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Long Overdue Gumption

Am I satisfied?  Am I comfortable?  Am I too comfortable?  Alright... am I happy?  Ruminating over the pathway to finding the answers to those questions seems healthy. Always questioning the decisions you make so that you are situating yourself to be in the best possible version you can be seems therapeutic.  Smelling the sweet scent of reality comes with an internal conflict.  I've made the adult decision to take care of myself for once. I've made this decision many times before, but half-heartedly followed through. In the past, I tended to run away from issues — avoiding phone calls and ignoring emails. I always found an escape route, dropped a grenade down the hole, closed it, and walked away, neglecting the unresolved problems.  I could have continued this way, but to be honest, I am afraid. I've played a risky game my entire life, but I don't think this new world will continue to accommodate me if I keep this up. We all have aspirations, whether t...
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Quarter to Life


August 3, 2000. 2:22 PM.

Twenty-five years later.

Something about the quarter-life sentiment struck the fear of God in me.

Am I really at my quarter-life point?

My father — three strokes and two heart attacks before fifty. Still hanging in there, somehow.

My father’s father died of a stroke before fifty.

My father’s mother died before forty, of cancer.

I’ve already had open-heart surgery.

Sure, they had their vices: smoking, chewing, sitting around.

I don’t remember my grandfather. I never met my grandmother.

The only biological grandparent I have left is sitting in memory care.

I want veins on my arms and legs. I want clear piss. No acne. A jawline. 

When friends ask me to hike Mount Timpanogos, I don’t want to debate myself.

I don’t want limits anymore. Being active has always been the solution to everything, so why the hell have I avoided it?

I want to feel better. Look better. Live better. I want sex to be better. I just want to be better.

The uncertainty of what’s ahead flipped a switch in me — I fell behind.

Maybe I won’t reach fifty. Twenty-five years is plenty of time to die, but it’s also plenty of time to do something. To make this life matter.

I don’t believe in a next one. Never have. Never will.

I just don’t understand why I pissed away the first part of mine. No more.

“A cynic is a man who, when he smells flowers, looks around for a coffin.”

― H.L. Mencken