Sometimes I think our figurative (and especially euphemistic) language is getting out of hand. In the last few weeks, I’ve had to do a double-take of written communication more than I ever would’ve imagined necessary for someone pursuing a doctorate in communications.

I glimpsed a decorative tin of small, colourful packets as I strode hurriedly through the student wellness centre next to a sign reading “Free personal care products.” My heart leapt. Awesome! I thought, Free tea! In my book, there’s no finer personal care than a steamy mug of tea. Much to my chagrin, however, these personal care products were something else entirely. I blushed conspicuously as I covertly snapped a photo.

I was doing my usual morning scroll through the New York Times a few weeks ago when I came across the headline “The juicy secrets of stars that eat their planets.” I stared blankly for longer than I care to admit before it struck me: the author wasn’t talking about some bizarre newfangled celebrity practice but the literal astronomical bodies. I guess I’ve reached the point of news media consumption at which I expect the phrase “juicy secrets of stars” to concern some vapid, nosy meddling in some stranger’s affairs—my science communication background and research focus notwithstanding. Whose bright idea was it to make “star” synonymous with “celebrity” anyway?

Speaking of stars, the sports headlines pose a surprising stumbling block for me, on the rare occasions when I don’t scroll straight past them to get to the good stuff. “The Suns are up for Sale” declares one—talking, of course, about a sports team, not literal stars.

Why, I wondered—on reading the submission guidelines for a scholarly journal—are essay reviews longer than book reviews if essays are shorter than books? Evidently the first word applies to the thing reviewed in “book reviews,” but to the review itself in “essay reviews,” for some inscrutable reason. I have frequent cause to be fervently grateful that English is my first language—if I didn’t already know it, I have grave doubts about my ability to pick it up.

It is perhaps fitting that the word I re-read the most is read—or read—which throws me into something of a philosophical conundrum: past or present? It’s tense. I’m all wound up now—like there’s a wound in my mind. I do sometimes wish I had a knack for languages; The fun I have with this one would instead be anathema if it were my second. A piece of me still wonders, though, what lively amusement could be in store if I could weather the frustration in my baby-steps tottering through French or Latin (both too many years ago to be more than distant memories now) and get to the fun. C’est la vie. The famed Mary Oliver quote comes to mind (albeit modified): “What will you do with your one wild and precious [mother tongue]?”

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