I was originally planning to do a lighthearted entry today, but . . . things changed. It happens.
In the spirit of acceptance (a skill I’m still working on mastering), I’m just going acknowledge that things changed (and not for any reason more dire than one bad moment beyond my current tolerance level), and do my best to move on.
I’ll tell the lighthearted story next week.
Mr. Tebbs: Ah, Steven. Are you free?
Captain Peacock: (making a show of looking around first before answering) At the moment, Mr. Tebbs. May I remind you that first names are used only in the canteen, or after and before the bell.
Mr. Tebbs: I see. In that case, I don’t want to talk to you.
These days I have no time to spare to fight over irrelevances and cast indiscriminate aspersions, but there are days I realize I’d be even better at it now than I was back in the days when I did waste my time doing just that.
Today L. and I were talking about how to evaluate situations, solutions, etc. by their pros and cons. Recognizing that “quality vs. quantity” can come into play in making those decisions, my son asked me for an example of a situation with a lot of pros, but with one large con.
“Imagine you’ve been invited to a banquet in your honor,” I told him. “All your favorite foods have been prepared, and they’re all done to perfection. Everything looks amazing, smells amazing, tastes amazing, and so on. That’s a lot of pros, right?”
L. nodded.
“The con is that everything has been poisoned,” I said with a chuckle.
Today’s Challenge Question: What is a phrase that is true and even inspiring in the right set of circumstances, but makes a terrible motivational poster and an even worse corporate slogan?
No matter how thoroughly and consciously you apply the WD-40 to the wrong area, the squeak will remain.
Wow! I thought yesterday after opening a container of leftover beans that had been in the refrigerator for a suspiciously long time. That reeks! I should have taken care of this later and not stink up the kitchen right before L’s Mother is getting ready to cook . . . fish.
“Are you ready for school?” I asked my son this morning.
There was no verbal answer from him, but his body language answered my question clearly enough.
“Not really thrilled with the idea, huh?”
“Not really,” he agreed.
Feeling the same way, I nodded in understanding. “Well . . .” I said, “let’s get started anyway and see how it goes.”
“Are you saying ready or not it’s time for school?” my son asked me.
“I prefer ‘ready or not, here school comes,'” I admitted with a chuckle, “but that’s more or less what I’m saying, yes.”
Yesterday was my son’s ninth birthday, and at some point it occurred to me that it also marked the half-way point to the start of his adulthood.
When I mentioned this to his mother she got a little misty-eyed.
When I mentioned this to my father he likened this to being at the half-way point of a marathon: While technically it’s true that you only have as far to go as you have already gone, the second half is a lot more involved than the first.
