Okay, I've figured out another piece of the puzzle:
A competitive nature is not always beneficial to one's goals.
I realized this recently - quite recently - when a buddy cleared up my eye doctor confusion.
I hadn't been able to see for years. I had glasses. I had contacts. I had reading glasses for use over my contacts. But I never could seem to see clearly even though I truly wanted to see clearly.
And going to the eye doctor just really wasn't the helpful therapeutic experience I had always hoped it would be.
"Doctor, I can't see."
"Here, try these magic contacts perfectly sculpted specifically for your eyes..."
"Oh, doctor! I can see now!!"
No. That doesn't quite capture my experience.
Everytime I went to the eye doctor, the same thing happened:
"Close your right eye and tell me which line you can read."
Having only experienced such ocular consultations on a solo basis, I had no idea how other individuals react to this directive.
And being a slightly competitive, driven, perhaps compulsive person, I always assumed the task was to be approached like a test. "Tell me which line you can read" was really "I bet you can't read the lowest line on the chart."
And man...you make a bet that I can't do something? I'll do it. Or you'll die trying. You'll die just trying to put up with my obsession for accomplishing the task.
So I always closed my right eye. I would then proceed to squint and squeeze my left eye until I could make out basic shapes. Distorting my face helped immensely. I would mix variations of facial positions with different levels of eye squinting until I could see enough shadows to eliminate letters.
"No, that shape's not circular. So that eliminates C, D, G, O, P, Q and U."
"No, there's no fuzziness in the middle of that letter, so it probably doesn't contain a little horizontal bar like A, B, E, F, H, K, R or S."
Usually, it only took me about a half hour or so to identify one or two letters.
But sometimes I would cheat a little.
"The second one's not a number, r-i-g-h-t?" I would always add a flirtatious little chuckle, encouraging the eye doctor to provide a bit of lite assistance.
Ultimately, I would leave the eye doctor's office completely drained. But I always knew I had done my best. I always managed to eke out a bit of the lowest line. I always emerged a champion, having won the battle.
I also invariably emerged with the wrong prescription. And I never understood why. I just assumed that I was meant to see the world in a fuzzy gray where every street sign was just a confused jumble of green and white and wiggly shadows hovered and danced behind every word on my computer screen.
I just figured that nobody could really see clearly.
And then one night I was ranting and raving about the eye doctor. For a change.
But reading the lowest line wasn't my issue that night. That night, my irrational obsession regarded the closing of the left eye.
"Now, close your left eye and tell me which line you can read."
I couldn't believe this set of instructions! How could I be asked to read a chart for which I had just discussed the answers relative to my other eyeball's performance? Didn't the eye doctor know I was swift enough to memorize the lines?? My god! What kind of test was this and how many patients were getting away with obvious and unethical cheating on a grand scale??
It was incomprehensible to me.
Luckily, it was also incomprehensible to my buddy.
Not the scam at the eye doctor's office, but my apparent misunderstanding of the directive.
My buddy suggested - quite carefully, lest I explode - that the goal of the eye chart exercise is not to test the patient, but to guide the eye doctor. My buddy explained that "what line can you read" isn't actually a dare, but a query into which line I can see comfortably. Without squinting. Without distortion. Without the extreme muscularfacial manipulation which makes me resemble the elephant man.
Several months later - after my regular walking pace had slowed to one mile per three hours because of the frequent stops necessary to focus on the path in front of me and check for steps or other obstacles I couldn't see - I returned to the eye doctor.
This time, it was a new eye doctor.
And I was a completely new patient.
I was there to assist the eye doctor. We were on the same team. We both wanted the same thing. We shared the common goal of making me see. We were one.
When the question was inevitably asked, I requested clarification for assurance.
"Do you mean which line can I see comfortably without squinting or completely distorting my face?"
I'm sure I was voted the favorite patient that day.
To make a long story short, I could only read the second line...the one with jumbo letters. It took about two seconds. I shaved about twenty nine minutes and fifty eight seconds off of my average answering time. It was an ocular PR.
And I got a new prescription based on the diagnosis that my eyesight sucks (although the official diagnosis was perhaps a little more technical).
I walked out of the eye doctor's office with new lenses. For the first time ever, I was fully able to see where my car was parked. I think I may have screamed when I realized I could read the license plate without asking for help.
And the story's over.
Or rather, the story would be over had I not relived the experience last week.
It wasn't the eye doctor this time, though. This time it was just a date. Just a really nice dinner with a really nice guy who really innocently asked if I was romantic.
It was just an innocent question.
I know that now.
But, at the time, I forgot we were on the same team. I forgot we both wanted the same thing. I forgot that we shared a common goal.
I thought it was a test.
So I challenged the rules.
Old habits die hard.
"Romantic? How can anyone ask if anyone is romantic? What's the definition of romantic? One person's idea of romance may have nothing to do with another's. How can I even consider that question without further definition of terms? Please clarify your meaning and rephrase the question appropriately."
No. He didn't get up and leave.
Luckily, the really nice guy was also pretty quick on his feet. Or maybe that's his butt. We were, after all, sitting.
He challenged me back.
"Just answer the *&!%$ question!"
Of course my answer required an extensive briefing, an identification of terms, an explanation of assumptions and a list of contingent provisions. Had I been able to prepare more, I would have created a PowerPoint.
But, ultimately, I answered the question.
Yeah, maybe, quite possibly, in some ways, I'm romantic.
We would have had a cigarette at that point if either of us smoked. We had reached intellectual orgasm...a fulfilling - yet draining - meeting of the minds. Even if the amount of teeth pulled far exceeded the 32 in my mouth.
It wasn't until the next day that it occurred to me....sometimes the question is simple. Sometimes it's not a test.
And maybe, if I can just manage to answer the *&!%$ question, I'll end up playing on a winning team.