I think too much

My department at work is the communications department. There are only six of us - five writers and a manager. Because of the nature of our work, we tend to be a bit intellectual - well-read, curious, educated.

By some fluke of office planning, we are an island of smart in a sea of people who process paperwork or make rote phone calls. It is truly Office Space.

As we left work today, Rachel and I were arguing about existentialism (how it came up is a long story). She brought up Sartre. I mentioned Kafka.

Then I noticed the bitch-girl from a few cubes over (honestly - she has a constant expression like she has been eating lemons) was looking at us as if we were talking ducks.

It reminded me of the time this physical therapist was encouraging me to exercise more and trying to figure out ways to get me to do it.

"What about your friends? Can't you get together with your friends and go for a run or play volleyball?" he asked, clearly envisioning his kind of friends, not mine.

"Dude," I answered. "We're intellectuals. We argue for exercise."

It took me decades to embrace my inner smart kid. I was in denial about being smarter than the average bear - I just thought most everyone else was hiding their intellect really, really well. Proclaiming intelligence always seemed so uppity and presumptious. Even now I am stressing about how to write this so I don't seem like a big jerk.

But you know that you're one of the smart ones, don't you?

Read Linkateria and make Mama happy.