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Home
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How are YOUR Revolutions Per Minute?
by H. Abramov
Some grayish reflections upon change and our resistance to
it, as evoked by the purchase of a new washing machine.
Perhaps because WE don't want to be traded in, either?
We got a new washing machine, one of the pretty good ones
(Italian) as opposed to the really good (you know)
brands. It features a spin cycle of 800 RPM, these being one
the measures of `goodness' in washing machines these days,
or so we were told by our married children, all satisfied
owners of three-to-four figure RPM models. (How could we
know such things, being so last century that we still can't
activate a cell phone?) It replaced our clunky old generic
one, not all that old, actually, but tired, tired, tired,
which sloshed the laundry around in dirty water but barely
revolved (top speed in spin mode, maybe 100, poor thing) and
leaving gray and soggy clothes to dribble onto my neighbor's
super-whites pegged out below. (After asking me for the
second time what the problem was, asking, mind you, not
grousing, she left me to my dripping sheets. This is just
one of many reasons why I love living in Bnei Brak:
neighbors like mine, people who really work on their
middos here! I'm not exactly a quiet neighbor, either.
And it's not like I don't try, really. But circumstances
overwhelm sometimes, like when my chubby four-year-old
granddaughter, who's learning to jump rope, comes up after
cholent on Shabbos to show off her progress, accompanied by
a bevy of sisters and cousins who advise and demonstrate
technique, and a doting mother to applaud. So I limit her to
a few jumps, but till she gets it right, you understand, and
till Mom gets done clapping, well... Then there's the
popsicle procession down four flights, replete with cast-off
wrappers, also on Shabbos. So I try to compensate by helping
my neighbors' daughters with their English homework and
smiling a lot at their simchas. But I am
digressing.)
I began the campaign for change, convincing my husband that
our laundry was graying faster than we were. So we juggled
the budget to include a time payment purchase, by which time
I'd been sending the towels to the married kids. The change
was made, and W0W! The clunk-slosh has been replaced by a
business-like hum and the high whine of the spins, which --
and I'm not kidding -- sounds like a jet engine revving up.
I look at the crisp white enamel front and the serious
assortment of buttons and knobs sporting mysterious symbols.
I observe the busy back-and-forth agitations. No sloshing,
ever. In fact, I don't see any water, and I'd swear the
machine uses almost none, because the clothes are so
dry when I take them out, but there must be lots of
water somewhere in there, since everything is SO clean and
the whites could almost meet my neighbor's standards.
This new washing machine, as it clicks from cycle to cycle,
is very efficient in an impersonal sort of way, but its
efficient impersonality leaves me feeling mildly
uncomfortable. Does my mixer have a personality? My freezer?
Do I feel better with imperfections around? Well, yes, I
guess I do, because I kind of miss the old washing machine,
not miss it exactly, but miss its familiar rust spots,
softener stains and incredible clatter. (I failed to mention
that the dryer, sitting atop it, used to jiggle alarmingly,
banging against the window shutters). I suppose that such
incongruities reveal a resistance to change for the
better.
And this meandering train of thought has led me to the
realization that I'm pretty comfortable with my own
imperfections, too, and this is Not Good. I'm willing enough
to co-exist with bursts of anger and half-commitments to
working on L.H. and on my davening. I'm not moved to
reduce my borderline cholesterol levels or do something
about those extra pounds on the hips. I console myself that
I haven't taken the materialistic road as a solution to this
dis-ease, that is, I haven't been moved to dash out and buy
a new stove and refrigerator, or repaint the laundry porch a
nice, crisp white to match the new washing machine. But why
is change so difficult? Even people who don't like rust
spots seem to have this problem when it comes to
refurbishing the inner self or getting vigorous about health
concerns. I obviously don't have the answer, but I decided
to poll a few clever people on the subject, and their
replies fall more or less into these three categories:
"Most people don't really see themselves as less than pretty
okay; physically or spiritually. Perhaps a little rough
about the outer edges, but on a scale of one-to-ten,
especially measured against their perception of others, not
bad."
"Change, or the idea of the need for change, makes people
feel insecure, as it implies a not-okayness that feels very
threatening to us. It means, or seems to mean, that we've
gotten it wrong so far."
"Inertia, that's a lot of people's problem. The day-to-day
running, doing, and worrying are exhausting physically and
emotionally. Lots of people have to work really hard to keep
that smile pasted on. They exert enormous energy coping with
private woes, large or small, such as loneliness or
helplessness, problems with the children or ill health. And
there isn't enough leftover fuel for the daunting task of
change. And this is even true when it might soothe some of
those very same aches."
So take your pick for endings to these thoughts. I am
prepared to claim all of them as mine. But it is not a
little unpleasant to admit it.
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