If the Mayan Calendar in my laundry room reads correct, we are a mere two trips around the great light bulb in the sky before things get a little weird in 20-twelve. Thank goodness we are a species of procrastinators; we’ll panic, blame it on our upbringing, and run through the streets yelling “We will die another day.” For now, today, this day, the time of the year when footieball, deep-fried forest fowl, and family reign supreme… may gastric pleasure know all of you this day – Thanksgiving Day! It has become a tradition on the fourth Thursday in November to piggyback on the commercial success of this holiday. For nearly a decade an annual exercise in mental cleansing is shared with some friends and annually introduced to a few new ones. And even though Ned Beatty gets PTSD when he sees pigs, this is The Chronicles of a Lost Southerner.
For my upcoming 35th birthday in February I have asked my wife to schedule me an appointment with the family physician. “Doc, I would like a medically induced mid-life crisis.” Because the video streaming through my high-def eyeballs is sure not what I imagined life would be like on the north side traveling toward 40. I’m grateful for the libertarian mind telling the body that age is just a government mandate. Nonetheless, this crazy chlorine head sure ain’t running a 26.2 anytime or dead lifting a car. Nope! It's difficult enough to play the sport of life when massive amounts of testosterone and passive aggression fuel the masses. Sitting around inhaling our own greatness weighs on the rest.
Such is this existence that in 120 years no one who is today will be, and no one then is here today. My heart is dancing to the thought of how great the space we don’t occupy in this vast universe. If I was a good guy and came to my senses, I might toast a hot cup of jack squat to the game; but gravity distracts me from the ants who say, “Man, a good guy simple lives to gain.” It is my children and eternal wife who keep me from laughing off this living fiction – trading in rubber on the road for a world tour with Stephen Hawking and Deepak Chopra. PEOPLE!… we rent space on a 6,000 billion billion ton atomic fireball with a thin candy shell, rocketing at 67,000 miles per hour in a Polish victory lap around a freaking star, with no glue or double sided tape keeping us here. Please excuse me for being a little distracted by gravity… it helps me stay grounded.
So until next year, may your minds be a little less distracted by small things and your lives are full of love. Hopefully the ones you want around stay for a long time. To those who have been given the opportunity to add a member or two, congratulations. To those who have lost one, may a special piece of their time with you stay for a long time.
Be well friends and family.
Jarvis
