And Why Not

Currently, birding for me is a pause; a break in the action of daily life. It’s the white space between the notes that define the music. It functions well in that capacity, particularly when I’ve been around folks who think wearing a tie can actually improve what you do or what you say.
These are the kinds of people who allow societal pressures define what they call a normal life. And they grow up to become corporate CEOs and the like. Maybe even lawyers and NASCAR drivers. I take pleasure in knowing I’ll never be burdened with unearned income, or tangled in the lines of golden parachutes. You only need a parachute when you’re on the way down, right?
So if you pass up a chance to play golf and talk more about what you’ve been talking about, incessantly, since you ate the quiche this morning, you’re suspect. And if you say you’re going birding, they look at you, not often straight on, but out of the corner of their eye. Their heads turn a bit, trying to assess the danger level. Flight or fight?
Yesterday I had just finished a speaking gig in West Palm Beach and was heading for Loxahatchee National Wildlife Refuge and a few hours of birding. One of the conference attendees ambushed me in the lobby of the overly plush Breakers Hotel. I never saw him coming. His green cap with matching logo shirt and shorts proved to be great camouflage. He stood behind the potted plants used to make the inside of the place artificially look like the outside. Why do they do that, then go to great efforts to keep out the bugs and other creatures?
“Great talk this morning. Wanna join us for some golf?”
“Ah, thanks. Nope.”
“We’ve got room for one more. We’re playing on the Ocean (something) course this afternoon.”
They never listen to your first answer.
“No, thanks. I’m going birding.”
And there was that look. He wanted to be sure no one saw him talking with a birder—whatever that was, or is.
“Aaaa, like bird watching? Why would you want to go out in this heat [96 degrees] and watch birds?”
The greatest of all philosophical questions—why.
And it’s so easily answered with the greatest of all philosophical answers—why not.
I had a lot of smart-ass answers I could have used, such as, you’re going to go hit a little white ball around in this heat … That kind of stuff.
I’ve learned that just saying “why not” is usually enough. It gives the asker enough space to nod his head and slip away, feeling like he won the discussion, which is what it’s all about for these corporate-leader types—winning.
This guy didn’t cave. He hadn’t grappled to the top of his corporate heap by not knowing all the answers. “So, what do you expect to see out there?”
Hmmm. Was this an opportunity to educate, or just some dude passing time, waiting for a more likely golfing prospect?
Let’s educate, I thought. “Well, Loxahatchee is about the only place you can still find the endangered Snail Kite,” I said in my most pleasant, instructional tone of voice.
Oops, that did it. His eyes narrowed. He furtively glanced around, kind of bird-like. Still, he couldn’t let it go. “A bird called a snail?”
I could pull out the field guide … No, let’s quit wasting time. Go directly to smart-ass. “Nope. The bird is a kite. It eats snails. Apple snails, actually.”
Now he was cooked. He had to get in the last word, however. That’s what bosses do best. He knew he was dealing with someone who was loosely wrapped; potentially dangerous. “Ya know, none of those words make a bit of sense if you’re really talking about birds.”
I just grinned, raised my shoulders and bid him a tolerable day on the course.
He certainly made my day. So, maybe I bird to be able to have a bit of fun with corporate leaders.