Simplification Is Adding Complication
Pare life down to the basics and work backwards to what matters
By Ron Ciancutti
When my overnight sleep medication—approved by four of five doctors—wore off this morning, I rose from my adjustable bed, disabled the automatic heat function, and set my apnea machine to the “clean” mode. I put on copper-lined socks, stepped into cross-training shoes and shorts, and walked to the den. As the machine warmed up, I took a fistful of vitamins and minerals, many of which I learned about while watching commercial breaks during Jeopardy! It seems the rule is, if one is over 30 but under 50, the new meds allow one to fly a kite, sail competitively, or endure jazzercise sessions that would make Jane Fonda faint. If over 50, as the commercials demonstrate, one can paint, spend time with grandchildren, garden, or sit in twin bathtubs outside holding hands. Anyway, my very expensive machine began yelling at me and evaluating my commitment to the upcoming workout, so I quickly took another pill for confidence for when people yell at me. I worked out until I almost vomited, which is quite a step up from last month when I always vomited.
© Can Stock Photo / imtmphoto
I showered with my pulsating-massage shower head, confident that the chlorine filters I’d added last week were protecting my epidermis, which I doubled down on by adding an after-shower lotion treatment that guarantees younger skin within 30 days. I whitened my teeth and cleaned them thoroughly with my water-stream flossing system, then shaped my partial beard and mustache with a variety of interchangeable heads on an electric razor.
Now dressed and ready for the day, I hit the button that opens the attached garage, and then hit another button that automatically starts the car. With this advantage and the car parked in a garage at work, I never have to fight the elements during a nasty winter. I buy a $4.50 cup of coffee and ask my car’s computer to dial up my daily horoscope. I’m told that money will soon be coming my way, so I smile during my deep-breathing exercise while listening to my meditation podcast. At the office, I pop a few antacid tablets because the coffee is now mixing with my vitamins and giving me some discomfort. I can’t get a break. It’s ok, though, for I have a stash of power bars in my desk drawer, and they will keep me until lunch.
In Stark Contrast
Pasquale awoke in darkness and lay still for a few moments listening to the steady rhythm of his wife’s breathing. He found his watch on the nightstand and held it up to the moonlight. The time was just before 5 a.m. He crept out of bed and went to the bathroom to wash. The tile, like the rest of the house, was freezing. He ran the water, which came through ice-cold as well. He washed his face, brushed his teeth, and combed his hair. He had set his clothes out in the hall and dressed in the dark so as not to wake his wife or the kids. After tugging on boots, he descended to the basement to add coal to the furnace. As he snapped the light on, he heard some rats scurry, so he threw a few pieces of coal at the furnace to scare away any other intruders near the door.
He went outside to start his milk truck and clean off the windows from the accumulated snow and ice. Returning to the house, he completed his bundling up, which had to be warm enough to endure the in and out required for home deliveries but loose enough not to create a sweat from the labor involved. As the truck warmed and ice melted, he grabbed his black lunch box, knowing that inside was a rosy red apple, an egg and cheese sandwich on thick Italian bread, and a couple of hard pretzels that sustained him well through the afternoon. He paused, removed his hat, and bowed his head. He said a silent prayer thanking God for his health, his family, and his fortune in having a good job. “So many blessings,” he whispered. From inside the house his wife heard him whistling as he climbed into his truck. There, in the early morning darkness, she smiled and said a prayer of gratitude of her own. Despite the Depression, her family was rarely depressed.
Unnecessary Layers
Any Bible scholar can relate that, from the Book of Acts, which is a matter of record, more than 500 people spoke to Jesus Christ after His resurrection, fully aware he was the Risen Son of God. Yet, when He requested those followers to meet him in an upper room on a specific future date, only 120 people appeared. Beyond all religious slant, isn’t it amazing that 380-plus people said to themselves, “Nah, I’m not going to that Jesus thing next week”? I mean, isn’t that something they might want to be in on? Are we—or were we—really that lazy and indifferent? Indeed, we’ve grown soft, pampered, and so distracted anymore that I just don’t think we’ve gotten any smarter. We seem so willing to do what people tell us to do. The meds, the clothes, the exercise, the new-world religion that is so very self-serving and without any reform. Shouldn’t we have to earn something? This “give them a trophy for participating” mentality has weakened our commitment in many ways. Our “wants” are constant, our “give” seems never to even come up any more. Maybe we should rewind and refocus. In my world I want only a few things:
Good health for family and friends
A spouse who is as dedicated as I am
A home that can be heated and cooled to maintain comfort
A good shower and bathtub with good water pressure
A comfortable bed
A couple of relatively new cars that run well
The financial means to support all of this.
If life can ensure the items on the above list for me, I’ll gladly fill in the blanks. What about you? Sit down someday and list all the peripherals in your life. Has all of this simplification actually added complication? I find it necessary to redefine my life every few years, and in doing so, step one is taking inventory. I thank God first for my health and work backwards from there.
My childhood doctor was a friend of the family, and his family often shared time with us. One day I heard my dad ask him about some of his greatest challenges, and he said that watching an amputee awaken from anesthesia and look into his eyes with complete panic over his newly missing limb was an experience he never relished. My dad said, “What do you say?” Doc nodded softly and said, “The very first thing you say is, ’Congratulations! You’re alive.’”
Ron Ciancutti worked in the parks and recreation industry since he was 16 years old, covering everything from maintenance, operations, engineering, surveying, park management, design, planning, recreation, and finance. He is now retired. He holds a B.S. in Business from Bowling Green State University and an M.B.A. from Baldwin Wallace University. He is not on Facebook, but he can be reached at ron@northstarpubs.com.