Before I dropped out of college I double-majored in physics and philosophy. I joked that I just flipped to the P section in the course catalog and picked the first two majors I found, but in reality I chose philosophy because I never knew what to do with life and I chose physics because it was the only subject I found challenging.
I’ve lived most of my life with my options open, sampling from the tasting menu instead of picking a venue, sitting down, and completing a meal. I tried the whole carpe diem thing, richoceted between reckless impulses on the supposed road to happiness. Live for yourself, consequences be damned.
All of that experience left me with this unshakable testimony: living for yourself is way overrated.
Everything is better when Daddy is home. Screams of delight fill the apartment as Zoe runs from room to room, trying to escape Daddy’s clutches before he turns her into soup. Only Daddy can wake her up in the morning, snuggle into her bed and read her favorite books on command. With Daddy even taking out the trash becomes a game so irresistible that Zoe cries when she misses out.
And still no cute family pictures. I keep thinking it would be a good idea, but then life never slows down long enough for it to seem like a really good idea.
There are things I’m not good at: cooking Indian food. Exercising patience. Playing tennis. Or softball. Or football. Or okay, anything involving hand-eye coordination.