Are you sure you want to do this?
The words filled me with dread. But before I could reply, the technician continued.
Because if this repair doesn’t take, we’ll be out of options. Your device is considered vintage.
I took a moment to try and unpack these words.
I struggled to comprehend how my laptop computer could be a relic. This wasn’t a dusty Remington typewriter from the 1970s. I’d gotten it — new — less than 10 years earlier.
The transaction had cost a small fortune. And I had a hard time believing the computer was now vintage.
But technology moves fast. New editions of the laptop had hit the market since I got mine. Versions with new processors, updated displays, and a completely redesigned keyboard.
This would prove to be a problem, as I desperately needed to fix some busted keys.
I could either take a leap of faith with the technician, hoping he could get the misaligned keycaps back in place. Or I could decline the repair and make do with a compromised keyboard.
It wasn’t much of a decision.
I’d like you to try to fix It, I replied. It’s not working well for me right now, so leaving it as is doesn’t seem like an option.
The technician nodded and took the laptop to a back room. After a few minutes, he returned triumphant. The keyboard was fully intact once again.
When I entrusted the technician with my computer, I was taking a risk.
This was an opportunity to make something broken whole again. But it was also a final roll of the dice.
There were no guarantees that the repair would work. And there was the possibility of inflicting further, irreversible harm to my keyboard.
Such an outcome wouldn’t be beneficial to anyone.
I would be left with a mangled computer. The technician’s reputation would be tarnished. And the manufacturer would face the potential of legal action — if I were so inclined to pursue it.
And so, the technician seemed hesitant — unwilling, even — to proceed. The risk seemed too big to ignore. And the status quo seemed more enticing.
I was decidedly not on board with this thinking.
You see, the computer technician put all risks in the same grouping. But I don’t.
Indeed, I consider the history behind the status quo when making these calls.
If everything is going well, a repair would indeed appear risky. Sure, tinkering might provide new capabilities or unlock new features. But it could also screw up something that was working just fine.
I call this type of scenario a First Level Risk. And I rarely consider it worthwhile.
But if something is already damaged or off-kilter, the risks of a repair seem less stark. Sure, another layer of damage would cause further headaches. But living with a compromised status quo is hardly palatable.
I call this scenario a Second Level Risk. And I’m more willing to take it on.
So yes, I commanded the technician to repair my computer with little hesitation. I made a similar choice regarding surgery for an injured ankle. And yet another to get some rodent-damaged wiring replaced in my vehicle.
I couldn’t imagine making do with what I had. I couldn’t imagine jumping through hoops to maneuver around the damage. (Or not jumping at all, when it came to my ankle.)
Fixing the damage seemed like the only salve. Even if that fix was far from a sure thing.
Second Level Risks were worthwhile.
When I was growing up, I would often go shopping for furniture with my parents.
The store had an As Is showroom. And we would always scour it for discounted furniture.
The As Is items changed out frequently. But they tended to have one thing in common — defects.
Many found these defects acceptable — or at least acceptable in exchange for a lower purchase price.
But to the best of my recollection, my family did not.
I was too young to have an informed opinion back then. But now, decades later, I find myself continuing my family’s legacy.
I don’t want anything of mine to be As Is. I don’t want to be hindered or compromised.
And so, I do what I can to avoid that fate. I entrust others with the task of making me whole.
Until recently, it hadn’t occurred to me how unusual such a decision is.
Indeed, many in our society will gladly take a First Level Risk. But they’ll avoid a Second Level one.
Take my late grandfather as an example.
This was a man who enlisted in the United States Navy at age 17, during the waning months of World War II. He could have stayed in high school until the summer of 1945, likely avoiding the risk of ever being drafted into the conflict. But instead, he decided to put his life on the line for his country.
Shipping off to the Navy during a global war was perhaps the most commendable of First Level Risks. But it was a substantial risk, nonetheless.
My grandfather was placing all kinds of trust in his commanding officers to make it through the ordeal. And that faith ultimately paid off.
You would think such unwavering trust would flow into other risky decisions my grandfather faced. But it didn’t.
All too often, my grandfather would try to fix household appliances himself, or leave them in a compromised state. Good enough was sufficient for him— even if neglected or MacGuyvered repairs put parts of his house in structural danger. Entrusting trained professionals with a solution was just too risky.
In hindsight, my grandfather’s allergy to Second Level Risks seems comical. But in practice, it’s all too understandable.
For America is built upon the pattern my grandfather espoused. We’re implored to take big risks to seize bigger opportunities. But we’re also indoctrinated on the value of self-sufficiency.
Embracing only Second Level risks is an affront to all of this. If we play it safe when things are going well, we’ll leave countless opportunities on the table. And if we turn to others when things are broken, we lose autonomy.
As such, many have followed my grandfather’s pattern. They’ve taken chances when it wasn’t strictly necessary. And they’ve avoided taking chances when the situation could have called for it.
While I understand the sentiment, I also find it a bit baffling.
Are we really that comfortable with spinning the wheel on those First Level Risks, with their massive opportunity costs? And if we are, shouldn’t the Second Level Risks seem doubly enticing?
The answers tend to be Yes and No, respectively. But it’s time we flip them around.
It’s time to listen to reason. It’s time to follow common sense. It’s time to manage our risk tolerance.
We have less to lose with Second Level Risks than we do with First Level ones.
So, let’s stop throwing away a good thing in pursuit of more. And let’s take the calculated risks we need to fix something that’s gone rotten.
This is the sensible way to make decisions. It’s about time we adhered to it.