Saturday, September 3, 2011


A while back, I was doing an assignment for my Transportation Engineering class.  This involved sitting at an intersection and recording how many cars/trucks/buses went right/left/straight at the intersection.  For the assignment we were given a sheet of paper with boxes in which to record all the turning movements we saw.

I was sitting on the corner dutifully making tally marks in all the right boxes (I assume they were all the right boxes, and there was no one to prove me wrong), when a pair of college-age girls came past.  I assume they were freshmen, due to the nature of their conversation and the fact that they seemed blissfully unaware that I could hear them talking about me.  This is a rare gift that most people gradually lose as they progress through college.

Girl 1: "I wonder what he's doing?"
Girl 2: "He's probably working on an art project."
Girl 1: "Yeah, I hear lots of people at BYU are all artistic."
Girl 2: "Yeah."

I suppose I could have explained my educational history to them, but that would have taken so long and would have burst their "We can talk about people in front of them and they can't hear us" bubble rather suddenly, which can be traumatic under the wrong circumstances.  So I kept counting traffic.  I suppose there is an art to traffic counting, but I don't know if it counts as one of the Fine Arts . . .

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