Quinn Minute

Evolution

Not long ago, I heard somebody say he didn’t think people were highly evolved. I disagree.

Humans possess remarkable powers. We can walk, run, swim, and even fly (if we hold a boarding pass). Other creatures aren’t so adaptable.

Fish can swim, but walk poorly. Birds can fly, but often misjudge altitude, and end up as hood ornaments. Some snakes can squeeze you to death…but who wants an affectionate reptile?

Bears possess power, but hibernate all winter, and miss some great parties. Rabbits multiply quickly, but can’t understand other math. Amoebas divide, but often separate from their better halves.

Beavers build constantly, but they live a dam hard life. Wild pigs are unpredictable, and can boar you senseless. Turtles appear gentle, but rarely come out of their shells.

However, animals can learn by trial-and-error. Scientists discovered that even wild beasts master complicated tricks if rewarded with food.

But those researchers soon ran out of snacks. So, the animals escaped, and rewarded themselves with a treat they named “biologist on a bun.”

Despite this minor lunchroom error, folks have survived with intellect, ingenuity, and improvisation.

And when cornered – unlike other animals – some folks can simply talk their way out of problems. That skill, of course, is salvation through conversation.

The Downside of Smiling

In elementary school, a teacher advised us to “Face the world with a smile.” I discovered that might not be the best plan.

For instance, if I saw another kid get in trouble for talking, I loved it. I would laugh, the teacher would notice, and suddenly I was the culprit.

Maybe I always looked like I was about to grin…I don’t remember. But I do recall several instructors looking at me and saying, “Wipe that smile off your face this instant, young man.”

I was able to do that, of course, because (1) excessive levity might lead to a bad outcome, and (2) if anybody suspected I was becoming a man, they deserved respect.

By middle school I could instantly adjust my face from “happy” to “nauseous.” This came in handy whenever I was accused of burping, tossing a spitball, or wiping my hands on somebody’s shirt.

By high school I could appear enthusiastic or comatose, depending on the situation. As my dramatic skills improved, so did my ratings. I doubt any teacher believed that my sister the beekeeper spilled honey on my homework, because I had no sister. But I generally earned style points.

When I finally entered the working world, I had mastered a quizzical expression that made my boss wonder if I was actually going to say something brilliant, or sneeze on him.

And today, as I gingerly move from vibrant middle age to less pleasant decades, I present only one expression to the world. It’s one of confusion.