Equanimity

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What’s your EQ?

Mine was challenged the other day when I discovered that a charge for a service previously cancelled had reappeared on a credit card bill. That wouldn’t have been so bad, but it followed hard on the heels of my discovery that, in an unrelated development, the local trash collector had confiscated my containers for alleged non-payment of my monthly bill.

As they say, no good deed goes unpunished. My theory, yet to be confirmed, about the cause of the latter was that an error occurred when, in my attempt to save the company postage and paper, I had signed up for “Online Bill Pay.” This system would work fine if the company had correctly entered my e-mail address in their system. That, apparently, didn’t happen. I received no bill, they received no payment.

As all the above unfolded, I realized that, while I was far from happy and was, as usual, highly critical of the incompetence of others (is it just me or is it more rampant these days?), I wasn’t ticked off enough to want to take it to the streets. I was, in short, admirably equanimous.

Equanimous. There’s a good word for you. The E in EQ is equanimity, and your EQ is your equanimity quotient. My theory is that it increases as time goes on. There are many reasons for this. For one thing, with experience, you learn that eventually you get things like all the above straightened out sooner or later. And with age, you realize you’ve survived a lot worse.

In a period of less than three months a couple of years ago, I had a computer crash, a sewer line clog, a water line break, and a wreck which totaled my car—all while my husband, terminally ill after a series of surgeries, was hospitalized. After something like that, your perspective changes.

Equanimity is defined as evenness of mind or emotion, especially under stress; composure; calmness, equilibrium. Barack Obama, I think it’s safe to say, is equanimity personified.

In these stressful times, maintaining your equanimity is no easy task. For many of us, there’s much cause for outrage. If you find yourself quick to anger with those near and dear, up your EQ. Take a few deep breaths, identify what it is that really deserves your wrath, calm down, and move on. This may just save some valued relationships. Good luck!

The New Magic

Warning: A few years ago, I fancied myself a humor writer and, in fact, had quite a run with that until the editors of the publication that was purchasing my work discontinued the weekly section in which the pieces appeared.  (I refuse to believe I was responsible for this decision.)  “Their loss,” I told myself as I turned to more serious endeavors.  A curious phenomenon occurred when I started writing this blog, however.  Intended to be a serious piece on technology, the Internet, and the galactic size of the challenges they present, this blog refused to get serious. Nevertheless, here it is.     

I used to think the most annoying failures of modern civilization were highway signs.  They serve their purpose so long as the users are locals, people who can make life altering decisions while behind the wheel, but having arrived at their destination, wonder “ohmigod, did I stop for the light at 4^th and Vine?”

Those people don’t need highway signs.  They get where they want to go somehow—often, of course, under the supervision of a long-suffering and half-crazed spouse.  But that’s another story.  No. The real test of a highway sign is whether it helps the out-of-towner find his way.  Take someone from Omaha and put him in L.A. and see what happens.

Now, of course, with GPS technology, signs—other than those that tell us street names, perhaps—may become passé.  I’ll admit I’m quite addicted to my GPS.  On second thought, that’s not true at all.  I don’t have a GPS.  I have a device we all call a GPS, but that actually just accesses and passes on the information available from whatever the actual Global Positioning System is—something developed by the CIA or NASA or the ASPCA and twirling around in the stratosphere, I think.

Saying you have a GPS is sort of like saying you have satellite.  You don’t actually have satellite.  Somewhere on your premises you have a gadget pulling in TV signals from a flock of satellites that are like postmen: Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays them from their appointed rounds.  Of course, about the only one of those elements they have to contend with is gloom of night and I think that’s pretty constant. 

But I stray from my subject.  We were talking about finding your way and the lackluster performance of the typical highway sign.  I stopped short of suggesting that we hire the unemployed to travel to distant states and see if they could find their way around because I’ve lately become aware of something we need much more: website testers.

This morning, feeling adventurous and optimistic, I got on the website of the U.S. Postal Service. My mission was simple: print out a mailing label for a Priority Mail Flat Rate box.

Things went swimmingly for a couple of minutes, but I was taken aback when asked the weight of the box–this, after reading that “flat rate” meant there was one set price for mailing such box, regardless of the poundage involved.  I almost stopped there, but as I said, I was feeling adventurous so I weighed the box, entered the info in the space provided and courageously clicked on “continue.” 

Just like the government!  I could have said it weighed a thousand pounds! They showed no interest in my response and sent me immediately to a new page where I was instructed to identify exactly what kind of Flat Rate box I wished to send.  Was it large, medium, or small?

The box in question was traveling incognito, making itself known only as “Priority Mail Flat Rate Box” in red, white, and blue.  Knowing my tendency to consider everything “medium,” I hesitated to commit too swiftly and was relieved to discover little question marks in circles beside each choice.  Aha, I thought, there I will find the dimensions of said box.

But no.  That was not to be.  There were pictures!  Have you ever tried to ascertain the dimensions of a product by looking at a photo on the Internet?

I rest my case.

Hence, the need for a website tester, i.e., one who represents those who wish to use a website to accomplish a purpose—in this particular case, for instance, one who would like to get a package on its way from San Diego to Seattle in somewhat less time than would be required to actually drive it there in person.

Ah, well, at least my head didn’t explode.  There are occasions when I fear that will happen.  I mean, some websites positively make you want never to turn on a computer again.  Ironically, GoDaddy (apologies here to GoDaddy) sometimes has that effect on me as it bombards me with way too much information: three plans (economy, deluxe, premium!), site building with WebSiteTonight, web hosting, merchant accounts, email accounts, Bob’s video blog, and all the while a graphic flashing from one scene to another apropos of nothing you can identify.

And this is a website that sells—you guessed it—websites, in a manner of speaking.

Since publishing a book, I’ve been burdened with the challenge of marketing the thing, an endeavor falling pretty much to the author these days.  “Marketing” is code for getting on the Internet, figuring out how it works, and then (and this is the hard part) participating.  The learning curve is steep, the road is long, and as soon as you figure out what you’re doing, everything changes.  I still haven’t figured out how social networking sells books, but perhaps that will come.

I have, however, learned how to post blogs, articles and other miscellany, now that I realize I can do all that without understanding the mysteries of HTML (High Tech Magic Lingo).   Instead, all I have to do is use WYSIWYG, which I think is HTML for plain English. 

To be perfectly honest, I can even use Magic Lingo sometimes.  The other day, I was on a website that offered me a “button” to place on my website.  By clicking on this button, my viewers, having been edified and uplifted by what they had read, would be able to pass it on to others, hence saving their friends from a lifetime of ignorance and want.  The button in question would say simply “SHARE.”  You’ve probably seen it. To place that one little word on my site, however, I would have to type in two lines of code that, like so much else, threatened to make my head explode.

And it did not look promising.  My attitude could be pretty much summed up by “no way.”  Well . . .there might have been another word between those two.  I can’t remember.  Looking at the sprawling lines of code and the nice, succinct little button beckoning like a kindergarten teacher to “share,” I once more took adventure by the hand, copied the line of code, clicked where it said HTML on my site, pasted the code in the designated spot, then clicked back on wissiwig, I mean (I think you should pronounce this next word loudly and in a bass register) WYSIWYG. You can imagine my astonishment when that cute little SHARE button showed up.

So . . . HTML really is magic.  Now we know the truth!