I love to read. I read almost everything that comes under my nose. But I don’t see as well as I once did. With my nose now holding up a pair of reading glasses, I tend to read more of the big print and skip the fine print.
That was working out pretty well for me until a few days ago when I happened to be reading one of those little packages of pepper that come with take-out food.
I could see the large word PEPPER. But there, in the tiny print below, was another message. I put my readers on and made it out: “Contains dustless black pepper. Bacteria treated.”
Wait a minute. Did that mean some pepper has dust on it? Like my table has? And bacteria? What if it didn’t all get treated? Will pepper make me sick?
I made two decisions after that chance encounter with fine print. First, I’ve eased up on the pepper. Second, I’ve been more conscientious about reading the fine print on things.
What else might I be missing by ignoring that tiny writing?
For practice, I sat down and read the little information sheet that comes with over-the-counter pain meds. The big print told me all about the benefits of the little tablets. It assured me that I was going to feel better the moment I got some Bye-Bye Arthritis pills into my system.
But the news wasn’t so good when I got out my magnifying glass to read the small print, which said that the pills would help my arthritis, but in return I could expect to be either drowsy or excitable. My blood pressure might rise. Or fall. I might start itching or lose feeling in my feet. I could develop galloping diarrhea. Or constipation. Drooling was a possibility, insanity had been documented with these pills, and if I used too much of it, I could say Bye-Bye to my kidneys.
I decided to settle for arthritis pain. I’m pretty fond of my feet. my sanity and my kidneys.
The next assignment I gave myself was to read the fine print on one of the many credit card offers we get every day. They’re so convincing. You can buy on credit and pay zero interest!
Who wouldn’t want to put a new Salad Slinger, a few Elvis paintings on black velvet, and a Santa’s elf costume for the dog on credit without interest! What a deal!
But wait. What’s in that little paragraph on the back in the barely visible print? Something about the interest rate on the card jumping to 38 percent after two months? Something about how two beefy men in black outfits will come and break your legs and repossess your Salad Slinger, your Elvises and the doggy elf suit if you’re as much as 30 minutes late on the payments? No wonder they didn’t want that message in large print!
Maybe I’ll just pay cash.
The scariest small print message I read for practice was on the flap of a return envelope for a bill I was paying. In the tiny print that I’d never bothered to read before, here’s what I was told to do:
“Enclose bottom portion of statement/ Be sure address shows through window/ Write account number on check/ DO NOT send cash through the mail/ No paperclips or staples (you can tell the things they REALLY get mad about— they print them in capital letters).
That’s a lot to do and it took me awhile to make sure I was in compliance. But that wasn’t the scary part.
The last instruction said, “Please detach bangtail even if you do not intend to use the coupon.”
Uh, what is a BANGTAIL for Pete’s sake?? Some kind of crazed rodent? Did he get out when I opened the bill? Was anything furry and bacteria-laden scrabbling around on my kitchen floor (other than Betsy the Shiz-tzu-wannabe and Buddy the Raging Chihuahua)? Were my dogs at risk with a rabid bangtail running around the house?
The only instruction the company failed to give was what to do with a bangtail if I caught it. Should I step on it? Kill it with bug spray? Trap it? Then I got control of myself and looked again at the envelope. I realized that a “bangtail” must be that part of the return envelope that hangs down with a special offer printed on it. You tear it off and put it in the return envelope to order your doggy elf suit. My dogs aren’t fond of being dressed as elves so I had already thrown the “bangtail” away.
There it lay in the trash, not looking particularly crazed or bacterial, not banging away, meek as could be.
Whew! Betsy and Buddy and I were relieved. They could go back to sleep and I could go back to paying bills without the fear of a bangtail shooting out from under the refrigerator at me. I slung us a salad to celebrate, with cheese for me and bacon bits for the dogs.
And I intend to remain relieved. No more reading the terrifying fine print. From now on, I’m just going to read what I can see easily. That information is scary enough.
I’m too old to be chasing crazed bangtails around my kitchen.
