Dazed and Confused

Reading my old articles can be a stressful experience. Scrolling through, paragraph by paragraph, I feel like I’m watching the horrifying “hobbling” scene from the movie Misery – my head cocked to one side, my face cringing, fearing what I’m going to see next. How bad is the writing? What was I thinking? Did I really say that?

So I was a little uneasy when I pulled up a piece I wrote a year ago that outlined the attributes of my potential “dream girl.” While the writing wasn’t as bad as I anticipated (it was still a bit sketchy), and the overall message was true, I ended up getting pimp-slapped by a sledgehammer-to-the-ankles realization I never saw coming:

I’m the stupidest guy on earth.

Having just broken up with someone who possessed every characteristic I had so eloquently articulated, how else could one explain my actions?

That’s a question I’ve been wrestling with since I decided to end the perfectly good relationship with my sweet, warm-hearted, vertically challenged (in a good way) girlfriend.

The elaborate, expanded answer is complicated enough to be its own article – or book, for that matter – but the simple explanation is that she was the collateral damage of emotional issues I’ve been fighting since well before I met her.

An innocent bystander to my inner-turmoil, she did nothing wrong, and she didn’t deserve to get hurt, making this an extremely difficult decision. Lord knows it would’ve been easier had she been some crazy, obsessive psycho who saved my discarded hair in a shoebox.

Simply getting the words out was a challenge, my voice wavering more than a politician’s principles. After we both said what we needed to say, we just sat there for a minute, the silence a deafening contrast to the laughter that had typically filled the room.

(Although I’m sure she was screaming inside, “Get the hell out of here, you %*$&#@^!”)

I’ve been in a haze ever since, sorting through a sordid cocktail of sadness, disappointment, regret and pretty much any other negative emotion out there. It’s all that I can think about. Did I do the right thing? Did I make a colossal mistake?

If it weren’t for Tylenol PM, I would probably resemble the backup dancers in the “Thriller” video by now.

It’s during times like these, as I’m tossing and turning, and the memories are racing through my head at 100 MPH, when I question if the chance at love is worth all the pain.

Despite the persistent temptation to reach out to her, we have not talked. While I miss laughing with her and joking with her, I know that taking space is the only way for the healing process to begin. I owe her at least that.

It hasn’t been easy, though, because I’m reminded of her at every turn. No matter what I see, no matter what I hear, I somehow tie it back to her – my own, cruel version of “6 Degrees to Kevin Bacon.” I wonder what she’s doing. I wonder if she’s hurting, just like me.

Look, I’m the one who did this, and I take full responsibility for what happened. But that doesn’t mean it’s not agonizing, and it doesn’t mean I don’t care about her.

I was just trying to not repeat my past relationship-related mistakes. I recognized early on how special she was, and I wanted to treat her the right way. Terrified of hurting her too deeply, I chose to err on the side of caution.

But in my attempt to be fair to her, was I fair to our relationship?

I just don’t know.

Considering all of my emotional baggage, I sometimes think I should do everyone a favor and go live by myself in the mountains, with only myself to torture. That way, no one would have to worry about engaging in the excruciating experience of caring for me.

I’ll keep trying to work through this mess, but what scars me the deepest is that my personal issues ended up hurting someone else. Yes, there is an inherent risk of getting burned that you accept upon entering a relationship, but still…she deserved better.

To her credit, while she might be cursing the day she gave me her number, she has handled everything with grace and class, not that I expected anything different…

She might only be 5’1”, but she’s a much bigger person than me.

Young at Heart

Thomas Boswell’s Strokes of Genius was my first “favorite” book. I was about 12 when I found it lying around the house, and having just started to play golf, the timing couldn’t have been more perfect. My dad’s passion for the game was in my DNA, and reading about the great players, famous courses and prestigious tournaments only drew me in deeper.

While I probably re-read the whole book 100 times, the chapter that was the most special to me was the one about Augusta National Golf Club and The Masters Tournament. Titled “Cathedral in the Pines,” it painted the scene of a mythical, magical setting carved out of the Georgia woods, with rolling hills and emerald green grass; a timeless place where the soul of the game was at its purest.

Even at such a young age, I was fascinated with this spiritual element of the sport, and getting to The Masters became my holy grail. Simply hearing Augusta-related terms like “Magnolia Lane” and “Amen Corner” would send tingles down my spine. I’d sit in class and draw pictures of the famous 12th hole. Every putt I hit on the practice green was to win an imaginary Green Jacket.

As I’ve gotten older, this dream has remained in my heart, though my inner demons have tried their best to pry it out, throwing me off track, diverting me down life paths that have made me question at times who I really am and what I really want.

But every year, when the first full week of April – the tournament’s traditional date – rolls around, and I see the azaleas blooming and hear “Augusta on My Mind” playing (yes, The Masters has its own theme music), everything becomes clear again, because I’m reunited with the most authentic version of myself:

My inner-child.

The unreserved, uninhibited spirit in all of us, the inner-child is our foundation, the most innocent, genuine aspect of our being. And no matter how mature we get or how much money we make or how powerful we become, it’s always there, whether we choose to acknowledge it or not.

As a kid, your relationship with the world is simple. An unwritten book, you are unconcerned with society’s rules and expectations, seeing everything through unprejudiced eyes. Keeping up appearances is the last thing on your mind, because you don’t even know you’re supposed to care about what other people think. All you want to do is play and have fun and be yourself.

But as you grow up and go to college and get a job, you have to slowly bury this part of you, lest you project anything but a cool and buttoned-up demeanor. There’s no place for this child-like wonder in, say, Corporate America, where the powers-that-be have determined that enforcing a dress code and a “professional atmosphere” is the recipe to get the best out of people.

What they seem to forget, though, is that the inner-child is where the imagination tends to reside. Just look at how creative kids can be. My childhood was spent dressing up in homemade costumes and playing out make-believe Super Bowls on the living room carpet. With the freedom to imagine, the realm of possibility was limitless. And no matter what happened that day at school, I always had the energy when I got home to visit my dreamland again.

Unfortunately, that’s too seldom the case anymore.

Being an adult is exhausting. If you’re not working your life away (who came up with the lopsided 5-to-2 workweek – weekend distribution anyway?), chances are you’re probably stressing about money, love or lack thereof.

That’s why it’s essential to make the time to act like a kid. Un-tuck that dress shirt and go shoot baskets. Dance freely to the song only you can hear in your head. Drop trou’ and shoot the “moon” out of your car’s back window. You might be surprised at how something so silly can take the edge off and soften your perspective on things.

More importantly, though, losing touch with your inner-child is to lose touch with who you really are.

So if you’re feeling lost or are in a rut and can’t figure out what to do with your life, do as my mom-the-therapist suggests: think back to what you loved to do as a child. Because even though you might not have known that two-plus-two equaled four, you did know what made you happy.

For me, that was always playing golf; learning, growing, challenging myself every chance I got, racing the sun to the 18th green. The Masters is my yearly reminder of what’s still possible, that my dreams are still out there.

I just have to let my guard down long enough to let the little boy inside me lead the way.

Impossible is Nothing

We all have our go-to web sites. Whether it’s CNN.com, Facebook or some other random address on the internet, logging onto them is part of our daily routine, a non-negotiable requirement that must be met before we can do…you know…actual work.

As a lifelong University of Texas fan, http://www.orangebloods.com/ is at the top of my list, a one-stop-shop for everything Longhorn athletics. Game analysis, practice reports, recruiting updates – it’s the perfect fix for the I-care-way-too-much UT sports addict.

Recently, I was scrolling through the message boards when I came across a thread titled “Cool Video.” Typically, the videos posted aren’t anything remarkable (unless you’re like me and get excited over highlight tapes of high school football players), but this one was different…

Nick Vujicic was born without any limbs. Doctors have never been able to give him a medical explanation why.

Seeing him, my first reaction was, “How do I have any problems?” This guy was dealt one of the worst possible hands in the deck – no arms, no legs, no reason – and here I am, blessed with an embarrassment of good fortune. My day-to-day existence has to be as challenging as a first-grade spelling test compared to his.

But then I quickly stopped myself. While this was a great reminder to be appreciative, I’ve never believed in living by the motto of "It could be worse." Not only is it an attitude that tends to make light of people’s pain (regardless of outside opinion, whatever you’re struggling with is very real and very hurtful for you), it can be a crutch on complacency.

There was a time not long ago when my life appeared just fine on the surface. I had a job, I had friends and I could afford to go to Chik-Fil-A on Saturday night.

But in reality, I was in a rut, paralyzed by fear and anxiety, wondering if I’d ever find a way out. I felt just like Mr. Vujicic looked.

Emotionally, I didn’t have any limbs.

With my cheery face and fake laugh, though, I’d be surprised if anyone knew I was hurting. How could they? I wasn’t even being honest with myself, hiding behind these society-celebrated comforts, rationalizing that things weren’t so bad.

But no matter how many times I forced a Joker smile – and suffered from the sore jaw that developed afterwards – it didn’t change the fact that, deep down, I knew my life was not going as I hoped.

As a kid, I had always dreamed of living outside the lines, believing that I really could do anything I set my mind to. But as an adult, I couldn’t get out of my own way, fearing the uncertainty of it all. What if I failed? What if I – gasp! – succeeded? What if I embarrassed myself? What would happen then?

These questions loomed, taunting me every time I tried to get in the game. So I kept bailing out, scurrying to the security of the sidelines whenever the anxiety would kick in.

All the while my life dripped away, moment after wasted moment.

Finally, I realized I had a simple choice to make: continue to live a lie and go through the status-quo motions, or stand in there and fight for my dreams.

Because the truth is that there’s ALWAYS a reason why you can’t do something. That’s too hard…it’s not realistic…I have a mortgage…We’ve got a nice little Saturday planned at Home Depot and Bed, Bath & Beyond…there’s no shortage of excuses to justify the standard operating procedure.

Yes, all of these hurdles are real, and yes, they are intimidating. But when you transform them from peripheral molehills into Class 5 Mountains, they end up being the only things you can see.

At the end of the day, though, they are nothing more than details, and details should never stand in the way of happiness. Instead, if you can focus on what you truly want and immerse yourself in the process of making it happen, the positive energy that’s generated will help you get through the inevitable challenges you’ll face.

There may be times when your mind hurts and your heart aches and your inner demons are doing the “wave” in your stomach. It’ll be tempting to give up and crawl back to your safe, comfortable existence.

And that’s when you need to remember Nick Vujicic.

The man was given every conceivable reason to never get out of bed, yet he spends his life traveling the world, spreading hope and inspiring others. Because he knows – he personifies – that it doesn’t matter how impossible the odds are, or how many times you’ve failed, or how hard you’ve fallen…

All that matters is that you keep getting back up.

Set the Stage

So there I was, sitting at the bar, enjoying what has been a far too rare experience for me: a good blind date.

The girl was cute, the conversation was interesting and she always said “thank you” when the server brought her something. There was definitely potential here.

But just as I began to feel comfortable, out of nowhere, like an annoying SPAM message about “debt consolidation,” the strangest thought popped into head:

“What would happen if I threw my drink in her face?”

What? Where did that come from?

It was as if I was channeling my inner J.D. (Scrubs) with this crazy, random daydream. Luckily, I hadn’t tilted my head and turned my eyes up to the left, so it wasn’t obvious that something outrageous was going through my head.

But as I pulled my hand away from my drink – you know, just to be safe – I gave the question a little more thought. If I were to do it, what would really happen? Would I get slapped? Would I feel bad or laugh hysterically? Could I end up on Youtube?

More importantly, would there be farther-reaching consequences than giving this girl a date story for the ages? I mean, what if she was supposed to be the “one,” and we’d been set up so we could live happily ever after? Would this idiotic, out-of-the-blue decision completely alter my life? Would I be shifting the very course of destiny with a single flick of the wrist?

I realized there was a much bigger issue here, a chicken-or-the-egg question that scholars and theologians have been debating for centuries:

When it comes down to it, how much control do we really have over our lives?

On one hand, we were blessed with free will. Day to day, minute to minute, we are presented with options – Double Cheeseburger, Chicken McNuggets or both – and with each decision we make, we incrementally build our own path.

I know my life is the way it is right now largely due to the choices I’ve made. Nobody forced me to take that job or move to that city…it was all my doing. I sometimes look back and wonder how things might’ve been had I chosen differently. But as hard as it can be to swallow regret, I accept full responsibility for the state of my union.

On the other hand, there’s the idea of destiny: that our lives are pre-determined, and we are essentially living out a completed novel. Guided by a higher power, all we have to do is keep breathing in and out, and everything will unfold the way it’s supposed to.

A few years ago, I was driving through the rain, when suddenly, my car began to hydroplane. Completely out of control, skidding across three lanes of freeway traffic, I waited to either get hit by another car or to slam into the wall. But after the longest five seconds of my life, I found myself positioned perfectly on the shoulder, facing in the opposite direction. A stuntman couldn’t have executed a better parking job.

It was like I’d been encapsulated by a protective bubble, ensuring that not only was there no traffic around me when I began to swerve, but that my car could get to safety. The only way I can explain what happened is that someone was watching over me, and I – nor anyone else – was meant to get hurt.

So where does all of this leave us? Who is really in charge here? Do we decide our fate, or has our story already been written?

Like most things in life, I think the answer lies somewhere in the middle.

When I was younger, there was a series of books called “Choose Your Own Adventure,” in which you, the reader, assumed the role of the main character. Every so often, you had to decide what you wanted to do next, i.e.: “If you want to go inside the cave, turn to page 10; If you want to head back home, turn to page 13.” The plot then continued for a few pages, where you’d be faced with another choice, and then another, until you’d ultimately reach one of several possible endings.

Well, I think that’s a decent parallel for life. We have the freedom to go where we want to go, to do what we want to do (assuming you’re single), and the decisions we make shape the path our lives take.

But they don’t determine it.

On the 72nd green of the 2008 U.S. Open golf tournament, Tiger Woods faced a 12-foot birdie putt to get into a playoff. He’d ignored his doctor’s orders to not play on the torn ACL and double stress fracture in his left leg – just for the shot at a moment like this.

As he stood over the ball, he could’ve thought about everything that he’d risked by playing – and how senseless that risk would be were he to come up short – or he could’ve tried to force the golf ball into the hole.

Instead, he took a more fatalist approach. He picked his line, he determined how hard he wanted to hit it, and he encouraged himself to make a good stroke. He knew that once he struck the putt – no matter how perfectly executed it was – the outcome was out of his hands.

“Just control what you can control,” he said.

And really, that’s all we can expect of ourselves. We have to do our part – by getting in the game, by doing the work. But once we’ve set the stage, whatever happens next is up to the universe.

I believe we were put on earth to learn certain lessons, and that G-d – or whoever you believe in – molds our experiences, giving us the opportunity to become “educated.” Success…failure…disappointment…every outcome happens for a reason, allowing us to grow on a deeper level, and it’s our job to find the message in each. And if you find yourself getting the same type of results over and over, like you’re endlessly driving around in circles, then maybe that’s your higher power’s way of banging you over the head with a particular lesson until you finally get it.

So why did Tiger’s putt catch the top-edge of the hole and fall in?

Well…it was just meant to be.

As for my date, it ended rather innocently. We finished our drinks, I paid the tab, and we went our separate ways. But had I given into my temporary insanity, I trust that things would have still worked out for the best. If we were meant to be together, then she would’ve found someway to deal with it.

After all, sometimes all it takes to get the girl is some alcohol and a little luck.

Teach Your Children Well

My father is the most well-read person I know. Stacked on his nightstand is reading material ranging from books on business and politics to the latest issue of Golf Digest. The man can hold an intelligent conversation on just about anything.

Raising two sons, he exposed them to all of it, hoping they would be similarly well-rounded. Instead, each was drawn exclusively to one area of his interests, and there was virtually no overlap.

While the apples didn’t fall far from the tree, they did fall on opposite sides of it.

My brother was fascinated with finance and government, graduating with a degree in business and working his way up to the post of Press Secretary for a U.S. Senator.

(Of course, he’s a rabbi now, and we don’t know where he got that from.)

I, on the other hand, got my dad’s love of sports, living and dying with how well grown men play a variety of children’s games.

When I was 12, my father took us to Washington, D.C., so we could get an up-close look at how our nation operates. While my brother scoped out his future office on Capitol Hill, I could not have been less interested, spending the whole trip devising strategies – hypothetical strategies, of course – to take out the president.

“I could knock down that Secret Service agent and go right into the Oval Office.”

But over the last little while – with any notion of being an assassin behind me – I’ve tried to get educated about this other, more important side of my dad’s interests. Maybe it was because there was an historical presidential race and colossal economic crisis, or maybe it was because it cost me $66 to fill up my gas tank, but I figured it was time to get my news from someplace other than Sportscenter.

So I began flipping off ESPN and turning on CNN. I watched the presidential debates. I listened to the financial experts forecast the market. I even occasionally set my sleep timer to Anderson Cooper.

A lot of the time, I was completely lost. It all sounded like English, and I recognized the words, but I had no clue what any of it meant. I longed for subtitles that would translate the content to a 4th grade level.

And while the technical jargon went over my head, what my uneducated eyes and ears could make out was cause for concern. There were adults behaving like children, pointing their fingers at one another, blaming each other for this and that. There was nice-sounding rhetoric without any action to back it up. And there was an overall lack of honesty.

These were our leaders, the supposed cream of our crop. Maybe I was completely missing something, but I couldn’t help but ask myself:

Is this really how it works?

Because this was the first political race I’d followed, I was not jaded by party affiliation, and I honestly believed that both McCain and Obama could potentially do a good job. Of course, it was hard to argue with Chris Rock’s logic: if you want the president who will identify the most with the everyday American, pick the guy who only has one house.

When Obama won, I felt a renewed sense of hope. If a Black man could be elected leader of the free world, who knew what else was possible?

But the first month or so of this new era has been less than confidence-inspiring. We were told that lobbyists would have no place in this White House, but one of the first presidential nominees, Tom Daschle, was one of the biggest lobbyists in the country (he ended up withdrawing his name from consideration). A stimulus package was passed by Congress, despite the fact that many of them hadn’t even read the whole thing. And the man confirmed to oversee the IRS hadn’t paid his taxes.

Talk about the mother of all employee discounts.

Is this really how it works?

The financial fiasco has been even more maddening, especially when you realize that no one involved – from the irresponsible homebuyers to the mortgage brokers to the top-floor executives – had regard for anyone or anything but themselves and the almighty dollar. Yet, when the bottom fell out, they had no problem being cleaned up after by those who had done everything right.

While I see the unfairness in the hardworking taxpayer being saddled with this burden, I do believe a society should rally together in times of trouble. Lending a helping hand…sacrificing for the greater good – this is the definition of community.

If everyone had taken this attitude all along, we probably wouldn’t be in this situation.

So I have no problem with the government bailing out the financial institutions…it sounds like it’s best for all of us in the long-term. What I do have a problem with is writing multi-billion dollar checks to corporations without any instructions or restrictions as to how it’s to be spent. Like a beggar with a cell phone, these banks have proven they don’t know or care about the efficient use of money. They’ve toppled the entire economy by running their companies into the ground, and yet they’re rewarded with a no-strings-attached $20 billion?

Is this really how it works?

When the first thing the rescued CEOs did with this bailout money was dole out their “well-earned” bonuses and hop a private jet to Vegas, it was just one more fully-extended middle finger at the American people. That’s the way these last few months have gone. I tend to be an optimist – even a little Pollyanna – and I expect things to get better. But I wonder if it’ll happen in spite of the work done by anyone in power.

I’ve always believed in the spirit of Theodore Roosevelt’s “To the Man in the Arena” speech; that you don’t sit on the sidelines and point out what others are doing wrong – the living’s easy in the cheap seats. Lord knows I’m not smart enough to figure out the answers, and I respect anyone who has the courage to stand in there and play the game.

But if you are going to take on that responsibility, there is a simple, basic standard you should be expected to meet: work from a place of good intentions…try your best to do what is fair and what is right…and tell the truth all the time, not just when it’s convenient.

You don’t have to be perfect…just don’t make a fool out of the people who have given you their trust.

They say you learn everything you need to know in kindergarten, but it seems our society has forgotten some of these elementary lessons. Driven by greed, power and self-gratification, we have not only dug ourselves a hole, we’ve set a poor example for the next generation – a consequence that could be far more destructive than any housing bust or stock market meltdown.

Our country is at a crossroads now…not just politically and financially, but morally, and the way we choose to go forward will have a long-lasting impact. So I think it’s the perfect time to step back, re-evaluate what we stand for and ask ourselves:

Is this really how we want it to work?