ASK AND YOU SHALL RECEIVE
If you ask me a question, I will give you an honest answer (as in: “honest-to-godness, thats what I thought, so I said it with conviction that is likely misplaced). This is part of my ‘no filter’ character type. I like to call it a "character type” (an “archetype” even?) so that I can pass myself off as something other than an annoyance who spouts baseless opinions to uninterested recipients.
I could be that.
I could be both.
I suspect I am both.
Yes, definitely both.
I couldn’t change if I tried, so I elect to embrace this part of myself. Since you are reading this, I guess you have too.
This 'Honest Answer Archetype’ (its my story, so I am going with Archetype) is both a boon and a liability.
For example, I am a disaster at Border crossings. One time M & I were driving across Maine, over PEI, then via ferry for 8 hours to a sand bar known as the Magdalene islands. This was during my Windsurfing-Roadie era. This context is important, because we were en route to a place where even if you could find a vegetable, fruit, protein (heck, anything you might need or want), it will cost ~$1 million. So we stocked up. On the U.S. the of the border.
We pull up to the border crossing at around 8pm. It is important (to my ego) to point out that I have not been coached (ex. “do not offer unsolicited testimony”).
The border agent asks “How long have you been in the U.S.?”.
M answers “two days” - or whatever allows us to carry a case of beer and $200 in groceries across the border.
I pip up - I have been asked a question, after all - “No! Thats wrong. We just got here yesterday!”
M: “sigh”
The duties on all our stuff would have amounted to 2x the amount the stuff costs in the first place, and 3x the amount of money we had to our names. So we drove back to the nearest town, slept for 4 hours in the McDonalds parking lot and then (hoping the border agent shift had changed) went back to try again - this time with me NOT answering any questions. At this point it is 1am at a middle of nowhere border crossing. When we pull up to the agent kiosk - the dude was sound asleep.
Ever since then, I have been divested of my right to answer questions at border crossings or airport customs. We don’t shop, carry firearms, or carry large sums of cash (although we sometimes have a just-in-case apple in our bag, and maybe some unpasteurized cheese), so not sure where I would go wrong.[1] But agree that I am a potential liability to our #1 priority - which is getting through as fast as possible. So I say nothing. I am like a mute dependent. Often we are travelling very early in the morning - so I actually am pretty much a mute dependent. This approach has kept us out of border trouble - and travel maritals - for a couple of decades.
The only time it could potentially have gone south was in Cuba. We disembark from the plane and there are military dudes everywhere wearing camo and carrying assault rifles. We approach customs and its one at a time only. Oh-oh. M gets ushered forward, sending me a worried glance over his shoulder. A few moments later, its my turn. The Rambo agent puts me in a 2’x2’ box and closes the door - basically an upright coffin facing the customs agent (also in full military garb). Double Oh-oh. 15 minutes later I am released. M is white as a ghost and sweating bullets. “What took so long??”. Well, they asked me what I did. I usually reply something snotty like “nothing”, but I figured that wouldn’t go over well with the inquisition, so I replied “I am an artist”. This turned out to be the best, most interesting answer ever. "Really?!! What medium? Do you prefer acrylic or Oil? Do you stretch your own canvases? What genre…”. It was the one, and only, time that “amateur artist” trumped “highly successful tech entrepreneur”.
One of my girls once said, 'I never know whether your answers are actual facts. You say them like their 100% indisputable. But I feel like I should probably not relay the information to others. Just in case.” As in, just in case you are actually full of s—t. Which is fair. But then, just to further confound them, I will pull random actual-fact-factoids out of my back pocket (life changing gems like: Terriers are “Ratters” or deer can have triplets). To be fair, most times (but not in the case of midnight being 12:00am, because why?) I am mostly, mostly right. Or as M likes to put it “juuuuuuust a little bit wrong”.
However, in one particular area, I am 100% wrong, 100% of the time. Here's the thing: I am directionally incompetent. Check that. ‘Incompetent' suggests that directions are a challenge. That would be generous. I am directionally incapable. Its okay - after many, many, many hours reflection (while being lost) - I have come to terms with my ‘directional differences’. I am not proud exactly. This trait has cost me a lot (literally) of lost time. But this weakness, combined with my question-answering confidence, is also a super power. Because my inner compass is also weirdly accurate in its inaccuracy.
Say we are driving/hiking/biking along unknown terrain -urban/suburban/rural/back country…you pick. Suddenly, we come upon a junction! Left or right? Right or left? Never mind pulling out your map. Just ask Kate!
M: "Kate, should we go left or right?”
K: “LEFT!”, with total conviction.
M: "Right. Right it is then.” And right - as in ‘correct’ - it will be. Every time.
Its a life hack. Lemon = lemonade, and all that.
[1] "Are you carrying over $10,000 in cash?” Yes! Wait, no. Who carries $10,000 in cash??? Who carries cash, period? That question turns out to be a consistently easy one for me, as I never had cash on hand, even before cash stopped being a thing. Although, I once waited in line behind a twenty-something bombshell at a fancy store, who pulled out a wad of cash two inches thick to buy a $10,000 fur. I wondered what the minimum wage sales clerk was thinking. Probably, “G.D. I wish I got commission.” and also “What’s the weather like in Russia this time of year?"