In this age of heightened security, I’ve heard that the authorities might be monitoring the telephone conversations of ordinary citizens like me. If they are listening in on my cell calls to my wife, I have two words for them.
Good. Luck.
Really.
Our conversations are non-linear in the same way that tires are non-square, fish are non-mammals, and beefsteak tomatoes are non-meat. For example, imagine that I wanted to tell my wife I’d set up an appointment to have the lawn-chemical warfare guys spray the foundation for bugs.
I pay them to do this every Fall even though I’m not convinced it actually works. For all I know the big hose on their truck is actually connected to a tank filled with leftover cologne that stores couldn’t unload on Father’s Day. If I got down close and sniffed, my house might smell of off-brand aftershave like Old Splice, Tommy Hilfinger, or Huge Old Boss. It might repel the bugs for the same reason these scents repel anyone over the age of eight. Or maybe there never were any bugs to begin with. Or there might be a huge army of bugs massed on the far side of the fence just waiting for the year that I forget to tell my wife the be ready to let the lawn-chemical warfare guys into the backyard. That’s why it’s vitally important for me to call her and tell her to expect them promptly between nine and three tomorrow.
In any kind of rational universe, I’d dial her number and say, “Honey, please hang around the house for six hours waiting for the lawn guys to come by with their truck to spray the foundation.” You might think I’d be more effective if I waited to speak until after she picked up the phone. Surprisingly, that’s not the case.
She’ll answer and say, “Oh, I was just thinking about you.”
“Really? Anything in particular?”
“Yeah. I was thinking I’d like you to stop at the store. We’re almost out of coffee creamer. You know the kind I like…that foreign one.”
“French Vanilla?”
“No. That other one.”
“Irish Cream?”
“No. You know. The one I always get.”
“English toffee?”
“Yeah! The foreign one.”
We’ll spend the next ten minutes going over the minutia of household management until we find ourselves at the obligatory I-love-yous and hang up. Much later, while I’m staring at the dairy case trying to remember whether she wanted the Belgian Chocolate or the Crème Brulee creamer, I’ll realize I forgot to mention the foundation spraying appointment. So, I’ll call her again, rationalizing that I have to repeat the whole “foreign creamer” conversation anyway. At this point, the odds are fifty-fifty that I’ll remember the appointment. Scientists at the Cummings Imaginary Scientific Studies Institute (pronounced “sissy”) have a name for this phenomenon. They call it the “Preferred Outcome Obfuscation Field” or POOF for short.
The POOF is an energy field created by all living things. It surrounds us and penetrates us. It binds the galaxy together.
Oh. Wait. That’s the Force.
The POOF is much more devious. It’s what gets in your way and keeps you from accomplishing your goals; sort of like if the Force had a clumsy kid brother. You can’t avoid it and you can’t ditch it.
Consider this actual example from your own personal life. Think about the last time you tried mowing the lawn. No big deal, right? You’ve got the lawn, you’ve got the mower, you’ve got the gas. You did remember the gas … didn’t you? After last time you mowed, it was a little low and you were going to refill it, right? No sweat. You just need to drive to the gas station and fill the gas can. All you’ve got to do is find you car keys which are … ? Now where did they go? Did they get left in the slacks you dropped off at the cleaner’s? No. You wouldn’t have been able to drive home. So where did they go?
You see? It started out as a simple, straightforward chore and — POOF! — six hours later you’re digging through the recycling bin hoping to find your keys and wondering where all the of diet soda cans are coming from since it’s just two of you in the house now and neither of you drinks diet soda.
Or is that just me?
If the POOF was a small, localized phenomenon like a dust devil it wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Unfortunately, it’s bigger than that. The POOF rolls over your whole life rearranging your plans the way a tornado re-arranges a cornfield.
In high school, I suffered from the illusion that I wanted to study medicine. Then I realized — POOF! — the sight of blood made me woozy and since blood was a major part of medicine I might be better off in a less body-fluid intensive field. The POOF wasn’t done with me yet, though. It swirled me right into Elementary Education which has a surprisingly high body-fluid quotient, but gets none of the respect of medical practice.
That same teenaged version of myself entertained fantasies of fast cars and supermodels. POOF! My college self graduated with a rattletrap Ford Granada that didn’t last and a loving marriage that has. (Once in a great while you luck out with the POOF!)
As new parents we dreamed of raising our children surrounded by art and culture and sophistication. We planned to expose them to the great museums and cultural landmarks of the world. Then … POOF! We had to trade the travel and culture budget for pediatric visits and school clothes and a staggering quantity of Pokemon and Star Wars school supplies and lunch boxes.
Now, the boys are starting their own lives and — POOF!– we’re empty-nesters; watching from a distance while our sons learn about POOF! for themselves.
