Searching for a Support Group

Once in a while a smug smile surfaces along with the thought - See! I DO have some common sense! - though it is often a fleeting smugness.

I grew up hearing I did not have ANY common sense. The declarations of my deficiency, particularly from my father, escalated as I neared and endured adolescence in the ‘60’s. Whether a sign of the times or hormones or a combo of the two, I staunchly refused to accept that I was the only one who missed my share of this exalted trait if I did indeed lack it. I made LOTS of sense to me.

Apparently common sense can’t be studied or rehearsed. Either one is blessed or one is not. Attempts to fake it till you make it only exacerbate its absence. Any proclamation from my mouth or praiseworthy action to a confounding situation that might reflect a bit of it is accidental or an exercise in my creative approach to problem-solving. Efforts to appear as one with even a minimal dose of it only intensify its elusiveness.

So I give up. I no longer calculate what might be a common sense approach to any excursion or project though I still make sense to myself. If things go wonky, as they do with regularity, I MIGHT shake my head in self-mystification IF I ponder “Why did I do that? Why didn’t I (insert whatever here) do this instead?”

Overthinking AFTER the fact solves nothing anyway. This morning I cleaned up a sizeable portion of a half-gallon of potato soup that wound up outside the crockpot on the way to a church dinner. Temps were to drop below freezing last night so waiting seemed a labor-saving decision, but that soup did not freeze! Who knew? But, if I had only... there would have been no mess...maybe. Until next time.