Tuesday, August 2, 2011

The curse of being more sociable is, efficiently put, inefficiency, but it’s a cost I’ve gladly shouldered. Here’s why. In my prior state, the only narrative that received any appreciable amount of attention was my own, and when you’re front and center in your own mind, decision-making is streamlined, to say the least, because–guess what?–your story is most important.

But when other people’s narratives take on an authentic weight, the situation becomes a lot more complicated. Suddenly their tales, their agendas, collide with yours. They intersect. Conflict. Amplify. Echo. And affairs that once allowed you to cruise conveniently under the radar, fast and low, now call for a substantial investment of emotional capital. It’s worth it, though, simply on the strength of how rich these interactions can be. I’m usually happier when I have a couple things marinating in the brainpan, and all this extra empathy has yielded a generous harvest.

Even those whom I hate are getting the benefit of the doubt. Yesterday, for instance, right at the crack of fuckin’ dawn, the revving started again after a long hiatus. There I was, in the hazy country between dream and sleep, wondering whether Dave Mirra had just come back from a long vacation. Or perhaps his motorcycle had been in the shop? And if so, were the repairs expensive? Then, in a delicious turn of events, the usual accelerated whine was cut short. Something was wrong with the engine. The standard launch sequence doubled, maybe even tripled in length, and ultimately the vehicle had to be parked. Same sequence of events this morning, too, only with a more wretched whine from the machinery. Did someone put bleach in his tank? At long last, I mean? Fine, so maybe I’m not completely empathetic yet, but I’m getting there. Which is a hell of a lot more than I can say for his goddamned bike.