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Thursday, January 29, 2009
I can not tell a....oh, never mind.
7:32 PM | 
Posted by
Christine
One fine Christmas morning nearly thirty years ago, my parents bestowed upon me a gift which, in all of its popular glory, would eventually try my patience more than almost any other item known to man.
It was, in fact, a simple Rubik's Cube.
I hated that damn thing. Just like every other eight year-old on the planet, I was convinced that if I tried hard enough, long enough, unfailingly enough, I could figure it out. First, I solved one side. Then I figured out how to get two. After that...
...I was done.
There was no way in hell I could make that stupid cube come together the way it was supposed to. The harder I tried, the more frustrated I became. For God's sake, I was eight years old! Why couldn't I make it work?!
Then it hit me. Maybe, just maybe, if I turned it just so...and then twisted it a little bit here, and nudged it that way a bit.....
Bingo.
The entire thing fell apart into pieces in my hand. All I had to do was make sure no one was looking, and I could reassemble the cube into an orderly slate of perfect colors. No one would ever know.
Unfortunately for me at the time, my family was not composed of idiots. They were immediately skeptical, and demanded I do it again while they watched. Unable to do so, I retreated to my bedroom where - magically - I figured out how to solve it again! I brought it back out to the family room, triumphant. My sister was the first to notice that the mechanics of the cube seemed somehow...looser than before.
"Did you take it apart and put it back together?" She demanded.
"NO!" I insisted. I was belligerent. How could she accuse me of such a thing? Why didn't she believe me? Wasn't I smart enough to solve a Rubik's Cube? What gave her the right to call me a cheater?
I pouted. I stomped. I huffed and puffed, and then went to sulk in my room.
If only I had known that I was a terrible liar, it all would have worked out much differently. The red face, stammering speech, and inability to look people in the eye while making up ridiculous stories was, it turns out, a dead giveaway. Who'd have thunk it?
Anyway, shortly thereafter, I became aware that people could always tell when I was lying. I would never make a decent spy, and I'd have to give up my lifelong dream of being a professional poker player (okay, I made that part up. how did you know?) It turned out that I just wasn't the kind of person who could create a credible fabrication to save my life. I learned my lesson.
There I was, at the ripe old age of nine, with a broken Rubik's cube, the eternal scorn of an older sister, and a healthy sense of respect for puzzles that were smarter than I was.
So my question to you, my friends, is this.
When do I get to be governor?
It was, in fact, a simple Rubik's Cube.
I hated that damn thing. Just like every other eight year-old on the planet, I was convinced that if I tried hard enough, long enough, unfailingly enough, I could figure it out. First, I solved one side. Then I figured out how to get two. After that...
...I was done.
There was no way in hell I could make that stupid cube come together the way it was supposed to. The harder I tried, the more frustrated I became. For God's sake, I was eight years old! Why couldn't I make it work?!
Then it hit me. Maybe, just maybe, if I turned it just so...and then twisted it a little bit here, and nudged it that way a bit.....
Bingo.
The entire thing fell apart into pieces in my hand. All I had to do was make sure no one was looking, and I could reassemble the cube into an orderly slate of perfect colors. No one would ever know.
Unfortunately for me at the time, my family was not composed of idiots. They were immediately skeptical, and demanded I do it again while they watched. Unable to do so, I retreated to my bedroom where - magically - I figured out how to solve it again! I brought it back out to the family room, triumphant. My sister was the first to notice that the mechanics of the cube seemed somehow...looser than before.
"Did you take it apart and put it back together?" She demanded.
"NO!" I insisted. I was belligerent. How could she accuse me of such a thing? Why didn't she believe me? Wasn't I smart enough to solve a Rubik's Cube? What gave her the right to call me a cheater?
I pouted. I stomped. I huffed and puffed, and then went to sulk in my room.
If only I had known that I was a terrible liar, it all would have worked out much differently. The red face, stammering speech, and inability to look people in the eye while making up ridiculous stories was, it turns out, a dead giveaway. Who'd have thunk it?
Anyway, shortly thereafter, I became aware that people could always tell when I was lying. I would never make a decent spy, and I'd have to give up my lifelong dream of being a professional poker player (okay, I made that part up. how did you know?) It turned out that I just wasn't the kind of person who could create a credible fabrication to save my life. I learned my lesson.
There I was, at the ripe old age of nine, with a broken Rubik's cube, the eternal scorn of an older sister, and a healthy sense of respect for puzzles that were smarter than I was.
So my question to you, my friends, is this.
When do I get to be governor?
