AUGUST 1, 2024 – Among the first devices that a student meets in a creative writing class are the simile and the metaphor. Likewise, among the initial cognitive tactics taught in law school is thinking analogically. As a practical matter, very early on in my life I’d resorted to similes, metaphors, and analogies, not so much to enhance my academic performance as for the sheer fun of living life in a near constant state of pretend. Rather than get dragged down by boredom and drudgery, I approached tasks, chores, work, and other challenges not as what they were but as something they definitely were not. I still live this way much of the time.
An example of what I’m talking about is my quarterly dental cleaning-and-inspection appointment, the latest one having occurred just yesterday. Over the years techniques and technology have advanced remarkably—as has my age and tolerance for medical needles of all sorts. Also, I happen to be under the care of the best dentist and best hygienist on the planet. How do I know this? Trust me. I know. In any event, as I resolved after reading Facing the Mountain (see my immediately preceding five posts), I’ve revoked my license to complain about anything, ever. I’m certainly in no position to complain by the five-star dental care I receive at Boger Dental.
Nevertheless, I don’t relish going to the dentist. To lessen the unpleasantness I switch to metaphor mode—at least when the matter at hand requires nothing of me except to show up. I was going to say, “show up and grit my teeth,” but the principal instruction I receive soon after I appear is “relax your jaw and turn your head a little toward me.”
In any event, unbeknownst to the entirely friendly and professional staff at Boger Dental, when I cross the threshold, I turn into . . . a vintage Volvo.
I’m somewhat self-conscious about this, since I’ve been through a lot of harsh winters and covered untold miles of highway salt and grit. I’ve also been left out in the scorching sun during many hot summers. The faded bodywork and rusted rocker panels reflect high mileage in punishing conditions. If the car qualifies for “collector plates,” it’s too spent looking to appear in “Collector Car Rallies” where aging Boomers show off their high-buck restoration projects all shined up with reflector wax.
My self-consciousness dissipates quickly, however. In the first place, I’m not trying to fool anyone. I know I’m an old car and present as one. Even if I were to have my roof covered with vinyl, people would see it as a “cover-up.” And the rust? Ha! Replacing a door is one thing, but fenders, rocker panels, and the back of the trunk lid? It would cost a fortune, and we’re talking a Swedish car driven by a guy of Swedish ancestry, which means he’s so frugal he dilutes his water. I’d rather drive a car that’s bedraggled but paid for than impress people I don’t even know by tooling around in a 700-series Beamer that has “BMW Finance Acceptance Corporation” listed as a lienholder on the certificate of title.
Yet in the same instant of acknowledgment that my bodywork is “vintage,” I remind myself that from the perspective of the good people at Boger Dental, I’m not an old car at all but a regular person, patient—however “senior,” yet thanks to the social convention of clothing, most of the (figurative) rust and ruin are well hidden.
During the brief wait in the reception area, I slip back into my pretend mode and park myself accordingly. When Michelle the hygienist appears and greets me with unparalleled cheer, I’m definitely an old “Volvo in full.” She leads me back to what she reasonably assumes is an operatory, fully equipped with the latest high-tech tools, gadgetry, and of course, the patient chair. What I know it to be, however, is an auto-mechanic’s stall, with the high-end, computerized diagnostic machines, every tool known to a master auto-mechanic, and of course, the hydraulic lift.
Without hesitation, I drive onto the lift and arrange my wheels where they are meant to be. I then open the hood for Michelle the master-mechanic to have an initial look-see. As she pokes around gently inside my mouth, I wait anxiously for her assessment. We both know that I’m not there for rust repair, a new paint job, checking the muffler, or testing the springs. This operation is strictly about what’s under the hood—to see if there are any cracks in the engine block or any parts are about to fall out, and then to power-wash away the past three months’ of grease and road dirt.
On this visit the certified Volvo factory engineer stops by the garage stall to say hello, but since he’d given the engine a full inspection on the previous quarterly appointment and will do so again on the next one, there is no need for him to take the risk of getting his hand caught in an ill-timed closing of the hood.
As the master mechanic proceeds with the cleaning, she remarks how good my gumlines look. The Volvo in me beams with pride. When it comes to any and all (health) issues for an aging vehicle, good news of any kind is the equivalent of sunbeams bouncing off polished chrome of a Boomer’s collector-car.
This good report by a hygienist known for adherence to the very highest standards makes me think about another and more meaningful analogy than the simple and simplistic example that I have here described. This deeper analogy is what I call a “reciprocal analogy,” one in which each side of the similitude illuminates the other. Over time I’ve found that regular references to this symbiotic analogy have produced amazing benefits, both in how I react to personal challenges as well as how I react to public issues. Send me money today and you’ll have access to my 12-part online course tomorrow. Send me money within the next hour, and you’ll receive a free surprise gift.
Just kidding about the “send money part”—as well as the 12-part online course and “free gift.” But do return tomorrow to read all about the “reciprocal analogy.” (Cont.)
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© 2024 by Eric Nilsson
1 Comment
I especially enjoyed this latest post by you, considering the content. ;