Those who gauge the ebbing and flowing of philosophical musings posit that existential thinking reached its zenith in 1986. During those Jelly Belly-fueled halcyon days of pinch-rolled jeans and mall hair, a young philosopher in a beret and sweater vest opined: “Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.”
What St. Bueller the Wise suggested during those long-lost, full-employment days of yore rings even truer today. I realized this truth in the way millions of others do every year – quasi-fetal in the passenger seat of a minivan hurtling through Oklahoma with my head in a plastic Target bag puking out the component parts of a McValue meal. Ah, Christmas. It was then, coiled in a sweaty, full-body cramp incited by equal parts virus and Dora the Screaming Explorer on the DVD player, that I reflected on the fact that my eldest kids were about to turn four. And while I had done much during those four years, I hadn’t really done much at all. If you catch my meaning. If you don’t, it’s the difference between changing diapers and changing the world. Okay, that’s a bit grandiose, but I now barely remember to change the oil in our vehicles, let alone try to change the direction of my neighborhood. Or even my neighbor’s sprinklers.
Some people call this type of situation living under the tyranny of the now. Those people are being polite. The constant attention to that-which-must-be-done-this-very-instant-daddy-and-I-mean-right-now-if-you-don’t-want-poo-colored-walls can turn your life into a early draft of “Groundhog Day” in which, instead of a funny/grumpy weatherman, Bill Murray plays Death and is forced to square off against Punxsutawney Phil in a game of parcheesi until he’s able to teach the shadowy rodent that parcheesi is not a condiment for pasta. And for once I’m not exaggerating.
So how do we stop and look around once in a while and maybe accomplish something more than an empty dishwasher or leaf-freeish gutters? Is it truly possible to become like so many of our Facebook friends who constantly post photos from concerts and ball games and restaurants that actually frown upon using the tablecloth for coloring? Probably not. But maybe we – you and I together, strolling hand in hand along life’s beach or foliage-strewn path – can get close.
First, learn to ignore the children. That’s “ignore” and not “neglect.” They need to be fed, hugged, groomed and taken to the pottitorium on a routine basis. But they don’t need your undivided attention. Seriously, they don’t. Unless you live in a barbed wire museum (they exist) or you’ve done the world’s worst job of childproofing by attaching the barbed wire to exposed electrical circuits, your spawn will survive. In fact, they’ll soon discover how much more, umm, fun they can have when you’re not getting all Orwell on them. Although you may need to wear your slickest silk pajama bottoms until their clinginess subsides. Or give your thighs that Wessonality sheen if that’s how your house rolls.
Put off until tomorrow what doesn’t need to be done today. Which is most things. Unless you’re a golf course superintendent, no one cares if your grass is 3-inches or 3 ¼-inches tall. (Except the HOA and I’ll save my thoughts on those organizations for later, but I will be using the words “Hulk” and “smash.”) The dirty dishes will eventually be cleaned by either magical elves, mothers-in-law or multiple runs through the dishwasher. Whatever works, as long as it’s not you. Concepting the next scene of your screenplay while soaking in Palmolive may make Madge proud, despite her deceasedness, but it won’t actually put words in the mouth of your heroine who’s unlucky in love but full of spunk and looks likes Meg Ryan before the whole lip thing.
Keep in mind that the business of living is not always the business of life. Yes, I know that sounds like something from a Tony Robbins seminar. But I assure you that my teeth are neither as blindingly white, nor my tan as richly umber as the inspirational, fire-walking giant’s. It’s just that, in the process of making sure everything and everyone is tidy, smiley and relatively non-stinky, we often forget to actually do anything besides raise tidy, smirky and relatively non-stinky kids. Until we one day find ourselves in the footwell of a Honda Odyssey experiencing upchucks of remorse, regret and reconstituted chicken.
And that’s not how God wants us to live. Christ was an adventurer, a wanderer, an experiencer of life – even though he already knew what it was all about. And simply reading “Wild at Heart” doesn’t count. You actually have to get a little wild every now and then. Maybe it’s climbing a mountain. Maybe it’s starting your own business. Maybe it’s daring to eat at the Golden Arches again. But whatever it is, just put down the Chatter (you’re at the end anyway) and go do it.
After all, deodorizing the minivan might make the trip to church a little more pleasant, but it won’t get you one link closer to becoming the Sausage King of Chicago.
Groundhog Sausages
