Emotional Intelligence, Ha Ha Ha

At some point in the seventies, unless it was the eighties, a man named Howard Gardner developed what he called the "Multiple Intelligence Theory," which was a way of proving that smart people were secretly stupid and vice versa. This theory made the stupid people of the world (which is a lot of people) very happy.

There are, I am happy to report, many ways of being intelligent that do not involve passing your math class. You can be athletically intelligent, artistically intelligent, musically intelligent, socially intelligent, and so on, in a practically infinite variety of ways.

None of this do I dispute.

My athletic intelligence became proof (if any were needed--after all, Gardner had a job at Harvard) when, in P.E. class, I was forced to wear royal blue bloomers and participate in a form of medieval torture known as "softball". I was always picked last, which put me in the outfield, whose name I took to its literal limit by backing stealthily up until I had reached the outer orbits of the planet Uranus. At this point, some Eager Beaver would inevitably lob the ball straight to my precise location, as if guided by heat-seeking technology, and I would do what any sensible person would do, i.e., close my eyes, scream, cover my head with my arms, and try to look nonchalant all at the same time, actions which did not endear me to the rest of my bloomer-wearing comrade-esses.

Meanwhile, there are people who, if unable to differentiate adjectives from, say, hippopotami, are perfectly capable of awakening from a sound sleep to casually catch a stray ball with one hand while scratching their nether regions with the other.

So I'm down with the Multiple Intelligence theory, except for one type that I must dispute: Emotional Intelligence.

The very term is an oxymoron. By nature, emotions are illogical and contradictory, not to mention damned inconvenient. Your average emotion would compare unfavorably in intelligence to a bowl of oatmeal. Emotions have the discernment of baby ducks and the tenacity of piranhas, latching onto whatever is large and warm and doesn't run away quite fast enough, and never, ever, letting go. Sylvia Browne has reported many cases where this obsessive-compulsive urge has lasted far beyond the grave. Even death cannot shake the limpet grip. And we call this Intelligence??

We fall for inappropriate people, in a way that is inversely proportional to their innate worth. A nice guy, with good credit and solid values, gets short shrift. “He has red hair!” we say to our well-meaning friends who are trying to set us up, in the tone of one who has clinched the matter. And our friends nod in sad but complete comprehension. They wouldn't date him, either.

But a bad boy, with the requisite sob story, credit card debt, and crazy ex-wife (and possibly, a motorcycle), will inspire us to the heights (or depths) of our so-called Emotional Intelligence.

We will endure every betrayal, every indignity, every disappointment and humiliation, with the resigned determination of the early Christian martyrs. When challenged by our increasingly irritated friends, who eventually get to the point where the mere mention of Billy Bob and his Antics sends them over the edge, we respond, bleating like yogic sheep, with the mantra: “But I love him!”

And our friends grit their teeth, pour themselves another full glass of wine, and bear it, since they have their own Billy Bobs, and the deal is, I’ll listen to yours if you’ll listen to mine.

But when Billy Bob eventually reaches his expiration date, not because we tire of him, but because there is, after all, a God, and our own darling Antichrist rides off into the sunset with the defiant roar of a motorcycle that is behind in its payments, what do we, the Emotionally Intelligent, do? Do we heave a huge sigh of relief and book a flight to Paris? Get a full-body massage? Go out with the red-headed millionaire?

Or do we lie on the sofa and mope, sipping box wine and playing "Jesse" over and over again, even though we could never stand Carly Simon on a good day, feeding off our dead love affairs like vultures with yesterday’s roadkill?

The answer, to anyone with a gram of Emotional Intelligence, is plain to see. Pass the roadkill, please.