Someone I Am Not

Every now and then I feel a faint, uneasy wish to be Someone I Am Not. Among other things, I dream of having an intellectual mind that could remember which generals fought on which side during the Civil War, or which US presidents served when, or what continent Malawi is on. I would like to be able to contribute in an intelligent manner to philosophical conversations and identify literary references on demand. I would be so proud if I had a massive vocabulary and could spell Kyrgyzstan with ease and had the brilliance to write revolutionary books.

I picture another world of ideas and words and beautiful thoughts that only a select pale and bushy-haired few tap into.

In contrast, my life is full of laundry and lunches and labor, and that other world mostly sits on a cloud on the horizon, out of reach.

Sometimes I decide there is no excuse for being so ignorant, so I force myself to plod through a thick book on history or a difficult classic that I hope will transform my life, but I still can’t keep the war generals straight or remember enough other facts to impress myself.

Last weekend my friend Shilah and I drove to Oregon to attend a writer’s conference. One of the speakers mentioned something about spending a few days “hobnobbing with intellectuals.”

Well! This was a new thought to me. Were we intellectuals? I thought of how hard it was for me to admit to wanting to be there at all because am I actually a writer? And exactly how embarrassing is it to be pretending?

But how fun to think that I was sharing a bench with that nebulous group of humans with magnificent minds, even if I was only pretending to belong. I settled in happily to listen and improve my mind.

My phone buzzed in my book bag. “I just don’t know what to do with this yogurt.”

I typed out instructions for straining the yogurt, feeling a little guilty for playing hooky and a lot grateful for the people carrying on without me at home.

My phone kept buzzing throughout the day:

“Anything on the gym?”

“Would this work for pimples?”

“What’s in it? Do you know?”

“Where is that meat you were talking about?”

“!!!!!!!!”

“Do you want both casseroles?”

Between answering questions from home, I wrote notes as fast as I could, soaked up information that I will probably forget, and visited with intellectuals.

And then Shilah and I booked it for home. We ate ice cream when we knew we shouldn’t, and Shilah bought bubble gum when we got sleepy. We blew bubbles like a couple of ten-year-olds, laughed at small things, and forgot to pretend anything.

I’m back home again, content enough to let the intellectuals do their thing without me. I will be here dealing with pimples and casseroles and gyms and yogurt, and I will be happy about it.

It’s the people willing to do the hard work of living who make the world go around, after all.

Those Civil War generals, though. I might still work on getting them straight.