As often happens to me anymore, do you ever have a day when you turn on your computer, go to your mail, and then have the urge to click the little box at the top and delete it all? One fell swoop. Gone.

I do.

And the worst part of this anti-world feeling is that it’s happening more often. It was a “now-and-then” thing, but it’s becoming a “now-and-now” thing. Yes, it’s always been there, moldering, even when I was a teen, but it seems to me it’s more than moldering these days.

And, worse yet, it’s not just at the computer anymore. It’s creeping into my everyday life.

Now, that’s scary.

As time passes, I’ve come to the conclusion that all of life is a tricky balancing act: the fine line between good and evil, the narrow edge that separates what we think of as sanity and insanity, and even the invisible line we hope is there between common sense and nonsense.

It really shouldn’t bother me when all advertisements seem to promote–and women seem to believe–the idea that a three-day growth of beard is sexy, or that “bring” and “take” are beginning to have the same meaning, or that people are accepting as English the expression, “How did that go down?” when the misinformed speaker really meant “How did that happen?”

It didn’t “go down,” in any sense of the word, except for my opinion of the man who said those words.

One of my friends, I‘m ashamed to say another writer, must have an electric razor that only shaves off the fourth day of beard. Three days seems to be the limit. He always looks the same, as though he just got out of bed after a three-day camping trip and hasn’t yet had time for the bathroom and his Gillette. The beard, if you could call it that, is frowsy, fuzzy, funky, greying, and unkempt looking.

When you achieve a measure of maturity, you must be careful about saying “in my day.” In another time though someone might very well have said of a three-day growth of whiskers, “He looked like a bum.”

As you can readily tell, this is one of my charitable days. I’m not going to say that.

And as for “bring” and “take,” something is brought to you from over there and something is taken from you to be put over there. You bring home the bacon and you take out the trash. You are bringing me your attention right now and I hope you are taking away something to ponder in your own musings, even if you ultimately believe that I’m talking pure nonsense.

These three things should not bother me but they do, and the list anymore seems endless: women with black pencil lines draw around their eyes, and even lips; boots that should only be worn by Russian peasant women, and then only when they come in from the fields; backwards baseball caps; floppy pants, with crotch to the knees, while a crack shows; short, fat men in below the knee shorts; and, the last that I will bore you with, an otherwise well-dressed woman in those God-awful, tastelessly decorated, the size of river barges, walking shoes.

Coco Chanel, where are you?

Now you know my dilemma.

All of this should roll off my back like water over Niagara, but it doesn’t. Just five minutes ago I turned on the computer, looked at my email, clicked the little button at the top, and it’s all gone for good.

I feel a great deal better.

So, if I write to you, you may feel free to do the same.

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