Adulting is hard. I see T-shirts and various other paraphernalia that make this assertion. I don’t necessarily want to agree or disagree in this context. Instead I would like to point out the whiny nature of a so-called adult who would make that claim — and worse, pay money to broadcast his or her incompetence.
When we lived in Broken Arrow, Oklahoma, we lived a short walk from a major intersection, 91st Street and Aspen Avenue. I would often take Samson, the Brittany spaniel we owned at the time, for walks around the neighborhood, and occasionally I could convince the girls to come with me. Yes, they loved their daddy. Yes, they loved Samson. But mainly, they loved ice cream. And on the opposite corner of the intersection of 91st and Aspen, there was a Braum’s ice cream parlor. Samson and I would cross both streets with the girls and then wait on the sidewalk and watch through the glass door as two little girls, not ten years of life between them, walked up to the counter with a $5 bill and ordered some ice cream.
For me, the toughest thing about cutting grass — by far — is putting on my shoes. It seems illogical, but it’s true. I will come up with any and every conceivable reason to not get out there and do what needs to be done. Too hot. Too wet. Too tired. Too busy. Too many interesting videos on YouTube.
Once I get my shoes on, though, I’ll go. And once I go, I’ll finish.
If people can’t control their own emotions, then they have to start trying to control other people’s behavior. That is a very profound truth (unfortunately, not original to me) regarding political correctness in particular and whining in general. We convince ourselves that the problem is “out there” and therefore someone else’s fault, someone else’s responsibility. In truth, though, the problem — at least, the one relevant to the current circumstance — is “in here.” Our own personal weaknesses, our own personal insecurities, our own personal failures.
A best-selling author in the Seattle area was curious why a Confederate battle flag was flying in her neighborhood — not a hotbed of the KKK, historically. So she contacted the local paper, and they sent a reporter to investigate.
Turns out, it was the Norwegian flag — which, if the wind is not blowing and you are of a mind to jump to conclusions, bears a vague resemblance to the notorious Southern Cross.
