As a child, did anybody ever tell you that you were different, a one of a kind? Or were you just a lost face in the crowd? Did you fit it? Were you left out? Did you choose to be left out, or did they simply leave you out?
Here’s even more to think about. Ask yourself these questions:
- Are you an introvert?
- Do you enjoy being by yourself?
- Do you feel lonely when you’re alone?
- Do you enjoy the company of others?
- That’s it, you must be an extrovert, right?
- Are there times when you feel more like the windshield than the bug?
- Do you always feel like the bug?
- Or, do you get to be the windshield occasionally?
- Are you a follower?
- Are you a leader?
- Sometimes you lead, sometimes you follow?
Depending on your answers to those questions, I might know a doctor who has just the right potion to solve your problems and cure your ills. I’ve seen the commercials on tv. Lots of commercials on tv. And if you get your hands on the wrong potion, there’s an attorney who can solve that problem, for a fee of course.
Maybe you’re one of those people, that person whose life is perfect and you wouldn’t change any of it, except maybe your weight. You’d like to be a little lighter. And taller. Maybe just a couple of inches. Well, bully for you.
I can tell you that I’m not one of those persons. Oh, I’m okay with my weight and height, but I would like a few more strands of hair. That would be nice, but it’s not a deal breaker. And a few more dollars in the bank. I take that back. A lot more dollars in the bank. And, Sarah Thompson. Would it have been too much trouble to allow her to be a little more willing? I know it might be too late now, but I’m just saying. If I can get a do-over, or two, she might be at the top of the list. I know for a fact that my life hasn’t been perfect like yours.
But, life is what it is. I can’t change that, and neither can you. Right? Right? You can’t change life, can you? You can’t get a do-over, can you? If you can, then I’m calling a mulligan. I definitely want a do-over of my own.
If you don’t know me, then know this—I prefer to be alone more than I prefer the company of others. I couldn’t tell you why. Just know that it is. I don’t care much for crowds. When stuck in one I’m the loneliest person around. I don’t know why. It just is. I don’t want to lead, and I detest following. I guess you’d say that I just march to the beat of a different drummer, my own personal drummer. His beat doesn’t get shared often. Except with Sarah Thompson? I did mention her, right?
Now, as I get older I’ve discovered that I don’t mind going where the current takes me. I float in the river wherever it may go. I might kick over a stone now and then, but I’ve pretty much gotten away from poking a hornets’ nest with a big stick just for fun. Hell, as it is, I might jump from the path I’m on to another path when they cross, or come in close proximity to each other, just because I saw another person a mile or two ahead of me. In short, my battle against life is a struggle, but a treaty has been called, however temporary it may be.
Does this sound like you, too? Am I speaking your language? Except Sarah Thompson. She’s not part of the discussion. If I am speaking your language, then fantastic I say. I enjoy a conversation of like minds from time to time. I much rather be alone, but I just don’t want to be the last person alone on Earth. While we’re occupying the same wavelength there’s just one thing I ask—stay off my hound dog.
“What!?” you ask. “Has he gone completely bonkers?”
Now, I’m sure you think I’m out of step with the beat of any drummer around. It seems I might be ready for a jacket with sleeves that tie in the back and a rubber room for a week or two. Right? You know, that really doesn’t sound too bad. Especially if Sara Thompson can visit.
But, regardless of what you think, my hound dog is my hound dog. You find your own.
Let me explain what I’m talking about. I stated that I’ve gotten to the point in life that I don’t mind going where the current takes me. That river current is just like a hound dog. It meanders through life, pausing from time to time, and picking up speed occasionally, but unlike the hound dog it never rests. As I’ve gotten older I prefer to be a flea on a hound dog’s ass than a leaf in a current. There’s more time for relaxation. No chance of being caught in an eddy and wind up going nowhere fast. And, unless that danged dog is chasing a rabbit, I don’t have to use a seat belt.
This conversation has about used up its allowed time. And, as long as we’re still talking terms, there’s one thing we need to get straight. There’s only one seat on my hound dog’s ass. You find your own ride.
Next week—how I taught that dog to hunt down Sarah Thompson.
Good night, Mrs. Jackson, wherever you are.