In the past, I've written here about the importance of Perspective.
Perspective is the sugar to your salt, or the ice to your burn. It is the kiss to your boo-boo, and the salve to your sores, the pop to your pistol. But it can also be the nail to your back, the bite to the bark, and the lash of the whip. Wow, it moved a little there. Is anybody else getting turned on? A-gain, I digress, and apologize most unreservedly. What I'm saying is that I could really give two giant dog logs about my job. The work I do could not be done by anyone else in an instant. That's where my Catch-22 is… Someone else can do this work if I train them, but I have no time to train anybody else, so I can't any time off and have somebody cover for me while I continue recruiting the squirrel army. (Enrollment now at 3-ish. Their squirrel focus can blur when you run out of bridge mix)
At 31 I am getting into the prime of my life, which will be a different sort of prime than I thought I was in there in my mid-late 20s. That was fun and all, but there were plenty of things I didn't need to do, like Ohio, to prove I was "livin' for the moment." I am trying to break away from the cycle of destructive tendencies, also, like shooting myself in the foot before the big race so that I don't beat my best friend. I have a small group of close friends, a close group of good friends, and a good sized group of buddies, and I mean this with all due respect, but f*ck 'em. I have things to do, like call Ohio, like LAST WEEK, and I don't care if Ohio's not available, I'll text 'em and get on with it. There are things that need doing, undoing, then massaging the kinks out of.
Getting on with it is the deal. This past year has been a push, feeling like an 800-meter race of warm-up, warm-up, warm-up, and GO at a gallop. No dead sprints, just a pace that usually would make me say "I'm much more adept with a shot-put, or a female high-jumper." But for some reason I have gone for it this year. In all facets, this pace was my perspective to last year. Last year was a coast, a brisk walk on a nice fall morning to get a cup of coffee and something from the pastry case, perhaps an Afternoon Delight with a Cabernet follow-up, or I'll just have a go at myself and another nap before I hit the gym. Nearly decadent, I was still shooting myself footwise a number of times. Some things you don’t have to go through to understand that you learned your lesson the first time. Ohio is an unkind lover who farts when it sleeps. Still.
But my schedule is turning. In my mind's eye I had this calendar that ran through September, then there was a red line, then a lot of gray area. That gray area is what I'm supposed to paint for myself, I suppose. First off, I've heard a fair amount of anti-male rhetoric in the workplace, including "Bob's being an asshole" followed by "Aren't all men?" Then again, 3 marriages do not a romantic make. Can you imagine? Three different people have invested in that slag of a woman. How many before she can be sued for fraud? More than that is the emotional stance that I'm beyond ready to move on to the next phase of my career. I see work as a relationship, and money as $ex, and I'm just looking for a lot of hot, sloppy, anonymous $ex with whomever is $exiest at the moment. (see previous blog)
Perhaps it's the perspective that everyone is getting older in different ways. I see some people progressing, and some in denial of their lameness. Those who are progressing are going to shine, as they're ready to progress. Those who step back and look at stagnation as if it's cute, well, pity them not. Just decide RIGHT NOW you will not donate a liver section to them if you match up later in life. (I told them 5 times, DO NOT CALL OHIO) Watching what's happened with my dad has been a huge motivator in my life to open my arms to what I'm meant to be doing. And from what I can see, my father worked really hard his entire adult life and had just a couple years to enjoy the fruits of his labor before his illness had progressed. He turns 62 in a few weeks. While I blame Ohio, partly, I cannot help but wish I could turn it all around, even for a week. His illness is the perspective I needed to wake me up to the fact that This Is Not Karaoke, you gotta rock the original. And if someone likes it enough to rub some oil into your back, remember for a second, all those faces you sang to that said "Man, you're awful." Then imagine them on their knees with a ball-gag in their mouth, because they are PIGS, OINK you sick little pig, you OINK FOR ME or I will make you lick my HEELS because…
Well, it's time.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
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