I love the Jeeves books, and I was recently relaxing the bean with another rollick through Stiff Upper Lip, Jeeves.
Bertie Wooster is (once again) trying to escape the clutches of Madeline Basset, who, besides having money and being quite the looker, is … well, let’s hear Bertie explain it.
I can well imagine that a casual observer, if I had confided to him my qualms at the idea of being married to this girl, would have raised his eyebrows and been at a loss to understand, for she was undeniably an eyeful, being slim, svelte and bountifully equipped with golden hair and all the fixings. But where the casual observer would have been making his bloomer was in overlooking that squashy soupiness of hers, that subtle air that she had of being on the point of talking baby talk. She was the sort of girl who puts her hands over a husband’s eyes, as he is crawling in to breakfast with a morning head, and says ‘Guess who?’
You would never call Bertie a curmudgeon, but Madeline’s “squashy soupiness” brings out a kind of curmudgeonliness in him. Or, if I may generalize, curmudgeonliness is a reaction to perceived soupiness.
Some people have very low tolerance for soupiness. We call those people curmudgeons. They aren’t willing to play along with even the slightest bit of silliness, emotionalism, “rah rah team,” or — whatever it is that curmudgeons react to.
But extremes can go both ways. What if the soupiness gets to the level that people of average (or even high) tolerance get annoyed? They exhibit curmudgeonly behavior, but they are not curmudgeons.
I wrestle with this scale from time to time, because I am probably on the low end of average tolerance of soupiness.
What follows is not the greatest example, but it’s what triggered this post.
Today I saw a LinkedIn comment on “mindfulness.” I don’t know a lot about mindfulness, but it often seems a little soupy. In saying that, I’m not claiming there aren’t benefits to it. But … what is it? Mr. Google says this.
a mental state achieved by focusing one’s awareness on the present moment, while calmly acknowledging and accepting one’s feelings, thoughts, and bodily sensations, used as a therapeutic technique.
Okay. I’m sure that has benefits. It reminds me a little of the “litany against fear” in Dune — where you acknowledge the fear, but try to view it as something outside yourself.
I get it. Sounds great. But my reaction to “mindfulness” is to realize that my problem seems more often to be that I want to get away from my mind. (Hence Wodehouse.)
Now …. I’m sure someone who is into mindfulness would say “Oh, yes, we incorporate that into our 14-step discipline.” Or words to that effect.
My point here is not to criticize mindfulness, but to point out the continuum we live on. Every day we’re confronted with soupy people and soupy ideas, which often press us for a reaction. (Thankfully, a LinkedIn post does not.) If we don’t react in perpetually smiling airhead mode — “I love your soupy emotional nonsense. Isn’t it delightful? You be you.” — we are apt to be called curmudgeons. Which is okay. Somewhat.
Turning back to Mr. Google, a curmudgeon is “a crusty, ill-tempered, and usually old man.” Which isn’t very pleasant. The old part is fine, but “ill-tempered” is never nice.
So I propose that we need another word. Something like “soupmudgeon” — which is a person who reacts badly to soupiness.
I have never thought in terms of soupiness. That is actually a new word for me. Is it related to corniness? I’ve noticed that a lot of people on Facebook are unspeakably corny. An old friend of mine (female) was once talking about pop songs she used to like and still likes. After I expressed disgust for some of them (e.g. by Bread or the Carpenters), she said that I didn’t like anything that smacks of tenderness. I was actually alarmed at that reaction. I would never characterize myself in that way.
I would be surprised if you had, because I think it’s a Wodehouse-ism, and not a common description.
Tenderness is actually a good example. Some people seem to believe that tenderness has to be expressed in a certain style (e.g., like Bread). I would admit there is some stylistic component to it. Screaming doesn’t seem to fit with tenderness. But the style can go too far at times.
BTW, I like both Bread and the Carpenters, but in small, rare doses. I don’t think much of their lyrics, but the music is generally pleasant.
I don’t really mind Bread and the Carpenters. Their music is at least not annoying and mildly pleasant – yes, in small doses. But the lyrics can make me sick if I listen to them.
A big part of the problem for me is that they are so fixated on romantic love as if that were what life is all about. Well, it isn’t. What about the tenderness found in Mahler’s “Kindertotenlieder” (a man mourning the death of hiss children)? Or take Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here” (about a friend who has mentally lost it). But somehow the public at large wants cheesy romance as the only kind of tenderness.
With things like your mindfulness example, when I have a reaction to things like that, it’s because the thing in question might be sensible and useful in itself, but talking about it all the time is what feels soupy. “That’s a sensible way to think, but please just quit droning on about it and just get on with it!” I recognize that in myself as something of a curmudgeonly reaction, but just because I react more strongly because I’m a curmudgeon, doesn’t necessarily mean it isn’t soupy.
I agree that is annoying, but it’s a different kind of annoying, I think. It’s the “one trick pony” problem. E.g., “Why does absolutely everything have to come back to the horrors of evidentialism?”
I mean something a little different from that, though. It’s not the repetition of or recourse the same thing that’s “soupy” in my mind, it’s the having to talk about what’s going on in your head instead of just…doing it. It’s similar to the way it’s perfectly normal for a young woman with natural affections to find flowers and bunnies charming, but what makes Madeline soupy is her need to express it all the time and center her thoughts on the fact of being charmed by it, instead of just quietly enjoying beauty. Or engaging in the the most obviously over the top forms of affection, instead of just communicating affection in the way a husband appreciates.
I don’t like it when people want to try to get into my head. My head is private, and I want to keep it that way. I may reveal certain things at certain times — often to serve as a check on my self-perception — but it’s nobody else’s business what goes on in there.
I also don’t like it when people (who aren’t family or very close friends) try to get me into their head — to force me to wade through all their internal conflicting feelings and emotions and whatnot.
Is that closer to what you mean?
Yes, that’s closer.
Or maybe, to use a fashionable term, when people are too “performative.” That seems to fit what Bertie means by it, or at least part of what he means by it.
The blog’s subtitle changed. Used to be about culture, politics, and society or something, and now it refers to a “pensieve”. I had to look this up, and it apparently comes from a book series I’ve managed to avoid reading for the past few decades.
Does feeling grumpy about this change make one a curmudgeon? Asking for a friend.
It doesn’t belong in the subtitle, but I need to find the right place to put it.