant or five, the No. 43 bus being a perennial favourite. Namely, why didn’t it want to pick up a swinging foul-mouthed drunk before it hit the bus depot? After he died, I discovered there were also bitter complaint letters written to the bus company. Even sober he couldn’t understand why the drivers went hell for leather when they saw him. The bus company’s ostentatious apology letters almost as hilarious. But it was also an unpleasant discovery; I had my own complaint letters folder on the go and, although I’d never seen these letters, the supercilious tone was worryingly similar.
It was learning a bit of cognitive behavioural therapy that finally allowed me to see things differently. For example, you’re going somewhere and start to worry (too much) you’ll be late. The worst thing that could happen, if it were a friend you were meeting, would be you’d apologise and, if the other person is indeed a friend, they’ll accept. But why do such petty things sometimes make us so anxious? Usually, it’s because we care what other people think or care about liking the film, etc, so it’s mostly altruistic in nature. Again, this is normal behaviour. It means you’re not a psychopath. Why else might it be bothering you? Hunger? Tiredness? Your mum? Petty panicky thoughts are just fight or flight responses in disguise. Once you know this, quandaries melt away to musings. Like that shitty email your colleague sent (delete and forget). That super rude caller who is going to complain about you (ha!). That dripping tap (so fix it). That busy tube, you might not get off! (you always do). That person who doesn’t say hello (so say hello). That missed train (you’ll get the next one). Or that piece or writing that no one liked. ‘None of these will bring disaster.’ Lose harder, lose faster. Hoo-boy but those bigger things.
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The Lies They Tell 
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