The punishment of good deeds can play out as a mild Reader Digest quip or a harrowing Twilight Zone episode. At worst, it can be quite a lot.
I frequently recall a rare instance of utter ease and perfection. My 80 year old childhood trombone teacher called to say:
"Pipes burst. Carpenter needs $2000. I don't have it. If you loan me, I'll pay back out of social security every month."I burned 5 calories writing and mailing a check, and my bank statement reported monthly deposits until I was repaid. It was so luxuriously easy. A tangible fix to a dire circumstance at no real cost to anyone. The episode had glided on greasy smooth tracks, as close to "nothing" as any something can feel. And I often make this my basis of comparison. Especially regarding that weird night at Lou's house.
My friend Lou held a reading of the book he'd just published post-mortem, written by his miserable dead wife. She'd experienced horrors in childhood and never recovered. Her book recounted the horrors from which she'd never recovered.
She was born and raised in a big wonderful mansion in Austria with loving parents and siblings, boisterous dogs, and crackling fireplaces. As the eldest daughter, she'd inherit the house and raise a family of her own there one day. But her father died and they lost the house and moved into an apartment. The end.
In the living room of Lou's house (much nicer than anywhere I'd lived, and where his miserable dead wife had spent decades), several attendees swept openly, while the rest dabbed their eyes with tissues. So, so sad.
Me, I was incredulous. Really? That's it? She went from a house to an apartment (and then to Lou's pretty damned nice split-level colonial), and this compelled her to make herself — and everyone around her — thoroughly miserable forever and ever? I know people who don't even have apartments, and none of them paint grand tragedies.
The difference, I mused, was the difference. A small apartment — like where I lived — was a come-down from a mansion. Ok, sure. But when she'd hooked up with Lou, her mood might have elevated as she made up some lost ground! But no, her suffering was a one-way ratchet. And this made no sense.
So I diagramed her trajectory, stripping away particulars to consider the broad contour:
"I thought 'A' would happen, but 'B' happened."Not being wealthy, this was unfamiliar algebra. I never had reason to assume that my expectations would be met. I figured I'd continue bobbing and floating amid the waves of an indifferent ocean for my duration. And the notion of haughty entitlement to expected results struck me as, well, hilarious. I tried not to guffaw as Lou read the very sad manuscript, his cheeks streaming with tears.
If I contrast my trombone teacher's problem with Lou's miserable dead wife's problem, the difference is clear: The former was a problem. The latter was not a problem.
In fact, stripped of particulars, scarcely any problems are problems. Most often, they boil down to "I thought 'A' would happen, but 'B' happened." And that's not a problem — unless you're immensely privileged and extraordinarily confused.
This explains why my problem-solving impulse creates problems for me. If you try to solve a problem that's not a problem for someone who imagines they have a problem, you will mostly just get entangled in their fervid problem creation. For my elderly trombone teacher that one time, I provided a solution. For nearly everyone else, I'm grist for their mill.
Really, Sir Lancelot, the kids are all right.
