We all deal with disappointment in different ways. Some of us hold nothing back and begin strangling cats within moments of the initial disaster. Others are more restrained choosing instead to pursue long-term poisoning of their opponent as proper expression of their rage.
Faced recently with humiliating, public defeat, I’ve refocused on my goals and sought out alternative paths to take. More than a few involve long stints operating my own highway Waffle House in central Indiana. Just as many require going by the name Alan Rodriguez while doing so.
Not wanting to spend the money on change of address labels (and new book plates, for that matter) I’ve begun to question my goals. Why should a man desire to design his own activity placemat? Why not be happy with the thousands the world has already provided? Who am I to start my own hot air balloon-based ministry? Do I really need to put thirteen thousand pounds of sand on my credit card?
At one point, not too long ago, these seemed the only mountains worth climbing. It seemed a given a man should devote himself to naming every third rock he finds. Now…they’re so distant and blurry. Steaming, bunning, mustarding and serving the next hot dog is crisp and clear and right in front of me.