This week, I had the unfortunate opportunity to be in the emergency room with my favorite pet, waiting to be seen. A woman sitting right across from me engaged me in conversation – she had a dog named Bella and I have a dog named Bella at home (not the pet at the hospital). She loved purple and had a purple phone and a purple leash on Bella. I love purple and had my purple purse and sweatshirt with me. She just returned from a cruise that she hated and still felt seasick from, and I went on a cruise where I felt sick for weeks afterward.
On the radio show I Iisten to every morning, they have a “Brain Strain”. It’s a question that listeners call in to guess the answer to. Recently they had a question for single men about why they left the last girl they were dating. The resounding answer, over 50%, said “too much baggage.”
It’s that time of year again – the time when I get the “reviews” from my students on how I have performed as their teacher. Reading the comments is a fascinating experience for me. One student says, “This teacher is the best one in this school,” while another one says, “This teacher has no personality and is difficult to understand.” How can the best teacher in the school have no personality? Some students claim this is a life-changing course, and others claim it is boring and useless.
It feels good, doesn’t it? When someone says to you, “You were right.” We like to have our expertise, our opinion, and our perspective validated. Sometimes we feel almost prescient – “I just knew he was going to be a creep!” Or “I thought something funny was going on at work; now I know the business is in trouble.”
This week I read about a cute new book that’s out for children. It’s called “I’m Like You, You’re Like Me”, by Cindy Gainer. I’ve not read it, but apparently it’s to help children understand and value the ways in which they are the same and also different. Reading the title brought me around to the work I do in behavioral and values (motivators). The truth is that we aren’t like one another, at least from the outward appearances of what we convey and how we talk about what is important to us.
One of the most upbeat songs I remember from my youth was “You Make Me Feel Like Dancing,” sung by Leo Sayer. The tune was peppy, the words were great, and I used to love to sing along at the top of my lungs as it played on the radio. The idea that someone in my life could make me feel so thrilled and exuberant was, as a child, always such a hopeful idea.