Mindfoolness

I’ve gone all aspirational this time and happened upon an actual topic. Through a set of irksome misadventures (more succinctly coined “life”), I have decided to delve into the contemporary revered world of Mindfulness. Quite a few friends have spoken of its efficacy and so, with them already demonstrating immense wisdom in choosing me as a friend, who am I to distrust their recommendation? I have also yet to hear scornful tales of wayworn participants left beleaguered by its generally positive (if not sometimes a little wistful) teachings. Negative reviews on Mindfulness would certainly carry ten times the gravitas of their positive rivals. If you can sit through hours of teaching on reflection and positivity to find nothing but a vindictive tongue, the process has obviously gone awry somewhere. Also, depending upon your route, the anger would be twofold since you will have likely lost a bit of money.

Yes, money. Muse of wanton desire. Bedfellow of urbanite go-getters. Harbinger of hangovers. Or, in this particular case, tainter of empathy. I have it on good authority, directly from my own well esteemed expert on conjecture (that’s me), that it wouldn’t be unreasonable to assume the benefits of these thought exercises are bolstered by the parting of money from their disciples. Being financially invested in anything often leads to an unfair bias toward wilful results in many areas: Gym membership, diet regimes, weddings, family holidays, nefarious adult services, Candy Crush Saga and the like. There are, of course, some examples of when a substantial financial investment cannot inspire perseverance of even the most diligent optimist. The Nintendo Wii and fruit juicers immediately spring to mind; Both currently making a fervent bid for squatters’ rights in attics across the world (unbeknownst to them, it is real estate long before claimed by Beanie Babies’ Holdings). Being a man of science, which I most certainly just professed to being, I couldn’t possibly give Mindfulness its fair cop knowing my susceptibility to this bias. That is why, in the spirit of empirical necessity, I decided to let my mother pay for the course. She is somewhat invested herself in the wellbeing of my wellbeing, so was more than happy to oblige. The utmost regard for good science must run in the blood.

Matriarchal financial backer: Check. Open mindfulness: Check. Absence of emotional problems needing resolving: Wait, what? I had presumed the course was aimed towards (or at least partially aimed towards) those with a somewhat fragile emotional disposition. I was rather surprised when confronted with a preliminary checklist of situations in which the course was not recommended. The very first example was a warning that it is  ill-suited for people that may be experiencing bouts of depression. That seemed a little unfair, as far as a balanced appraisal of coping strategies go. It’s like setting up a smoking cessation group that only admits non-smokers, or allowing comments sections on any Daily Mail article. You’re immediately catapulting the perceived validity of your own efforts. Anyway, undeterred by the warning, I was dedicated to my cause now. “For science!” my cry, as I ventured past the remaining checklist items. Nothing else of the initial depression warning was mentioned thereafter. If that club for violence that i’m not allowed to talk about has taught me anything, it is that: If you really mean a rule, you reiterate it.

So, I was in. In for round one. The introductory video round. This was basically where my guides had decided to break the ice and do their best ‘personable’ act to beguile me at the expense of my (read: mother’s) bank balance. The surroundings of the hosts were somewhat uninspired.  I can only assume the producer was previously in the employ of an 80’s video dating organisation, and received a redundancy package in the form of valueless assets. The two guides did their best to nullify this backdrop mediocrity with a contortion of mouth muscles that very nearly resembled believable smiles. A pacifying face, I imagine, is essential to the successful delivery of mindfulness. If I had to describe them, which I now do having said that, I would describe them best by doing so as if viewing them from an aforementioned 80’s video dating booth. Male paciface was calm and collected. An assured figure that would evoke no fears of being a possible drink spiker, but had the kind of monotonal vocal styling that might make you wish he were not long after the night started. Female paciface was strong and assertive, in one of those somewhat unnervingly pleasant ways. A woman that you would happily buy a cupcake from at a summer fete charity stall, because it’s for a good cause, but you’d wonder why she had to talk them up so much and suspect it to be compensating for some form of guilt over her sanitisation during production. To be safe, you’d decide to just give it to the dog when you got home. It would be harsh to say that their dating tapes would be straight in the VHS bargain bin, but they’d be the kind of thing the Producer first jettisoned from his redundancy package.

See, I think this could be the undoing of any form of help from methods like this for me. I have a tendency to see people and then create completely fictitious personas and backstories. It makes it a lot harder to allow a stranger life-altering validity after you’ve already imagined them to be all manner of crazy things outside the context of a single recording. I’m sure both of these guides have nothing but good intentions with their work. I also presume they are very good at it, and have spent many hours honing their craft and expertise. However, in my mind, from the moment I saw them I had imagined them carrying out all manner of inappropriate actions as soon as the camera stopped rolling. “Haha, that will placate the fuckers”, male paciface would sneer. “I cant believe people are paying us to talk this shit. I just paraphrased ‘The Very Hungry Caterpillar’ for 20 minutes” female paciface would retort. Then they would walk to the edge of set. A bottle of champagne, accompanied by a receipt too similar for coincidence to that of my mothers subscription fee, would await them. Male paciface would project the cork directly at the camera, knocking it clean off of its tripod and smashing to the floor in a kaleidoscopic array of glass and circuit board. The producer, bolted up and aghast, would shriek his protests. “Oh, come off it John. Some depressed twat’s mother will pay for a new one. Where there’s insane pain, there’s gain”, that last part voiced harmoniously at the same time by both pacifaces before they cackled maniacally. The sheer gall of them.

I’ll try to look past all of that fictitious accusatory narrative, however, and see how Mindfulness goes. For the good of science.