A comedian I like was distressing about the challenges presented by the Covid-19 pandemic, and he wondered if now was a good time to be joking at all. I wish he had called me. I would have told him, yes, now is the perfect time. That’s why I tuned in to his Netflix special. I wanted a good laugh. And I came to him, a professional comedian, to hear something funny.
I would have accepted anything he said about the pandemic, provided there was a punchline. I was open to any topic, really, trusting that his wit could turn any subject into a joke. But my comedian did a bait and switch. He billed himself as a comedian, then showed up as a dry philosopher. Grrrrr. When Janet, Miss Jackson if you’re nasty, educates me on poverty, crime and all manner of social injustice, she gives me a beat. Her dance moves make me believe in a brighter future. She’s getting the job done.
Professionals owe it to the world to do their job. They have our trust, and they should act accordingly. Despite bad days. Despite lousy weather. Despite ingrown toenails. You name it. When a professional is called for, delivering is all that matters. Professionals can collapse under the weight of their personal burdens when they’re off the clock.
Alas, my comedian wasn’t in the mood to be funny. Understandable in these trying times. But does that leniency work for other professionals? I guess my plumber wasn’t in the mood to fix my leaky pipes. I guess my pilot wasn’t in the mood to land my plane safely. I guess my surgeon wasn’t in the mood to sleep it off. I guess my server wasn’t in the mood to ask me how I was doing.
Wait! That last one really happened.
I planned to be at my mother’s side when she passed away. Her oncologist told me she had only a few months left. Her home was in California. Mine is in Utah. I didn’t make it in time . . . to New York City, that is, where she died during a last hoorah, one she kept secret from me, and one that likely shortened her life by at least a month. She was cremated in Queens, and the arrangement was to slap a UPS label on her and ship her to California. My mother with a tracking number? Fuggedaboutit! I went to get her myself. The flight up and back was a nightmare. The funeral in Southern California was worse. We were on there at the cemetery to bury her on Friday, but the death certificate didn’t reach us in time. We had to reschedule the burial for Monday—that change cost me a few more hundred-dollar bills. Worse, I had to be back in Utah and couldn’t personally oversee her burial. That meant leaving my mother with the cemetery staff to finish the job.
We were already exhausted when we started the long drive home. Four hours later, we stopped at Serendipty 3 on the Vegas strip for ice-cream and a much-needed break. I was sad that my mother had passed and simultaneously mad about the chaos surrounding her death. Potent thoughts about everything that went wrong ricocheted in my head. I thought ice-cream would help, but when our server greeted us with her own woes about her miserable day and a defunct water heater, I wasn’t too receptive.
Ah, fuggedabouther! I’m here to salute the professionals who rise to the occasion. Especially the valiant cemetery worker with the shovel.
Into the Comfort Zone 