9.
Wired
When I got home, Blondie was studying in her room. As always, the TV and radio were on. She was typing on her laptop, and talking into the house phone while monitoring texts on her cell phone. I asked her how she could concentrate with all the distractions. She shrugged, typed another sentence, and asked me how I could write in the quiet ‘tomb’ of our basement. I thought how differently our brains had been wired. She had grown up with distractions and her mind was trained to focus on many things at once. Where she heard a band, I heard noise from too many instruments.
When I got home, Blondie was studying in her room. As always, the TV and radio were on. She was typing on her laptop, and talking into the house phone while monitoring texts on her cell phone. I asked her how she could concentrate with all the distractions. She shrugged, typed another sentence, and asked me how I could write in the quiet ‘tomb’ of our basement. I thought how differently our brains had been wired. She had grown up with distractions and her mind was trained to focus on many things at once. Where she heard a band, I heard noise from too many instruments.
Blondie reminded me how my wife and I were wired
differently when it came to alcohol. Where she might enjoy a single glass of
relaxation, I wanted a can of more. More
volume, more chaos, more than was good for me. And I always wanted more.
Just as I couldn’t think the way my daughter did, I
couldn’t drink the way my wife did. I just wasn’t wired for it.
Today I will accept I’m wired the way I’m
wired.
Writing My New Story © 2015 by Ken Montrose
(Just a
reminder: Writing My New Story is a
work of fiction. Any resemblance to
anyone you might know is purely coincidental.)
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