Better than some...

When I was growing up my dad had a stock answer when people asked how he was doing, which was "Better than some, worse than others!" Then he'd pause for a little chuckle before moving on with the conversation. I realize he was just tossing out a little light humour every time, but repeated exposure to the sentiment must have shaped the way I think, since to this day I continually weigh my situation in contrast to people around me.

For example, I am often tossing around wonder whether I'd like somebody else's job better than mine. I get warm fuzzies if the poor sap has to work weird shifts, or with obnoxious people; even better if he must wear a paper hat or a name tag or something. But then I'll meet the odd buffoon pulling down gobs of money and fabulous perks, doing something that sounds really fun and exciting. And off I slide backwards down the self-actualization curve.

The other day I walked into a House of Knives at the mall, and as I entered, my ears were struck by the sudden and rich transition from tinny mall muzak into sweet strings of Mozart pouring from a couple of pretty good-sized speakers in the store. I glanced over at an unnervingly alert-looking man in his mid-twenties, striking a rigid stance or attention behind the counter.

"Wow," I said. "Nice little acoustic environment you've got for yourself in here."

"Yes," he replied, way too chirpily. "I've been taking a number of relaxation courses lately, and music has come up again and again as a really effective and important way to set a peaceful positive mood."

Hmmm, I thought. Guy in knife shop has tension issues. And lots of knives. Not ideal circumstances. I quickly bought a sheath I wanted for my pocket knife and left the store.

As I'm driving home and I'm thinking about that poor twitchy bastard spending his days cooped up in a tiny, garish mall boutique, surrounded by glinting knives, swords and daggers as he wrestles with God-knows-what inner demons, following him around between relaxation courses. But he seemed to be hanging on -- so long as he's with his man Mozart, soothing those impulses to windmill the next customer into cold cuts.

I may be worse off than some, I think to myself, but I'm a lot better off than him.

I slow down to let another car merge in front of me. He slows down too. I slow some more, eventually giving up three or four car lengths to get him over into the damn lane, fer crissakes. Finally I've reduced a half mile of traffic behind me to a crawl, then he finally glides over and keeps on his way, never looking back, not a wave or any other sign of acknowledgement or gratitude.

As I'm smouldering at this guy's lack of consideration, I realize he's actually not being a prick. He's probably just another idiot, oblivious to what's going on around him, toodling along and blundering into giant holes that magically appear in bumper-to-bumper traffic whenever he has seconds left to merge. He must figure he's the luckiest guy in the world. I sure wish I could go through life in that kind of blissful ignorance.

I guess I'm better than some, worse than others.