"How Are You?" and why no one gives a damn

"I cried because I had no shoes.
Until I met a man who had no feet.
So I took his shoes and ran like hell."

Here's another one of those unpleasant truths you may suspect but no one will actually tell you. When someone asks "How are you?" the only correct answer is "fine."

Barring your spouse (on occasion), your relatives (on extremely rare occasion, and only if there's good gossip to be had in exchange for listening) or your best friend in the world -- and I'm talking about the kind of friend you'd call if you had to move a dead body -- the bottom line is this: Nobody gives a shit. Really.

Now, just because people don't give a shit doesn't mean people don't like you. It doesn't even mean they don't sympathize with your sick pet/dying friend/latest crisis with your ex or any other legitimate problem you might have. What it means is, other people have problems of their own. And in terms of perspective, your own problems are only top priority for you. You'll be a lot more popular...well, at least a lot less blatantly disliked...if you take this into consideration before venting your little pissant irritations all over people who may well be suffering plenty on their own, but who have the good taste not to bother you about it.

Here's one relatively minor example.

Years back when I was a much younger curmudgeon I worked with a number of people of varying financial circumstances. One person in particular spent a lot of time whining about the problems he was having because he was so badly underpaid. It never occurred to him that his luxurious lifestyle was the actual cause of said financial difficulties, or that if he had a crappy house that was not in a gated community, like the rest of the people he worked with, he would actually be able to afford the lunches he whined about missing or the car he wanted to replace his old clunker. But instead of realizing that his alleged problems were caused by living way above his means, he decided it was the fault of the evil company owner, and voiced this constantly to anyone who would listen. It's not surprising that he offended the very people he went to for support, once they had listened enough to understand that their entire living space would fit nicely into his three-car garage.

Another example that I flinch even having to remember: watching the reaction on the face of a woman who had recently miscarried a baby as the insensitive bitch next to her moaned and groaned about how hard it was to care for a newborn baby.

There's an old joke about a man who was asked how he was and responded, "Well, you know. My ankles are swollen and my back hurts all the time and when I hold my arm like this it feels all tingly. Plus, my arthritis has been acting up and my rash has been itchy, and my kids never call me. But you know me. I never complain."

What I'm saying is, your shit is yours. Keep it somewhere where I don't have to smell it. If I want to know, I'll ask. And if I ask, it will be with a lot more pointed a question than "How are you?".

Now go do something constructive and get the hell off my lawn.