Let's Be Less Stupid: An Attempt to Maintain My Mental Faculties (12 page)

ANSWERS:

Instead of games, then, why not invigorate your brain by playing bridge, becoming a chess master, curing a disease, or untangling your earphone cords? Because: Isn’t it easier just to pay $9.95 a month and push some buttons on the electronic device of your choice?

Yes.

Enter the entrepreneurs. Within the last few years, enough brain fitness products have been developed by neuroscience companies to give each of your synapses its very own personal training program. Here is a partial list of companies and programs: MindSparke, MyBrainSolutions, Brain Spa, brainTivity, Brainiversity,
Brain Metrix, BrainHQ, Mind Quiz: Your Brain Coach, Brain Exercise with Dr. Kawashima, Nintendo’s Brain Age, Advanced Brain Technologies, Cogmed, Lumosity, MindHabits, NeuroNation, and HAPPYneuron. I predict that as long as there is a thesaurus, this list will grow.

By far the biggest purveyor in the field is Lumos Labs, the neuroscience research company that sells the Lumosity training program. As of April 2015, this brain trust, which has grown 200 percent every year since the launch of its software in 2007, had sixty million subscribers in at least 180 countries. This is about the same as the population of Italy.

One of the subscribers is me. Another is Teresa Heinz Kerry, wife of Secretary of State John Kerry, who began using Lumosity on her iPad after she had a stroke and credits the program with accelerating her recovery, but this isn’t a self-help book for Theresa. Every day I, Patty, am presented with five games in my in-box.

This is the part where I should probably describe how to play all of these games, but that would be as peppy to read as the booklet on how to care for your new washer/dryer unit. Suffice it to say, each task seems to have been specially tailored to make me feel bad about a specific mental faculty (memory, attention, speed of processing, flexibility, or problem-solving, depending on the game). Moreover, most of the challenges are
timed, and so, as the clock ticks, my heart pounds like a Gene Krupa solo. I am especially undone by the game Raindrops, which calls on the player to solve equations that reside inside descending raindrops before those numeral-filled drips reach the ocean. Under this kind of pressure, can anyone be expected to add even 1 + 1? (Brain scans of subjects who are afraid of math show that the mere thought of having to do math triggered responses in the subject that looked just like the images of someone experiencing physical pain.) Also nerve-destroying is Brain Shift, which requires one to, ever so speedily, press the right arrow key when the number is even or the letter is a vowel, and the left arrow key when the number is odd or the letter is a consonant. This doesn’t sound hard but, believe me, people have telephoned 911 for less.

According to the Lumosity website, in the past 103 days, I have played 876 games. I know what you’re thinking: “5 × 103 does not = 876. No wonder she is having trouble with simple arithmetic.” You are probably also thinking, “Is she on steroids?” Or, if you are my mother, you are thinking—actually, saying, “You’re sure you’re not doing too many exercises? What if something in your head snaps?” Here’s the thing: The reason my count is this ridiculously high is that so determined am I to have an enviable LPI (Lumosity Performance
Index) that I play each game not just once but repeatedly. Feel free to substitute the word
repeatedly
with
until the cows come home
. A session is supposed to last about ten minutes. Mine can last up to two hours. Lumosity recommends three to five workouts a week. I never miss a day. Now you are really starting to wonder about me, aren’t you? Maybe I shouldn’t tell you, then, that in addition to those completed games I’ve chalked up, I’ve started many others and then, sensing that things were not going well, thrown in the towel and pressed restart, blaming my bad performance on my computer or on hearing my boyfriend breathe in the next room or, though we haven’t met, sometimes even on you, who I so don’t want to disappoint. The next game, I tell myself, will be perfect. Is this cheating? Sort of, I guess. Pathetic? You bet!

LPI is like the Dow-Jones average of your brain. The number goes up or down daily, depending on your performance that day—as well as on previous days. The index is based on an algorithm that takes into account the scores of millions of players. Thus you can not only feel bad by comparing your today self against yesterday self, you can also feel bad by lining up against those in your age group or any other age group you choose. This is the only advantage to getting old I can think of—that your Lumosity competition is not as stiff. Tip: Whatever you do, don’t compare yourself against the twenty-to twenty-four-year-olds. They are the worst, by which I mean the best.

As anyone would predict, my LPI increased over time.

Do these scores translate to increased intelligence in my so-called real life? I guess we’ll find out soon. In the meantime, isn’t it curious that on one of my absolute highest-performing days, as I was setting up the Lumosity app on my phone, I forgot my password?

Is this book doing its job? Here’s a diagnostic crossword to help you find out if you are less stupid than you were on
here
. Don’t be discouraged if you can’t complete this puzzle within two hours. If you’re stuck, give me a call, and I’ll provide a hint. Ready? Don’t be afraid to answer

YES.

ANSWERS:

Late one night Frank stops at a Greek diner that has only two waiters, Nick and Zorba. One always tells the truth, and the other always lies. Which is which is unclear. I know, I know—this is a bad business model, but can I get on with my paradox? To wash down his baklava, Frank orders a cup of decaf from Zorba. “You’re sure it’s decaf?” says a nervous Frank to Zorba as the waiter pours him some coffee. “I always tell the truth,” says Zorba. Nick appears at the table
with another pot of coffee, which he insists is decaf. “Don’t believe Zorba,” says Nick. “He’s a liar.” “Nick’s a liar,” says Zorba. “Zorba’s the liar,” says Nick. This witty badinage continues, but we don’t have to bear witness. What’s important is that only one of the pots of coffee is indeed decaf. Is it, then, Zorba or Nick who is telling the truth? Are there any question(s) Frank can ask to find out? Or should he just order tea?

ANSWER:

Frank can uncover the truth by asking just one question. In fact, two different questions will each provide all the enlightenment he needs, coffee-wise.

You are on your own with figuring out the tip.