My Life Starring Me, Photo by the magical Zankovision master

Your life is precious. Genuinely, insanely inestimable. You might be the one thing we’ve all been waiting for that doesn’t materialize until you’re eighty-eight. Every consecrated crumb of you deserves the space to invent itself just as it sees fit. I’ve had family, neighbors, roommates, friends, colleagues, and even strangers people reminded me I passed at some point who’ve made giant marks on this earth. Some of them you can read about in books that lay their claim to a fanfare of fame. Others I herald for acts of arduous love or conviction, but who haven’t made any news headlines (although I’d beg to differ their value surpasses any of the aforementioned). In this world too falsely romanticizing attention, I get an erection for anyone audaciously committed to wanting all of whatever their little heart desires. Yup, waste not your time idling through others versions of you and stick with your hard-on.

I have not failed. I’ve just found 10,000 ways that won’t work. ~Thomas A. Edison

We’re going to make thousands of mistakes. (Tiger moms need not apply to my liking my blog.) The way I see it, a truly regret-inducing mishap includes a felony arrest for stalking or murder for example. (Thanks to my ex-boyfriend for enlightening about the former.) Outside of screwed up harm towards others, scores of blunders else are designed to encourage you. Even further, they are built to promote IN-COURAGEing you to keep performing, massaging your cerebral cortex to produce more or perceive options for a new way, all despite your personal blooper tally. You blundered a presentation for the world’s largest hedge-fund, you picked up your kid from school an hour late in the dead of winter when the doors had been bolted shut, or you misinterpreted the Latino grocer saying rabbit when you wanted cow and there was a bit of a scene during the Shabbat meal. Yet, no one died. I mean, you may have wanted to ‘die’ like the term infers wanting to disappear due to embarrassment or shame, but seriously everyone is gonna be fine.

Snafus are a basis for sharpening the point of your life. Herein, patience has no threshold and ought never be considered a mastered trait. I tout there is zero true success without patience. Any one-time success, fleeting success, ongoing epic cash-flow, love-thumping, or high-yielding success rate has patience embedded in its flow somewhere along the lines. Patience is intrinsically linked to faith. Together they operate like synapses. If they’re not connected so much is lost — assurance in attempting again, change being ok, the memory to recall critical to basic details or prior faulty actions that can prevent a repeat of serious casualty. What made many a genius in historical context is their ability to never give up. No wasted efforts, a biting urge to keep bruising their ego led to inventions such as light.

Marco Polo has never been my go-to game when swimming. I dug the dude (same name, Marco Polo), but I didn’t jive with these recreational antics. Besides, true exploration with eyes wide open seemed much more fascinating to me considering I lived and wound up playing this water ‘torture’ predominantly lakeside in lieu of chlorinated swimming pools. I didn’t want to be caught and I didn’t want to be ‘it’. In fact, the very idea of blindly ‘leading’ was off-putting to me. I wanted to freely swim, exploring my own avenues of what lay beneath the surface of splashing around poking others and staying close to the dock perimeter. It wasn’t so much participating as a ‘team’ with my friends that gave me the willies enough that I’d sometimes feign an upset stomach and take a personal time out not joining. I don’t even think it was ever being the ‘chosen one’ having to figure your way to the other side that bothered me so much as the premise itself. If engaged in this watery adaptation of something akin to human dodgeball (only opposites were in effect where one person flung themselves like a ball trying to tag others upon hearing their auditory reply) I was simply missing the curiosity of doing things my way. Youth. That age when the appetite of discovery stems in so many directions, but adults along with a few other children can aim to poke one very young into conniption fits of needing to follow someone else’s idea of a good time, good direction, or good life.

Flash forward to adulting many decades and often the intrepid Marco Polo flashbacks rear in my head. Being a leader for my optimal lifestyle has taken on distinctively different affectations to me along my life trip. I’m dedicated to executing a meaningful, interesting, rousing rendition of what no one else has ever done exactly before me nor will. The supreme way to pilot me is by staying afloat to be true to everything that is powerfully important to what gives my soul priority principles. I’d like to breath fresh air, taste the sunshine daily, have warm and lovable bodies to hug, support excellence in the world, a cushy bed, safety, time to exercise more, and make enough to stave panic now and throughout the next forty years. None of this implies actually receiving all you’ve ever wanted. What I do mean is the exactitude of setting yourself up to make a go for the most of every angle that you translate. This is not about regurgitating someone else’s script.

Applied to my life, I don’t fit the mold of my parents, nearly all aunts and uncles, my sister, nor most of my cousins. I can count two blood relatives I’ve shared my woes and wonders with who don’t try to paint a picture of my life for me that sometimes make me want to scream. The fact I have a couple is a sincere strength. That gobs of well-natured people, both related and unrelated to me, wish their conversion of me is completely honorable to a degree. I know all is intended with a mold of practicality blended with affection. What tends to result for my psyche is the pulverized output of thinking I’m not utilizing my life, skills, time, resources, or choices to their liking. Worry for loved ones is the healthcare industry’s best friend in the form of ulcers, cancer, or anxiety, depressive, or any prescriptive of the already too many. Cha-ching.

Surrounding yourself with two types of people is vastly useful. One is your groupies. And by this, I don’t mean your drunken, addicted, stalker types, who can’t rub two pennies together to pay for a tube of much-needed toothpaste. Loyal groupies are your credible cheerleaders. They know what to say when you need a talking to and they’re good at shutting up when words feel like razor lacerations after a sunburn. Knowing your preferential sorbet, tilapia fixings, sappy music, feature genres, or favored tequila are part of their ninja friend benefits. Type numero duo is those you don’t want to smash into little specks of dust when they put you in your place, saving you from a life behind bars. This second brand of essentials you can trust. They will get you out of and into the correct situations. They force you to see the light, then dance with you through sunset until the morning rise breaks to do it all again.

In a world predicted to scrape, tempt, teach, and in ultimate moments reward us, let’s aspire not to waste longevity slightly being ourselves. Instead, impale with fortitude a resilient joy for choosing all that you want just as deeply you want it. Be the star of your lifelong show. Let your only thief be the more enlightened layers of ideas for a spunkier portrayal of yourself. May you thoroughly enjoy an intimate crush with your accountability to forge the utmost you.

Gutsiness is next to Godliness!

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