I have recently found myself devoid of ranting material. I mean proper, philosophical ranting. I'm personally amazed about this occurrence as I am a) an easily irritable woman and b) a professional grump. This sad state of affairs has been brought about by the recent upheaval in my life. In the last two weeks, I have finally managed to start driving again, assisted on a film shoot, moved house and started back at work. This leads me back to a theory I've always held, which is that if you've got time to think then you aren't busy enough.
I do not mean that we should all perpetually grind ourselves into the ground (on the other hand, this would mean less people around to bother me - it's a double-edged sword). My God, though, I never realised how much complaining has become a daily form of life. It's near impossible to spend a day without someone spinning you a yarn about the latest catastrophe involving their puppy, Mr Miyagi (you know I'm totally going to get a pet and ruin its life by naming it that). I have nothing against the occasional gripe. It is, after all, a very useful way to relieve stress - there are better, dirtier ways to relax, but not ones your boss would approve of at 10:30 am in the office. It's just not hygienic and you know it.
There has been much to moan about recently, but not much to rant about: various companies have told me my post code doesn't exist; BT seem to live in an alternative reality where they turn on your phone line and charge you for it, but do not accept its existence even when you call from that number for help (a Kafka-esque nightmare if ever I heard one); the local utilities do not understand the concept of reading the right meters; and finally, I've been trying to do all this whilst keeping my head around a film shoot budget. Actually, the last one has been the least stressful of them all, but it's a compounding factor.
Of course, there is a difference between ranting and complaining, at least in my opinion. Ranting is done after taking stock of the world and railing against its flaws in order to make people think. Complaining is done when you can't find a good pair of shoes and need to communicate annoyance to the world purely to pay it forward. However, I have only complained of late, not ranted. The main reason is that being kept busy with relatively minor things prevents you from thinking. And I have to tell you, for me that's bliss.
Reflection, pondering, navel-gazing – call it what you will, it has never done me much good. When I do have the time to sit down and ruminate upon my life, I have never enjoyed it. I am sure the quick answer to that is, "Well, you should change what you don't like". Whilst I'm sure that is a sage piece of Tricia advice, it doesn't work for me. In all fairness, I am a defeatist by trade so I'm screwed before I even start to read "inspirational living" newspaper supplements (I never really wanted a £200 leather magazine rack, anyway). The real heart of the problem is that I will never be honestly happy. Sure, I can say that if I lost weight/got a boyfriend/found a new job blah blah blah, I would be happier. For a lot of people, this would be true. I'm not those people, though. Being highly self-critical pretty much guarantees that happiness will always be just one more cream cheese Ryvita out of reach.
I have to believe, therefore, that complaining is a deliberate way of preventing us from thinking. If your mind is filled with petty concerns (did I take the rubbish out? why is she looking at me like that? where's my car?), it's harder for it to ponder the stuff that really breaks your heart (why did it happen? is there any point? when will my pizza arrive?). Those ideas, apart from the pizza, are the stuff that brings you down. Small, minor things can be more easily dealt with than questions about the cosmos. Also, in my case it's always a good idea to avoid being down as my past indicates that I have a difficulty getting back up again.
It used to frustrate me that people could wax lyrical about the crappy service they received from their phone company but had no idea about human rights violations happening in this country. Until, of course, I realised that public discussion in everyday life of the latter was purely about finding something to talk about as well. Now I'm a convert to open complaining, especially to people who hate hearing it as it gives them something to moan about and so on. It's like a cynical circle of life.
There are some who say that it is counterproductive, that you achieve nothing substantial as complaining makes you think you're changing something when actually you're just talking about it. The English are a brilliant example of this with their easy irritability and contempt for people serving them. Only in England would you find people who recount their various hardships with the wounded voice of an injured puppy, yet then dismiss all concerns with the martyr-inspired, "Well, that's life, isn't it?". I do not disagree that complaining is usually a waste of time, achieving little. In fact, I think that's one of its strengths. Talking about a problem often helps to put things into a wonderful perspective as, eventually, someone will tell you to shut the fuck up about the way the neighbours leave their bins. You will soon realise that your annoyances have become obsessions, ones which would go unchecked if not voiced.
My point, if I had to make one up, is that we often do not realise how intrinsic general moaning about the trivial actually aids our everyday survival. We complain about complaining, but why? Complaining is good for three things: it disperses anxiety; works a useful bonding exercise (you'd be amazed at how well you get on with another person if you share a mutual hatred of something); and allows instant distraction from the things that actually wake you up in the middle of the night. Bitching each day keep the doctors away, or so I find.
Having said all that, I must concede that sex is a better way of achieving those three things. And, if the sex is just god-awful, at least you'll have something new to complain about.
2 comments:
when jeff moved into the area he lives in now, he asked his new neighbour, a middle aged lady, what they hung their washing on outside, if there was a washing line etc. Apparently she said, this is quite an upper class area, we really don't do that sort of thing. And yet the other day she came in demanding to know my name and if i'd moved in, and asked him if she could have his internet password to basically use his broadband. He said no.
She sounds like a delight, although perhaps she just lacks social skills. I'm amazed at the people I've met who verge on being Asperger's cases.
I like to think that irritating people act as an outlet for society, as well as an excellent distraction. It's when they become an overwhelming obsession that the problem develops.
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