Taking Stock Of Taking Stock

     Back in a misty yesteryear, someone told me that a wise man pauses now and then to take stock of his life. I don't remember who or where or why. It could have been a mentor, or it could have been a tipsy babbler on the next bar stool.  For whatever reason, I took the admonition to heart.
     Since things have gone pretty well for me in life, I'm usually able to finish taking stock before I finish my first glass of wine. This leaves me feeling derelict in my obligations to wisdom. It also leaves me resentful of the need to invent reasons for having another glass of wine.
     But on the assumption that stock-taking techniques, like other skills, benefit from regular exercise, I persist in my efforts. In this way I have long since harvested all the low-hanging fruit, as the cliche goes.  I am driven to taking stock of matters that are -- I freely admit it -- distinctly peripheral.
     Thus I recently decided to take stock of all the devices in life that ding, chime, buzz, beep or whir at me. The list is long. It includes smoke alarms, home security systems, audio-visual devices and the truck that picks up our garbage.
     The kitchen hosts a chorus.  The stove and microwave beep when I press their buttons, and beep again if I don't press promptly when they are through.  The coffeemaker carries on when it is done, done, done, done, done. The dishwasher does mention that it has finished, but only once. Ding. The refrigerator offers a counterpoint of warbling.  It has three voices for dispensing water, crushed ice or cubed ice.
     The kitchen devices are essentially friendly in their attentions to me. As if with a gentle hand on my elbow, they guide me through excursions in nourishment and refreshment.  My car, on the other hand, has been given the electronic personality of a scold. It warns me if a seat belt goes even momentarily unfastened. It warns me if it deems that I have backed too close to objects that I can plainly see in my rear view mirrors.  If I offer to  leave the key behind, it is especially sharp. My car is ever alert for lapses on my part. I imagine a condescending smile in certain shapes on the dashboard.
     The ubiquity of these noises has given rise to dubious jokes:
     In a grocery store aisle, a portly gentleman is bending over to fetch an item from a bottom shelf. When his cellphone goes off, a little boy exclaims, "Look out Mom, he's backing up!"
     It has also caused the princes of technology to develop alternative noises. They've afforded me the option of choosing a cellphone ringtone that sounds like someone gargling molasses.  A while back in our house, a dinner guest's cellphone rang. It just rang.  Like a bell. This visibly startled a couple of oldsters in the room, who possibly had not heard a telephone make a simple ringing noise since the days of rotary dials.
     In any case, life is what it is. Diligence in adjusting to this reality can make us more complete human beings. I have adjusted to my car's behavior, as I adjusted to the attentions of an autocratic aunt who meant well and didn't realize that she screeched. And I have learned not to fret about the possibility of exhausting even peripheral opportunities to take stock.
     I may repeat stock-taking exercises of old.  It could be the life-journey equivalent of re-watching a favorite old movie.
     Better yet, I could become a consultant of sorts. Offer to take stock of other people's lives. I might even charge a fee. Clients would be expected to pay for my wine, of course.