Sensitivity is agony. In moderation it’s good, but moderation rarely knows when to stop, and soon becomes excess. Excessive sensitivity is a theme taken up by Spa magazine this month.
Really, it’s better to be a clod. Your intellect may be sluggish and your imagination dull, you won’t set the world on fire, but the world doesn’t set you on fire either. You get through the day more or less intact, and through the night asleep. It is quite otherwise with the people Spa labels “oversensitive.” For them, every received email is a veiled snub, every overheard remark an implied threat, every situation an insurmountable challenge. Noise is an assault, light an invasion, a ringing office telephone an invitation to a nervous breakdown.
Everything has hidden meaning, invariably sinister. The client I emailed this morning — it’s now afternoon, why hasn’t she replied? She’s busy? Maybe ... or maybe she no longer wants to deal with me? Maybe my note wasn’t clear? Maybe it smacked (certainly not intentionally!) of sexual harassment? Maybe I sent it to the wrong person, who is even at this very moment puzzling over what I meant, or who I am, while the intended recipient is wondering why I haven’t contacted her?