Christmas was coming, and I thought I might knit a sweater for my boyfriend. I'd never knitted a sweater before (and haven't attempted one since) but I'd seen directions for one in Seventeen or somewhere--and such an enterprise was touted as an excellent one for a girl to endeavor for the man she loved.
"My favorite color is blue," I said. "What's yours?"
"That's a ridiculous question," he responded. "Do you like blue food?"
Point taken. No, I didn't (and still don't) like blue food. I actually couldn't think of any food that came in blue.
But the takeaway was that I--a mere high school girl talking to a graduate student, a supposed expert in art--was no good at asking questions. We dropped the subject, then I proceeded to knit him a sweater, red I think.
The sweater turned out large enough for a giant and I never gave it to him, but I did marry him shortly thereafter, believing for many years that I had married a genius and that in time I'd be worthy of such a brilliant man. If. If I got a college education. If I kept my stupid questions to myself. If, if, if….
Our conversations continued along this pattern for years, and I was the eternal acolyte. Until. Until I went to graduate school and partook of my own question-asking outside the house.
"You ask great questions," a professor told me one day. At long last, I regained my passion for asking questions, little and big, smart and otherwise. Curiosity, I think, is a motivator for the kind of travel you can do anywhere.
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