I Dream of Genetics

Despite my inability to skate, I think it might be fun to skate the Charles.
This photo has nothing to do with the blog.

Someone once told me they thought I would be a perfect fit to live in Florida because of my laid-back attitude and Florida is full of Jimmy Buffett clones. It was a stunning misjudgment of both my parents' home state and myself.

Anyone could be excused for thinking I wear Hawaiian shirts around town while humming "Don't Worry, Be Happy." I project that kind of attitude.

It's a front. I time everything in order to achieve maximum efficiency. I've clocked how long it takes to get home from the stoplight on Chelsea Street; it's about two minutes if you go left, three if you go right.

It's a 10-minute walk to Terminal A of Logan Airport, but I can jog it in six minutes. It takes five minutes to climb the stairs, run across the skyway to Terminal E, descend two flights of stairs and emerge out on the sidewalk in front of baggage claim.

If you're in line at Starbucks, the wait will be half as long if it's all men in front of you because they are more likely to order drip coffee than women. That's not something I can quantify for you but check it out the next time you're in line.

If you're in line at a grocery store, aim for the line with the fewest people in it because the act of paying is the most time-consuming part. That I can quantify.

You can thank my Dad for all this information. He didn't tell me any of that information, but it's his engineering nature that made me this way. Dad's an electronics engineer who worked at 3M. Give him a few palm fronds and some duct tape and he'll build you a rudimentary computer.

From time to time, I roll my eyes at him. That's what family does. Unlike friends, we have the courtesy to do it in broad view of the person causing the eye roll. More than my parents, I roll my eyes at myself because I have trouble stopping. In Salt Lake, I counted how many steps it took to walk a city block (about 300). While running, I pass the time on long straightaways by counting how many breaths I take in five minutes.

The Wife knows all this. That's why it was downright funny last night when she asked how long it took us to walk back home from the airport. I didn't know because I hadn't been timing. She was surprised. It was understandable, because we were coming home from a long weekend at my parents' house in Florida and she'd just had a fresh dose of Dad. It was late. I was tired. I didn't time the walk.

The trip to Florida did make me wish I lived closer to family, but every trip to Florida does that. This is not to say I wish I lived in Florida; I wish my family lived in New England.