The Dying Art of Common Sense

As I walked into the gas station, I saw a young man peering at the instructions on the pump with a blank expression as he repeatedly poked the same button. Each jab at the panel produced a loud beep, but no actual gasoline. Finally he gave up and headed into the station with a look of frustrated dejection. The attendant inside repeated the instructions, which sounded pretty basic to me: “Press the credit button; insert your card; and then enter your billing zip code.” Yet after hearing the instructions (twice) the customer went back outside and still couldn’t gas up his Honda. As the attendant headed outside to help the clueless customer, I heard him mutter under his breath, “I coulda sworn they told me when I was a kid that reading is FUNdamental…” After about three seconds, the attendant was coming back into the store shaking his head. He looked at me and said, “You should write something about that: the dying art of common sense.” Okay, Abdullah. Here you go.

I laughed off the comment at first, but the phrase stuck in my head the rest of the day. The eloquence of it belied a more glaring truth: common sense really is a dying art. We’ve become a society that needs a warning on coffee cups that the contents may be hot. Well, let’s hope the contents are hot--that’s kind of what I’m paying for.

My favorite warning was on a box containing a new toaster. In three languages it warned that the toaster inside was not intended for use in or under water. Which is a shame, since I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been in the midst of a bath and had a sudden hankering for some fresh, crispy toast.

I think part of the decline in common sense is the increase in lawsuits. Corporations became afraid of finding themselves on the receiving end of class action lawsuits, so they began catering to the consumer public as if they were dealing with especially dim-witted five-year olds. There’s a difference between warning someone about an unknown danger, and pointing out what should be common damn sense. As a result, we’ve lost our ability to think for ourselves.

The only way to save the dying art of common sense is to think for yourself. Consider the consequences of your actions, and respond accordingly. Take the time to read the instructions fully before deciding you’re smarter than the engineers and professionals that designed whatever IKEA piece of crap you’re putting together. And for Godsake, use your turn signal—we’re not mind readers.

Project Exodus

Sometimes the clues are all around you, all you have to do is act on them. All day, I’ve been feeling especially optimistic. Maybe the glowing mood had to do with money actually being in my pocket, or maybe it was due to the gorgeous weather. No matter the inspiration, I was in fine spirits as I walked through downtown Greenville.

I was sitting in Sup Dogs (one of my favorite places to eat and chill), idly screwing around online, when the manager Derek came up to speak to me. Last week, he’d come in to the restaurant where I work on a date and sat in my section. The meal went fine and he was very complimentary about my server skills. This afternoon, he mentioned again how good a server he’d found me to be. As if he’d been reading my mind, he said that I should consider moving to a larger city to pursue the money someone with my personality could make. While I doubt I’d ever relocate to follow a food service job (not really my passion, ya dig?) the idea of moving to pursue my writing career has been haunting my mind a lot lately. Every once in a while I’ll casually look into the idea—researching job opportunities, checking out public transportation, etc.—then get caught up in living my life and forget about it for a while.

But this time it feels different. I was skyping with a friend who lives in Durham the other night and the subject came up. Every time Mark says something about me moving to the Raleigh/Durham area, it’s like the seed grows just a little bit larger in my mind. I’ve talked it over with him before, not to mention with my best friend from high school. Knowing I’d be living in close proximity to Sheon and Mark would give me something of an advantage. I’d have friends already in place, so while I may be the New Kid in Town, I doubt I’d be alone and lonely.

It seems a bit ironic to speak of safety nets, since that’s why I moved back to Greenville in the first place. I was living in Florida, and having a truly rough time of things. So I packed my proverbial bags and headed home to Carolina. But I’ve allowed that safety net to engulf me, and I’ve become stuck.

Today was the day I became unstuck. After talking to Derek (and killing 1½ Western Dogs, fries, and a couple of dollar beers) I mulled over the idea of leaving this place that’s become my home. I looked around 5^th Street, wondering what it would be like to call another place home. I let my fingers trace over the brick façade of 5^th Street Annex and questioned whether I could say goodbye to everything I’ve known for the past six years. As I wiped the slight traces of grit off my fingers, the answer came to me in the form of the bumper sticker on a passing car: “Yes We Can!” Whoa.

I spent a couple of hours in the library, writing and using the city’s free wifi. When I realized how late it had gotten, I headed through the lobby to wait for the bus. I figured I had a few minutes, so I just lingered in the AC and read the public announcements board in the lobby. It was littered with ads for pitbull puppies, and translation services. Then, in a corner of the board I saw it. It was plain, almost covered by the plastic cover of the thermostat someone had carelessly left open. When I read the words across the top I flinched as if I’d been shocked by a mild electrical charge. My face felt hot and the skin on the back of my neck prickled with awareness. Okay, Lord, I get it. Message received. Ten-four, Lord.

So, what you’re reading now represents a new beginning. This blog represents the genesis of Project Exodus. I’m giving myself six months to save money, plan, and eventually move to Raleigh. Hell, maybe I’ll consider a different city altogether. All I do know is that this is the only life we get, and if I’m going to advise people to follow their passions, I’d better be doing it myself.

An Open Letter to Freshmen: Don't Forget to Live.

Usually when I write a column, I approach it with a mission: to make a point. There’s always one central message to my columns that I want to convey with each word. This message is for the incoming freshman, not to mention a reminder to those returning students at America’s institutions of higher learning. It sounds simple, but don’t forget to live.

While this is an undeniably significant time in your life, don’t let yourself become overwhelmed by the seriousness of it all. Don’t forget to take time to find joy--make the time for joy. Whether it’s intramural athletics, the theater department, or volunteering with kids, find something that makes you happy. One of the worst feelings is to come to the end of an experience only to look back and realize there’s so much more you could have gotten out of it.

Just as important as the activities are the friends you’ll make during this time of your life. Lifelong friends, romantic partners—you never know who will play which role until you take a chance and get to know others. More importantly, you have to give them a chance to get to know you. Share your gifts and your personality because you’ve got a role to play in their lives too.

So go to football games, go to that party next door, ask out the cute redhead in your Econ class that keeps making eyes at you. But whatever you do, don’t forget to live.

Why I'm My Own Biggest Fan

A few weeks ago, I had a conversation with a friend who’d looked through the list of “fans” of the Ask Uncle Trey Pound column on the Facebook fan page. After noticing that my own profile picture was among the fans, he joked with me, “I see as usual you’re your own biggest fan!” I laughed along, until I had some time to think about it. I came to the realization that, indeed, I am my own biggest fan. And I can’t imagine life any other way.

My parents raised me to believe in myself and in my abilities. And what is a fan other than someone who believes in those things? So, yes, I am my own biggest fan, and I think everyone else should be as well. Think how many conflicts would resolve themselves if people just had the courage to cheer for themselves. If self-esteem issues weren’t a consideration, how much healthier would the collective populace be?

I was once described as being “stuck on” myself, which I took to mean I was overly impressed with myself. Shouldn’t we all be impressed with ourselves? If nothing else, we’ve survived another year/month/day on this planet, and that’s no easy feat. Just think of the mechanics that go into keeping the human body alive in the course of a day. It’s a thing of wonder, and worthy of admiration.

So, if you’re reading these words, consider this your official permission to love yourself. I give you absolute permission to acknowledge your faults and love your strengths. I am giving you the “okay” to fall in love with the person you are and the person you can become. Just don’t talk to yourself. That shit’s nuts.