Barnaby Buttonsworth, a man whose emotional range spanned from “mildly inconvenienced” to “slightly startled,” was trying to explain feelings to his daughter, Penelope. Penelope, all of seven years old, was currently experiencing the raw, gut-wrenching agony of losing at hopscotch.
“Dad,” she wailed, tears streaming down her face, “I’m… I’m feeling… sad!”
Barnaby, whose own father had explained grief by saying, “Well, that’s a bit rubbish, isn’t it?” shifted uncomfortably. “Right, sad. Yes. Sadness. It’s… like… when you accidentally order broccoli instead of chips.”
Penelope sniffled. “But I like broccoli!”
Barnaby furrowed his brow. “Okay, bad example. It’s like… when your sock is slightly damp. Not soaking, just… vaguely humid. Unpleasant, but not catastrophic.”
Penelope’s lip trembled. “But it’s more than a damp sock! It’s like… a unicorn just told me I can’t have ice cream ever again!”
Barnaby pondered this for a moment. “Alright, new analogy. It’s like… finding a ten pound note, but then realizing it’s Monopoly money.” He beamed, pleased with himself. “See? Disappointment, but ultimately, no actual loss. Still got your real money, Penelope.”
Penelope stared blankly. “But I don’t have any real money!” She started crying harder. “This is nothing like Monopoly money!”
Barnaby sighed. This explaining-feelings business was harder than advanced Sudoku. “Okay, okay, let me think… It’s… like… when the Wi-Fi is down. A minor inconvenience that prevents you from achieving your goals, but you know it will eventually come back on.”
Penelope stopped crying, her eyes widening. “But Dad,” she said, “the Wi-Fi is down!”
Barnaby blinked. “Well, that explains why I haven’t been able to check the football scores.” He patted Penelope on the head. “See? Sometimes, sadness is just the Wi-Fi being down. And sometimes,” he added, pulling out his phone, “the real tragedy is missing crucial penalty shootouts.”
