When my husband’s garage door opener refused to move the door all the way down, he blamed humidity. I was skeptical. After all, the opener on my side worked fine. But I agreed that the humidity was hard to ignore. It was also hard to prove.
A few weeks later, the television remote quit working and Dick blamed the humidity. Then the fluorescent light in the back hall quit working and, you guessed it: humidity. By now, I was more than skeptical. I was scornful.
But then I considered the value of having a default cause. Of always having something to blame, something fairly blameless, neutral, available.
Because when things went wrong for me, I blamed myself. When my cell phone stopped collecting email, it was because I changed a setting. When my car started to rattle, it was because I hit a pothole. I was distracted, I was incompetent. Which didn’t do much for my self-esteem.
So, I decided to try humidity—the all-purpose, impersonal default cause. It’s always there,
too much or too little, indoors and out. I like it.
