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I'll never forget the day I realized that I was an idiot. It was two years ago, when I decided I could fix the leak in the toilet drain by pulling really hard on the plastic thingy attached to the flusher thingy and getting it to bend to a position where the stopper would completely cover the drain. Of course, the plastic thingy snapped and a jet of water shot six feet into the air, like in a Bugs Bunny cartoon, catching me square in the left eye.
No, wait. It was about six years ago when, while demonstrating how I had locked
my keys in my car a few days previous, I locked my keys in my car.
No, wait. It was when I was five and I decided to teach myself how to swim by jumping into the deep end of the pool.
Yep. That's it.
I also can't forget the day I discovered that I was a genius. Mostly because that day was more recent. I received, via e-mail, the address of one of those online IQ tests. I went over and took it, no cheating, just to see where I landed. Without bragging here, I aced it (this stupefied no one more than it stupefied me, I guarantee you).
The next day at lunchtime I was in Barnes and Noble buying a newspaper, and at the counter there was a flashy display touting a new take-at-home, self-scoring IQ test book. I took this as a sign and bought the book. I took three tests when I got home that night. I nailed them as well.
Hmm. No fluke.
Now I was hooked.
The next day I got on the Internet and looked up Mensa. Mensa is the renowned worldwide organization of geniuses, with membership contingent on proof, in the form of some sort of accepted standardized exam, that one ranks in the top two percent of smart folk. I read the shpeil and took the online practice test. It told me that I should take the supervised real thing. Well, this is the kind of thing I do. I try to get into Mensa. To me, nothing could be a more resourceful use of my time. (There's a pattern here; my next project is to quit smoking, only it can't be the patch or the gum or whatever. I'm going to do one of those 12-step type programs, complete with the schlocky, Hollywood, admit-there's-a-higher-power type deal.) Anyway, I took the supervised test. And guess what?
I'm in, baby.
And all this has got me to thinking (which, by the way, has now become sort of a responsibility). What exactly does it mean to be smart? Not sharp. That's identifiable, usually by one's position in life as a result of the choices one makes. I'm talking mad-inventor, Nobel Prize-winning, lab coat-wearing, Albert Einstein smart. Is it just a genetic crapshoot? Is it the size of one's frontal lobe? And, if we banded together, could we get "Home Improvement" cancelled?
And finally, if I'm so smart, how come I'm such an idiot?
I think smart runs across the board in all walks of life. I think the difference, the separator if you will, is personality. Ever take one of those Myers-Briggs Personality Type Indicators? I'm what they call an ENTP, which stands for Extroverted, iNtuitive, Thinking, and Perceiving. The ENTP is famous for speaking up without all of the facts. Of course, there's no quicker way to show your ignorance than opening your mouth.
Conclusion: I'd be a pretty smart guy if I could just keep my damn mouth shut.
Or something like that.
Joe Procopio writes a monthly column for Smug. He also authors novels, sings in a pop band, and slings technology like a toddler with a rifle, all of which is enumerated on his Web site. He is the smartest person you know.
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