Replacement Balloons

When I was a small child, I'd get terribly upset when a relationship with a helium balloon ended with a pop or heavenly ascent. They'd offer to replace it with an identical balloon, but somehow this made things worse. I wanted my balloon, which was obviously irreplaceable!

I recognized, even in my sorrow, how silly I was being. An identical balloon is an identical balloon! Yet the previous one felt special by virtue of — well, it was hard to explain. Time spent? Shared experience? Whatever the explanation, the popped or lost one was my balloon, whereas this was just some garish, oblivious hunk of inflated latex. The certainty was accompanied by an uncomfortable awareness of my childish caprice.

But my certainty was appropriate. At 62, I see that I was right about balloons. I only felt silly because the world has a gaping blind spot extending far beyond balloons. Even people can be viewed as interchangeable objects slotted into roles and categories, their singular essence, their essential reality, overlooked. 

We, ourselves, are often replacement balloons. It's common to approach new romantic relationships like swapping in a fresh tennis partner. And to yearn for canned family moments where relatives cosplay their respective roles. Bosses can't conceive of an employee knowing better, merely because they're The Boss. We have a devilishly hard time seeing individuality.

The world outside our heads appears as a grand glass menagerie, with everything and everyone serving as placeholders. But within this hot-swappable world, it's neither sentimental nor capricious to appreciate the unique individuality of some person or thing — even a balloon!


I am obviously continuing to examine The Empathy Asymmetry.

See also "Love Theater".