Doesn’t it seem like every summer in recent history has been marked by some catastrophic, world-coming-to-an-end type of event, or events? 2009 was the summer of celebrity deaths. 2010 was the summer of oil spills. 2011 was the summer of debt-ceiling crises and double-dip recessions, and so on and so forth.
When I last left you in May, I had an air of optimism. I set out to inspire readers to make changes and do right by themselves. I sincerely hope I was able to reach out to some of you, but in a shameful, ironic twist of fate, I’ve found myself unable to heed my own words.
Now, I won’t say this summer vacuumed all the sunshine out of me — though my column in the summer issue might beg to differ — but my perspective has changed.
It’s not accredited to Congress chasing their own tails, rioters in London, despots who’ve met their demise in the Middle East or any of the other world-coming-to-an-end type of events we’ve endured, but something much more personal.
In my fear-mongering summer issue column, I documented that I worked as a lifeguard at a day camp on Long Island. I like the work. I enjoy teaching little kids how to swim, hanging out by a pool all day and making a halfway decent salary.
Clearly, I wouldn’t be bringing this up if it didn’t have to do with me becoming a world-hating cynic, so how does something that sounds so cushy turn me from wide-eyed Anakin Skywalker into Darth Vader?
Parents. Ungrateful mothers and fathers of the five-year-old children I teach are the source of my grief and frustration. When you’re as selfish as me, you don’t want your work to go unnoticed. You want to be appreciated for your efforts.
So when the final days of camp arrive and tips start rolling in and you’ve somehow drawn the monetary short straw after putting in weeks of hard work, teaching young children how to swim — which is as tiring and frustrating as it sounds — it hits you where it hurts.
Money isn’t everything to me. Of course it isn’t. But I don’t like doing thankless work. Some people are OK with that, but it doesn’t quite suit me. I knew not to expect a grand gesture of gratitude from a first grader, but I was hoping their parents — who come to camp for a day and watch swim instruction — would be more appreciative.
I’ve been doing this work for a long time, and I’ve always been somewhat handsomely tipped. There wasn’t even that significant a drop-off in the gratuity I received, but I don’t know. Like Roger Murtaugh, maybe I’m too old for this shit.
This whole semi-episode has greater implications for you and me. Go through the aforementioned summer crises. Those catastrophic, world-coming-to-an-end types of events may impact you in some way, but they don’t hold a candle to the everyday crises of your own life.
The media tells us so often to worry about these things. I’m telling you to stop. When bad things happen to you or around you, you better damn well know how to sort out what matters and what doesn’t. A misguided Congress sure induces some cynicism, but in the end, I’m going to worry more about something that hits a little closer to home.
It’s not worth giving yourself gray hairs over the death of the OxiClean guy or pelicans covered in oil. Bad things happen and they happen often. Thankfully, most of these things don’t affect us personally.
Don’t take things as personally as I do, but learn to stop making things that don’t matter, matter.