Like most kids, I grew up with big dreams. I idolized Johnny Unitas, so not only did I want to be a quarterback, I had to wear #19. I idolized Jerry West, so I learned how to dribble with my left hand so I could drive in either direction- and, of course, I had to wear #44. I dreamed of winning a basketball scholarship to the University of North Carolina and playing for Dean Smith- until I discovered that I had "White Man's Disease". Yep, it wasn't always easy being me.
Once I got over the disappointment of my abbreviated athletic career, which came to a halt after I was a goalkeeper on my college's soccer team, I had some adjustments to make. Unlike some of my friends, I was never blessed with a sense of what I wanted to do "when I grew up". Twenty-plus years after I left college, I still don't have a clear handle on the answer to the question. Well, I should probably qualify that. What you're reading is actually a representation of what I dream of doing, but I have a family to help support. When it comes to my writing, though, I have yet to lose my amateur status. I keep hoping that someone will notice the brilliance of the words I string together and decide to pay me a princely sum to continue pontificating. Alas, this fantasy remains exactly that.
Yes, I have a job, and one that allows me to assist in supporting my family, but it is a job that holds no meaning or particular promise for me. The company I work for takes and takes, and outside of a paycheck, there is little that I am given. That is not a complaint; rather it is an observation, my take on the reality of my situation.
I am able to help support my family, and for that I am grateful, because I know that is not a given in this day and age. I love my family, and I am thankful for them, for they enrich my life. Sometimes, though, in my more selfish moments, I can't help but wonder: what about me? When do I get to change the world in a way that is meaningful to me? When do I get my opportunity? When do I get my 15 minutes?
I don't mean to sound as if I'm feeling sorry for myself, because that is really not the case. I understand that I am my own agent of change. Nonetheless, at times like this, I understand the meaning of Emerson's observation that most men lead "lives of quiet desperation". Not all of us were meant to change the world- at least overtly. Perhaps my contribution is quieter and more subtly nuanced. I've come to grips with the reality that I will never find a cure for cancer, nor will I ever resolve the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Hey, things could be worse; I used to be a contractor at Enron, after all.
I hope that when I depart this Earth, my presence here will have been more than a mere afterthought. In the final analysis, I can only control how I live my life. Hopefully, I'll serve as a positive example for Adam and Eric. If that is the extent of my contribution, I'll be able to live with that. Perhaps someday I'll be able to make a living off my writing. Until then, I'll just have to continue to subject y'all to my bleatings in this forum. Thanks for indulging me.
Hmm...ennui, a lack of purpose, a search for meaning...sounds like a recipe for a midlife crisis, no?? Perhaps it's time to buy that Hummer after all.