I’ve yet to author something that resembles a novel, but if I had, I likely would have come up with a character who resembles me. In addition to being handsome, this character would endure numerous trials. These trials would demonstrate a point – a point that, when combined with other point-driven trials in the novel, would further my efforts to take over the world. This would be done through deception.

I would deceive folks into seeing how much better it is to cherish what they have instead of yearning for crap they don’t. Hopefully I could come up with a plot captivating enough to do this. If all goes well, readers will think, “I want to be just like that (insert main character’s name here) fellow who recognized and therefore reacted to the value of (his/her) family, the effect of (his/her) surroundings and demonstrated daily general appreciation of life itself.”

I say this because the number of folks in my life suggesting I should write a book, deliver speeches at corporate events and utilize my talents to make a name for myself that will not soon die is becoming too great to tolerate with the classiness I typically have.

I am me. I have a pretty mundane job (not that I don’t appreciate it) in a pretty average town (not that I don’t appreciate it) among a circle of outstanding family and friends. I desire to be the things others want me to be, but lack the motivation to endure the sacrifices necessary to achieve them. Inside, I am the same person a high school classmate who is now a doctor said 10 years ago would make a six-digit salary. But also inside, I have grown to become a person blatantly content making less money, as long as my daughter is happy.

This is a way to make a name for myself that will not soon die.

Meanwhile, the division between me and my friends driven strictly by making money and their careers has grown. These were good friends, in high school, college and beyond, I’m talking about. I am no longer aware of how they spend their time. My best friend followed his career to the other side of the country; another will likely drop me the day I reveal I cannot join him for a football game in California because the money I planned to use for that trip will fund my daughter’s Christmas present, a trip to Disney World.

Will it get better? Probably not. As was the case with Pavlov’s dogs, I don’t expect anything to change if I ever get married and live in a two-income household. My tendencies conditioned by my time as a single parent are forever engrained. I am me.

Amazingly and fortunately, I have encountered and maintained several friendships strictly because of the circumstances that have essentially destroyed others. I am interested in them, their lives and that which makes them who they are. They are people driven by factors to which I can relate and respect. They are folks who live life like me.

It would be nice to retain all of my friends, but that’s just not possible nor is it regularity I strive to maintain. In the end, we all have our own story … and not everyone wants to read it.       



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