BLAME THE BRAIN

           
Sitting on an airplane got me to thinking about space. No, not the vast space of the floating astronauts, but rather the crammed cabin space afforded an airplane passenger. Why is it so uncomfortable to be jammed close to a stranger?

Anthropologist, Edward T. Hall, set forth the notion of personal space in 1966, when he introduced the concept of proxemics, describing the physical distances people try to keep from one another. He broke it down into: intimate space, personal space, social space and public space.  Later scientists discovered a brain structure called the amygdalae in each temporal lobe that controls fear and the processing of emotion.

So, when someone says, “Get out of my face!” They are not just being rude; it’s their amygdalae talking. The intimate zone is reserved for lovers, close friends, children and some family members (unless they are “Get-out-of-my-face relatives). Personal space is a bit more complicated. It depends on what distance is comfortable for you. It involves setting boundaries. If you are talking to someone, and they take a step back, it’s a tip off that you are invading their personal space.

President Lyndon Johnson would get his way by backing an adversary into a wall, and confronting him nose to nose. Personal space is also affected by a person’s position in society. Rich people expect a lot of personal space. That’s why they prefer a limousine to a subway at rush hour.

The first time I rode a subway at rush hour in New York, I stood hanging on to an overhead strap, and a little man with a beard rested his chin on my arm. There was nowhere for me to escape, except to imagine that I was on the Mongolian steppes instead of a subway. Even rich people don’t go there.

By replicating, “The dining room place setting experiment,” you can test the---“Too close for comfort” theory. When everyone is seated at the table, slowly move your water glass, and then your cutlery, and plate into your neighbor’s space. Eventually, he will move his place setting.

My husband’s, Uncle Max was an expert in invading social space. He hated asparagus. At one dinner party, when the stranger on his left was engaged in conversation, with the person on her left, he surprised her by dumping his asparagus on her plate. She kept right on talking and eating, and never knew what hit her space. 

 Social space is reserved for conversation with friends, a chat with associates or group discussions. I’m sure there is an overlap of invasion here when someone gets too close for comfort at a cocktail party. One woman managed to splash red wine on my shoes, while at the same time spitting on my silk dress. I don’t remember the gossip, but it was juicy.

The last invasion of space is public space. Ever spread your blanket on a deserted beach. For some reason, that is an invitation for a family with bratty children to plop next to you, while kicking sand on both you and your space.

When someone cuts in front of you, at a checkout line at the grocery store, you might want to try standing very close to that person. Push that cart as close as you can. It won’t make the line move faster, but with will play havoc with his amygdalae.  And, if you want to really test the theory of public space, the next time you get on an elevator, instead of not making eye contact and facing the doors, try facing the people on the elevator and say, “We have to stop meeting like this!”  But be sure to get off on the next floor.

Esther Blumenfeld (“I’m the only person standing between Richard Nixon and the White House.”) John Kennedy

GETTING OFF THE FENCE

I recently realized that I have fallen into the trap of over thinking---worrying too much about the future---about decisions that I may or may not have to make. I have vowed to stop driving my friends crazy. I have made the decision that by not making a decision, I am making a decision. Richard Bach said, “The best way to avoid responsibility is to say, “I’ve got responsibilities.” However, like it or not, everyday we are confronted with choices.

A newly wed once told me, “Being married is great! Finally, I can have cheese and popcorn for dinner without my mother scolding me.” Often choices involve how much you want to get out of your comfort zone. As far as I know, the young bride never fed her husband some crispy grasshoppers, but, sadly, the marriage didn’t last.

Mr. Google gives us these rules for making decisions:

1. Thank about what you are doing before you do it. My husband and I came to Tucson in the summer. The temperature was 105 degrees. We bought a house in a week.
2. Avoid rash decisions. When our son, Josh asked us. “What did you do on your vacation?” My husband said, “We bought a house.”
3. Don’t over think. It causes stress.  Our son was speechless for the first time in his life.
4. Trust yourself and have faith in your instincts. We loved our realtor, Diane. She invited us to her home for a party. She and her husband went to San Diego for the rest of the summer, and we stole many of their friends.

I always told my son, “Are you going to regret the choices you made, or the ones you didn’t make? Follow your dreams while you are young,” Consequently; he pursued careers in science, journalism, flying, theatre, meteorology, and television. As a former Science Writer for NASA, he has been able to combine many of his past experiences, and he better never say, “I wish I had.” Flying lessons were, of course, the hardest on his parents.  When I asked him, “How are the lessons coming along?”  He said, “Great!” but I have to perfect my landings.” A mother does not want to hear that!

Everything in life is timing. Playing the, “Would’a, Could’a, Should’a“ game is not productive. There is no time machine to send us back. The best I can figure out is that it is always a good idea to base my choices on the facts at hand rather than fiction, and to see the big picture.  If that doesn’t work, I can always toss a coin.

Mark Twain said, “People fall into three categories: Those who make things happen. Those who watch things happen. And, those who are left to ask, ‘What happened?’” 

Esther Blumenfeld (“ If Pavlov tested his cat, he would have failed.”) Patrick H.T. Doyle

GARBAGE DISPOSAL

When I was a little girl in the 1940’s my Mother would wrap the family garbage in our daily newspaper. That’s because plastic didn’t become affordable, or mass produced, until after WWII, and that led to a boon for consumers in the 1950’s.  Now, garbage can be disposed of in big plastic bags.

GARBAGE—wet organic waste from the kitchen, and TRASH—non-organic waste going to a landfill are terms often used interchangeably.  Of course, RECYCLING is a whole different process involving material for re-use. However,  paper can’t be reused to create new trees.
However, words can be recycled as information, and information can be disseminated either in written form or verbally. 

Consequently, verbal communication is often referred to as, “Talking Garbage.” This involves speech filled with useless, insulting and often dishonest or disparaging communication used to intimidate opponents.  And then there is, “Trash Talk” talking RUBBISH—obvious nonsense that makes no sense at all— purposefully meant to confuse. 

The definition of RUBBISH is, “unwanted things.” In speech it is useless talk that lacks meaning. In Britain  (excuse the language of the Brits) “Talking Shit” means, “Talking Utter RUBBISH.” 

If a person only speaks RUBBISH, 100% of people will eventfully think of him like they think of their overfilled GARBAGE. It’s time to dump the useless. We can’t wrap him into a newspaper and put him in a bin, but we can stop and listen to what’s being said.

We can begin to listen to people whose words mean something.  It’s called THE TRUTH.

Esther Blumenfeld

WHAT GOES UP MUST COME DOWN

Being reasonably intelligent, I figured out that after four months of driving my faithful old Saturn, as little as possible, it was time to feed it some gasoline. So, I drove to the station closest to my apartment.

I parked in front of the pump, took out my credit card, and followed the pump instructions.  All went well. Then came additional instructions: 
 
 Pick the Gas you want. I picked the cheapest.
 Insert the nozzle. I inserted.  THEN—-
Squeeze the handle.

I squeezed but nothing came out.  

Suddenly, I felt a shower on my pumping arm.  I was so happy!  It was finally raining.  I looked up and sure enough it was raining!  It was raining gasoline! The hose was not connected to the pump, and I was getting a gasoline shampoo.  

As I waved the unattached hose at other customers, , I shouted, “No one light a cigarette.  This sucker isn’t connected.” “Please get some help.”  A few drivers looked at the insane lady, and just did not understand my predicament, but finally a smart fellow said, “I’ll get someone for you.”

An attendant ran out of the building, and as she attempted to connect the hose, I ran into the station to wash off my arm.  When I returned, She said, “Try it now.” Since, I had little confidence in her attachment skills, I moved my car to another pump, as she  said, “Someone obviously drove off with the hose connected.” 

Well, that reasoning process didn’t call for a nuclear physicist. I didn’t think that a customer had climbed up the post and screwed off the hose connection at the top. However, the person who did it was really a jerk—in more ways than one!

Esther Blumenfeld

SENSE AND NON SENSE

All my writing life, people have asked me, ”Where do you get your ideas?” And my answer has always been, “Ideas are easy, but executing them in a new way is not!” Today’s article will give those of you who might be interested, a peek into this writer’s cockamamie thought process.

A week ago, a friend innocently said, “That doesn’t make any sense.”  I can’t remember what she was referring to, but the words started churning in my brain. After that, I started listening more carefully to what people were saying, and, “What makes sense?” became my creative priority.

For instance, it makes no sense to argue with someone who doesn’t want facts to get in the way of his opinion. This is the same person who orders chicken fingers for lunch. Think about it!

A fictional story has to make sense, but life does not. For me, it makes sense to be an optimist. Being positive makes life more fun, even though I admit that I don’t have control over most things.

Hiking in the mountains by myself gives me time for contemplation and occasionally an adventure. Yesterday, I saw two men staring intently at something over a low wall. “What do you see?” I asked. One man said, “We are looking at a mountain lion’s footprint.” 

I looked over the wall and saw a hole about the size of a basketball. There were shoe prints to the left of the hole. I knew that if that hole had been what those men thought it was, the elephant sized, mountain lion would have been hopping around on one toeless paw, after devouring a couple of sneaker wearing tourists.
Their discovery made as much sense as a sighting of Big Foot.

As I continued my walk, I spied a rider atop a beautiful, majestic horse on the trail ahead of me. After they disappeared from view, I noticed that the horse (it made no sense that it was the rider) left a massive mound of manure in my path. Notwithstanding the delightful alliteration, it made no sense at all for me to look a gift horse in the mouth, so I climbed some rocks to avoid the souvenir.  I knew from experience that some clueless joggers coming around the bend would soon re-arrange the terrain. 

When passing fellow hikers, a hearty, “Good Morning!” (unless it’s afternoon) is acceptable behavior on the trail. Most people leave it at that, but a few folks think that a simple, “Hello,” gives them license to share life’s intimate details with absolute strangers. I don’t know these people and it makes no sense why someone would do that. This morning, my simple greeting encouraged a man from Michigan (that of course explains nothing) to tell me that his neurosurgeon wanted to remove his intestines to operate on his back.  I suggested that he find a surgeon with a better sense of direction. The exchange made no sense at all unless he thought I was a gastroenterologist, but then, I don’t even carry a hiking stick.

So now you know how my brain works. Scary! Isn’t it!

Esther Blumenfeld (“The universe never did make sense. I suspect it was built on government contracts.” Robert A. Heinlein)