Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff

I live in an apartment complex not far from the University of Georgia in Athens about fifty miles from Atlanta. It’s a fine place with tree-line boulevards, landscapers constantly mowing-trimming-raking-planting, a small lake with a resident flock of geese, and wrought iron gates in and out that must be opened with a code. The gates, however, are more pretention that practical, a fact in evidence as you watch the Domino’s Pizza delivery man drive in unrestrained.

The apartment complex is owned by a shadowy corporation headquartered somewhere in California. This LLC group owns like properties all over the United States. That many holdings require another corporation that specializes in “property management” as overseers. They in turn hire people to run the complexes onsite for leasing and maintenance. Each of these groups has their own company name. Every time the big boss corporation—remember, corporations are people now—decides to add investors or do something stock related, it requires level number two to make sure all documents at each individual complex are correct and up to date.

Now, you know where this is going because all of you have dealt at some time in your lives with the surrealistic and apocalyptic nonsense generated by the bottom dwellers in this scenario. They are the poor bastards who work each individual complex for the short adrenalin bursts of power handed them like a sacramental host, the barely competent, and often petty managers onsite in any similar situation—the local managers of Walmart, Kroger’s, the local license bureau, the Dollar Store, Home Depot, Hobby Lobby, McDonalds, etc.

At the scent of an upper management inspection panic invades their tiny offices as the minions search for every document required and seek out each undotted i or uncrossed t that renders the document invalid or, at worst, against some rule arbitrarily composed at the level above in this bureaucratic labyrinth of lost souls. It has nothing to do with efficiency or customer satisfaction or common sense and everything to do with what I call the cover-your-own-ass syndrome.

My apartment home gets one of these inspections three or four times a year. We have one next week. Tenants have been forewarned by email that all things must be up to code and management would be checking our documents again. I have lived here for just over three years. When I moved in all my documents were received at the office and poured over succinctly by the staff and judged to be in order. Nothing has changed about necessary paperwork in these three years. But staff has come and gone, and every time the person in charge of insurance forms changes, I get a phone call. Each phone call is the same.

“Mr. McGarrah, we don’t have your insurance form.”

 “Yes, you do.”

“No, we don’t and you must get it to us ASAP.”

“Okay, I’ll bring you another copy. Try to hold on to this one.”

Yesterday, I received a call from a new staff member per upcoming inspection. “Mr. McGarrah, we don’t have your insurance form.” I must admit that my reply may have been less than polite, snippy even, to which I received a snip in return.

“Sir, I don’t like the attitude you’re giving me.”

“I don’t like be bothered for a form I’ve personally placed in your office three times in the past year.”

“It’s a petty matter, sir. There’s no reason for that tone.”

“It’s not petty if you’re driving me insane with your inability to hold on to a piece of paper. This is a waste of my time again and at my age I haven’t got any time to spare for nonsense.”

Tact and patience are qualities that I should have done better cultivating but didn’t. I know this, and I acquiesced to his demand reluctantly. I took the original document from my files, walked across the parking lot, and entered the leasing office.

“I brought you the original. Now, I want to see you make a copy and place it in my records so we never have to do this again. State Farm sends you an automatic renewal every year. It’s specified right there on the policy.”

At that point it became apparent that we would never be close friends. He clutched the document to his chest and went to the copy machine.

“Well, here’s the problem,” he said, strutting back into the room. “Where it says additional interests the address is wrong. State Farm has listed this apartment complex.”

“Yes. That’s where I live.”

“It has to say our parent company’s name.”

My head almost exploded. Fortunately, I had drunk my morning coffee already and was able to restrain myself, which is why I am able to relate this from my home and not a maximum-security prison.

“You mean to tell me that all these times the problem was a misprinted address on the form you had and not the fact that you didn’t have the form? You realize that I could have turned in a hundred more copies with the same misprint and never known how to correct this.”

“Unfortunately, it seems so, but we’ll fix it right this time.”

This situation is, of course, petty nonsense in a world of plagues, wars, famine, wildfires, and Republican politicians. However, it does illustrate a salient point. The angrier the world becomes, the more difficult it seems to be for people to communicate accurately and reasonably with each other. This is turn raises the heat of the moment, which can then cascade into major anxiety for everyone involved and sometimes beyond. Did the fellow in Texas who shot up a Taco Bell because the server forgot his hot sauce expect it to be there and not ask for it? Who knows? But it was a petty miscommunication that led to a tragedy and hasn’t been an isolated incident this year.

I guess there’s no one specific reason why these tiny speed bumps on the road to peaceful living bother me, maybe a lot of us, so much. Do we rant and rave at the minor stuff because we have no control over the major stuff, and it provides some illusion of that last control? Are we miserable and misery loves company? Is it entitlement, arrogance, or delusions of self-importance. The answer may be any or all these things. Here’s what I do know.

The anger I feel toward other people in many mundane situations usually comes from some slight miscommunication. I have not asked for exactly what I want and take for granted another person should know. Maybe I was distracted and heard only part of what was said. Maybe I expect too much from other people because I don’t expect enough from myself. It’s a complex issue that seems simple. I might never get the answer to it straight. And, the point is exacerbated when the people I’m trying to communicate with are only halfway listening or halfway answering. That’s okay, though, if I can apply the lesson my father always tried to teach me, and I’m trying too even if it sometimes requires more empathy than I can muster or more humility than I ordinarily show.

My father applied this rule for dealing with other people and maintaining balance himself. “Don’t sweat the small stuff. It’s the tiny inconveniences that eat us up inside if we let them because we try and ignore the stuff that overwhelms us. Things that mean very little in the grand scheme of life often make us the most miserable. Don’t let them.”

I think this is pretty good advice for our current way of life.