Impulse control--it's a good thing

For some reason, in the past few weeks, I've been grateful that the inhibition center of my brain is fully functioning. I have these random thoughts that, were it not for my brain putting the brakes on these terrible (but usually funny-to me anyway) ideas, I would be that awkwardly weird classmate/friend/family member that constantly halts the conversation (hey...maybe I already am that person...).

Some real-world examples.

I was sitting in my Perception Psych class and the teacher was droning on about visual systems in various animals. I was trying to pay attention, but found the content of the lecture, the manner of the lecture, and the sequence of the lecture DRY and boring. The professor asked for another example of an animal with extremely keen telescopic vision, and my immediate thought was, "Unicorns." It made me inwardly giggle. And for the rest of class I desperately wanted to answer his questions, any question, with, "Unicorns."

Last night, I was in a Prepping for College Teaching class and the teacher was pontificating on the importance of promoting critical thinking in our students, but acknowledging that sometimes students just don't want to apply themselves and blah blah blah. When she asked, "What would be a good way to instill motivation in your students?" Out of nowhere, my thought was, "Death Threats." (funny, huh? I laughed too...and started thinking of various motivating death threats I could make to college students.)

Thinking about inhibition reminds me of an experience that I had last Christmas at our Church Christmas party. We had met in the basement at a ward member's house and were all sitting around listening to some spiritual talks about the Nativity--Mary, Joseph, the Wise Men, etc. One of them talked about the shepherds. The room was quiet, there was a hush as he talked about the Angel visiting the shepherds in the fields with the flocks. His voice was almost a whisper as he talked about the shepherds who came to kneel before the baby Jesus. And he asked, very sincerely and very poetically, "And what would you do before the baby Jesus?" And, out of nowhere, I thought (in song...), "I'd play my drum for him, pa-rum-pum-pum-pum."

Ha...still makes me laugh. I'm glad I don't have inward impulse control, because then I would never get to have these ridiculous thoughts.

Anyhow, gratitude for impulse control. That's what is on my mind today.

Juxtaposed

So, I recently finished a fantastic little read: Warriors Don't Cry, by Melba Patillo Beals. Melba was one of the "Little Rock Nine" who bravely integrated Little Rock, Arkansas' Central High School in the late 1950's. Her story is one of honesty and bravery in the face of a decision that made her, her friends, and her family very unpopular. It was humbling to reflect on these amazing nine students and the impact their example ultimately had on the world at large. Could they have known the magnitude of what they were doing at the time? I hope that, if they didn't feel it then, that they have since felt the gratitude people such as me feel for the cost they paid to set an amazing example. Truly inspiring. Read it. It will confirm the perspective that we all should just simply be nice to each other. Regardless.

After I finished the book, I needed a new book to read. Gone With the Wind was suggested as I've never read it, and it's a great American love story. Can I tell you that, after having read the story of the Little Rock Nine and the racial injustices they endured for the sacrifice of integration, Margaret Mitchell's depiction of the Slaves on Tara actually made me physically wince? It did.

I'll let you know what I think of the love story part.

What I've been up to

These days, any given night/hour/minute, you can find me here.At my desk, reading, reading, reading. This semester, I have ladled oodles of new information into the pot that is my brain, and for now it just feels like a pile of gloppy mush sloshing around my noggin. Concepts flitting about in the space between my ears longing to spill out and be forgotten forever. But I hope that, in time, I will make sense of latent trait analyses, lexical restructuring models and the motor theory of speech perception. I hope that, in time, I will be able to awe my peers and superiors with my organized brilliance and insight. I will wow the scientific community with groundbreaking theoretical models and processes.

Someday.

For now, I just read. And read. And read.

It's in the genes...

This is my sister, Rebekah (a few years ago...).

She’s basically fabulous. How do I know? For starters, she is four years my senior and had to share a room and a bed with me for much of our childhood and she never complained about it. Ever. I would often bemoan my ill-fated sentence of sharing a room with her but grossly underappreciated her kindness and patience with sharing a room and a bed with a pesky little sister. Seriously, she’s fabulous.

There are certain Rebekah-isms that characterized memorable moments of our childhood that I think of and remember with great fondness. Such Rebekah-isms include Rebekah bursting into opera (frequently), Rebekah’s complaint that “you’re pulling my skin!”, Rebekah’s “cleanliness is next to Godliness” family home evening lesson, and the fact that she could not travel nor eat at the dinner table without having her feet up. I remember many a car trip and/or dinner table interaction that included, “Rebekah, put your feet down please” to the oft-repeated response, “But I can’t. I need to have my feet up. It’s not comfortable to have them down!” Repeat (for our entire childhood). In fact, when I think of her at the dinner table, I always see the crook of her knee at her shoulder and when I think of her in her assigned seat in the van (back seat, door side), there are her feet crossed and propped up on the seat in front of her (much to the chagrin and annoyance of my other sister whose assigned seat was directly in front of Rebekah).

A few weeks ago, I had the unexpected and delightful opportunity to ride in a van for 12+ hours with my fabulous sister and her and her husband’s great kiddos.
What a treat! I enjoyed the trip immensely. Imagine my surprise when, not 50 miles down the road, I heard from the back seat, “Jacob, put your feet down!” and the quick oh-so-familiar response, “I need to have my feet up!”

I could not squelch the burble of laughter from me. If only they could understand how delightfully hilarious they were.

Highlight of My Week

All last week, this note hung on the office door across the hallway from me.

What she meant to say was that she was in the Home Economics building, room 11. But, something about those happy tulips and peppy handwriting and unfortunate miscommunication just made me chuckle everytime I walked out my door.

Epiphany

I love epiphanies. I love discovering them, I love that exhilirating, all-consuming AHA! feeling you get when you have them. Even the word "epiphany" is fantastic. Go ahead and say it a couple of times. It feels good. e-PIFF-uh-knee. Just a great word.

I have had some memorable epiphanies in my life. They have run the gamut from the eternally significant (spiritually life-changing) to the mundane (learning in 8th-grade that I don't actually have to participate in stupid getting-to-know-you games--nothing will happen to you if you don't!) to those that allow me to embrace being ME (I don't like backpacking. And that's okay.).

I recently had an epiphany. It turns out that when I go to Art Museums, I am less interested in the Art and more interested in the people looking at the Art. I have known for a long-time that I am an avid people watcher, and while I have tried valiantly to appreciate any and all Art, it turns out that I am much better at appreciating People. And, that's okay.

Now, don't get me wrong, there is Art that I know and love. But, people. People. They're just so fascinating. While I was appreciating the Art at The Art Institute of Chicago recently, I found myself in a room with several works by Monet. I like Monet because a) I can recognize his work, 2) it really is stunningly beautiful, and d) I like impressionism because it seems uppercrust artistic, but even I can enjoy it. But, I digress. As I wandered the room appreciating the Art, I noticed a man studying Water Lilies.

And thus began the People watching.

He looked to be in his seventies or eighties.

He was alone.

He wandered from painting to painting, apparently unattached to anyone.

And he was carrying a purse.

Why?

I kept him in sight for several rooms because I was dying to know whether or not the purse he carried belonged to someone or if he was unaware that most men don't sport girly leather purses? Had he decided, in his older years, that he didn't care what the rest of the world thought--he would carry a purse if he wanted to? Was he being chivalrous by carrying the heavy bag for a wife that didn't seem to be around?

I had so many questions. I eventually lost sight of him and was left to wonder about my purse carrying man-friend.

But, no. Two hours later, three floors later, and a whole lot of Art and People later, I spotted him again. Ah, there we go.

Although this picture doesn't adequately depict it, their interaction did suggest they were husband and wife. As they silently moseyed from one room to the next, it was evident they were both comfortable and at ease in their respective going-to-the-art-museum roles. He, unashamedly carrying her purse, she walking, standing, staring, studying. Just after I snapped this picture, they walked out of the room arm in arm, clearly content in who they were as individuals and as a couple.

And, as more of a People appreciating person at an Art museum than an Art appreciating person, I, too, am comfortable and at ease in my going-to-the-art-museum role.

Welcome Aboard Flight 263 to....Chicago!

So, a few days ago I returned from a fabulous little excursion to Chicago with a friend. She was there to present a paper at a conference, needed someont to go with her, and being the kind person that I am, I consented to go. It was a real sacrifice. While we were there, we went to the top of the Sears Tower (which is now the Willis Tower, did you know that? I think it should still be called the Sears Tower, but no one asks my opinion on these things...), ate fabulous food, and saw Topol as Tevye in Fiddler on the Roof (but that's another story).

But, a first on this trip was flying on Southwest Airlines, which resulted in my first experience with "open seating".

On traditional flights with assigned seating, I usually request the window. I like watching the landforms change outside as I fly across the country and I like having the side of the plane to lean my head against while I nap.

Open seating is basically a first-come, first-serve seating system wherein those who board early take the window and aisle seats and those who board later (read: ME) are left to squish in the middle seat, much to the annoyance and irritation of aforementioned first-came, first-served folk. As those who board later (read: ME) climb over/on/in front of/around the aisle dweller, they are usually met with glares, much hmmphing from the annoyed passengers they have interfered with and are left to fumble for the seatbelt which is inevitably under the derrieres of said aisle/window seatmates. It’s not all that pleasant.

But, here’s the real reason for my post. On this trip of open-seating, I had a lot of time and reason to think about seatmate etiquette.

Observation #1. Had I to do it again, even though the row I happened to select was the exit row (score! More legroom!), I would be much more cognizant of the people between whom I am going to sit. In this case, it was two men—one middle-aged, the other slightly more middle-aged—who were engaged in a loud and monotonous conversation about used cars. The aisle guy was a used car salesman from whom the window guy was insistent on getting used-car-buying-tips for the entire flight. Leaning around me and talking loudly over the whirr of the airplane the entire flight. Comparing notes and quotes for the entire flight. I saw them engaged in conversation before I sat down, and although this should have been the cue to head for another row, I realized this all too late—namely, as soon as I had my seatbelt buckled.

Observation #2. I have strong opinions about armrest etiquette. Or, perhaps we ought to call it “armrestiquette” (ha! I love that idea…). Let me pose a scenario: if you were a person sitting in either the window or aisle seat, where you readily have two armrests at your disposal, would you kindly concede the shared armrest to the poor soul in the middle who has neither a window nor an aisle to stretch out/lean against/enjoy the flight? Of course you would. My seat buddies thought otherwise. Both of them had their piggy little arms firmly planted on both armrests for the duration of the flight. The entire flight.

Observation #3. Personal space, although limited in the confines of an airplane, should carefully be maintained. In relation to the armrestiquette issue, the guy sitting in the aisle seat had little-to-no personal space. In addition to hogging the armrest, his feet kept veering into my space, he kept digging in his bulging pockets which meant his knees/hips/elbows kept bumping into me and to top it off, he had unruly armhair that kept tickling my arms.

Observation #4. An adjunct of the previous observation, when on an airplane, the seat pocket in front of you is to stow your items such as books, mp3 players, and other personal devices. YOUR personal items. One of my seatmates (yep, the aisle guy), used his seat pocket AND my seat pocket for his garbage (which included his crumpled up used-car inventory lists he was sorting through to show the great deals to the window guy and his old newspaper) and more than one used-car quote book (how much stuff do you bring on a plane, anyway?).

Observation #5. The only people for whom open-seating is a bonus are privileged fliers (business class, premiere folks, etc. etc.) and those flying with children (although, to be honest, anyone flying with small children has my sincerest pity.). Because they get to board early, they have their pick of the airplane! The rest of us are left to fight for anything but the crappy middle seat, dreading that we will find ourselves next to a hairy-armed used car salesman who hogs the armrest.

Your next seatmate

(image courtesy: Swiftian on photobucket)