Is it my imagination, or is life becoming increasingly complicated
every day? Didn't everything used to be a lot simpler?
Remember telephones, for example? They came in one model only-a
black, clunky two-piece job. No decisions to make. No choice of
models or colors. And all were connected to our homes or offices
through a network of cables. Only Dick Tracy had a wireless phone
(in his wristwatch, as I recall), but that was strictly science
fiction. None of us actually believed that some day we would be
walking around with tiny cell phones, calling home from the car
or from the toilet paper aisle of the supermarket to ask if we
should buy the brand that's on sale, or the expensive, super-soft
rolls. As a matter of fact, back then, we didn't have supermarkets.
Just the corner grocer. And he didn't have to ask which brand
of tushy tissue we wanted. There was only one.
And remember telephone operators? When you wanted to make a phone
call you'd lift the earpiece off the hook of the old black phone,
and a friendly real person would ask, "Number, please?" Then she
(never he) would connect you directly to the party you were calling.
After a few rings another friendly voice would reply. Again, an
actual human being-not a recording offering you a dozen menu choices
from which to select. It was amazing.
Even more miraculous, when you phoned your doctor, you could
actually speak to him (seldom her). I could even call my doctor
at home at 3:00 AM back then. Not any more. Today I reach a Voicemail
system and eventually a secretary who relays my concerns to the
doctor and gets back to me in a day or two with the doctor's response.
At least that's what I'm led to believe. I sometimes wonder if
my doctor actually exists, or is this whole message relay business
merely a scam to give me a false sense of security? Maybe the
secretary just goes on the Internet, does a Google search on my
question, and then calls me back with her own advice. Of course,
I do see my doctor in person when I go for my annual physical-or
do I? For all I know she could be a computer-programmed hologram.
As for all the medical insurance paperwork, what's that about?
We never used to have to get tangled in miles of red tape. And
how come though we have all kinds of expensive insurance coverage,
we still end up coughing up tons of additional money for every
visit, procedure, and prescription?
Then there's the automobile. I remember three auto makers in
my childhood-Ford, Chevrolet and Chrysler. Each manufactured only
two or three models in two or three colors. The only place you
could buy a foreign car was in a foreign land — which really
wasn't an option since only a handful of Americans had enough
money to travel abroad. Today, of course, we can choose from a
staggering number of automobile manufacturers, domestic and foreign,
each of which turns out a multitude of different models in myriad
colors. A smorgasbord of expensive excess.
Repairs are another modern nightmare. Before, when the old Chevy,
Ford or Chrysler didn't work right, Joe, the mechanic down the
street, could tell immediately that the thingamajig connecting
the whatchamacallit to the whosiwhatsit was broken. He'd replace
it for a few bucks and you were back on the road. Today you must
bring your car to a state-of-the-art facility where you wait interminably,
sipping cappuccino, while a dozen specialists consult and conduct
diagnostic electronic tests to determine which computer chip is
malfunctioning; and you're obliged to take out a second mortgage
on your house to pay for the repair. Speaking of houses, my parents
bought a beautiful home when I was a child for one-third the price
of my last new car; and my car doesn't even have indoor plumbing.
I wouldn't be surprised if that's coming next.
Another aspect of modern life that is definitely more complicated
today is raising children, especially when they become adolescents.
It's not their fault. Apparently Congress passed a law when we
weren't paying attention that requires kids to become obnoxious
at the onset of puberty. They absolutely must rebel against their
parents in order to "separate," the psychiatrists tell us. It's
a rite of passage. Really? How come my generation managed to make
it to adulthood by remaining docile through our teens? Nobody
told us we were supposed to rant and rave, pierce our navels,
nipples and noses, dye our hair purple, tattoo our bodies, and
hate our parents. Yet we survived. Furthermore, we didn't rebel
even though we were cruelly denied designer clothes, a closet
full of hundred-dollar sneakers, and our own cars at sixteen.
Hey, even my parents didn't own a car when I was sixteen. We walked
everywhere-to school, to the movie, to shops, to church. Consequently,
we were in much better shape than most people today, even though
expensive gyms and personal trainers were unheard of.
Furthermore, when I was a kid, the only labels on my clothes
said "Irregular," and my shoe wardrobe consisted of a pair of
cloth Keds for play, a pair of loafers for school, and a pair
of Mary-Janes for Sunday school. Such deprivation would probably
be considered child abuse in this "enlightened" age.
Remember when we'd get together with the neighborhood kids after
supper (one that Mom actually cooked — not a Happy Meal)
and played Red Rover, Kick the Can, and stickball? Kids don't
do that any more. Their "play" is now rigidly structured and competitive.
They go to gymnastics classes, they vie for starting positions
on school soccer and basketball teams, and they struggle with
little league baseball — too often with coaches and parents
on the sidelines loudly exhorting them to excel. They have to
be stars. They're pressured to prove they're smarter/faster/more
talented than all the other kids. Simply having fun is no longer
an option. Stress has become the name of the game. Come to think
of it, no wonder they rebel when they grow to be tall enough to
intimidate their parents. Maybe I would have had my tongue pierced,
too, if my mother and father had led me to believe I was worthless
because their friends' daughter, Susie, was a tennis phenom and
I was a klutz.
Boy, I'm glad I grew up when I did! A stud in my tongue? Yuk!
Rose's new book, The
Stranger in My Mirror and Other Reflections is available by
special order from most book stores, or on the web at www.amazon.com
and www.barnesandnoble.com
Rose Mula was an executive
assistant, a public relations specialist, and an operations manager
for a New England theater chain before discovering a passion for
writing.
Her work has appeared
in The Saturday Evening Post, Yankee, Modern Maturity, The
Christian Science Monitor, The Reader's Digest, The Philadelphia
Inquirer, The Baltimore Sun, and more than a hundred other
magazines and newspapers. Actually-thousands of newspapers, since
one of her essays, The
Stranger in My Mirror (originally titled, The Stranger
in My House), was reprinted in Ann Landers' nationally syndicated
column in 1999, and after an explanatory exchange with Ms. Landers, an attribution.
Rose's new book, If These Are Laugh Lines I'm Having Way Too Much Fun, is available at bookstores, through online bookstores, and from Pelican Publishing, 800-843-1724. The book was a finalist in USABOOKNEWS.COM's 2006 Best Books Award humor category. Meanwhile, she can reached
by e-mail.
