Observations of the Unobservant – The Misfit Farmer

My wife has observed that I am “unobservant,” which is a strange thing to call a man who correctly identified a picture hanging in a different spot by the second guess. Plus, my first guess was partly right–she had painted the room a new variation of beige, just two years ago and I had just now noticed. 

Apparently, I am not the only person who is unobservant. Our house sits on the side of a fork in the road. Every day, every hour, every ten minutes somebody heading upstream on the second prong fails to observe the stop sign. They crane their necks to see if anybody is coming up the primary prong, and if not, they just blow right through the stop sign. If I ever discover some priceless treasure in all my farm junk that I want to keep hidden and secure–let’s say, for instance, a Picasso painting–I would hang it on the stop sign. Sure, my wife would notice if it was hanging a little crooked, but certainly no one else would stop to steal Pablo’s work. 

“The right side is just a hair too low,” I could imagine my wife saying. 

“Nope, that is just Picasso–he liked cockeyed shoulders,” I’d reply, but it would do no good because soon she would have me retrieving the level. 

The problem is my wife observes things in the actual world, whereas I mostly just observe things in my head–and there is a lot going on in my head. In one corner, people are conversing over matters of great importance, and one of those people looks and sounds a lot like me–except my head’s version is extremely witty, articulate, and persuasive. Then in another corner of my head, all the things I need to accomplish are swirling around like a little whirlwind, battering the inside of my noggin with logistical details. In the top of my head, larger storm clouds are gathering and thunder is rumbling. With each flash of lightning on my mental horizon, I’m counting the seconds to predict how far away the costs of major life purchases are, such as the cost of replacing our cars or our twenty-year-old heating and air unit. 

In the back of my head are the stables where I keep my high horses. High horses need a lot of tending because I ride them into battle every ten minutes to vanquish all the people in my head who disagree with me. Occasionally, amidst all the vanquishing, funny thoughts pop up in my head, and, like a hound dog, I must follow those thoughts until I find the punchline or someone, usually my wife, punches me in the arm and tells me to pay attention. 

“You need to pay more attention,” she says. 

“I am paying attention, thank you very much,” I reply. “I’m paying attention to the three-ring-circus in my head, and currently the ring master is being chased by a hound dog riding a high horse in a whirlwind. It is pretty hard to pay attention when I’m the ring master.” 

I should probably spend more time learning from my four-year-old son. Thomas is the most observant person I’ve ever met, even more so than my wife. Every two seconds he is observing something in the actual world. I know this because every two seconds he is providing fresh commentary on his observations.

“There is a chair!”

“That’s great!” I say.

“There is a spider web in the corner of the room.” 

“That’s great!” I say. 

“You’ve got a hair in your nose.”

“Thomas, focus!” I say. “We’re trying to put on your socks!” 

Apparently, four-year-olds pay too much attention and forty-year-olds can’t pay enough. I’m not sure what happens between four and forty, but I’m pretty sure he observes more in sixty seconds than I do all day.