Wednesday, January 21, 2015

At the Point of Intersection Between Punch and Drunk

Apologies to anyone who I might have inadvertently duped with the title of yesterday's silliness.  This little piece of Prince Albert Gore's virtual playground received foot traffic significantly greater than it usually does and I have a feeling that its title played a role in that.  So, if anyone came by here yesterday in anticipation of something titillating or pornographic, I apologize for the disappointment.  Truth be told, I spend even less time giving due consideration to the title of each day's nonsense than I do to its contents.  Welcome, one and all disappointed humans to the swath of real estate perpetually occupied by my long-suffering wife - where disappointment lurks around every corner. 

But I digress. 

There is a commercial running on television these days featuring an assorted selection of little kids, all of whom are offering an answer to the question "What Do You Want to Be When You Grow Up?" The first one - a little girl - fills in the blank by saying, "I want to be a lawyer."  Every time the commercial airs and I hear those words pass through her lips, I want to scream at my television.  

In the interest of full disclosure, what I said in the previous paragraph is not entirely true. 

Every time the commercial airs and I hear the words "I want to be a lawyer" pass through the lips of that little girl, I do in fact scream at my television.  

This is the professional life I have chosen - this, this thing that I do.  It has brought me more than a modicum of financial stability, including helping get two kids educated and getting the girl child off and married, and at least as much success.  Yet, I loathe it.  Do not misunderstand.  I am far happier plying my trade right where I am presently than I would be anywhere else.  That being said, it remains a fairly inane way to earn one's living.  If any of my grandchildren ever express an interest in pursuing this as a career I shall nail a foot or two of theirs to the floor of the room in which they are situated when they verbalize such an interest and guard over them until it passes. 

Wednesday is - for me - survival day every week.  As long as I can get through this day each week without hatching a plan for killing another or myself, I have increased confidence in my ability to make it to week's end.    

As much self-loathing as I do daily regarding my chosen profession, I never lose sight of the fact that considering I am a man of exceptionally limited skills I am damn lucky to be able to earn a living doing what it is I do.  

I also never lose sight of the fact that I am damn lucky that at this point in my life the adults f/k/a my children are off on their own so that the whole notion of birthday parties and the timely RSVP is something to which I have given zero thought in more than two decades.  If some asshole had ever presented me with an invoice secondary to my five-year-old not attending their little snot factory's birthday party, then I am confident that my reaction would have been markedly less benign than the reaction of little Alex's parents.   

Punch, anyone? 


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