Expertise
There’s something about modern life which seems to require a vast amount expertise from us about all manner of things: technology, mechanics, construction, medicine, law, money. I suspect I am supposed to go to the doctor armed with the piles of research I have done, ready to challenge her decisions on this or that. I always feel like I should go to the mechanic already knowing what the heck is making that rattle-rattle zing noise. If my computer starts acting bizarrely, I feel compelled to raise my geek quotient and fix the darn thing.
But here’s the thing. I really don’t want to be an expert in auto-mechanics, plumbing or immunology. There are schools to teach you those things. If a pipe starts leaking or the car starts making a funny noise, I don’t want to have to have an opinion about them. I just want them fixed. This means of course that I am at the mercy of the potentially unscrupulous or inept mechanic, plumber or doctor. I’d still rather trust them (even foolishly) then pretend to be an expert. But it’s not the modern way. Information is so accessible that it’s almost a crime not to use it, imbibe it, digest it, process it and own it. But while the availability of information is so vast that infinity is starting to see it approaching, my brain’s ability to deal with it is very limited.
I got information. It’s just not about medicine, pig farming or organ music. It’s not about rotors or potato blight or programming. It’s not about brick laying, giardiasis or balloon animals. I can, however, take one look at a child staggering down to breakfast with bright red cheeks and say “Fifth’s Disease” and be right. I can tell you the difference between its and it’s, imply and infer, fewer and less, uninterested and disinterested. I can also make a Cuban Side Car, knit a sweater and sing Abba songs, sometimes all at the same time. I can cook Italian food, swear in five languages and order wine in six. I gotz skillz.
Just not the skillz to tell me that the horrible noise the car is making when I brake means I shouldn’t wait four days before taking it to the mechanic. The guy took the keys away because the car was apparently unsafe to drive and I’d been running the children back and forth to school quite happily, except for wincing at the screeeeeeech.
Oops.
