The revolution will be slow

The older I get, the more responsibilities I have.

The more responsibilities I have, the more pressed for time I become.

And so it logically follows that because I’m in such a hurry, I am slower and more meticulous than I’ve ever been before.

It’s not that advanced aged has slowed me down, it’s just that if there’s one thing I don’t have time for as an adult, it’s an avoidable hassle.

Avoidable hassles include things like inconsequential fender benders that eat up precious hours, banking mistakes and unpaid parking tickets that must be amended in person, hastily purchased items that must be returned and even keys that take ages to find after they are casually tossed aside.

When I was young there was something almost romantic about lurching from one glorious hassle to the next. Stumbling blindly through life and dealing with whatever consequences I couldn’t avoid at the last possible moment made me feel like a free spirit, operating above the silly conventions that bound all the pitiable grown-up wage slaves out there.

Parking tickets were tossed out with a flourish and disappeared into the ether and bills were paid in my own good time. Regular automobile maintenance struck me as bourgeois and filing my taxes on time? Wasn’t that just admitting that I was working for The Man?

Unfortunately it took many years before I realized that being a Bohemian in the moment means sacrificing huge amounts of time, energy and money in the future. With the onset of maturity came the sobering revelation that each and every one of us has to deal with The Man. Unless you plan to live in a hut somewhere and forage nuts and berries, you will be forced to play along with most of society’s rules and ignoring them does not make them go away.

I have learned, in fact, that quite the opposite is true. You have to learn the rules before you can break or bend them and that’s why each passing day I find myself becoming more careful and more meticulous. I’m not acquiescing to the The Man, I’m figuring him out: he’s a necessary evil and dealing with him in the proper fashion the first time will limit future exposure.

My own small rebellions these days look very different from those I staged in the past. I used to throw away parking tickets: today I avoid them by not only paying for parking, but using my credit card to do so, even if it’s only $1. Why should I scramble for change when I could be earning points?

I used to drive like a maniac and never worry about whether my car would break down until it inevitably did at the worst possible time: now I creep serenely past cars that have ended up in the ditch during snow storms, secure in my reliable and well-maintained vehicle.

I used to wait ages to file my taxes and not have a clue what I was doing. Now I make sure they are filed promptly and in a manner that ensures no government bureaucracy will ever benefit from my procrastination or ignorance.

In the past I waited way too long to pay my bills and ignored the resulting calls I got from financial institutions. Now I pay promptly and accept the bank’s ridiculously low introductory interest rate offer. What can I say? I get an illicit thrill from enjoying their money at 1%, reading all the fine print and then paying it back at the last possible second to avoid fees: it’s called beating The Man at his own game.

I have learned that The Man gets ever-more rich and powerful on the backs of silly young Bohemians who think they’re being rebellious by rushing through life and racking up charges on unpaid bills and parking tickets they’ve ignored.

I have learned that bureaucratic insurance companies prosper thanks to fast and careless drivers and fat-cat retailers will continue to flourish until we all slow down and think about which products really provide value for our money.

So those young Turks out there charging about can roll their eyes all they want as they race by me on the freeway of life.

Because my time is way too precious for me to be in a hurry.

Somewhere, Ronald McDonald is weeping

Manager
McDonald’s Restaurant
Highway 12, Beaverton
ON, Canada

Dear Sir or Madam,

You don’t know me.

And judging by your treatment of me last night, you’re probably not interested in what I have to say.

But I’m going to tell my story anyway.

I was in your restaurant last night with a handful of other shell-shocked drivers, stranded by some of the most deadly road conditions imaginable.

Snow and blowing snow had reduced visibility to zero for miles in every direction. A local strike by municipal workers meant the relentless stretches of highway that we drove inch by painstaking inch to reach you had not been properly cleared in days. The ditches were littered with dozens of cars whose drivers faced waits of several hours for assistance in -30 C temperatures.

It was shortly after 11 p.m. when a fellow refuge opened a locked door and the bitter wind pushed me and my two-year-old son inside your restaurant. I’m not a nervous driver but I cannot remember being so close to a full-blown panic attack. Thank God for the people who helped to calm me and busied my son with stray french fries and smiles.

Too bad the warm and fuzzy feeling didn’t last.

The restaurant has been closed since 11 p.m., one of your minions announced. I need you all to vacate the premises immediately.

We all tittered nervously. She was kidding right?

My manger is on the phone, she continued. If you don’t leave I’ve been instructed that I have to follow policy and call the police.

We burst into laughter, of course: the kind of demented, uproarious laughter that only patent absurdity can generate.

But her proclamation wasn’t really funny at all.

It was, I think, disturbing.

It was disturbing because it illustrated the utter lack of judgment we have come to expect of low level managers working for big companies like McDonald’s.

It was disturbing because it threw into stark relief the difference between the image your company spends millions to promote and the asinine adherence to policy your company apparently insists its workers enforce.

It is disturbing because executive trainers somewhere continue to convince people that minimum wage is incentive enough to sacrifice compassion and common sense on the altar of rigid corporate dogma.

You might think I’m being melodramatic and maybe I am. But let me tell you what you should have instructed your minion to do.

You should have offered to pay her double time to stay an extra couple of hours. You should have told her to put a few pots of coffee on and offer them free of charge. You should have sucked up the $40 or $50 this would have cost and acted like it was your pleasure.

Because it should have been.

Even if you don’t know me.

Sincerely,

Don Mills Diva

PS. I stayed put until I was damn good and ready to leave. And also, I let my two year old have a field day with all the napkins and condiments he could get his grubby, little hands on.