Life is pain. I’m real proud of that saying. It’s what I told my kid when she was whining about something insignificant like a broken nail or imminent thermonuclear war. I didn’t mean to make light of her concerns, but it wasn’t pie or something equally important.
“I’m not buying that life is pain,” she said. She stuck by her words for a long time. Recently she used the same phrase I’d used so long ago, and I was proven correct, maybe even prophetic. Life really is pain. To expound on the theme, I boldly say, “It’s supposed to hurt.”
Long ago an aftershave commercial portrayed a young guy slapping the concoction on his freshly shaved and nicked face, He grimaces and yells. The grandpa says “If it hurts, you know its working,” or something along those lines. I say that is correct in almost every facet of life. You go to the dentist because you have to, not because it’s fun. Maybe you’ve grown a big abyss in a molar. That hole in your tooth has fulfilled its purpose and you feel it as pain. That’s the way you know the tootsie rolls and cherry pie did their work. The dentist fixes the tooth by causing the most severe pain this side of a holiday at your in-laws. Even if she gives you a pain injection, the shot hurts. See what I mean? If it hurts, it means its working.
The song, “Love Hurts,” has been a hit by several performers. Even though psychologists say love isn’t supposed to hurt, they’re wrong. Any guy that has bought his beloved a mixer or iron for Christmas knows that yes, love hurts. Like the iron, it also burns you when it’s hot. Love is supposed to hurt. If it goes along really well all of the time, you’re not doing it right. The only time there’s no pain is when there’s no communication, or when she takes up with the milkman. Guys, can I get an amen? I knew I could. Girls are hurt all the time by some perceived slight by her man, like when he forgets to come home or some other minor infraction. Guys in love have pain when their ladies freak out for no reason, as often happens. Love hurts. That’s how you know its working. Work hurts. If it hurts, you know you’re working. Punching buttons when you take an order at the Burgerteria doesn’t hurt, it’s just boring. Boring is not working. Now the grill guy that accidently stuck his hand in the fryer is working because it hurts. It’s like when kids picked up hay for money. You thought you’d die if you had to pick up another bale. That pain was a real character builder. It was really working.
I worked with a young lady who was getting her masters in music degree. Yes, that’s really a program. I think her specialty was the Kazoo. She and her boyfriend were both from families that could have bought the whole enchilada. They each had new cars, furnished apartments, and everything their spoiled little hearts desired. The little princess, who had just totaled her 3rd new BMW, was perplexed that her man was depressed and lacked interest in life. I surmised that he had it easy, so he wasn’t living right. It’s supposed to hurt, so his life wasn’t working and he was depressed. My prescription to him was to give up his credit cards and Burberry jacket. I predicted if he took off and hitchhiked around the country, he’d be a new man with a zest for life and Timberland boots. Did he? I doubt it, but I bet he wishes he had, because love hurts. In this case, it really hurts luxury cars.
I’m certainly not a fan of pain. I avoid it by staying in my recliner as much as possible. If I had a pie delivery service I’d probably never get up. That’s because it hurts to get up. That’d be too much working, and against my geezer values. The youngsters need to have pain though. That’d mean they’re working and paying taxes. Their taxes fund my retirement and pie. Their working pain is my retirement gain.