Normal people aren’t wise

If you actually pay attention to the everyday utterances of ‘normal people’, the idea that we humans are a mostly sane bunch quickly begins to collapse beneath the weight of the downright weirdness of the world.

Start practicing what psychologists call ‘attentive listening’ and, before long, you too will discover that most people are actually deeply delusional.

They aren’t wise.

For what is wisdom if not having a realistic sense of your own limitations?

Day in, day out, closeted kooks walk the streets pretending to one and other that all their cerebral screws are neatly tightened in perfect place.

They hold down jobs, ring in takeaways, tally up their taxes, and generally manage to create the compelling but totally fictitious illusion that they are unfalteringly reasonable, rational, logical beings.

But it isn’t the case.

Listen carefully, and, in one conversation after another, you’ll hear ostensibly sane people come out with stuff that, if spoken by a madman, would result in their straitjacket being fastened tighter than the crotch of Mick Jagger’s jeans.

Anyway, here is an example of this everyday lunacy that we far too often let slide.

A few weeks ago, I personally witnessed a man make a pledge, in front of his close friends and family, that, from that day forth, he would never be seen eating anything other than chicken or fish.

Madness.

We had all been enjoying what appeared to be a normal afternoon in the company of normal people, when, without warning, we all became party to this most unexpected of covenants. Steady-eyed, brimming with conviction, this low-key looper swore a solemn oath that he would subsist only on these two protein-rich meats until the day that his – presumably incredibly lean – lights went out.

Had he been a religious man, he would have placed his shaking hand upon a bible.

But instead, being a heathen, he rammed his index finger into his chest, defiantly instructing those present to ‘mark my words’.

Now, I am not privy to the inside of this man’s head, but if I were to guess where the sudden imposition of these draconian dietary strictures came from, I’d say it was a shock-response to a powerful and painful pang of lifestyle-related guilt.

In a moment of epiphany, perhaps, he had seen his life through a wider lense, viewed his existence in the macro, projected himself along the arc that was charted before him, and, to his deep disturbance, caught a terrifying glimpse of his final destination.

“That’s it,” he must have decided. “No more beer. No more burgers. No more crisps. No more sitting about. No longer will I live this life of leisure and indulgence.”

“From here on in,” he resolved, “it’s nothing but chicken and fish for me.”

If my psychological conjecture is to be believed, then few would dispute that his motivation was good, maybe even admirable.

However, the madness lies within his remedy: Chicken and fish for the next 50 years.

Knowing him so well, and sharing many of the habits and weaknesses which he had sworn to exorcise from his life, I was skeptical of how he would handle this new ascetic way of being. More than that, I thought his apparent confidence in his ability to transform so immediately to be completely nuts. However, after surreptitiously expressing reservations to some of the other witnesses, I was quickly rebuked for my lack of support. “You never know what people are capable of when they put their mind to something,” I was told.

Fast forward 11 days and the proof was in the pudding, or, more precisely, lack thereof.

He had ate every biscuit in the house, cleared the fridge of all sugary and salty products, and, like a mad bear calmed by the sting of a tranquillising dart, lay snoring contentedly on the sofa.