Like 96% of the American population, I have a television in my house. Normally, a TV is arranged so the screen faces away from the wall, pointed toward comfortable seating to maximize its potential to entertain and delight. The other day, however, I walked into the living room and saw this:
I waited patiently for the flood of emotions to overwhelm me. The shock of undermined expectations, seeing the TV slumped pathetically on the floor like it was black-out drunk instead of hanging on the wall mount I installed 2 years ago. The anger that I'd be euthanizing my morning plans to deal with this. The regret that I knowingly took a shortcut when I installed the mount.
But nothing happened. I paused and waited for an extra moment for a rise in blood pressure that never came. I can think of only three explanations for this:
1. It was so unexpected, my brain had no choice but to skip the grief and begin assessing how to fix the problem.
2. The trauma of the event happened while I was out of the room. I didn't hear any loud noises and everyone else was out of the house at school or running errands. When I arrived on the scene, the dust had already settled, leaving me to summon my inner CSI agent.
3. I am an ant.
I mean, I can't rule that last one out, right? Look at the facts: I'm a team player. I have a powerful mandible. And apparently, when someone kicks over my hill, or in this case my TV falls on the floor, I immediately set to fixing it without shedding a single tear over what just happened. Sorry, it's ironclad. I'm an ant.
One thing ants don't waste time on is examining why their hill got kicked over, and again we're in alignment. Although in my case, it was my own carelessness that led to the fall, so I didn't need to ask why because I already knew. When we toured this house before buying it in the summer of 2021, I noticed the opening for the television in the built-in shelves would not accommodate our way-too-girthy-because-we-got-a-great-deal-on-black-friday flat screen. No problem. "I'll just buy a wall mount," I told my wife, "so the TV extends past the opening, hovering amongst the outer shelves." But the day to install the mount arrived and I discovered a vertical piece of wood at the back of the opening against the wall, preventing me from centering the mount and utilizing the studs as the anchor points for the bolts.
At this point, a wiser man would cut a slot in the vertical piece and slide the mount through, removing all risk from the job by doing it properly. But I was in an empty house with hundreds of boxes to unpack and no earthly way to achieve that. So I spit in the face of good judgment, measured out the mounting spot, kissed the lag bolts up to God and screwed them into the quarter-inch wood paneling I foolishly hoped would hold it. 582 days later, I ruminated on that decision as I left the tv sitting on the floor and went to the hardware store for additional lag bolts.
As I arrive back home with extra bolts in hand, I relish the opportunity to get everything back to normal as quickly as possible. I have tools now, and I even know where some of them are. A few months ago, my dad bequeathed me a utility saw he bought years ago but never used, and cutting a slot in this pesky vertical board is the type of job for which this saw is ideally suited. Measure once, cut twice (no one will see that jaggy cut behind the tv anyway), slide the mount into position, this time aligned with the studs, drive eight lag bolts through the mounting holes, and Bob's yer uncle. This mount will now hold a small horse if necessary. Time from disaster discovery to "like it never happened": One hour, forty-one minutes. Time spent freaking out: none.
Freaking out is not a generous activity. It doesn't give anything, it only takes. It takes time away from fixing the problem. It takes away the ability to use good judgment. It also takes years off my life if it's my default response to the unexpected. Ants don't have years to waste, so when it comes to crises we have no choice but to work the problem without panicking. Problems are already bad enough without taking on a Pavlovian response of unavoidable emotional anguish. Humans are lucky in that many of our perceived catastrophes are not life or death. Evolution honed our brains to fall back to fight or flight because that wasn't always the case, but in our cushy modern times we have a third option: "It's alright." Practicing an it's-alright mindset gives me permission to skip over the FUD1 associated with the unexpected and delve instead into how to effectively address and remediate the dilemma. But I'm not special. Everyone can do this. And the more I do it, the easier it is to repeat. Every predicament is an opportunity to pen an entry in my "it's alright" logbook, and the next time a problem comes my way, I'll remember that sometimes all I have to do is spend $3 on some more bolts.
Fear, Uncertainty, and Doubt