The Tao of Barney Stinson's Chopsticks

It may not surprise you at this point to learn that there is almost nothing--from mints to hairdryers--to which I will not apply intense analysis. This trait serves me well in some situations and less well in others. In school it was a boon, my ace in the hole. (When in doubt, perform close reading). In relationships, it means I can often have a seemingly uncanny grip on a particular dynamic. This analysis is in no way divorced from my intuition. They operate as a stream. My default state, perhaps because I am a twin--is deeply symbiotic, a fluid balance between focus and spirit.

The downside is an inability to separate myself from this function and partake in the less elegant world of reality. It took me until I was at least 24 years old to fully realize that not every person I encountered could read my mind, and vice versa. Further, there is an inability to stop the flow of analysis, no matter how ultimately trivial the object of attention. Symbiosis has its heartbreaking limits. There comes a time in every witch's life where she must learn to divine analysis from intuition and choose how to wield them together and alone for the best outcomes. This education comes slowly.

By way of example, there is my engagement with the television show How I Met Your Mother. At this point I've been watching for years. My interest has swung from casual to minor obsession to background noise to nostalgia and back again. It is with an appropriately ashamed pride that I admit I could probably fill a volume with essays about this show and my relationship with it.  But to illustrate the psychological phenomenon I'm attempting to define, consider this one item: I have determined that a consistent detail through all nine seasons of this sitcom is that the actor Neal Patrick Harris, portraying Barney Stinson, is unable to properly deploy chopsticks in the never-ending parade of takeout meals featured in at least every other episode of this bougie-ass show.  The one possible exception is in season seven, episode three, entitled  Ducky Tie" in which in order to see his married female friend's breasts, Barney flawlessly practices Hibachi cooking which he has learmed in secret.

Low-brow plot points aside, I find this one detail deeply compelling. Partly, it is that I recognize myself in his humbling and endearing ineptitude. I  too am familiar with the near-miss, the blind spot, the social grace just out of reach, the frustration of faking an unattainable skill. At times, when I've caught sight of a botched rise and fall of rice-to-mouth, I've felt sorry for Barney, going hungry through all those imaginary meals. Through multiple viewings, I've watched for instances of this quirk with patient, critical hope, pondering every emotional resonance and possible meaning of such a regular irregularity. I've considered whether the repetition was conscious on the part of the actor (and wouldn't that be satisfying) or merely circumstantial, perhaps even a fever dream of my own creation produced from too many nights falling asleep to urbane patter and a soothing laugh track. Maybe Neal was just on a diet all those years. I haven't gone so far as to scour any forums about it, but clearly it's only a matter of time.

And to what end, this conjecture, this culling of meaning, this arbitrary focus? I can't imagine a scenario more utterly pointless on nearly every level and yet I find myself fascinated by its existence--drawn in again and again every time the moment is captured, that small, winking flaw. To what end is my telling of this strange anecdote? Only that it moves me, only that it captures some essence of this piece of art I've spent so much wasteful and worthy time with, only that it expresses some microcosm of myself: the trying and failing, the noticing and not, the trivial and the true.