My little life
September is always a new beginning
What I wrote is below.
It’s all about emotional intelligence for me: people who understand feelings. My Ma was like that. She had compassion down pat—hand on your head when she walked by, lunch when you were hungry, a snack when you were cranky—she was consistently emotionally engaged.
It seems strange to me that Ma had it and her first born didn’t. My oldest brother was extremely intellectual, but not very emotionally intelligent. Some of my colleagues at the university are like that too. There’s a lot of intellectual masturbation going on on college campuses. A lot.
Personally, I like to keep my masturbation and my intellectualizing separate, but I sometimes get cornered at a party or a cocktail bar by an emotional idiot with bad breath who’s eager to show me how intellectual he is. These guys try to impress me with their literary prowess. But quite honestly, I really don’t care if you’ve read everything by Dickens. Don’t get me wrong: he was an amazing, prolific, social commentator, but I’d rather talk about Kylie Minogue or baby elephants (that’s not entirely true; I could talk for hours about Toni Morrison, or James Baldwin, or Aaron Smith, but these intellectual masturbators who just want to talk about the dead white guys while they sip Tempranillo bore me to death).
I prefer to spend time with people who like to cook, who hug and kiss you goodbye, who flirt like pros, have nice smelling soap in the bathrooms, who spontaneously dance at a party and can teach anyone how to Salsa.
I like back rubbers and question askers and animated story tellers who wear interesting jewelry and enjoy cheese. I don’t really care if you gave a TED talk, or invented a new prescription drug, or know all the elements on the chart hanging in the chemistry lab. People who hurt rabbits and mice are not emotionally intelligent as far as I’m concerned.
Tell me about the biofuel you are working on, or the local urban gardening program you’ve just begun; take me to your favorite ice cream bar and get down on the sidewalk just outside with a French bulldog, and you’ve got my interest. That gives me something to think about.