What To Do

Apologies in advance: I have no idea what I’ll write here today. I vowed to myself that I’d post every week regardless of how profound my words. So here I am, writing blindly and blissfully forward, as is my habit.

Politics? Meh. I was raised to believe that everyone has the right to vote, and they also have a right to privacy. My mother taught me that those two go together, and that’s how people get along. That’s certainly not the practice these days.

In this age of over sharing, everyone wants to broadcast their opinions. In honor of my mother, I’m not going to do that. Maybe that’s why she had so many friends; she knew when the speak up and when to shut her mouth. There’s wisdom in silence. Mark Twain knew this.

It’s another relaxing Sunday. I’m caught up with correspondence, and mellow classic rock is playing. The Lions play the Buccaneers in an hour or so. Maybe I’ll watch the game. It’s the first time the Lions have made it this far in a season in …

Well, I don’t follow football enough to know how long it’s been, but it’s been a while.

I thought I might take a nap, but my cat is sleeping in my spot. I don’t want to disturb her. Is that pathetic, or what? My father would’ve bopped he lightly with his Sunday paper: “Move, cat!” He was never a pet person, but he was challenged to hide his affection for them.

I started this post with no clear direction. That violates the first rule of writing, I s’pose. I don’t have a thesis statement. Oh, no! Maybe the lack thereof is thesis enough. I’m not here necessarily to educate you, dear reader. Maybe I’m just happy you’re here, paying me a visit.

You can join me in the practice of reflection. I watched Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny last night. One of the characters asked a question: if you could go back in time and change one thing, when and what would that be?

I have my answer. How about you?

I’d go back to 1976 and tell myself to do anything necessary to get all A’s. I was an average student, and it all started in 7th grade when those damned hormones started kicking in. Girls became a real distraction, but the real problem started in 8th grade. That’s when I befriended my class’ true-to-life Jeff Spicoli.

I’ll call him Jeff. There’s no reason to drag his real name into. He was a great guy. Super nice and mellow. Too mellow for the sake of being a good influence. He was what we called a burnout. He’d come late to first period, eyes red from getting high for breakfast.

I want to make something clear. I don’t blame him for my poor performance. My choices were my own. He had the strongest influence on those choices, though; he was one of the cool kids—y’know how it is. Never played by the rules.

Problem is, it was the rules that defined the path I needed to walk to achieve my dream of attending the Air Force Academy and becoming a pilot. I won’t keep you in suspense: I didn’t walk that path. Choices made under the influence of Jeff. That was part of it.

I could’ve used a mentor. I could’ve swallowed my pride and asked for extra help when I needed it. I needed it only because I didn’t pay attention in class, thanks to hormonal daydreaming. And I rarely did my homework.

Maybe it’s putting too much on me for saying I owned all of the choices. Yes, they were my choices, but also I could’ve benefited from better adult guidance in how to make the right choices. Ah, but those hormones were powerful!

Before I go getting myself down by lamenting a life that never happened, I’m grateful for the life I’ve lived, both prior to and since The Accident. I’m comfortable where I am in life, here writing to you, listening to Joni Mitchell, and getting ready to watch the Lions play the Buccaneers.

Go Lions! Restore the Roar!

Maybe I’ll order a pizza later. I haven’t had pizza in a couple of months. Pineapple? You bet! And jalapeños!

Love that spicy-sweet!

That’s all for now: Peace and Love.