“First rainy day, I’ll fix that.” This sacred vow, second only in righteousness to a promise to return a neighbor’s tool, is more than a sincere commitment, it is a solemn contract with ourself, the person we hold in the highest esteem.
Upon announcement, we imagine in detail tackling the repair with diligence and skill, correcting the failure in a brisk, workmanlike manner.
PATH TO PERDITION
No, we really do think that as we concrete our Path to Perdition, but these heartfelt goals are ravaged by time, often mere seconds. The lack of any permanent record contributes to their fading importance. Mercifully, our brains have evolved to redact all the action words in such utterances immediately after their sound waves dissipate.
This is a defensive adaptation to squelch our consciences. If we remembered all such promises, the soul-crushing futility of our future would keep us awake for many minutes, probably — even during TV golf.
Legal eagles will note the declaration shrewdly contains an “out”: technically, it only applies to the first rainy day. This is crucial because during a strenuous stretch like harvest, planting or the playoffs, the sound of rain in the night can render an exhausted worker unconscious for the better part of a week, deftly sidestepping the promise.
What psycholinguists (who astoundingly turn out to be a real thing) theorize is only the soothing conviction of precipitation beyond our control prevents us from making virtuous repairs and mentally defuses any sense of duty about said repairs.
The phrase possesses a durability evidenced by its ancient origins. The neolithic paintings of the Lascaux caves recently offered up a pictogram researchers struggled for years to decipher only to realize it communicated something like “after next hunt, clear out carcasses from cave basement.”
This is clear proof of mankind’s steadfast yearning to complete bothersome chores but only if circumstances allow; good weather is nothing to be squandered. When the suns shines, we are obligated to make hay, even if we grow only corn and beans.
THE FIX-IT LIST
Modern usage of this principle is encouraged by human experience that as much as 38% of such promises will wither quietly as we ignore them and adapt. Our ears soon blot out the rattles and squeaks that initially seem so annoying, for example.
Some problems even go away for unknown reasons we wisely avoid investigating but heartily appreciate.
Those glitches that persist are subject to the infallible logic that if they can wait for the next rainy day to be rectified, they can probably wait for the rainy day after that one. Climate change could intensify this pattern with longer stretches of sunny postponing, punctuated by flood recovery overruling the rest of our fix-it list.
Numerous examples abound. Such as, I probably should finish this article, but look at that — the sun’s out.
