Ever watched Dr. Phil on television?

I’m not a big fan of TV soothsayers, therapists and other advice givers. But given that our choices of entertainment these days range from which bimbo gets to marry the millionaire to which dork gets voted off the island, I sometimes have to settle for a lesser of evils.

Now I haven’t watched an entire episode of Dr. Phil yet because I have a strong suspicion that someone has to be a little bit nuts to go on the show in the first place and subject themselves to public ridicule.

But in one small portion of a segment, here comes a man and wife who are so stiff, I would guess they sleep in starched pajamas and never wrinkle the covers.

I mean these two people were the closest thing I’ve ever seen to cardboard cutouts.

He was a doctor and she was the dutiful doctor’s wife. Both were obsessive perfectionists in that every hair had to be in place even in the privacy of their homes. This is what they confessed. I’m not making this up.

The woman said she was traumatized once when she answered the door without her makeup on. She didn’t say whether her neighbor was traumatized or not.

The husband told of coming home from work and before he could do anything else, he had to reposition a few pillows on a sofa that technically were out of place. And a glass was left in the kitchen sink that had not been washed and put away. Both of these people admitted that their lives were incredibly stiff and that they needed help. Why they had to seek it on national television is beyond me. There are therapists with offices and no cameras.

Of course Dr. Phil’s response was predictable: “You guys need to go to a bar somewhere and sing a little karaoke.”

Of course, my wife and I were wondering just how many people are truly like this. How many people go through life totally obsessed with perfection and properness — afraid that if they end a sentence with a preposition or use the salad fork to eat their steak, that heads of state in a dozen countries would hear about it and call press conferences to offer their condolences.

We named off a couple of people we felt would be well served emotionally if they would take a few square dance lessons and enter a couple of watermelon seed spitting contests.

When I see people like this, I have the urge to tell them that life should be enjoyed, not endured. Perhaps they haven’t noticed, but life on this side of the bar is very short in view of the big picture. Maybe they don’t know it, but no one else cares if they’ve never eaten a hotdog in front of the television with their feet on the coffee table. There is no great exchequer giving us gold stars for not burping on the back porch or refraining from scratching when it itches.

I’ve yet to stand at a graveside and hear any eulogy that included the fact that George never watched football in his underwear nor vacuumed Frito crumbs out of his navel.

Now I’m not advocating being a total slouch. I think there is a time and a place to holler yahoo! and to make armpit noises.

And I’m not professing to be a therapist although what Dr. Phil advises doesn’t require a Ph.d And if it makes you happy to order starch by the case, so be it. I just wanted to let you know that after you are dead and buried, there will not be annual gatherings to commemorate the fact that you never put your elbows on the table.



Dwain Walden is editor/publisher of The Moultrie Observer, 985-4545. E-mail: dwain.walden@gaflnews.com.