The Running Man

The door opened and she walked in.

He had seen her before in his dreams, many times like this, and she was perfect. A wisp of hair fell nonchalantly across her face, and she smiled as she ran her fingers through her long, dark hair. It was a smile of confidence and grace, and he shuddered. With a free hand she lit a cigarette, and stood there for a moment, letting him take her in. After what seemed a long while, she carefully stepped across the cluttered room and whispered in his ear.

That’s the way it always happened. He shook his head and tried to think of something else, as he turned to look out the window of the café. In the distance an arm of lightning touched down, and a moment later he felt the thunder in his chest.

He was tired of driving that night and wanted to rest. This little place in the middle of nowhere called to him, as his old Ford pickup hummed down the highway. At first a faint glow, and then a neon sign, and then he pulled into the parking lot. He sat there for a moment with the engine running, contemplating his actions, where he had been, and where he was going. The rain was coming down much harder now.

Inside the cafe he reached down and lifted the cup to his lips. Cold. How long had he been sitting in the booth? The coffee was terrible, even when hot, but he hardly cared. He sat there, staring at the surface of the liquid, stirring it slowly, stirring his thoughts away.

The door opened and she walked in.

I will never be that guy

I will never be that guy.

When people ask you, “How’s Tom doing?” you’ll never say things like:

Oh, he’s doing great! He just bought a house, he just got a promotion at work, he married a beautiful woman who is a wonderful mother and a great wife, they just had their second child…

And on and on. I’m just not that guy. I’ve always known it, too. The things “That Guy” has I never wanted, and still don’t.

Here and there along the way I occasionally beat myself up because I am not that guy. What’s wrong with me? Why aren’t I like normal men my age? When my father was 33 he had already been married for 10 years and had 2 children, a house, a career, etc. I have nothing.

My life cannot be measured by accomplishments or material things, since I really have nothing, besides a beat-up old Ford pickup and a college degree.

At 33 I look back and realize I haven’t accomplished the goals I set for myself years ago because…

I just never set any. Ambition is something I’ve lacked my entire life. Motivation? I don’t feel like it. Self-discipline? I’ll do it later. I don’t know why this is, I never really thought about it. I guess I just don’t have any passion.

I’ve always been content to do things later, to not worry about it, to go with the flow, to relax and have a good time, to live here and sleep there, walk with my head in the clouds… This is who I am.

A man’s got to know his limitations. At 33 years old I know what I’m capable of. So at times like this I reflect, shrug my shoulders, and say to hell with it. I am who I am. I’m happy, and that’s all that’s ever mattered to me.

So the next time someone asks you, “How’s Tom?” just reply, “He’s doing great!” Smile, and leave it at that.