I’m not the smartest person. Not even close. But I’m also not the dumbest person. I think. Maybe. The jury’s still out, and frankly, I’m not smart enough to serve on that jury.
But here’s the thing: I really, really like smart people.
I like people who understand quantum physics even though there’s absolutely no way they could ever get me to understand it. They could use puppets, interpretive dance, or those little plastic atoms on sticks from high school chemistry class—doesn’t matter. My brain would still make the Windows shutdown noise.
I like people who can contemplate the vast expanse of the universe without their heads spinning. Meanwhile, I think about space for thirty seconds and suddenly I’m staring at the ceiling wondering if we’re all just thoughts in some cosmic being’s shower and whether that cosmic being also forgot what they were thinking about mid-shower.
I like people who understand knots and how to tie them. I’ve watched the same YouTube tutorial for a bowline seven times and I still tie my shoes like a six-year-old.
I like smart people who read the directions before they try to do something. I am not one of these people. I have built entire IKEA shelves backwards. Twice. The same shelf. I took it apart and rebuilt it incorrectly in a different way.
I like smart people who contemplate what the effect of their actions might be before they jump in. I once painted myself into a corner. Literally. Not metaphorically. I had to wait three hours for the floor to dry while sitting on my kitchen counter eating cereal directly from the box.
I like smart people who don’t react on emotion. I have yelled at inanimate objects. My printer knows what it did.
I like smart people who really, truly understand financial markets and investing. I thought “diversifying my portfolio” meant buying different flavors of the same frozen pizza.
I like smart people who do research and tests to solve problems. I solve problems by Googling “why won’t my [thing] [verb]” and clicking on the first result from 2009.
I like smart people who find cures and vaccines. They spent years years in labs. I can’t even remember to take my vitamins.
I like smart people who try to save the world. I’m just trying to remember where I parked.
I like smart people who try to help people. And smart people who have patience for people who think the world is flat. (Although I suspect their patience is running thin, and honestly, who could blame them?)
I like smart people who spend their lives trying to find answers in science and research while I spend my life trying to find my phone. It’s in my hand. It’s always in my hand.
I like smart people who are funny. Who are self-deprecating. Who know what they don’t know. I don’t know what I don’t know, but I suspect it’s a lot.
I like smart people who understand the theory of relativity. I understand that time feels relative depending on whether I’m waiting for my coffee to brew or waiting for the dentist.
I like smart people who discover and invent new things. I once “invented” a sandwich that already existed. It’s called a club sandwich. I was very proud of myself.
I like smart people who try to make the world a better place. Who believe in evidence. Who are willing to accept new evidence and adapt their beliefs instead of doubling down like they’re defending their fantasy football lineup.
I like people who can speak many languages. I can barely speak one. I use “utilize” when I mean “use” because I think it makes me sound smarter. It doesn’t.
I like people who can play many instruments and write music. I can’t even play “Chopsticks.” And I mean that literally—I’ve tried.
I like people who can sing. I sing in the car with the windows up and the music loud so I can’t hear myself.
I like people who are interested in learning things. Who like to laugh. Who are kind. Who are grateful.
Smart people make the world go round. They make it better. They solve impossible problems while I’m still trying to open childproof caps.
BUT.
You know what I really don’t understand?
People who don’t return their shopping carts.
Especially—and I cannot stress this enough—especially those people who park in the farthest spots from the store and then just leave their carts right there next to their car, abandoned at the edge of the parking lot like some kind of metal monument to their own self-importance.
Think about this for a second. These people specifically chose the farthest spot. They walked all the way to the store. They shopped. They walked all the way back. They loaded their groceries into their car—which, let’s be honest, takes way more effort than pushing an empty cart twenty feet.
But returning the cart? That’s beneath them.
These are the same people who treat “15 items or less” as a suggestion. Who leave their blinker on for three miles. Who microwave fish in the office break room. Who reply-all to company-wide emails to say “thanks.” Who stand in the middle of the grocery aisle having a reunion with someone they haven’t seen since high school while their cart blocks both directions of traffic. Who board the plane during Group 1 when their ticket clearly says Group 5. Who put their bag on the subway seat next to them during rush hour. Who don’t pick up after their dog and then act offended when you notice.
These are people who fundamentally believe the world revolves around them. That rules are for other people. That someone else—some underpaid employee, some other customer who has to move their cart, the universe itself—will clean up after them.
They are the main characters in a movie nobody else bought tickets to see.
The only people who get a pass on the cart thing are those who physically can’t return them. Everyone else? You’re not just leaving a cart. You’re leaving evidence of your character abandoned at the far reaches of the parking lot.
And while we’re at it: I really don’t understand people who don’t merge properly. Zipper merge, people. It’s not complicated. It’s literally in the name. You know what happens when a zipper doesn’t zip right? Your fly is down. Don’t be the open fly of traffic.
No, you are not special enough to drive around the entire line of cars and cut in at the front. The only acceptable excuse is if you genuinely didn’t know that was your exit. Not paying attention doesn’t count. That’s just being a bad driver with extra steps. And I bet—I would bet actual money—that the Venn diagram of “people who don’t return their carts” and “people who cut the merge line” is basically a circle.
And finally: I really don’t understand people who use their mobile devices as a screen while driving. You’re piloting a two-ton machine at 60 mph, and you’re watching TikTok? I can’t even walk and text without running into a pole, and you think you can drive and scroll?
So yes, I like smart people. I admire them. I aspire to their level of thoughtfulness and patience and knowledge.
But more than that? I like decent people. People who return their carts. Who zipper merge. Who put their phones down. Who understand that civilization is just a collective agreement to occasionally do mildly inconvenient things so that we can all function together without descending into chaos.
You don’t need to understand quantum physics to be a good person.
You just need to understand that the shopping cart corral exists for a reason.
And that reason is: you are not the center of the universe.
Which, frankly, might be the smartest thing of all.
—Signed, the old man yelling at kids on his lawn
Even that's Odd 
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