I haven't written about London yet because I'm not feeling anything about it. I realize this sounds cold and callous and reflects poorly on me. I certainly realize it's a tragedy and sympathy is called for etc. But my strong emotional reactions to tragedies tend to come from empathy with the victims and their families. I imagine "OMG! What if that was me?" and then I picture myself in that situation and fret about whatever would I do.
The thing about London though, is between Sept. 11 and the blackout in 2003, I've already fretted about everything that the London bombings would normally cause me to fret about. I've already played over dozens of worst-case scenarios in my head and subconsciously come up with action plans for each of them. I've already been through the drastic emotional reaction, and it just doesn't seem to be happening again. I've left appropriate wishes and condoleances in appropriate places, read the newspaper coverage thoroughly, checked to see if they could use donations of anything, nodded solemnly at the half-mast flag and given a grateful smile to the transit cops who are suddenly showing up everywhere. But I just don't think the tears are going to happen.
It is possible that I've lost all fear of terrorism. When I think about the possibility of my getting caught in a bombing, I'm surprisingly zen about it. If I die, I die. My death is inevitable anyway, it's just a question of when. If I am maimed, I am maimed. I have disability insurance, a particularly good computer that would certainly be willing to take on any necessary adaptations to accommodate disabilities, and a job that I could do from home. If someone important to me dies, that would upset me more, but, given my genetics and my strange habit of befriending people who happen to have health issues, in the back of my mind I've always assumed I'll outlive everyone I know anyway. Que sera sera.
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