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An Open Letter to Jiminy Cricket

Dear Jiminy Cricket,

I'm confused. You told Pinocchio, "Let your conscience be your guide." I try to do that. I really do. But how come I feel guilty all the time?

Psychologists say that some people have lost their sense of guilt. Is there some way I can transfer my excess guilt to them?

I feel guilty when somebody pushes a document under my nose and wants me to sign it right away, and I make them wait until I have read it. I feel guilty when I return defective merchandise to the store. I feel guilty if someone else wants to take over one of my projects and I refuse. I feel guilty if I disagree with a fragile individual who seems ill-equipped to deal with opposition. No matter how good my reasons are, I feel guilty when I don't yield to someone else's demands.

Then there are the double whammies. I feel guilty because I don't earn a pay cheque; but if I were going out to work, I would feel guilty for not being available at home. When someone offers to help me with something, I feel guilty if I say 'yes' because I feel as if I'm exploiting the person; but I feel equally guilty when I say 'no' because that could seem like rejection. Sometimes I get so frustrated that I feel like filling a huge water pistol with non-toxic biodegradable ink and going out into the street and getting my revenge on society. I know that would be wrong -- but, Jiminy, if I'm going to feel guilty anyway, I might as well be doing something fun, right?

Right now, I could be returning phone calls, polishing my spoon collection, visiting the sick, or finishing that sweater I started three years ago.. I could be writing a letter to my husband's third cousin, flattening cans for recycling, or zapping mildew in the shower enclosure. If I start obsessing about all those worth-while alternatives, I'll stop writing this letter, and feel guilty about that. From there, it's just one small step to becoming paralyzed by the horrible thought that, no matter what I do, someone somewhere -- family, friends, God, the people across the street, or maybe a nameless reader in a foreign land -- will be disappointed.

When I say 'no', I feel guilty. You know, now that I think of it, that's a small price to pay for making my own decisions instead of being ruled by the expectations of others.

Jiminy, we need some clarification here. Is there such a thing as good guilt and bad guilt? Is so, how can I tell the difference?

AESOP'S FABLE ABOUT THE MILLER, HIS SON, AND THE ASS (SLIGHTLY UPDATED)

If you are unfamiliar with the original version, go to http://classics.mit.edu/Aesop/fab.4.4.html and scroll down until you find it.

Early one Saturday morning, as she was scrambling to get ready to go to work, a wife asked her husband if he would be so kind as to mow the lawn, since it was his day off and she was very busy. He readily agreed because she had promised to make his favourite cookies, but he really didn't feel like going out in the heat. So he said to his son (a stalwart lad of ten): "Hey, kid! I'll give you five bucks to mow the lawn."

The son wanted to go to a movie that night, so he dickered a bit and got the price up to ten dollars. As soon as his favourite cartoon shows were over, he dragged the mower out of the garage and started mowing.

Soon the next door neighbour was banging on the door. "That child is far too young to handle that big mower. Can't you see how difficult it is for him to control it? He might run over my flower bed, or be injured by a flying rock, or cut his foot off!"

She went on and on until the man agreed to take over the mowing. His son protested when he tried to re-negotiate the fee, so he had to give him the full ten dollars. "It's worth it," he told himself as he pushed the roaring machine back and forth, "for the sake of keeping peace in the neighbourhood."

Not much later, his poker buddy came by and signaled him frantically to shut down the engine. "Your face is all red -- the sun is too hot -- don't you remember how Joe dropped dead mowing his lawn just two weeks ago and he was only forty-two!"

The argument had definite merit. Our hero got a cold beer from the fridge and parked himself in front of the TV. When his wife came home from work, she was remarkably understanding and undertook to finish the lawn after supper. While she was struggling to scrape the damp grass off the mower blade, two of her feminist friends happened by.

"What are you, a slave?" they demanded. "You work all day at the office and all night at home! Surely that chauvinistic slug of a husband of yours can take some responsibility!"

The couple talked the situation over and agreed to hire a professional. But the neighbours thought they were putting on airs, paying a landscaper thirty-five dollars to do something a kid could do for ten. They had a vicious discussion over coffee and eventually it got back to the wife, who became terribly upset.

In an effort to put closure on the situation, the husband took his credit card to the farm supply store and purchased a riding mower. The first time he used it, it kept stalling and stalling. Eventually he became so frustrated that he began beating it with his fists. The effort triggered a heart attack. While he was recuperating in the hospital, he and his wife decided to sell the house and move into an apartment where there were no lawns to mow.

The new owner was considerably less sensitive to public opinion. He let the lawn grow into a miniature jungle. Everyone agreed it looked terrible.