Manizesto

“Once height (measured in inches) is controlled, women have significantly higher IQs than men. Net of height, women score 2.14 points higher on the PPVT. In contrast, each inch in height is worth more than half an IQ point (0.56). A comparison of standardized coefficients shows that the effect of height is more than twice as large as that of sex. Because American men on average are 5 inches taller than American women (5’10” vs. 5’5”), this translates into 2.80 IQ points, overcoming the 2.14-point advantage of wom- en and making men appear more intelligent when height is not controlled.”

They also controlled for sex, race, age, physical attractiveness and health.

As a relatively short man, this is discouraging news.

Here is the complete study.

Women who made a public commitment to lose weight achieved 102% of their weight loss goals and 97% kept the weight off, compared to 88% achievement levels for people with no public commitment.

I find the measurement used to track subjects susceptibility to normative influence (how people behave based on social approval) somewhat flawed, but otherwise Nyer and Dellande have confirmed what could be a lever for marketers.

Increasing the how public a commitment is made would probably yield even better results; that’s why The Biggest Loser contestants always lose massive amounts of weight.

More here (pdf).

There are two types of vacations: those that leave you rejuvenated and those that leave you exhausted. I will never understand why people choose to take vacations so crammed with activities, destinations, sites, shopping, shows and gluttony you come back to your busy life sapped and sluggish, needing, ironically, another break.

Actually, I do know why people do it. So they can say, “Oh, the Great Wall? Yes, I’ve seen it. Very large…you can see it from space!” Or “Sure, Costa Rica was nice, but there’s nothing like Barbados.” To brag, see? Because where is the glamor of telling your friends you went to the mountains and spent some time reassessing your life, truly letting go, and re-filling your reserve tank? Right. You have to leave that little showboating vessel vacant, put it on the shelf and forget about it. You must. But then you won’t even have any good photos to post of Flickr and Facebook.

So, you see, we fall into the trap of taking trips of the former sort, and get gray hair and heart disease instead.

Leave renewed, or leave exhausted. It is up to you.

All relationships have elements of polarizing irony. Think on this litmus test for proving the value of personal interactions:

“You have spent some time with this person, either you have a drink or go for dinner or you go to a ball game. It doesn’t matter very much but at the end of that time you observe whether you are more energised or less energised. Whether you are tired or whether you are exhilarated. If you are more tired then you have been poisoned. If you have more energy you have been nourished. The test is almost infallible and I suggest that you use it for the rest of your life.”
-Milton Glaser

So, you can put wrinkles on your face by pleasing every customer, or you can find the world’s best customers that leave you fulfilled.

You can cringe and work for someone or something you don’t like or you can choose not to.

You can guard to the death your secret recipe of 11 herbs and spices or you can share it openly with the world.

You can give a man a fish, or you can teach him how.

You can take 1,000 photos of 100 places, or you can see, experience and contemplate one place, and take no photos.

It is up to you.

I stab the brakes to shave off about 75% of my speed as I enter the corner, press in the clutch, throw it into second, then blip the throttle to about 3,500 RPM. The engine winds up eagerly, so I engage the clutch and get hard back on the throttle just at the apex of the corner. The tires complain a little but I don’t pull back. Then it’s Wolfgang Amadeus’ Marriage of Figaro Overture (the last 47 seconds, especially). Bliss. Powerful, incredible, overwhelming bliss.

When I leave Albertson’s with diapers, mayonnaise and an off-limits treat for myself, I drive the same route and experience bliss again. In my 2003 Civic.

And what of it? Am I not to live and experience the delectable oysters of life, even if they are small? True, I am not a racecar driver, and to my own dismay and humility, I’ve yet to master heel and toeing. Still, I know I will never, ever, be content navigating a lumbering 2-Ton SUV with an automatic transmission. Automatic!? It’s blasphemy!

And I cannot be alone in this hidden passion and secret fun upon which I occasionally feast.