Excess on Parade

The lagoon was massive.

The body of water filled a space the size of six football fields.

Around its edges, tourists milled about. Street performers did their thing. And fancy hotel structures towered over the water.

At first glance, this man-made structure seemed like a mistake. A waste of valuable space and real estate.

But then the music would start. The tourists would take note. And the hustle and bustle would fade away.

For a few majestic moments, the lagoon would transform into a majestic fountain, with water shooting up to 400 feet in the air. The experience would leave everyone watching in a trance.

Yes, the Fountains at Bellagio are about as unnecessary an attraction as there is. Gallons upon gallons of water housed in the Nevada desert, whose only function is pure spectacle.

And yet, they’re as intractable a part of Las Vegas as slot machines, neon lights and showgirls. The essential of all essentials. Something so iconic that even the strait-laced, reclusive business traveler — that would be me — makes a point to seek it out.

It’s excess on parade. And we can’t get enough.

About 800 miles east of Las Vegas, a billboard rises menacingly over the open plains of the Texas Panhandle.

It tempts drivers passing through Amarillo on Interstate 40 to stop at the Big Texan Ranch and try the 72-ounce steak.

Such a cut of beef carries a hefty price, even out in the heartland. But those who polish it off in one sitting – along with a few preordained sides — can have their check comped. It turns out there is such a thing as a free meal.

I love Texas as much as anything, and a good steak as much as anyone. I would seem to be the right clientele to take this challenge on.

But as I drove by this billboard, I was nauseated.

I thought back to my teenage years, when McDonalds would goad me into Super Sizing my fries for additional sweepstakes entries. I’d feel worse and worse with each bite, as excess calories filled my stomach and excess regret consumed my mind.

The Big Texan Steak challenge wasn’t worth it. I wasn’t about to take it on.

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But clearly, some do.

There’s a reason that highway billboard is there. Just like there’s a reason why there are fountains in the desert.

Excess on parade is a powerful magnet.

Excess has always been in our DNA.

This nation’s beginnings were essentially an agrarian revolt. A group of mostly rural colonists objected against taxes levied by a faraway monarch. They decided to go it alone instead.

Yet, the Founding Fathers sold a vision far grander. The reframed our fledgling nation as a beacon for liberty and democracy. It was quite the overstatement for the actions of settlers who were tired of paying the crown.

This expression of excess morphed into a rallying cry in the decades that followed.

We decided that expanding westward was God’s will, displacing native tribes and Mexican settlers in the process. We lionized the titans of the Industrial Revolution, even as the front-line workers at their companies toiled away in squalid conditions. And we focused our gaze on the biggest, the brightest, and the most extraordinary. Nothing less would do.

All of that led us to the present moment. Where we’re expected to step into boots two sizes too big and fill them with ease.

This is not the world we live in. It’s the world we’ve created for ourselves.

Excess on parade is part of the fabric. Consequences be damned.

From my couch, I watched with a mix of horror and amazement.

On my television screen was the United States men’s soccer team. The finest of the Stars and Stripes were taking on a Belgian side at the World Cup in Brazil.

Well, more like chasing the Belgians.

Indeed, the Belgian strikers and forwards had a couple of steps on the closest American defenders for most of the game. They would waltz unimpeded toward the goal, only to be stymied by goaltender Tim Howard.

Howard made a remarkable 16 saves in that game — a record for any World Cup match.

But it wasn’t enough. The Americans lost the knockout-round game 2-1 in extra time. Their World Cup quest was over once again.

I was baffled.

America had dominated the world stage at every turn throughout my lifetime — and for a generation before it. Our nation had outsize influence on both the global economy and geopolitics. It had driven pop culture trends. And it brought home the most medals in nearly every Olympic games.

Yet, the United States was an afterthought when it came to World Cup soccer. Our nation had never won the tournament — or even played in the championship match. And now, a country whose population was 96 percent smaller had outclassed the best soccer stars America had to offer.

The United States invested plenty in avoiding this outcome. The U.S. Soccer Federation had invested plenty into training and player development.

But it didn’t matter. Howard’s brilliance was the only protection against total obliteration on the soccer pitch.

As I stared on in silence, I started questioning the principle of Excess on Parade. How valuable was it anyway?

Consider one of Belgium’s culinary delicacies – Frites. The same dish that we like to Super-Size actually originated across the pond.

Over the years, Belgians have perfected the art of the Frite. But instead of serving up piles of it at a time, they put a sensible amount into a paper cone, and serve it with dipping sauces.

The Belgians favor quality over quantity. They don’t participate in Excess on Parade.

These same principles have made their way to the Belgian soccer pitch. Instead of going all-in, sparing no expense to build a title contender, the Belgians focus on perfecting their craft. On doing just enough for the moment, and doing it well.

It might not be flashy. But it gets the job done.

And more often than not, we don’t.

It’s time.

It’s time to shed the illusions of grandeur. It’s time to do away with spectacle for spectacle’s sake.

It’s time to say goodbye to Excess on Parade.

For this pattern wastes much and achieves little.

It does us no favors. And we needn’t kowtow to it.

So, let’s chart a new course. Let’s write a new chapter. One free of high-volume, yet full of substance.

This new path might feel strange and unnerving at first. But it will fit just right.

And shouldn’t that be enough?

Consistency of Excellence

Pepsi Center. Denver, Colorado. March 2015.

The lights went down, and the audience buzzed with anticipation.

Spotlights aimed their beams at the haze, just as Garth Brooks emerged from it. The crowd roared.

From high in the upper level of the arena, I felt the energy pulsate through the Rocky Mountain air. Garth went through his many hits with clinical precision, and the audience ate it up.

It felt electric throughout the two hours Garth was on stage. And yet, it didn’t seem all that personal.

Sure, the crowd roared when he crooned I gotta ride in Denver tomorrow night. But that wasn’t a nod to his surroundings. It was a standard lyric that just so happened to coincide with where we all were. Garth would have sung it the same way in Detroit or Des Moines.

After the last song — and the encore — I marveled at how this performer could make something so boilerplate seem so special.

That’s when my friend reminded me that Garth had another show coming up at 10:30 that evening. He would be going through this whole routine again — with only an hour or so to recharge.

I wondered what that late show would be like. Would the audience get the same experience?

I didn’t have to muse about this for long. Other friends went to Garth’s 10:30 PM show in Dallas a few months later, and they told me he went through his set with the same energy I’d experienced at the early show in Denver.

Hearing this, I was in awe. How did Garth Brooks maintain this consistency of excellence, time after time?

Was he even human?

I try and be like Garth Brooks.

No, I don’t don a cowboy hat and sing my heart out to adoring fans night after night. But I do attempt to maintain my own consistency of excellence.

For me, this means precision regarding when I wake up, and what I do with those waking hours. It means intentionality regarding the food I put into my mouth and the language that comes out of it. It means upholding the highest standards of professionalism, whether I’m at work or off the clock.

And yet, despite my best efforts, this doesn’t always happen.

There are some days when I’m not feeling it. There are some times when I don’t have the energy or precision to act according to my standards. There are some moments when I fall short.

I wish I could say this happens rarely. But it occurs far more often than that. Once or twice a month, at minimum.

When it does, I’m ashamed of myself. I feel obligated to apologize to everyone around me. And I loathe the expression of my own humanity.

I marvel ever more at Cousin Garth, as he proves that our surname is our only commonality. (No, we are not actually related.)

I simply cannot match his consistency of excellence.

But perhaps, in these cycles of self-loathing, I should have been turning my reverence toward someone even more regal.

Not long before I sat down to write this article, the world lost a monumental figure.

Queen Elizabeth II of England passed away at the age of 96.

The Queen held dominion over the United Kingdom for 70 years — a national record. And while she didn’t control the government or the military, Her Majesty had plenty of responsibilities over those seven decades.

These responsibilities included a litany of public appearances around the globe, all governed by longstanding rules of regal decorum.

There was no respite for this activity. There was no off-season.

And with the 24/7 news cycle gaining steam during the queen’s reign, there was increasingly nowhere to hide. A series of scandals that enveloped the Royal Family made that abundantly clear.

Yet, Queen Elizabeth II was able to stay above the fray. By all accounts, she performed her duties with the utmost professionalism.

The only hint of a blemish on the queen’s record was her handling of the aftermath of the untimely death of Princess Diana, her former daughter-in-law.

The queen followed the playbook of decorum, at a time when a grieving kingdom yearned to see her humanity. Ultimately, she acquiesced, delivering a poignant address.

Queen Elizabeth II’s commitment to continual professionalism is even more striking when you realize that her role was preordained.

Garth Brooks might have chosen the life of a performer. And in doing so, he accepted the consistency of excellence that such a role demands.

Queen Elizabeth II never had such a choice. And she rose to the occasion anyway.

Indeed, two days before her passing, the queen performed one of her most important duties. She met with the premier appointee for the UK’s parliament, officially appointing her as Prime Minister.

Although she was not at full strength, Queen Elizabeth posed for a couple of photos, smiling radiantly in both.

To the end, the queen maintained a consistency of excellence.

Her aptitude should serve as a beacon.

Principles are critical in life.

They keep us centered, steadying us through the rough seas of our day-to-day adventures.

We have the freedom to choose our own principles. And mine are distinct.

Be present. Be informed. Be better.

The first two are clearly defined, forged through concrete actions and commitments. But the third one can seem ambiguous.

How does one go about bettering themselves? And what does better even mean?

Adhering to this principle can feel like a hopeless task. It can seem like boiling the ocean or corralling the wind.

Yet, being better is certainly attainable. Garth Brooks and Queen Elizabeth II prove this point clearly.

It won’t be easy. It will take all our focus. And it will require us to remain poised, even when we’re not at our best.

But it’s a quest we can strive for. One that we should strive for.

So, let’s cast away the excuses. Let’s double down on the fundamentals. And let’s seek a consistency of excellence at every turn.

Those watching our moves will be better for it. And so will we.

Closing the Chapter

Don’t miss the exit.

That was the last bit of advice I got as I headed off to visit my great-grandmother.

I had spent plenty of time with her over the years. But this was the first time I was visiting her on my own.

The warning was prudent.

My great-grandmother’s assisted living facility was not far from the highway. But the exit that led to it was tucked in the back of a highway rest stop.

I had to drive past the service center and the gas pumps to find it, but fortunately, I did so without incident. Moments later, I had parked and made it to my great-grandmother’s room.

My great-grandmother was 96 years old. Macular degeneration had rendered her nearly blind, and dementia had clouded her mind.

I resolved to be patient and not to get flustered if I got called by my father’s name. Mostly, I reminded myself not to expect too much.

Yet, to my surprise, my great-grandmother was in great spirits. We dove into a lively discussion. And for a few moments, it seemed like the old days.

But then, the conversation hit a brief respite. And after that pause, my great-grandmother seemed lost.

She started to rehash what we had already discussed. For she had already forgotten that we’d even talked about it.

I pivoted, trying to keep the discussion free of pauses to avoid repeating myself. But this was exhausting work, and my energy eventually dwindled.

At that point, I knew it was time to leave. I gave my great-grandmother a hug and headed for the door.

More than a year later, she passed away. I had just started a new job halfway across the country, and I couldn’t make the funeral.

I felt a bit guilty. But I wasn’t overwhelmed by that sensation.

For I knew I’d closed the chapter with my great-grandmother gracefully. And that mattered as much to me as anything.

Humanity is full of vices. Some are oft-discussed, while others fly under the radar.

The recency effect generally falls into that second category.

This concept states that we’re more likely to remember the most recent item in a series than the ones before it.

That late addition to the grocery list is the first one that comes to mind as we walk in the store doors. That lesson from last week is likely to be the one we nail on the upcoming midterm.

And that last bit of time we spend with a loved one is what sticks with us for years.

This makes sense. The everlasting emptiness of death is without comparison. So is the enduring power of memory. When the two converge, we want to engineer the encounter to meet our needs.

Yet, such an approach is far from sensible.

So much surrounding departures is beyond our control. But we try and put our stamp on the proceedings anyway.

I am no different. I had an inkling that my visit with my great-grandmother would likely be my last. This realization impacted my approach to the entire experience.

That experience went as well as could be expected. While I miss my great-grandmother, I’m at peace with the way our time together on this earth ended. The recency effect hasn’t left me saddled with regret.

That is not always the case.

Not long after my great-grandmother passed, my thoughts turned to another beloved relative — one of my grandfathers.

I’ve written about this grandfather before on Words of the West, reflecting on his impact on my life. While he wasn’t related to my great-grandmother — they were on different sides of the family tree — he was also getting up there in years, and I worried about what might come next.

My grandfather had survived two heart attacks and a triple bypass in his life. He had served in the United States Navy in World War II and lived to tell the tale. Growing up, I started to believe that he was invincible.

But now, his mortality seemed evident.

So, I took nothing for granted. Whenever I called my grandfather to check in, I would try and coax him to tell an extra story or two from his past. And I made sure not to assume that we’d speak again.

This proved prescient — but not in the way I expected.

For my grandfather eventually suffered a stroke. And while that malady didn’t kill him, it robbed him of much of his memory and communication abilities.

At first, I struggled to process this development. It hurt me to see my grandfather as a shell of his former self. And it threw a giant wrinkle in my plan to close the chapter with him cleanly.

But as the years went by, I gradually made my peace with what had transpired. I resisted the siren song of the recency effect. I instead tried to remember what had come before.

Ultimately, my grandfather did pass away. But as I adjusted to his absence, my refreshed approach proved to be a benefit.

Instead of zeroing in on those trying final years of my grandfather’s life, I remembered him at full strength. The stories he told. The way he was. The example he set.

I’ve tried to honor that memory as much as anything.

Perhaps we can all take a page from this revised playbook.

Instead of obsessing about missing our exit, we can glance at the highway that got us there. We can consider items deeper in our pile of memories.

For these memories are the bulk of our lived experience. They’re the ones that set the tone for the integral relationships in our lives.

We tend to consider these memories as mere guideposts on the grander journey. But they should be the narrative itself.

They should become our focus.

So, let’s cast off the tiring task of closing the chapter. Let’s stop obsessing over-engineering a clean ending and instead focus on something that truly matters.

We’ll be happier and more fulfilled. And that’s the point of all this anyway.

The Reality of Hope

As I sat in the hot tub on a steamy Florida night, I pondered my future.

Hours earlier, I’d walked across the stage at my college graduation. My family then celebrated the occasion with dinner at one of the ritziest restaurants in town.

But now, the ceremonies were over. We had retreated to my family’s hotel near the airport.

And now, submerged in warm waters flanked by the not-so-distant roar of jet engines, we commiserated.

The conversation quickly turned to what was next. And as it did, my triumph faded into a sense of failing.

For I didn’t have a job lined up. I didn’t even have any interviews pending.

In the throes of a brutal recession, I would need to move back in with my parents until I could launch my career.

My family assured me this was no big deal. I’d earned myself a break, they said.

But had I?

To me, college was not a four-year party. It was a proving ground for professional life.

And without the first step in my career imminent, I felt I had failed. I had wasted my time and countless dollars of tuition.

Fortunately, this despondence didn’t last long. I soon landed some job interviews, followed by a job offer. Two months and a day after my college graduation, I reported to my new role as a news producer in West Texas.

And while I’ve long ago left that position — and that career — behind, I’ve remained self-sufficient throughout adulthood.

My story had a satisfying conclusion. My quest for a career launch was simply deferred, rather than denied.

Some of that had to do with the industry I was seeking to join. Some had to do with the economic realities of the moment I was in. Much of it had to do with sheer luck.

I never gave up hope throughout this process. Even in those dour moments on the evening of my college graduation, I retained faith that things would work out.

But attributing the outcome to me sense of hope is a fool’s errand.

Many of my peers faced the same circumstances as I did as they walked the stage at commencements across America that spring. Despite some despondence over their lack of immediate job prospects, they remained hopeful.

And yet, despite sterling credentials and supreme self-belief, that faith was not rewarded.

Many of my peers ended up waiting tables for months on end, just to be able to pay the bills. Some were forced to give up their career hopes entirely after years of rejection.

It was cruel and unfair. But it was reality.

A reality that was out of touch with a prevailing narrative.

You see, we tend to view hope as a self-fulfilling prophecy. This principle is central in Hollywood scripts and other narrative arcs.

Cinderella is in a desperate condition when the Fairy Godmother first encounters her. Yet, even in her darkest hours, she retains a semblance of hope — one that pays off in spades once it’s time to try on the glass slipper.

Similarly, the Rebel Alliance retains hope against long odds at the start of Star Wars. The Galactic Empire has a decided advantage. And the Jedi equipped to counter the Empire’s brutal reign are seemingly nowhere to be found.

That hope that sustains the Rebel Alliance from the first scene becomes the fabric of the franchise, interspersed into dialogue, story arcs, and even film names. (Once sequels hit the big screen, that original Star Wars film was rebranded Star Wars Episode IV – A New Hope.)

Given these prominent examples, it’s all too easy to believe that a little faith and determination are all guaranteed to provide a favorable outcome.

And so, we go all in on hope. We treat the fairy tale ending as manifest destiny. And we suppress the narratives where satisfaction doesn’t arrive.

This does us no favors.

As I write this, we’ve had a rough go of it.

In recent years, we’ve dealt with a global pandemic, a teetering economy, and societal polarization.

Through it all, we’ve followed a familiar playbook. We’ve tried to stay the course, clinging to the prospect of better days ahead.

We’ve clung to the promise of hope.

This might seem sensible at first. Looking across the long arc of history, things tend to even out. And Star Wars and Cinderella show that a little faith can pay big dividends. So why not bask in the glory of tomorrow?

But I’m not so sure that a bright future is imminent. There’s no guarantee that things will get better just because we hit a rough patch. And if the past is precedent, they might continue to get worse.

It’s easy to overlook how spoiled we’ve been spoiled in recent decades. Sure, things weren’t always ideal. But we’ve recovered rather swiftly from the adverse events we did face — be they the 9/11 attacks or the 2008 Financial Crisis.

This near-instant resilience was a blessing. For in prior generations, the route back was far more treacherous.

The Great Depression lasted a full decade, and it was followed almost immediately by World War II. One catastrophic event followed another, with devastation touching all corners of our nation.

America did emerge from the Allied victory in World War II with a robust economy and improved global standing. But people weren’t entirely jubilant. Instead, they were hiding under desks during air raid drills, terrified about the prospect of Soviet missiles bringing nuclear winter.

It’s only in the past few decades — with the Cold War over and the tech boom bringing unprecedented innovation — that we’ve seen hope blossom into true prosperity. And that prosperity has deluded us from the truth.

Indeed, the reality of hope is messy. It carries no promise of returns, let alone instant ones.

There are costs to shunning hope, as complete despair can leave us without the will to seize opportunities. But its benefits are minimal, at best.

This isn’t the message we want to hear. It’s not the tidy narrative that leaves us feeling fulfilled. It’s not the bright carrot that motivates us to keep moving forward.

But it is the message we need to hear. It’s the one we should heed.

Yes, hope is beautiful. It’s inspiring. It’s uplifting.

But it is not a crystal ball.

We cannot count on it to provide us opportunities. We can’t expect it to help us seize them.

Much of that power belongs to circumstance. The rest belongs to us.

Act accordingly.

The Thing to Do

As I strutted back to the car, iced coffee in hand, I noticed them.

Three sets of Cornhole boards, all neatly arranged on the patio of the bar next to the coffee shop.

They sat vacant for the moment. It was far too early in the day for the bar to be open.

But I knew that as morning turned to afternoon, and afternoon to evening, this little piece of territory would be hotly contested.

Scores of friends and acquaintances would converge on the area. They would split into teams and stand by the rows of Cornhole boards. Then they’d try to toss beanbags — underhand — through the holes near the top of the board directly across from them.

There are a few ground rules for the game, and there’s a point system to keep score. But the premise of the game remains simple — toss beanbags through a hole on a board.

I’ve played Cornhole a few times before. And I’ve generally found it pointless.

There’s simply not much intriguing about soft tossing a beanbag over and over. The talent required is minimal, and the skill has little functional purpose.

To me, Cornhole is akin to throwing balled-up tinfoil into the trash can. I want to hit the target on the first try, of course.

But I won’t go nuts if I achieve that objective. And I won’t be devastated if I don’t.

(To be clear, I am not a litterer; after a missed trash toss, I do dispose of the item properly.)

I’m sure I’m not the only one to feel this way.

And yet, Cornhole is everywhere these days. Many bars dedicate part of their establishments to the game, and many people have their own Cornhole sets. Those tired of playing sure do seem to keep their mouths shut.

So why the discrepancy? Why has Cornhole become ever more prevalent, even if it does so little to inspire?

The answer is unlikely to satisfy.

When I was young, my family used to make 90-minute treks to visit a great aunt and great uncle.

I thoroughly enjoyed these trips.

My great aunt and great uncle had a swimming pool in their backyard — a luxury we didn’t have in ours. And in the basement, they had a fancy pool table — the kind with a ball return system connected to all the pockets.

I was fascinated by this table. Paying no attention to the row of billiards cues on the wall, I’d roll the pool balls into the pockets with my hands. I’d watch them slide down the metal guideway to a storage bin. Then, I’d do it again and again.

Fast forward to high school, and I was heading to pool halls regularly with friends. I was playing properly this time — racking the table, using billiards cues, and knowing the actual rules. Still, I wasn’t all that good at the game, and I didn’t find it that enjoyable.

By the time I graduated to frequenting bars, pool tables were an unwelcome sight. And yet, they were everywhere I looked — along with Shuffleboard and Darts. (The Cornhole craze hadn’t taken off yet.)

I found myself roped into game after game. I found no joy in the process, even after numbing myself with alcohol.

When I had the nerve to ask why we were all passing the time this way — drinking like fish, playing ubiquitous bar games — I always encountered the same answer.

It’s the thing to do.

I was incredulous. I still am.

Our recreation time is best spent doing things we enjoy. And yet, we seem to gravitate toward someone else’s idea of fun while out on the town. All without knowing who that someone else was.

Eventually, I addressed this issue by dropping out of the bar scene. Giving up alcohol aided in that endeavor.

But friends still invite me to play pool or Cornhole these days at parties and gatherings. And I find myself with a tough choice.

Do I acquiesce and attempt to bury my disdain? These games are the thing to do after all.

Or do I stand my ground — forcing myself to answer for being so disagreeable?

The scales are tipping.

Baseball has long been a game of numbers.

Henry Chadwick invented the box score roughly 160 years ago. And we’ve obsessed about baseball statistics seemingly ever since.

I am no exception. I struggled with arithmetic when I was growing up. But I could tell you who was leading the league in batting.

So, when I heard about fantasy baseball, I was all in.

The premise seemed perfect. Draft a virtual team comprised of real Major League Baseball players. Their collective performance in real games would determine how your virtual team did.

I was decent at this endeavor at first. And I enjoyed it so much that I branched out into fantasy football as well.

But a few developments changed the calculus.

One of them, strangely, happened in the pages of a book.

Michael Lewis’ Moneyball was published in 2003. The book outlined how one team — the Oakland Athletics — found success in the early 2000s despite a small budget.

The Athletics valued different statistics than the baseball establishment did. And this unconventional thinking helped them find hidden gems that proved integral in the team’s success.

In the wake of Moneyball, the baseball universe took these revelations to the next level. Teams started using advanced analytics to assess players, position them in the field, and shift their approach while batting.

Fantasy baseball too became more complicated, as a flurry of new statistical markers entered the fold. It was difficult to keep up with.

But more than that, the premise of the endeavor had changed. Fantasy baseball was no longer a hypothetical exercise for nerdy fans. It was ever more an extension of what Major League Baseball teams themselves were doing. The two worlds were converging.

That alone was nearly enough to drive me from fantasy sports. But there was another development that set me over the edge.

As fantasy sports gained popularity, fandom changed. No longer was it sufficient to root for one’s favorite teams. No, fans demanded that all contests up and down the league play out in a particular way — just so that they could win their fantasy matchup.

A statistical anomaly or a quick hook from a coach — each immaterial to a team’s outcome — might be enough to make a fan hopping mad if it cost them their fantasy matchup. These selfish pursuits seem so pithy, but they’re all too real.

I grew tired of both these developments rather quickly, and I dropped out of fantasy sports some years ago. Friends and acquaintances struggled to process my decision.

Fantasy sports were the thing to do, after all. Wouldn’t I miss it?

The answer has been an unequivocal no.

Sure, I’ve deprived myself a key source of connection. And yes, it can be exhausting rebuffing requests to review someone’s fantasy team or provide draft advice. (I do neither these days.)

But I feel happier without the albatross of fantasy sports around my neck.

Others might take on tasks they don’t fully enjoy because it’s the thing to do. But I refuse to make that sacrifice any longer.

Our society is multifaceted.

From coast to coast, there are hundreds of millions of people who harbor different interests. And there are plenty of opportunities to engage with these interests.

As Americans, we can head to a concert, or a sports event, or a theme park if we so desire. We can go hike in a national park, hit the lake, or just sit out on the porch in the fresh air.

The choice is ours, free of compulsion or prejudice. And that is a great thing.

But we need to rethink the social baseline. We need to reevaluate what the thing to do means.

If we overhype an activity that only some enjoy, we water down our collective potential. We cause many people to go along to get along in our complex social labyrinth. And we prioritize groupthink over true zeal and engagement.

This has been our fate for far too long. But it needn’t be our future.

So, let’s stop using the thing to do as an excuse for group social activities. Let’s think critically and make room for people to walk different paths. And let’s not judge one another for abstaining from the popular choice.

It’s the best path forward.

Shades of Similarity

The plane turned onto the runway. And in an instant, we were off.

The outer boroughs of New York City appeared out the airplane window, followed by the towns of northern New Jersey.

Looking out at the expanse of suburbia before me, I was struck by its ubiquity.

There were houses with lush, green yards. There were residential roads winding through neighborhoods. There were shopping centers.

And there were schools. Plenty of schools.

The school buildings were mostly nondescript from 10,000 feet in the air. But they were still easy to spot. For abutting them were football fields encircled by running tracks.

A few hours later, the plane descended upon the Dallas area. I stared out the window, relishing the rare opportunity to view my home from the sky.

Yet, what I saw was strikingly similar. Homes with large yards. Residential roads winding through neighborhoods. Shopping centers.

And plenty of schools, abutted by football fields and running tracks.

Now, the scene wasn’t entirely identical. Stifling summer heat had turned the grass from green to a yellowish brown. And those football fields were surrounded by large grandstands — a testament to the Texan passion for Friday Night Lights.

Still, on the whole of it, the scene in suburban Texas wasn’t all that different from the one in suburban New Jersey.

And that similarity — it resonated.

It’s no secret that we live in a polarized society.

We seem inclined to disagreement. And the bickering we take part in can quickly spiral out of control.

As part of this behavior pattern, we tend to divvy up territory. We take the old trope of Red States and Blue States to the max, treating the places that house those with conflicting viewpoints as dens of heathens.

I am no stranger to this principle. Growing up an ardent sports fan, I despised the Boston Red Sox in pro baseball and the Florida State Seminoles in college football. I particularly loathed the fans of these teams, often arguing with them vociferously in person and online.

As the vitriol intensified, I started to shun the cities these teams played in — Boston and Tallahassee. The way I saw it, these locales were saturated with these despicable fans — so they were inherently inferior to my own stomping grounds.

Fortunately, such closed-mindedness didn’t last all that long. Late in my high school days, I visited a cousin who had moved to Boston. To my surprise, I discovered a charming, vibrant city on the bank of the Charles River — a far cry from the hellhole I’d expected.

Then in college, I traveled to Tallahassee to see my favorite team take on the Seminoles in their stadium. Florida’s capital was less charming than Massachusetts’ was, but it still seemed like a pleasant enough southern town.

Surprisingly, I even hit it off with some Florida State fans while tailgating. We shared brews and snacks, if not allegiances.

The experience was enlightening, and it dampened my zeal to judge territory outside my own backyard. Yet, the principle of us versus them never quite went away.

After moving to Texas, I found myself othering the area I’d come from. While I wasn’t a native Texan, I was fully committed to my new home. As such, I felt obligated to prove that I wasn’t a carpetbagger.

Family and friends back north howled at this development. Yet, many of them had questioned my decision to move to Texas in the first place. They had viewed it as a tacit approval for the Lone Star State’s most extreme stereotypes. And this had left a chip on my shoulder.

Over time, I softened my stance. But the environment around me went in the other direction.

Polarization intensified, spurred on by the isolating effects of a global pandemic. Botched responses to extreme weather turned a critical eye on Texas’ infrastructure. And the state’s conservative leaning political decision turned downright radical.

With all these developments, it was hard not to see other corners of the country as different. Sure, I could get food from the same chain restaurants in the Northeast or Midwest that I could in Texas. And people spoke the same language in Denver as they did in Dallas. But how much else was really in common?

It took that airplane flight, and the revelation about high school football fields, for me to realize just how similar we all still are.

It’s a realization that could use a broader audience.

North of the border, the drivers travel at NASCAR speeds. Distances between cities are longer, people are shorter, and temperatures that make shiver leave the locals sweltering.

None of this is true, of course. At least not as written.

You see, Canada uses the Metric system, while that United States does not. And that leads to some novel forms of measurement.

Kilometers take the place of miles. Meters take the place of feet. And Celsius takes the place of Fahrenheit.

People aren’t really shorter, or driving faster, or wilting around in frigid conditions in Canada. It just seems that way if we take Metric measurements at American standards.

We must do some math to reconcile these discrepancies. And yet, millions of Americans have visited our neighbors up north over the years. And relatively few of them have gotten completely waylaid due to the Metric system.

If we can fare so well in a land where the distance markers — and much more — vary from our norms, why can’t we find the shades of similarity in our own nation?

Instead of pitting Texas against New Jersey, for instance, we can note that high schoolers in both states play football on the same sized gridiron.

This shift in focus won’t wipe away our differences. They’re still out there, and they’re too prominent to paint over.

But it can help us avert the toxic spiral of divisiveness. It can keep hyper-partisanship in check. It can take the teeth out of othering.

These are outcomes we should yearn for. More than that, they’re outcomes our society needs.

So, let’s tamp down the rhetoric. Let’s respect our differences. And let’s shift the spotlight to shades of similarity.

It starts with us.

The Legend of Fortune

The card deck.

On the surface, it seems basic and ubiquitous. A set of 52 cards adorned with numbers, letters, and symbols.

The card deck is easy to use. It’s simple to transport. And it’s an easy party favor.

And yet, few who use such an item would define it as trivial.

Indeed, we tend to view card decks as vessels. As purveyors of fortune. As tickets to destiny.

This vision leaves us mesmerized by magic tricks. And it draws us into many card games – particularly ones where money is on the line.

We’re hooked by the notion of riding a hot streak and reaping the rewards. And we focus attention on yielding favorable outcomes, time and again. Even as a basic probability primer can illustrate how foolish this thinking is.

Yes, are all-in on a legend. One that says fortune is in our hands. But is that legend anything more than an illusion?

If card decks are vessels for fortune, luck is the construct that ties it all together.

While we find great value in hard work and grit, we also aspire to be lucky. We subscribe to superstitions and other tricks to improve our fortunes. We gravitate toward those for whom everything seems to go right, hoping that their good luck will rub off on us. And we turn away from those we deem to be unlucky.

This obsession with luck – it’s a powerful force in our society. One that’s devoid of even a shred of reality.

There is no such thing as a lucky card or a cursed one. Those are simply labels that we put on the ecosystem around us.

Our own experience drives these perceptions. So do the views of our community. And these twin forces converge to make the labels stick.

But no matter how much we invest in this house of cards, it still sits on a nonexistent foundation. A gust of wind is all that it takes to send everything crashing down.

As I write this, I’m amid what many would consider a roller coaster year.

The start was promising. I thrived in my job, acting on the vision I’d set for my nascent role. I traveled around the country – for work and for pleasure – garnering several first-class flight upgrades in the process. And I took on my first three half-marathons, posting better finishing times than I could have ever imagined in each.

Things were clicking for me. And when I won entry to the New York City Marathon – through a lottery system with a roughly 10% acceptance rate — it started to feel like a dream.

Others noticed my preponderance of good news. They started commenting about how lucky I was.

I didn’t buy into the hype, though. The way I saw it, I was bound for a regression.

Sure enough, that regression arrived fast and furious. I returned from a work conference slowed by a virus. Weeks later, I had a vacation upended by flight cancellations. Then, I suffered a running injury. That injury lingered for months, ultimately forcing my withdrawal from the New York City Marathon.

In the wake of these outcomes, the conversation around me started to change. My luck had turned, others around me pointed out. Some even stated that it just wasn’t my year.

I refused to buy into this narrative.

Yes, I’ve experienced a lot in the months before writing this column. Some of those experiences might have seemed more enjoyable than others. But ultimately, they weren’t good or bad. They were just…experiences.

The labels have no teeth. Fortune hasn’t smiled on me or turned away from my presence. I’m neither lucky nor unlucky for having run the gauntlet I did.

At the end of the day, things are as they were before. I continue to exist.

This description of my recent adventures might not win any popularity contests. After all, we’re looking to grow and excel, rather than merely exist.

But this assessment both accurate and insulating.

Stripping undue meaning from life’s adventures removes semblances of entitlement or worthlessness. It keeps us grounded, leaving wild emotional swings at bay. And it forces us to focus on what we can control, rather than what we can’t.

This is a challenging shift to make. But it’s a necessary one.

So, I’m leaning in.

Rather than wallowing in self-pity or waiting for the winds to change, I’m clinging to all that’s firmly in my grasp. Namely, my effort and my attitude.

Mastery of these attributes doesn’t guarantee me much in terms of outcomes. But that’s precisely the point.

Why share these adventures with you, dear reader?

For like it or not, we’re all swimming in the same ocean.

Remember that virus that I said I was afflicted with? It’s already wreaked havoc on all of us, whether we’ve caught it or not. It caused our whole world to shut down for a time, and it destroyed any assumptions of what we though we knew.

Yes, we’ve gone through an unprecedented period — one where normalcy was shifted on its head and many of our comforts and traditions were snatched from our grasp.

Many have called this period the worst of our lifetimes. Others have claimed that their fortunes turned in the eye of the storm.

But such descriptors are foolhardy.

No, we haven’t been unlucky. And we’re not necessarily on the brink of a change in fortune. We’ve simply lived through an experience that we hadn’t before.

It’s time that we reckon with that fact. Fully and completely.

That means ceding claims to ownership over affairs beyond our influence. It means doubling down on what we can control. And it means backing away from the allure of fortune.

Indeed, the more we remove these labels from our narrative, the less we’ll be whiplashed by the corresponding emotions. And the more steadfast and resilient we’ll be at navigating the uncertainty of life.

This shift might not be appealing, but it’s for our own good.

Cards are just laminated paper. Events are just dots on a timeline. And fortune is a legend, devoid of reality.

Act accordingly.

The Productivity Paradox

For 17 seasons, he was a Major League Baseball starting pitcher. He won a world championship and was a two-time All-Star. All after escaping his home nation to get a shot at the big leagues.

The story, the accolades — they’re all impressive. But unless you’re a hardcore baseball fan, you probably won’t recognize Livan Hernandez’s name.

You might be forgiven for this omission. Hernandez was a competent pitcher who could field his position well and even hold his own in the batter’s box. But he didn’t have the dominant pitching makeup that some of the leading hurlers of his era did.

No, Hernandez’s greatest ability was his availability. Every fifth day for a generation, he took the ball for his team. He put his cleats on the pitching rubber, wound up, and fired that ball to home plate. Then he did it again, and again, and again – only yielding his perch in the late stages of the game.

Hernandez was what was known as a workhorse. A pitcher who could be counted on to last deep into ballgames, time and again. For three years in a row, Hernandez led the National League in innings pitched. In two of those years, he led all big-league pitchers in the category.

He gave his all. But he got a raw deal for those efforts.

Indeed, as some pitchers with lower inning counts got notoriety, awards, and Hall of Fame inductions, Hernandez is now relegated to obscurity.

It hardly seems right.

A hard day’s work.

It’s a hallmark of our society. A source of pride. A badge of honor.

We honor perspiration. We laud effort. We believe in determination.

Such values have inspired generation after generation to follow the script. So, we tend not to cut corners. We put in a consistent effort, time and again. We lift ourselves up by our bootstraps.

And yet, the rewards don’t always follow. Much like Livan Hernandez, we often find ourselves overlooked in the wake of productivity. And sometimes, the outcome of our exertion is even bleaker.

Overuse injuries are all too common in the world of athletics. Pitchers can blow out their arms by throwing the ball too many times. Runners can break down by taking on too many miles too quickly.

Manual labor carries similar risks. The miner, the mechanic, the factory machinist – they can all suffer crippling injuries as a byproduct of the work they put in.

Even in less physically taxing endeavors, we can suffer maladies. Our reward for performing at a high level in the business world is all too often burnout and stress. And there are countless other areas where getting after it carries a heavy toll.

It’s a cruel irony, this Productivity Paradox. The attribute that should be driving our success is instead dragging us down.

It’s hard not to feel as if we’re somehow being chastised for desirable habits. That irrational punishment stalls our momentum. And it makes the journey forward that much more treacherous.

A hard day’s work? It’s way more than we bargained for.

You should take a break.

I’ve gotten this advice often.

Those who know me well will often laud my work ethic. But they worry that the flame that fuels me will also consume me.

And so, they encourage me to shut it down. To take a weeklong trip to a beach somewhere and to recharge.

To them, such a solution seems like paradise. To me, it sounds like a death sentence.

For I am an active person. Active mind. Active body. Active spirit. I thrive when the wheels are turning.

Yet, I am also an introvert. And so, much of the activity that I crave comes in the form of routines.

Imploring me to give all this up — the activity, the routines — it spikes my anxiety. Even if I know such advice is coming from a good place.

And so, I attack the Productivity Paradox head-on. I charge full speed ahead, consequences be damned.

I’ve generally had good fortune in these endeavors. I’ve sustained only moderate cases of burnout at work. I’ve rarely lost motivation to write for this column. And until recently, I’ve been able to run competitively, free of significant injuries.

Still, the setbacks I’ve faced from my approach have been difficult to unwrap. I still struggle with the notion that good habits lead to adverse outcomes. And the lack of clear takeaways from these experiences still baffles me.

I’m in no man’s land. A purgatory of my own creation. And it’s a special type of torture.

I was just starting out in a new role when a co-worker gave provided three words of advice.

Embrace the gray.

I knew what this implied. Much of what I was to encounter would be ambiguous, foggy, murky. I would need to use discretion to succeed in my role.

In that moment, I felt chills creeping up my spine. Because discretion wasn’t something I did well.

I had traditionally thrived on consistency. I had depended upon clarity. I had relied on learning the ground rules acting accordingly.

This choose-your-own-adventure idea — it frightened me.

Yet, over time, I got more proficient at it. Instead of relying on external expectations, I let my internal compass be my guide. And I found myself thriving.

Perhaps I can carry forward the lessons from that experience. Perhaps we all can.

After all, the road to prosperity is not always a straight line. We will face setbacks from time to time, even if we follow a winning script.

Such is the way of the world. Machines can break down after frequent use. And so can we.

When faced with this reality, we can bury our heads in the sand. We can let ourselves languish. Or we can stay the course, adjusting for feel.

We owe it to ourselves to take that last approach. To see the Productivity Paradox for what it is — a random flaw — instead of overstating its importance.

The circumstances we contend with might not always make sense. But we can still act sensibly.

Let’s make sure we do.

Everything’s Changed

They put up a plant where we used to park. That old drive-in’s a new Walmart.

So go a few lines from Everything’s Changed by Lonestar. A 90’s country song about how love endures, even as a town transforms.

For years, this song seemed ubiquitous to many others from that genre and era. Catchy, comfortable, and shallow.

But such descriptors are hardly adequate these days.

After all the disruptions of recent years, it’s hard not to relate Everything’s Changed to the world we live in. With so much transformation around us, we strain to find the reference markers that haven’t changed.

Those through lines are key to our identity. They prove that while we might evolve, our core remains consistent.

Such a rationale might seem sensible. But is it wise?

An ancient Greek parable — the Ship of Theseus — dives to the heart of this dilemma.

In the parable, Theseus’ ship sets off to sea with an original set of parts and a crew. Upon its return to port, none of the vessel’s parts are the same. The crew has meticulously rebuilt the ship, piece by piece, while at sea.

The question posed from this scenario: Has Theseus returned on the same ship he embarked on?

It’s an open debate. One that has enraptured philosophers for centuries.

But if you asked a bunch of people on the street, most would likely say Theseus was not on the same ship.

Our behavior dictates this response. Time and again, we long for connections to the past. We scratch and claw for any through lines that can persevere through the winds of change.

Such adherence to consistency has some benefits, driving an air of nostalgia and boosting our reliability. But they can also make us stubbornly rigid, ill-equipped for the encroaching tsunami of change.

I know this feeling as much as anyone. As a control enthusiast, routine and familiarity are my friends. I’ve historically struggled to lean into change. And even when I did make a shift, I struggled to reconcile it with my sense of identity.

I couldn’t be Theseus’ ship. A wholesale swap would not — could not — jibe with my narrative.

But now, everything’s changed.

Several years ago, I met my father at a baggage claim carousel in the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport.

We were meeting in the Twin Cities to embark on a road trip across the Upper Midwest. Along the way, we’d go to two Major League Baseball games — one in Minneapolis and another in Milwaukee.

We would meet up for trips like these occasionally, as I worked toward my now-completed goal of watching a baseball game in all 30 Major League stadiums. It was a great way to see the country and spend some time with my father, who lived halfway across the country.

Minnesota was in a heatwave when we arrived, and the steamy weather cut our sightseeing time short. But I was intrigued by the Twin Cities and vowed to return.

I was less impressed with Milwaukee. The city seemed sleepy and oddly arranged. The baseball stadium felt dull and cavernous. And even the lakefront seemed to pale in comparison with Chicago’s, 90 miles down shore.

We were in Milwaukee for less than 24 hours on that trip. But I was excited to get out of there and figured I wouldn’t come back.

Boy was I wrong.

As fate would have it, my best friend from high school got engaged to a Wisconsin native a few years later. The wedding took place at the Milwaukee Art Museum, and I found myself back in town. Wandering down the Milwaukee River Walk, through the Third Ward and across Walker’s Point in my spare time, I noticed the charm of the Cream City.

I realized that my initial snap judgment of Milwaukee was off base, and I regretted my error. Still, as I boarded my flight back to Texas, I once again thought it was a one-way trip.

My life and my job were in the Dallas area. And as far as I saw it, they would continue to be for years to come.

But then, the ground under my feet shifted.

The COVID-19 pandemic hit a couple years later, redefining the boundaries around me.

As my world shrank to the contours of a computer screen, it ironically expanded my horizons well beyond North Texas. The contours of physical presence evaporated as the virtual world went mainstream.

Several months into this new scenario, I was hit with another bombshell. My employer was acquired by a larger company — one that was based in Milwaukee. I landed a job on the parent company’s marketing team — a role that would represent a step up in my career trajectory.

And yet, as I prepared to begin my new role, I was whallopped with an identity crisis. I had built my professional existence as a Texan, working alongside members of my community. Now, I would be working with colleagues hundreds of miles away — many of whom lived in a region I was lukewarm toward.

I had two choices. I could withdraw, diving fully into my work and hiding behind my computer screen. Or I could lean in.

I chose the second approach, making a concerted effort to learn more about my colleagues and nuances of Wisconsin culture. And whenever I had an opportunity to make the trek north to Milwaukee for an onsite, I jumped at it.

Through the process, I made friends and earned the respect of my team. And I also grew fonder of the city so many of them called home.

I’ve fully accepted this shift for what it is. An unabashed about-face.

For regardless of the twists and turns along the way, I’m here now. Just like Theseus, I’ve made it back to shore. And unlike that Lonestar song, I’m not looking backward.

I’m fulfilled. I’m happy. And I could give a darn if such blessings align with my prior narratives.

We can all be a bit more like Theseus.

Instead of holding on to rotten boards for posterity’s sake, we can tinker. We can replace, renew, and refresh.

We can dive into change where prudent, without holding back for self-permission. We can be bold, and we can be brave — all while retaining our sensibility.

This potential remains within arm’s length. But it’s our responsibility to reach out and grab it. To stop tethering ourselves to the past and to instead embrace our potential.

The choice is ours. What move will we make?

Going Uphill

I headed into Monday with an air of determination. For there was plenty on my plate.

There were the usual work tasks, of course. The litany of meetings and assignments to keep me on my toes.

And there were the weekly out of work responsibilities. The errands to attend to, the meals to cook.

But this week, there was even more on my plate. All of which would require my health insurance card.

There was an allergy appointment and a dentist visit on my calendar. And I also needed to schedule an MRI and find a chiropractor.

As I started down this gauntlet of to-dos, I immediately hit several snags. The allergist called to cancel my appointment at the last minute. The doctor refused to order an MRI without an office visit. The chiropractor I booked an appointment with was out of my insurer’s network.

I had to change up my schedule on the fly — moving around work meetings for the rest of the week, calling doctor’s offices and filling out paperwork.

By the end of the day, I was thoroughly exhausted. My calendar had swapped out about twenty times. And I still hadn’t gotten my MRI scheduled.

Getting medical care shouldn’t have been so hard. And yet, it was.

About a month before my medical ordeal, I took a short vacation to visit my family halfway across the country. I packed my suitcase, put my Out of Office message on my work email and prepared to leave home behind for a few days.

But just as I was about to head off to the airport, I got the most unwelcome of messages.

Your flight has been canceled.

I scrambled to find a new travel option, only to find that the airline had already booked a new one for me. It seemed convenient – until I saw the words Overnight Connection in small print.

Yes, my new flight itinerary would require me to spend the night in the Kansas City airport before continuing my journey the next day.

I much preferred sleeping in my own bad to spreading out on a dingy airport carpet. But I couldn’t change the itinerary online, since the airline had finalized it.

So, I spent two hours on the phone trying to reach a reservations agent. By the time I finally did, my only option was to fly out the next morning.

I cut my losses and accepted reality. Nearly 18 hours after I was originally supposed to leave town, my plane finally took off.

As the trip neared its nadir, my return flight was canceled. Once again, I had to rebook for a flight the following day — this time cancelling work meetings in the process.

Fortunately, my trip itself was successful and enjoyable. But getting there and back was an abject disaster.

Traveling shouldn’t have been so hard. And yet, it was.

My medical and travel ordeals were distressing. But sadly, they weren’t all that out of the ordinary.

Indeed, it seems like things are harder than ever these days.

Of course, complaints about how difficult life is are as old as time itself. According the old cliché, our ancestors had to trudge uphill both ways in the snow to get to school.

But there is something more to this particular version of the complaint.

Everything from financing a car to buying furniture has gotten more challenging in recent years. There are many reasons for this — such as a volatile economy and strained supply chains. But the primary culprit is our on-demand world itself.

These days, we seemingly have every option we would ever want at our fingertips. And yet, those options remain just beyond our grasp – leaving us suffer in solitude.

In today’s world, I can request a same-day medical exam or board a nonstop flight to anywhere in the country. I can order custom shoes and a new sofa without setting foot out of my front door.

These are all capabilities my ancestors could only dream of.

But seeing those requests fulfilled — that’s a different story. A tale that’s as maddening as it is sad.

For there are complex mechanisms powering the wonder that is our infinite choice world. And when those mechanisms break down, so does the entire system.

There is no master maintenance log for systems that are supposed to “just work.” So, we are forced to fill the gap.

We expend far too much energy troubleshooting these issues. And as we do, our exasperation crescendos.

Add it all up, and we find ourselves on a road to nowhere. One that we can’t divert from.

Or can we?

Restaurant chains.

They’re an American staple. Many families and friend groups celebrate special occasions at these establishments. And many adults get their start in the professional world there.

Working at a chain restaurant has an air of ubiquity to it. This couldn’t be further from the truth.

A server at the Cheesecake Factory has a much more challenging job than one at Chipotle, for instance.

The Cheesecake Factory server must memorize a 15-page menu and ace a test on it as part of training. Once they’re trained, they must spend hours taking orders from entire tables and bringing the finished products back to the dining area.

By contrast, the Chipotle server stands behind a pane of glass under a menu board with only four items on it. They take one order at a time and build it into a basic dish, before handing the finished product across the counter to the customer.

The Cheesecake Factory model offers more variety. But the Chipotle model offers better reliability.

And in a world where Murphy’s Law lurks around every corner, reliability is something we could use more of.

So, let’s do what we can to make the processes in our lives more Chipotle and less Cheesecake Factory. Let’s opt for simplicity where possible, even if it forces us to settle for second best.

This won’t smooth over every process we encounter. (There’s no simple way to buy a home these days, for instance.) But it can certainly reduce the bruising we take from the gauntlet we run.

Life is an uphill climb. Let’s do what we can to make it a little less steep.