Life Lessons: Introduction

I have no idea what I’m doing.  Just thought I’d warn you.

I’m not even sure why I’m doing it.  But for whatever reason, I really want to write a book.  I don’t know if I think it will make me rich, or if it will be fun, or both, or neither.

Maybe I just like hearing the sound of my own voice.  Except, you know, I can’t hear the written word.  So, I guess it’s more like reading the sound of my own voice.  But with out the voice.

Or actual sound.

Right.

Did I mention that I have no idea what I’m doing?

I do feel that writing can be cathartic, even if it is just a random spewing of thoughts.  Sometimes, that which makes us feel better is the illusion in our head.  The illusion that I did a good job, or that my words actually matter in some way.

The illusion that I matter.

It sounds bad when I say it that way, doesn’t it?  Of course people matter.  We just don’t always believe that WE matter.  That I matter.  

But we want to.

We want to know that our lives have purpose and impact and are more than just a series of pointless events strung across time.  So, even when we aren’t sure… or perhaps, especially when we aren’t sure… we will create the illusion in our own heads that what we do, who we are, what we say, matters.  We want to feel better about ourselves.

Huh.  That sounds depressingly pathetic.

That is not actually my intention.  And really, what do I know?  I’m no psychologist.  I don’t know what you are thinking.  I don’t know why you think it, even if I say I do.  Which, I will probably do.

But everyone wants to feel better.  Even if they already feel good.  We want to laugh.  We want to improve.  Progress.  Run faster, farther.  Be skinnier and more muscular.  Have more hair in the right places and less in the wrong places.

That’s a weird one, right?  It’s amazing how much power ones hair has.  Nothing makes you feel older or look older than losing your hair.  

Trust me, I know all about this.  Mine has not so much disappeared as it has migrated.  It’s pretty patchy up top, but fortunately my body compensated by giving me extra all over and inside my nose.

Then there is my little patch of lower back goodness.  Or the random patches on my chest, belly and nipples.

That’s right, all you young attractive and body-hair free guys.  Just wait… your time is coming.  Once, not long ago, I was like you.  Full head of awesome.  Hairless pecks of glory.  Six-pack abs of sexy.

Now, I’m mostly sweaty and smell bad.  

I still sometimes try to act suave and sexy for my wife.  Which really makes her giggle.  But not in that turned on sort of way.  More in that awkward embarrassed sort of way.  In that, “Oh honey, you’re so silly.  You keep trying, and that’s… sweet…”

This works wonders for my ego.  It keeps reality in check.  Or perhaps, it keeps me in check, and snuggly tethered to reality.

It also keeps me jogging.  I can’t begin to describe all the ways THAT sucks.  They tell you that you get some sort of high or rush from jogging.

Lies.

All lies.

You know what I get from jogging?  

Tired.  Sore.  Out of breath.  Sweaty.  That feeling of such utter exhaustion and fatigue and inability to, you know, breath… that I beg God to strike me dead where I stand.

That’s my jogging experience.

However, to be fair, since I started jogging again, I’ve lost 20 pounds as of this sentence.  I can actually see my abs again.  I’d forgotten that I had more than one.  I can see four real clear, and two more are beginning to come out of hiding.  I’m buying shirts a size smaller now.  I no longer get out of breath when starting the car.  And you know what?

I feel pretty good about that.  I look better.  I feel better.  It turns out, all that work is worth it.  The pain and exhaustion.  

The other day my wife noticed that my arms had muscles.  At first I was thinking, “You mean they didn’t before?”  But then I realized she was noticing a difference in me.  A difference she liked.

And that made me feel good about me.

Which made me go out and by a nice, new, tailored suit.  And by “nice”, I mean “cheap”.  Let’s face it, I can’t afford nice.  I mean, it’s not high society.  But it does look the business.  I put on that suit, and I think, “if you weren’t so bald, you’d look totally sweet.”

So, I wear a fedora with it instead.  I like my fedora.  It looks good.  And oddly, it looks good when I wear my Green Lantern t-shirt, jeans, and Converse All-stars.

Although, I’m pretty sure I’m the only one who thinks so.

But does that matter?  

Well, probably yes.  But not as much as it used to.  And maybe that’s the real improvement.  It’s not the hat or the suit or shirt or the new-found abs.  Maybe it’s just knowing I can be a better me, an improved me, or that I can be happy with me.  

Because, all that superficial crap is meaningless.  My wife loved me when I was just sweaty and hairy and bald.  Does she love me more now that I have a nice suit and a trimmer figure?

No.  Sure, she is now ok being seen with me in public, and no longer hides behind the closest tree when some body walks by.

But she cared more about who I was inside, than what I was outside.

Why didn’t I?

Maybe that’s why I’m writing this book.