As the Olympics roll along its impossible not to admire the stubborn, dogged determination it takes to be the greatest at any one thing. It's the reason we stand and cheer when Michael Jordan or Tiger Woods or Michael Phelps demolish the field in their given area of expertise. It's why Mozart, and Shakespeare, and Van Gogh still resonate loudly (literally in Mozart's case when I've got my Bose cranked) so long after they are gone.
When I stare lovingly at myself in the mirror, as I so often do, I can't help but think two things. First, how did I manage to get toothpaste into my hair and hair gel in my mouth? Second, my steely gaze reminds me that I have the same fore-mentioned determination within myself...but no innate talents or abilities through which I can manifest this desire. So instead of conquering the world or smashing record books, I sit through twenty + hours of television per week. And I mean all television. Even the stuff that stinks, (You know who you are, new Knight Rider) when I'm tired and just want to go to bed and have turned pale white from no sun, I dig deep inside, splash water on my face, and endure. I'm that dedicated. Kind of gives you chills when you think about it, doesn't it? Here is little me, the guy with forty items in the twenty items or less line at the grocery store, rejecting the appropriate guilt, and instead staring the little old lady behind me down. "That's right Grandma, you've got to wait a little longer to get home and eat that TV dinner and box of Fig Newtons." My point? It's possible to be proud of who you are and what you're accomplishing even if you aren't born with a four foot vertical, the ability to write symphonies at 5 years old, or Romeo and Juliet dancing around in your head, waiting to be written. Shoot, I'm living proof that a person can be proud of themselves even when they probably shouldn't be.
Gee, when I write it all out, some small part of me realizes that I should be ashamed. Granted, it's a really small part and I've already locked it away in my basement closet, but I felt it for a moment. I mean, I watched freaking Seventh Heaven when I could have been out hiking a mountain or something. And the scary part is I don't really regret it. I'm just annoyed my wife won't buy into my plan where I quit my job and become a full time television-watcher. We could live off of cabbage and beets planted in the backyard during commercial breaks, along with water sucked out of our neighbor's spicket when they aren't home. The children could stand on street corners begging for money to pay for HD TV and TiVo.(They're 1.5 and 5 and adorable, so they'd rake in the dough). As for the mortgage, well, no one is paying that anymore with the market being how it is these days, so it would probably be years and years before we got kicked to the curb. I could go on in excruciatingly elaborate detail, hinting of a troubled mind that has thought too hard and to seriously about this, but instead I'll just reiterate that my wife shoots that whole way of thinking down before it ever even gets off the ground. What a wet blanket.
Speaking of my wife, and jumping back to the topic of determination: Michael Phelps is wonderful, but it is my wife, as she ruggedly goes on attempting to make ladies out of our two little girls despite my terrible influence, who inspires me. She endures more than anyone I know, spreading love instead of complaining, even when we all give her good reason to do the latter. How can I compete with a person like that? I'm honestly angry at how unfairly high she sets the bar. Until they add the Panicked Dog-Paddle (It's like the regular dog-paddle except that the swimmer just tries frantically to keep his or her head above the water. Its a quasi-event like speed walking) to the Olympic swimming schedule, I'm reduced to standing close to my lady so that some of her glory might cascade off and hit me. I'm not too proud to take all the second-hand glory I can get. You probably already get that about me if you've read any of the paragraphs above. Well, enough rambling for now. This was supposed to be about television, right?
