I wonder what it would be like to be a grasshopper. Imagine being able to jump 100 times your own height. That would mean I could jump onto the roof of a tall skyscraper. And if I missed, or if I crashed into the side of a neighbouring building, it wouldn’t hurt because my exoskeletal shell would protect me.
If I wanted, I could cling all day to a stalk of grass. And while I can’t say that my life would be carefree (given that I’d have to be wary of birds and frogs and other natural predators), still there would be moments of supreme pleasure as I swayed back and forth on the midday breeze. I think I’d be one of those grasshoppers given to stridulating all day long. I’d probably join an important community chorus, maybe the Mormon Tabernacle Stridulators.
And imagine looking at the world through multifaceted eyes. What a brain it must take to see a hundred different images of the same thing and compile them into a single coherent visual field. It’s like the James Webb telescope with its 18 separate mirrors. I might not be able to see to the edge of the universe, but I’d be able to see to the edge of my universe.
The only drawback of life as a grasshopper is that sex wouldn’t be terribly interesting. That’s the downside of an exoskeletal shell. While it protects you from injury, it makes you less sensitive to touch. I don’t know. Depending on your point of view, that might be an upside. If Donald Trump was a grasshopper, the women grasshoppers who worked for him wouldn’t have to worry so much: “You know I’m automatically attracted to beautiful grasshoppers—I just start kissing them. It’s like a magnet. Just kiss. I don’t even wait. And when you’re a star, they let you do it. You can do anything. Grab them by the shell. You can do anything.”
