Why do things get tangled?
Ear-bud speakers in this case, but it happens with shoe-laces, window-blind string and long-line fishing rope (I have untangled several miles–yes, miles–of long-line fishing rope) and a particular shoe-lace.
How many hours of one’s life does one spend untangling stuff?
I am curious if you can tell a lot about somebody about how they approach a tangle. My ex-love has very tangled hair, both on her head and in the shower drain where it used to clog up the darn pipes (my fault, of course–sorry honey).
My approach to a tangle is initial irritation, followed by bored attention to the tangle as it demands my reluctant attention.
If the tangle is untangled in less than a minute or two, I am left–not with a feeling of gratitude–but with a book-end irritation to match my initial irritation.
tangle–>initial irritation–>studied patience–>un-tangle–>final irritation.
Sometimes, the studied patience fails.
tangle–>initial irritation–>studied patience–>die! die! die!–> a certain left shoe with a tangle knot more dense than the leather on the shoe it adorns–>final irritation.