Years ago, back in high school when Taryn was a love interest just three weeks old, my fiancé’s house was a foreign jurisdiction of unspoken mores, instilled folkways, and hidden taboos. As someone woefully oblivious to basic societal etiquette and tactful delicacy, I endured a bumpy first month. I received startled glances the first time I blew my nose at the dinner table—as well as the second time, and the forty-third—and I ignored the piqued looks I got whenever I helped myself to a brimming pint glass of apple juice from the refrigerator.
Comporting yourself around anybody’s home turf can be tricky sociological terrain to navigate. I’ve now mastered the art of using Kleenexes in other rooms, and using juice glasses for juice, but I’m still figuring out which courtesy offers are supposed to be turned down and which are permissible to accept.
It came as an unexpected moment of empathy, then, when I was rooting through her cupboards one day trying to find the appropriate beverage container for a glass of milk, and came across a coffee mug bearing an unusual inscription. On one side it read:
The tool required to complete your repair is on the other truck.
The truck is in the shop.
The shop is closed today.
And in big bold letters on the other side, the grand revelation:
OH WELL.
I paused, reading it over. It was such a cryptically Zen-like message. Or was it just lazy? Clearly somebody decided it was mug-worthy. I finally called Taryn over and asked where it came from and what it meant. She shrugged; the mug had been there forever.
“Can I keep this?” I asked.
“I guess. Why?”
I furrowed my brow in heavy contemplation. “…This message is brilliant. I’m not sure I can explain how though. Maybe someday.” I searched for analogies, a simplification, exegesis, anything. Nothing came. I shrugged.
That conversation was six years ago.
This is hardly the first time I’ve tried to explain the philosophy of ‘Oh Well’ to people. It always begins with me trying to clarify the virtues of acclimating to life’s various switchbacks, and it always ends with me denying my presumed apathy and complacency. “You just don’t get it,” I sigh… but then after they walk away I dismiss it. Oh well. It’s not a big deal.
Those two phrases are my most common responses in life. And let me clarify here, I’m not talking about politics or social justice or economics or any other very important, very ‘big-deal’ issues out there. This is simply a philosophy for daily living, a mantra for putting up with mild inconveniences, not complaining about triviality, and avoiding overreactions. This is a response to situations like not having a comfy bed, or eating bland food for dinner, or forgetting to take a family photo in Yosemite.
I like to imagine that there’s a part of the brain that works like the shocks on a car. Some kind of nodal scouting system that informs you of what’s noteworthy, what’s worth reacting to, and what ought to slip under the radar. And while I haven’t determined if my personal biological wiring is a desirable setting to have, my mental shocks allow pretty much everything to pass under the radar.
Camping trips are a typical context for me, so we’ll use this as an example scenario:
Forgot to bring food? Oh well.
Group next to you is too loud? Not a big deal.
It’s raining out. Oh well.
Your raincoat isn’t totally waterproof. Not a big deal.
You’re soaking wet and cold. Oh well.
Also you left your pillow at home again. Oh well.
Eventually, somewhere between peer complaints that “this camping trip sucks” and my body going into hypothermia, my shocks will register a pothole and I’ll crawl into the tent and ball up an old sweatshirt to lay my head on.
There are, of course, benefits to thinking like this. I attribute my low maintenance, self-motivation, amiable attitude, and ability to work eighty-hour workweeks to my philosophy of not minding anything. I take things in stride with pride, roll off the back with no flak; however you want to catchphrase it, I enjoy the luxury of rarely getting upset.
But the drawbacks can be…isolating. I wish I wasn’t so annoyed by overreaction and drama—or as normal people might call them, reaction and acknowledgment. And I wish I was more empathetic instead of apathetic. There have been times when my loved ones are truly frustrated and hurt, and I want to feel for them, but I can’t help but think sometimes that their tribulation doesn’t warrant a complaint. Had it been me, I wouldn’t have put up such a fuss.
Again, this isn’t the first time I’ve tried explaining the philosophy of ‘Oh Well.’ It’s common for people to consider their personal beliefs and behaviors to be the Correct beliefs and behaviors, that if everyone simply acted and reacted as they did, the world would be better. I used to be in this camp myself, lauding “Oh Well” and its tenacious optimism. I thought that if people stopped getting offended so easily and learned to just deal with inconvenience that the human race might just get along. But ironically, the more I try to describe my style of comportment, the more understanding I become of others—that I might be the odd one out, not everyone else. I’ve learned it’s impossible to paint this philosophy in a totally positive light, and true to fashion, I’ve accepted that with grace…or is it apathy? Whether the philosophy of ‘Oh Well’ is a blessing or a curse, it’s who I am, and I can’t shake it. The truck is in the shop, and the shop is closed today.
Oh well.
Nick Meekhof (’15) graduated with a major in writing and a minor in geography. A farmer for the first twenty-three years of his life, Nick currently works for the Michigan Department of Agriculture. When he’s not traversing the state conducting orchard inspections, he can be found exploring the rivers, forests, and small towns all throughout the Great Lakes State. His current goals include kayaking one hundred Michigan rivers, swimming in Lake Michigan during every month of the year, and visiting as many Michigan breweries as possible.
