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I just walked out of a Hydrology class at good ol' Ma Tech. I thought I knew what hydrology was. Thought I engaged in it on a regular basis at work. Thought I had actually taught others about the subject.
Apparently, I've been using the wrong word all these years, because what I thought was 'hydrology' must be something else. Today, in an hour of indecipherable rambling, I caught a glimpse of what the professor deemed as hydrology. Assuming he has the correct definition means that I don't know anything about hydrology, because I had no idea what he was talking about.
I am actually paying this place to make me feel dumb.

Vizzini: "Inconceivable!"
Inigo Montoya: "You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means"

facing your childhood fears

The Alan of the 80's was a bit different than the over-confident machismo you interact with today. Being the youngest kid in my neighborhood, and small for my age, I found myself partaking in the grand activity of watching others have fun.

For instance, I watched my friends conquer Zelda, play quarterback, pitch, pick first, cuss, talk about girls... I digress.

Not to say that there were no pleasures provided me. If anyone was needed to climb down into the storm basin to get the ball, I was your man (boy, I mean). Or, if a quick errand over to another's home to invite them out to play presented itself, and you could count on my fresh legs.

So it is now, at age 33, that I find myself faced with an enemy of all children of the 80's (that is, except for me, as I only watched other spew frustration): the Rubik's Cube. The Christmas present of my 8-year old daughter, who immediately asked her noble father to show her how to fix it. And seeing as though she still believes I hung the moon, I will spend the remainder of my natural born life tackling this object of wrath.

It is on.