on caring about things I don’t care about
On Monday afternoon, a public holiday, I made a swoop on my wardrobe, removed eight unsuspecting garments and took them straight out to my car where I laid them on the back seat. Perhaps I’d have worn these clothes again. Perhaps I’ll regret my impulse. However having wriggle room in my wardrobe seemed worth the risk of any future regret. Having enough space between the hangers to be able to push clothes across the bar to slot in a jacket without squashing flat the clothes either side of it, seemed a privilege.
Someone else might not care about an overfilled wardrobe. Personally, I’d like to be the kind of person who is above caring about such things. The kind of person who doesn’t notice when their barbecue stops working. The kind of person who shoves overdue library books to the back of a cupboard, and who keeps on using their dishwasher even after noticing that the catch is missing on the arm on the floor of the machine. Instead, I am the kind of person who is unable to receive email on her phone because, on New Year’s morning, I removed the email app from my phone to free up space in my mind. Which was all very well, until yesterday, when I realised that without email on my phone boarding a plane this weekend would prove tricky.
We’re supposed not to care about the little things, the trivial things which stop us from concentrating on more important things. My husband is particularly good at this, at compartmentalising. He can shut out everything from his mind, bar toothache, in order to focus on a work deadline. Sadly this skill eludes me.
Whenever I edit a manuscript, I use an orange pen to make corrections. I find the orange colour satisfying against the black typeface, and enjoy making messy notes in the margins. When I work in a cafe, which I often do in the morning, I’ve learned to keep my diary in my bag so that I can jot down things that I need to do once I get home – emails, errands, chores. Writing these things down really works for me. I can note them down, knowing they are safe in my diary, and then return my thoughts to work. However, lately my resolve has loosened. There are just too many orange notes in my diary. And so, instead of concentrating on work, my mind strays to the plants I’ve left to dry out in their pots, the household budget I’ve promised myself to start, the barbecue that isn’t working properly and the broken dishwasher arm that needs replacing.
Try as I might, I’ve never managed to get interested in the workings of our domestic appliances. I know how to unclog the drains of our dishwasher and washing machines, simply because I find it agony waiting for a technician to come and fix them for me. However my relation to our barbecue has always been fraught. I love it when I can put kebabs on its hotplate and go off for a walk and return home to a cool kitchen. But I hate cleaning the hotplate and find the gas canister annoying. Is it about to run out? Why is it so hard to connect?
I know it’s ridiculous to be complaining about domestic appliances. It isn’t a serious problem. (Australia is burning, I know.) My barbecue problem is a first world hassle. Except, what if my reluctance to get our barbecue and dishwasher fixed is in some way linked to society’s neglect of the planet? What if I’m among a whole generation of people who would prefer to chuck their broken barbecue, or go without one, rather than drive to an out-of-town outdoors store to get it fixed? What if I’m one of many who doesn’t want the hassle of taking a photo of their offending dishwasher part before contacting the distributor to replace it? What if I choose not to care?
On Monday afternoon, after putting in my car the clothes that I didn’t want because I wanted space in my wardrobe more, I disconnected the barbecue and put it and the empty gas canister into the boot. Then I gathered a stack of library books and put them in a bag on the front seat. Next it was a bag of glass bottles and jars to take to the health-food shop for reuse, and a third bag of clean plastics for recycling. I even got the mascara wand that MAC cosmetics claims to recycle, and slipped it in my yoga bag, so that, after class the next morning, I could visit the department store to exchange my mascara wand for a new one, and then on to the phone shop to reinstall the email app on my phone.
These things are trivial. Of course they are. Ultimately I don’t give a damn about any of them. And yet things like these prey on me. Because if I don’t care about recycling beauty products, I say to myself, why should anyone else care about them either? And since I don’t want to live in a world in which no-one cares about the life cycle of plastics, the next morning I take my mascara wand back to the cosmetics lady who gives me a stamp on a card which – after five more stamps – will result in a free mascara wand. Oh joy. And the barbecue, I find out after driving out of town and returning home again, requires no more than a $3 cap – plus two 40-minute return trips to drop it off yesterday and pick it up today.
‘Good’, I read somewhere last week, ‘is the overcoming of inertia’. This seems right to me. Goodness isn’t about not sinning. It’s about getting over the hump of my own reluctance to do those things that make a difference to my life, and that of others. It’s about having the kind of energy that allows me to tick off tasks that unconsciously I don’t care about but consciously do care about – damn it.
Now all I have to do is attach the gas canister to the barbecue and put six sausages and three potatoes, cut into wedges, on to the hotplate before walking the dog before dinner. No worries!