I've never really had a definitive answer to the age-old question, "Is the glass half full or half empty?"
I know the way you answer that supposedly determines – or identifies – whether you're an optimist or a pessimist; but what would you be if you just can't answer that question without first having some other additional facts regarding the glass in question? To begin with, where did this glass even come from? Is it sitting on a counter beside a lunch plate? If so, I'd have to go with half full. Or, is it sitting in a sink? If that's the case, I'd go with half empty.
See, we don't live in a black-white world. There are always shades of gray that must be taken into consideration. If pressed, say, to look at a still life of the aforementioned glass and come up with an answer, I guess I'd go with half full. Glasses always start out empty; so whether the one in question, at one time, was full, doesn't matter. The glass is a vessel that has half its available capacity filled – keyword – filled with liquid. Half full.
That mental stream of consciousness is hardly screaming optimism, is it? When you hear optimism don't you generally think sun-shiny, upbeat and peppy? The way I arrived at 'half full' was anything but; no, my approach was more dogmatic – a tiresome, analytical drudgery. Welcome to my world!
I did realize the other day, though, and without the help of this psychological visual aid, that I am, without a doubt, an unwavering optimist. And the answer was right in front of me – for years – right in my own bathroom. Yes, bathroom.
See, every morning I typically go through the same personal hygiene regimen, day in and day out – every day – the same.
After brushing my teeth, I discard the junior-sized 3 oz.
I continue with my routine. For whatever reason, as I age, I now blow my nose after brushing my teeth. I pull up a tissue from the boutique box, then blow, crumple and toss into… you guessed it – the mind-numbing, elusive vortex of trash collection. I watch, almost with pride, as the tissue initially flies through the air, arcing at just the right moment to make a perfect two-pointer – SWISH – but then, for some inexplicable reason, it hooks off to the left and lands on the floor quite a few inches from its original destination. Huh?!? With a disgusted sigh, I bend over, pick up the tissue and place it in the can.
As the ENT portion of my morning ritual nears completion, after removing the towel from my head, I use Q-Tips to wipe the excess water from my ears. I swab, turn, swab again and then toss. Defying the Laws of Physics, these cotton-topped sticks perplex me the most. They actually make it in the can, but it's only for a second before "plink," and with that, they jump right back out and land on the floor! Huh?!? With a disgusted sigh, I bend over, pick up the Q-Tips and place them in the can.
Well, it dawned on me the other day that, in spite of my apparent deficiency in eye-hand coordination, the fact that I continually discard these items, expecting them to go into the wastebasket – even though history dictates that they won't – is the purest act of optimism there is.
Maybe that damn
Until the next time.