Seven Things in Life that Bother Me

I don't talk that much. Put me in a new setting with folks I have never met, you can bet your last dollar that I'll be quieter than the kid who passed gas in class. While I have gotten better as the years have traveled by-I could not have become worse, as I would have vanished, I am still, by all normal standards, relatively shy. But, rarely, if ever, am I uninterested or disengaged. In fact, the exact opposite is true. Regardless of the topic of conversation floating about, I observe and analyze virtually everything. I listen intently, watch body language, and observe my surroundings. Why I do this I will never truly know. It is the way I'm built, and I like it.

While I adore some of the conclusions I reach about people, relationships, and just about everything, my observations have led me to some rather startling discoveries about some of the idiotic things I encounter each day. Whether I read them, hear them, or see them, I have come to understand that people have done some things that make so little logical sense that they bother me to no end, and they have left me no other choice than to explain.

Issue #1: Why are there two different level urinals in the men's room? Any person short enough to use the one that is about eight inches off the floor should be sitting on the toilet with his legs dangling back and forth while singing the latest tune from Sesame Street. No child that small would use a urinal. They have enough trouble peeing into a large circular toilet filled with Cheerios for target practice, let alone firing aimlessly at an upright porcelain half-pipe affixed to the wall. And there is no way there is a large enough population of "little people" in this world to justify placing a urinal in a position that challenges those us with precise aim and splash control.

If a normal man must use one of these, he must make one critical decision: He needs to determine where to stand. If he stands close, he risks serious sprinkling of the shins-a look that can decimate your confidence if you have a long walk back to your table, substantial wet sock danger-urinated-upon socks that create wet shoe interiors that will subsequently smell can obliterate the best of days, and mint deflection-if the stream heads off-line and hits that dreaded circular freshener you are so done. However, if he elects to stand too far back, then his manhood and reputation can become the source of rather embarrassing conversation. You see, moving back even a foot fully exposes what the little walls between the urinals are meant to keep private. Suddenly, you have men looking at you, wanting so dearly to look you in the eye, but knowing that because you have breeched a longstanding unwritten rule in men's bathroom etiquette, which is to never step back farther than the divider wall, they have to glance down. Then an emotional windfall begins. You begin to wonder what they thought. They work to conceal what they thought. All the while you are peeing into an undersized urinal that better belongs in Santa's workshop. You rush to finish by either making it go faster or, stupidly enough, walking closer. On-the-move urination is never a good thing. Inevitable you lose control and everything within a four foot radius ends up looking like a child's first finger painting.

Issue #2: Why do gas stations sell cigarettes? Large signs strapped to the posts near the pumps proclaim in bold, vigorous letters that smoking is strictly prohibited. Even an Eskimo ravaged with frostbite and freshly peeled from the ice wall of his igloo would not light up around gasoline. Why then would someone deem it appropriate to sell cigarettes, matches, and lighters a mere twenty feet from a potential mushroom cloud? I know cigarettes are addictive, but there is one sure way to end that dependency: death. I know the people who own these stations want to capitalize on these addictions, but there is one sure way to reduce your profits and kill your business: have it blow up.

Issue #3: What was Dodge thinking when they name their pick-up truck? While the nation remains divided over whether or not bailing out the auto industry will actually help, I know that if Chrysler handles the cash with the same astuteness that they used when naming the Dodge Ram then you can kiss that money goodbye. Think about the contradiction in terms. Your company is named Dodge, meaning to move about so as not to get struck; however, they name their biggest pick-up Ram, which means to strike heavily. This truck must spend its day chasing itself in circles. The truck tries to go to the dealership, but the dealership keeps moving. The truck keeps ramming; the dealership keeps dodging. How can this truck ever succeed with a name as bass ackwards as that? It is almost as bad as when Chevy could not figure out why their car, the Nova, which sold so well in the United States, was not selling even close to expectations south of the border. Nova in Spanish means "no go". Duh.

Issue #4: Why is the number 11 pronounced the way it is? All other numbers that immediately follow a multiple of ten sound the same. Twenty-one, thirty-one, forty-one. It is the multiple of ten and then the number one. Considering that in both English and mathematics the idea of parallelism is critical, where exactly did eleven come from? We want pieces to match for symmetry, tradition, and understanding. Eleven bucks this trend, and for no apparent, provable reason. I vote that we change it. I say it should be pronounced in the same manner as its equals: onety-one.

Issue #5: Isn't the "Do Not Walk on the Grass" sign hypocritical? People who love their lawns, and I am one of them, spend hours manicuring it, picking each weed below its root, edging each side meticulously. Mowing becomes an artistic expression, with lines and patterns adorning the finished product. Children, entranced by its perfect lushness, are scolded to stay off daddy's perfect grass. Yet, as obsessed as some can be, others take it a step too far. Some place large "Do Not Walk on the Grass" signs on their lawn to ward off any person stupid enough to so much as drag their big toe across one blade. Yet, did the person who put the sign into the lawn have to walk on it? I think so. I know it is their lawn and they can do what they please, but have their feet been granted a divine exemption? Can they walk across without making an impression, damaging a patch, matting down a section? Hypocrites.

Issue #6: Is Superman even close to intelligent? I saw a Superman poster the other day and it got me thinking. The man represents the heroic side of human nature, the selfless intent we all wish to have in a moment of distress. He is attractive, barrel-chested, and fast. He can fly. He is the only man I have ever met that can pull of boots that red and that big and not work in Provincetown. He has a massive "S" on his chest that can stand for so many of his traits: stellar, supersonic, scintillating. But I am afraid that all of these admirable parts are a smoke screen that covers up his lack of intelligence. After all, what normal man wears his underwear over his pants? What is wrong with him? He is supposed to be larger than life, superhuman even, but he has his tighty-whities dyed red and worn over his blue leggings!

Issue #7: Why can't plurals be really plural and singulars be really singular? In other words, why does a bra look singular and panties look plural? Panties, which is a terribly disgusting word for me say out loud, holds one general area of the body, so why must one pair end is an "s" to confuse us? Men are baffled by that area anyway--why make it grammatically challenging? A bra, on the other, is singular but obviously controls two objects. Granted some bras must work harder than others, but they should all still reflect the multi-tasking job they do.

Until I either start getting myself lost in conversation, essentially shutting down my wandering mind, or actually answer some of my odd questions, I fear I will never know much about life for certain. But, then again, isn't life really about asking questions rather than finding answers? I hope so.