Last Saturday I squeezed ten mostly unrelated friends into my tiny studio apartment. They drank my drinks, they annoyingly touched my things, the usual. But as they sat on my bed, my desk, my counter and a rogue table which usually holds up several tons of not-quite-dirty clothes from the abyss of the floor, they complained about the lack of ergonomically correct devices they referred to as “chairs.”
Everyone has his or her faults. I certainly have mine. Lord knows, you have a slew of your own — don’t think going to Cornell erases them, if anything, it exacerbates them. The figurative cracks in everyone’s armor, though, define who and what they are — for better or for worse — while simultaneously making them human. I find that it is not the flawed multitudes that are the most disagreeable, but those few devoid of apparent “issues” or psychoses.
Lately I have been thinking a good deal about the content of individuals’ character. No, not because Monday was Martin Luther King Day, or because yesterday Obama effectively ended racism in America when he was sworn in, but because my sister Alexandra is newly engaged.
“To whom?” you ask.