January 9, 2008

The Good Olde Days

There's nothing like a little historical perspective to end a pity party.

The other morning I walked into the kitchen to find Corky's food bowl crawling with ants. This was not a few scouts checking out the lay of the land; this was an all-out invasion. The blue-and-white bowl, which had not a morsel of food in it, was black with tiny insects swarming over whatever kibble-flavored slobber had remained after Corky finished her dinner.

I took it personally. Hadn't I just cleaned the house the day before? How DARE these creatures invade the sanctity of my home? What had I done to deserve this…this PLAGUE that had descended on me before I could drink my first cup of coffee?

Then I got a grip. I rinsed the critters down the drain and got on with my life.

Most of us are confronted with so few obstacles in our dailylives that we take our ease for granted. When something does come up that inconveniences us, we are outraged. Someone cuts in front of us. The blackguard! A cashier accidentally shortchanges us 11 cents. The low-down thief! The electricity goes off while we're watching a football game. Someone will hang for this!

I'm as guilty as anyone at exaggerating the effects of such trivial events. What brought me out of my snit over the ant invasion was a book I'm reading about the life of a poor girl in 18th century England. The book is a bit bawdy-the heroine becomes a prostitute to support herself-but the riveting part of this story is the filth and pestilence that was part of everyday life. Today, we're horrified when a restroom is out of seat covers; they waded through a river of human waste on the way to the market. We're put out when a few ants come after the dog food; they had toes chewed off by rats.

It's all in the perspective. While we complain about staying late to finish a report at the office, our counterparts in Olde England sometimes went blind sewing tiny stitches by candlelight to earn a penny. The pizza guy takes 37 minutes to deliver our dinner? Try feeding your family with a soup bone and a couple of turnips boiled over an open fire.

It's so cold in your house that you have to wear a sweater? Hey, at least you won't freeze to death, like some poor soul thrown out of the tavern for picking pockets. Is your dental hygienist unnecessarily rough with the pick? It's not as bad as getting your leg sawn off with only a slug of whiskey for anesthesia.

The best part about not living in 18th Century England (besides having indoor plumbing) is the fact that women have options. We don't have to choose between going into service (a euphemism for having to empty chamberpots) and going into servicing (a euphemism for our heroine's profession). Plus, we don't have to strap ourselves into corsets with whalebone stays that restrict our breathing. Oh, and we can offer an opinion without being called cheeky. Plus, we can take a bath more than once a year and …well, you get the picture.

Go ahead and cut in front of me on 101. It's no big deal.