A Really Hard Five

So I met up with a bunch of old coworkers yesterday.

It was nice to catch up, hear the latest gossip, load up on hugs and I miss you's.

One of the girls (On her way to be a parent with twins) was talking about how her husband, a very bright and studious man, was spending all of his waking time working on Calculus stuff for school.

She said he loved it, but that it was very hard.

Ha! I thought.

That's not hard.

First of all, do something you love and you'll never "work" a day in your life.

True dat.

Second of all, for those of you who don't know, math is art form, and like any art form, it's a constant puzzle, how to get everything to fit right. I'll bet he sits down at his drafting table and doesn't even notice that seven hours went by. It's like a meth addiction that doesn't mess up your teeth.

But it did get me thinking about things that are really hard.

Like really really hard.

Like so hard they border the impossible.

And giving birth is cheating, cause it is actually impossible for boys, which his like two and a half percent of my audience.

Thanks for reading dad.

Anyway, here are things that are really tough, not like super lame calculus.

Number One: Putting a baby to sleep.
I can't even begin to list the amount of crazy shit that we've all done to get those little imps to crash. In fact, I'm not gonna. In fact, I think you aught to send me you examples and I might make this a theme for next week.

Number Two: Admitting you're wrong.
You put a lot of thought into everything you do and say, and when, in those moments of weakness, you come up snake eyes, well suicide sometimes seems like a much more reasonable response than, oh say, telling your wife she had it right.

Number Three: Getting others to admit you were right.
Harder than number two, no one likes to hear an "I told you so." But even more impossible is to turn that "I told you so." into a verifiable "Are you gonna listen to me now?"

Number Four: Getting out of bed.
New Years Day 1997, I was abruptly woken by my flat mate pounding on the door and telling me that my car was almost underwater and that if we didn't start stacking the sand bags the house was gonna flood. I shit you not, my response "Yeah, okay, gimme a minute."

(Secondary side note to number four: I spent nearly fifteen years rising long before dawn and maybe overslept thrice in all that time, and yet, and yet, didn't change a thing to my sleeping pattern. No alarm means not getting out of bed, period.)

Number Five: Finding a dentist, that is reasonable enough that you don't fantasize about killing their children in front of them.
Most of us have around 32 teeth. A family of four, roughly 128. My teeth are perfectly straight, but they're made of sponge, so I get a cavity every time I breathe in. The rest of my family, well, my step son actually has wisdom teeth growing out of his left ear hole. My biological son got spongey gnarled fangs, cause genetics works backwards in this household. In ten years we've gone through seven dentists, all highly recommended by people whose opinions we trust. Every single one of them have been ginormously expensive, thoroughly conniving, and ridiculously stingy with the Novocain. I'd honestly rather spend time with a door to door pest control salesman who obviously didn't see the no soliciting sign Joann posted on our front door.

or floss.

I'd rather floss.

No comments:

Post a Comment