A while ago I stopped asking anybody “How are you?”
“Fine,” they’d always say, so I’d lost a minute out of my life. A minute I’d never get back for anything meaningful.
I wonder how much of my life I’ve lost to meaningless “fines.”
“How are you?” is also a gateway to announcements. Maybe trivial ailments (“organ recitals” – Miss Manners). Or a detailed schedule (“next week two days in Chillicothe, then half a day in Canton”).
During lockdown, you didn’t have to hear schedule announcements. No one went anywhere.
You might’ve shared a lively discussion of a book, from someone who hadn’t read one in years and discovered it was delightful.
Now, though, they’re back to reciting plans for that leisurely drive through North Dakota. And I want to sob with boredom.
Tell me a story – about your rendezvous at the grain elevator. Or the amorous chipmunks. Or just tell me a joke about cornbread.
Now I’m going to find one on the ’Net. I will have made some good use of my time. I’m fine. But how are you?
