Over the years, I have encountered several misconceptions about psychology majors. One such assumption is that we, by virtue of our studies, should somehow have it all together. That after years of studying mental processes and behavior, our own minds and behaviors should be relatively normal.
I don’t want to speak for my colleagues, but I can honestly say I am no more normal now than the day I began my studies.
In fact, at times, I am utterly clueless.
This past weekend, I was reminded of that unnerving reality.
I was in the library with my favorite 10-year-old, browsing while he looked for something for a book report.
I have always had a fascination with etiquette books, because I have always wondered how in the world people know how to act.
So I drifted over to the shelves that contain those guides for activities in which I have no current interest, such as how to have a flawlessly beautiful wedding, as well as other, more general guides on how to seem normal under all sorts of social circumstances.
And there, tucked in between all those roadmaps to typicality, hid a little red book. Its author was none other than George Washington.
The George Washington.
The father of our country had written a little book on how to behave. 110 Rules of Civility & Decent Behavior in Company and Conversation, he called it.
Historians believe Washington based his book on a set of rules that people of his era commonly were taught in childhood. So the ideas themselves went even farther back than Washington’s day.
I took the book down from the shelf and leafed through it, skimming each rule.
And then I hit Rule #13.
“Kill no vermin as fleas, lice, ticks, etc. in the sight of others,” it read.
I could not believe what I had just read. There was a rule, predating George Washington, which explained a lot about an evening I had puzzled over for the past 40 years.
And if George Washington knew what not to do in such a situation, I suspect a lot of people in the room that evening did, too.
It had been a pleasant enough evening, in the company of people whose approval would have been helpful. And then it appeared.
A large cricket, leaping its way across the Persian rug.
I honestly did not know, at that innocent age, that some people consider crickets to be vermin. Right up there with some of those other guys with long, waving antennae.
And to be true to George’s rule, I didn’t exactly set out to kill it. Actually, I was trying to catch it before anyone else decided to stomp it.
But since either scenario would involve drawing attention to the vermin, that distinction is not enough to be comforting.
(It was the first time, though not the last, that I have garnered unwelcome attention by trying to save some insect from an untimely demise.)
To my surprise and confusion, my date rushed to stop me. He had a mortified look on his face, as if I had committed some offense which I would have understood, such as picking my teeth with a tine of the hostess’s heirloom silver forks.
I left the unfortunate creature to its fate, but with no idea which rule I’d transgressed.
Now and then, I would recall the episode to people who seemed to understand normal. To my unease, a respectable minority of respondents indicated they understood my date’s horrified reaction.
Embarrassed to admit to any cluelessness that was not already evident, I tabled the entire issue.
Until George Washington’s book showed up this past weekend.
It’s a little too late to do damage control in that refined living room, but at least I understand a little more about what might have been going on that evening.
And we do learn from our little breaches of etiquette.
So next time I see a creature which others might interpret as vermin, I’ll be sure not to make the same mistake.
I’ll just order everybody out of the room first. And then dive after the critter.
Julia Cochran is a licensed professional counselor in Rincon and a psychology instructor at Armstrong State University. She can be reached at 912-772-3072 or by email at JCochranPhD@GileadCounseling.com. Any opinions expressed here are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of Armstrong State University.