You could travel the world, scouring large cities, tiny hamlets and everything in between without ever finding anyone less suited to meditation than yours truly. You see, I fidget. Incessantly. I am forever tapping a foot or twirling my hair or biting my fingernails (Yes. It's gross. I'm trying to stop).
Some fathers pass down freckles or nearsightedness to their children. My dad gave me his insatiable need for movement, an unquiet that's less about expending energy and more about overactive nerves. At family gatherings, my mother, an island of calm, rolls her eyes as my father and I bounce from chair to couch to chair again, him rifling through piles of newspaper, me bouncing a pencil off my front teeth.
I'm sure it's quite annoying for her, because it's quite annoying for me, and I only have to watch one person do it. (More)
Source: Chicago Tribune
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