It Bears Repeating

Gregg Easterbrook once again managed to insert some sage observations into his weekly sports column.

Americans Now Hear the Word "Pleasure" 100 Times for Every Actual Experience of Pleasure: TMQ is being driven crazy by the modern affectation of saying "my pleasure" in formal settings that have nothing to do with pleasure. When you call a Hyatt hotel and ask to be transferred to a guest room or the front desk, the Hyatt operator says, "My pleasure." Lots of corporate-run chains are instructing workers to say "my pleasure" in situations far removed from what the word means. It's even catching on with intellectuals; recently David Remnick, editor of the New Yorker, signed off from an NPR interview by invoking this phrase. (NPR: "Thanks, David." Remnick: "My pleasure.") "My pleasure" is a ridiculously overloaded surrogate for "sure" or "happy to do it" or "you're welcome." More, its adaptation as a hollow chestnut of mundane interaction seems part of the overall cheapening of the meaning of words. Pleasure is one of the greatest and highest experiences of life; in our short stay on this Earth, we know far too little. And pleasure is almost always intimate in nature. Using the word "pleasure" in contexts that have nothing to do with intimacy or delight seems a cruel little joke in a world of too much work and too little enjoyment.

My momments of pleasure have been randomly interspersed throughout my life, but when they come they are unmistakable. A glance across the breakfast table at my wife, a ski across an undisturbed meadow, or driving through the desert have all had a way of bringing me up short by the emotional unswelling of pleasure they evoke. They hit me like a back massage all at once, and my senses open up to take in the most subtle of details; time crawls by while I watch in ammusement. When was the last time you experienced true pleasure in an activity or interaction?