False sympathy can be a crutch

Comrades, I have been plagued by a new and over-arching evil. I speak not of the unstoppable march of mindless capitalism, nor even of the deplorable state of my room's drink fund, from which I recently embezzled $20.

Nay, the tragedy I speak of is at once personal and universal, historic and immediate — I'm on crutches, and I hate them. A few poorly considered moments at an ultimate tournament were sufficient to reduce my knee to an unwieldy, yet highly sensitive, device, a situation that now finds me hobbling around campus, hopelessly attempting to convert the sympathy of passersby into some monetary form that I can use to pay back my roommates for the money I liberated for the greater (my) good.

Suddenly, the world appears to me in a different light. Everything is uphill from Butler College. Buildings with more than two floors are jokes in poor taste. People with the use of both legs are heartless superhumans — they are gods from an ethereal heaven projecting mere shadows of themselves into my shallow, gimpy existence. Mighty bipeds, I salute you. Now couldn't you bestow upon me just a teensy-weensy bit of your Olympian munificence? It will make my roommates so happy. You don't want to make them hurt a hobbled man, do you? Thank you, thank you, be sure to tip your waitress, we'll be here all week.

Probably the most frustrating part of being injured is all the sympathy, though. A long time ago, I figured out false sympathy is the only kind I can tolerate. If people don't bother to be sympathetic at all, they obviously don't care about you at all. On the other hand, real sympathy is basically a sign of condescension — given the choice between the IMF and the "under-developed nation," who would want to be Bangladesh? There are only two ways to avoid this sort of unpleasant human interest: a) get better or b) go on the moral offensive and point out the sins of others. After a brief stint following Brother Steve around, dramatically pointing out fornicators in the audience with a crutch, I found that a life of public service wasn't really for me (sorry, Senator Rockefeller).

This leaves me with only one goal, and one alternative. The goal: heal. The alternative: procrastinate. Somehow, I knew it would get back to that. One of my greatest joys in life is the fact that no matter what I do, no matter where I go, there is always a chance to procrastinate. In a world full of chance and mishap, full of decisions and revisions — before the taking of a toast and tea — there is endless opportunity to decide not to decide, or sometimes to decide whether to decide about deciding. You see how easy it is? And then you can always revise . . .

. . . Forever. But, as is so often true when procrastination is discussed, we — since I am so bold as to imply that you and I form a sort of literary union — digress. Again. Where were we? Ah, yes, crutches. Well, the next time you see me clumping forth in search of fame and glory, do me the courtesy of some patently false sympathy. I will know you care, but not too much. And you can hear about my fabulous new room-improvement pyramid scheme — the family game where everybody wins! Remember: What's good for the pyramid is good for you. Everyone gets a share. Just present your crutches to redeem your lifetime lump annuity package with expandable tax brackets and attachable cup-holder. I plan to hand in mine just as soon as I can walk.

Carry on in the meantime, comrades, just as I shall, struck down by gods (you) and tripping over mortals (me). Perhaps I too shall one day re-ascend Olympus, to dance and sing and play ultimate in bipedal divinity.

Ed Finn is a sophomore from Ankara, Turkey.