Tolerance. Ahahahahahaha. Sorry. Tolerance. Yes. As the mood pendulum swings so it seems do our tolerance levels. Things we used to find maddening or triggering… others things that didn’t used to break our emotional stride? OMFG. These days they make us murderous. Here is our (current) barometer…
Our tolerance has gone up for:
Where we used to be impatient for people to cheer the fuck up, to dance or shag or lol with, now we understand that if people don’t call back, it’s perhaps because they can’t. That sometimes you are lost in a little turbulence and that’s OK. It’s OK to be not OK. We can wait. For as long as it takes.
Because we are permanently slightly hurting, with grated fingers or jarred ankles from stepping off the pavement at an odd angle or bruised hearts or actually we have no idea how we hurt our shoulder or why there’s this hot thing shooting through our eye. Jesus.
Stack ’em up baby. Where it used to be intolerable to not reply to every single form of communication instantly – remember the novelty of emailing the person sitting next to you at work all day? Now, well if we are replying within a week #winning.
Not checking your bank balance
Does looking at your balance make you panic? Us too. So we don’t. If not looking at your account was an Olympic discipline we would be medalling. Rather than meddling.
We have such high tolerance for anxiety it’s a joke – somehow, through the worry and the panic and the niggling, nagging feelings and the lists birthing baby lists and the deadline and the ‘Is this it?’ and the ‘Can I carry on?’ and the ‘Is it just me?’, we put one step in front of the other. And we keep – shallow – breathing. Who else is going to get shit done?
Our tolerance has gone down for:
You have maybe one hour a day of viewing pleasure. There cannot be incoherent mumbling or the filming be so dark that you have to turn up the brightness on your TV and who can find that and life is too short. Or endless abused women (unless it’s the Handmaid’s Tale in which case that is the point) or crappy plot lines (unless they’re good crappy) or subtitles. We are too tired for subtitles.
People who don’t say thank you when you let them in
FUCK YOU – YOU ARE DEAD TO US.
There was a time when we used to dance until 5am and then go and have a steak and then go to work. Now we have to think very carefully about ordering red meat. Can we afford to wake up at 4am sweating like a boa constrictor digesting a baby cow? Same for curry. Shame.
Things beginning with man-
Like manspreading, mansplaining, manbossing, manhandling, manipulation, management, manslaughter. And mandolinists. Fucking annoying, those mandolinists.
The dark closing in
Not a metaphor for death…. But rather once the novelty of coats – LEOPARD-PRINT! – and jumpers – CASHMERE! – has worn off, then you are just left with the long dark hours. Creepy, chilly, draughty *shudders*. But then CHRISTMAS!!!! Oh God.