{This article is somewhat related to this previous post, so if you want to go read that one first, and then read this one, I would be totally cool with that.

Go ahead. Don’t be shy. I want you to!)

I have been thinking a lot about myself, my worth, my place in the world, and whether or not, in the grand scheme of things, there’s enough to me to be considered functional in any sense of the word.

( I know, I know, thinking of it like that probably doesn’t help, but hey, it’s called mental illness, not mental options, know what I mean? )

And as I try to stumble and shin bark my way to some kind of measurable, detectable self-esteem, I find myself increasingly thinking about Einstein’s wife, and what she would have thought of me.

Don’t worry, I’m going to explain that.

See, the world knows Albert Einstein as one of the greatest geniuses who has ever lived. His ability to think about the most fantastic situations and derive the necessary equations in order to describe the universe in a way that transcended Newton and let us unlock the might power with every atom.

But, it is also well known that the man was a slob. His appearance was often disheveled and unkempt, he was notoriously absentminded, and frequently said that if it was not for his wife, he would not remember to get dressed before going out in the morning.

So, one of the greatest geniuses, a man so brilliant that we now use his name when ironically praising someone who has just done something stupid (“Nice move, Einstein!), and yet also in many ways kind of a basket case.

I can relate on that second part. The first, I leave to others to decide.

But what I want to know, and what I keep thinking about is, what did Einstein’s wife really think of it? I mean, she most likely always supported him in public or even in private, because honestly he was a good man and she wanted him to succeed, for himself and for the sake of her family.

But in her heart of hearts, what did she think?

Did she look at his odd combination of genius and incapacity and find it endearing, even charming? Did she think to herself “Oh, my dear Albert. My poor little lost boy. You can show the world all kinds of wonders with just a piece of chalk and a blackboard, and yet you cannot show me where you left the keys to the house or what you did with my good scissors. You are my funny little man, and I adore you for it. ”

Or was she more bitter and sarcastic? “Oh, sure, Mister Big Shot Scientist, travels all the world giving speeches and fighting for peace and an end to The Bomb, and everybody calls him some kind of genius. Well they would not think he is so smart if they had to deal with the state he gets his underwear into ! And his collars, oy. How can he get them so dirty? Does he drag his head through three gutters before he comes home to me? It certainly looks that way when you look at his hair! Genius? Ha!”

In other words, did she respect him? Did she think of him as a great man with a few lovable flaws that just meant he needed her and she got to be part of something much bigger than what the average housewife gets?

Or did she think he was a pathetic, helpless schmuck who scammed the world, including getting her to marry someone so obviously defective?

This question plagues me because in many ways I identify with poor old Albert. I am no world shaking genius, but this brain of mine can do some pretty amazing tricks from time to time, and I might even be able to make a living at it some day if I am willing to eat a lot of ramen (or pot noodles, or chinese noodles, or whatever you call them. )

But is that enough? What kind of a man am I, let alone what kind of a human being, if the only way I can make it through life is if someone else takes on a lot of the business of living for me?

What good is a hothouse flower, anyhow?

So I sit and I wonder whether being a strange and impractical but talented person is enough.