Perception is Truth. But Perception is rarely correct.

What we believe to be the truth is shaped entirely by the information we have available. Trouble is, we’re never operating with all the information. So we make staggering assumptions which keep us at arms length from each other, and might even make us worse in the process.

Marriages are a great example of this. Ask anyone to talk about their married friends and they’ll probably describe the couple that’s having trouble, the couple that never fights, and the other couple who works but no one knows why. And invariably, if you are married, you begin holding your own relationship up alongside these others to see how you measure up.

“Look honey, they’re more considerate than us.”

“Yes, sweety, but that’s because he’s not such an asshole all the time.”

“Wow, look at them, I don’t understand why they stay together.”

“I bet people say that about us…”

And it’s all crap.

There are those that say marriage is being attacked and threatened. I say it’s been put on a pedestal and canonized to the point that we don’t talk about it candidly enough. It’s all whispers and suspicion and secrets and assumption – and then we apply all that misinformation into some mutated yardstick for our own relationship.

Which brings me back to the idea my wife and I had that sent us giggling:

In the blue collar factories of the world, places with coveralls and hard hats, there’s traditionally a sign with interchangeable numbers and a declaration of plant safety. Some variation of “Safety First! This plant has gone ______ Days Without an Incident.”

The numbers grow, changed daily to reflect the ongoing safety of the plant and encourage careful action. Occasionally something boneheaded happens and then big zeros wind up on the board. Everyone takes a sobering look around and tries to go back to work with extra care to keep all their fingers this time.

So there we are sitting in our small group talking about our desire to be transparent with each other. We’re all for that, as walking through life candidly with others is an enormous blessing.  And along these lines one couple said they’d had an “incident” earlier that day. Suddenly my wife and I found ourselves giggling at the thought of one of those boards in every kitchen, probably painted by some person with a little boutique and a penchant for overcharging on knick-knacks:

___ ___ ___ Days Without Incident.

Every house would have their own variation, but the message would be the same.
“Here’s how long it’s been since this marriage had a work stopping argument.”

Imagine going over to a friends house for dinner and seeing three zeros on that kitchen sign. You’d know right away that while dinner conversation may be wonderful, you’re eating in a warzone. It might even be possible to notice the half-vacuumed room or the slightly burned side dish to find the catalyst for what would otherwise have been a petty private argument.

There’d be no more hiding the truth that we’re all struggling to make this thing work. And I have to think the transparency would help us all realize our sameness, and find camaraderie in the sharing.

It would be pretty hard to lust after someone else’s spouse once you realize they’re just as hard to live with as your own. Or maybe that couple everyone thinks is perfect seems to never get to double digits on their board. Would that be sad? No, I say it’s comforting.

I can get so caught up in the little argument, or disappointment, or failure because it exists in the fortress of my private life. Once the windows get opened and my little perspective of truth meets the fresh air of reality those problems morph to a manageable size.

I’m not suggesting that big struggles don’t happen. Actually, if you don’t have one right now, then one is probably on the way. But knowing that everyone around you is engaged in their own fight for survival makes it easier to try again. Misguided perspectives asphyxiate in the fresh air.

I almost want to make the sign for our kitchen. I wonder how much it would motivate us? What conversations would it bring up the first time a visitor saw the number? How quickly would casual comments about the weather turn into sharing something real?

I want long stretches of Days Without Incident. But as blessed as I am in my relationship I doubt we’d set any records. In fact, I doubt I know anyone who would… and that makes me love my wife and my friends even more.

Put on a hard-hat, and be careful out there.

And like the last time, I’ll comment on why they matter to me.

1.

I took this out the front window of our house. With the fog it seems like we’re in completely untouched surroundings. In truth, we have neighbors and easy freeway access, but this is our view. Every time I see this photo I feel profoundly blessed that we have our house. The things that aligned to put us into this place are a clear moving of divine providence in our lives. I try to sit and look out this window every morning before going to work. It reminds me.

2.

I work very hard on Everyday Driver. In fact, it is a genuine second job and often very difficult to balance in the midst of real job, marriage, parenthood and writing for this blog and plot-driven purposes. I love the show and the experiences it has granted us. I’m also proud of much of our work. This is a 2011 BMW M3 I photographed during one of the most epic shoots we’ve ever produced. It reminds me of all the things we have accomplished. All the things I still want to improve. And how well we do when everything is working.

3.

As a rule, I really don’t like pictures of myself. That may seem strange considering the amount of time I spend on camera these days (see #2), but I’m much more comfortable seeing myself in motion than frozen in time. Strange, but true. I didn’t know this photo had been taken, as Paul snapped it while in our front yard for Thanksgiving. I like the adventure suggested in this photo, with home base represented by our address marker as we head off toward the distant mountains. And the dog, realizing I really am going for a walk and scampering happily to catch up. This is what free-time looks like.

4.

Now that everyone has camera phones, Bodie is constantly documented with his own troop of paparazzi. I can’t even fathom how many thousand photos have been snapped of the little guy. And when pics of his younger days are brought out I find a strange realization… I don’t find him cuter as a baby. I don’t miss or long for those days. I look forward to the little guy he can become – and this picture hints at that future. On the move. Focused and headed somewhere with happy purpose. And thankfully, Carrisa Uribe captured this moment for us with her great eye. More of this.

5.

In some ways, this is a family pic which wouldn’t wind up in the “best ones” pile. Another photo from our shoot with Carissa, but this one tells my favorite story. Bodie is hating being confined and is prepping for meltdown. Catherine is doing her regular job of beautifully keeping him in check. I’m making some absurd commentary on how our life is going and she’s finding me funny. And though I’m making light of the situation, I’ve also got a hand on the dog, because she’s the real wild card of the group. As much as I don’t like pictures of me, this photo is the story of us.

Who knows what 2012 will bring. I’m looking forward to seeing it captured.

At age 2 we’re hopefully in the back ½ of my son’s diaper years and the beginning of his vocabulary. As a result he has now become some sort of strange excrement alarm clock that grabs its crotch and says “Puupie” when he craps himself.

I will acknowledge this is not a fool-proof system. Things fall through the cracks, if you will. However, something happened this evening which I believe was a Barnum & Bailey sanctioned three-ring circus of body functions.

We’d been playing for a while, laughter, a thud, some crying, then more laughter. Guy fun that results in possible injury, (thus… crying) but is generally the kind of stuff only boys are going to think is a good idea, (thus… laughing). All was well. In fact, there wasn’t even an offending stench to warn of what lay ahead.

Suddenly, my son starts doing a mean Elvis impression. He’s wriggling one leg like he’s got palsy and says “Puupie” right before he lifts his foot and… thump. There on the rug was a little brown log. Compared to his size it was a tree. How that escaped the diaper and Elvised down his pant-leg is unknown, but my son had now shit the carpet while standing up.

I struggled for words for a second. Then promptly handed him off for cleanup while I went for towels to deal with the log. I returned to find the log was gone.

The dog had eaten the problem. I know this because she was standing over the spot and licking her chops. I balked and she looked at me like “What? He dropped it, I ate it, like always.”

Good news: there is no more shit on the rug. Bad news: the dog will want to kiss you later.

Upstairs, the blowout was so immense and its magical journey to the floor so smearing that the only choice was a bath. The water was running and my son was standing on the bathmat awaiting the proper water temperature.

Obviously, this was the perfect moment to pee. He was staring at his penis and concentrating on the task at hand like a senior citizen with a prostate problem. I even heard the faintest grunt as he drenched the bathmat and his socks. The dog was not around to solve this problem.

A lot happened in the next half hour. We ran a bath and the washer. I felt the need to change my clothes. I didn’t get anything on me, but I somehow couldn’t stand to continue in the attire that had seen this episode. The dog curled up on the couch and took a nap. I think we’re better now.

Thank God for soap and water. Too bad I can’t wash out the dog’s mouth.

These first five come from sources worldwide. The next five are more personal:

1.

Amidst the riots and “occupations” around the world this year came this surreal Hollywood moment. A young guy kissing and comforting his girlfriend while the tension roils around them. Sadly the reason for this riot was a sporting event, but the emotional weight is the same. Mob mentality may be overwhelming, but the moment the person you love is injured… rage is replaced by the desire to comfort, cradle, and love.

2.

The President and his National Security Team watching Osama Bin Laden get killed via live Satellite link. The closest most of us will ever get to this is the film “Patriot Games”. From a nice, well-lit, and unremarkable office in DC, our country is overseeing a man getting tracked down and ended. Looking around the room… For some this is a moment of somber power. For others a realization of the importance of human life. And for a few, just another day at the office.

3.

Steve Jobs definitely lived up to his quote “put a dent in the Universe”. I write this blog on one of his computers. I use one of his phones. I work on one of his programs. But I’m most intrigued by his moments of humanity: He hired a biographer partially so his children would have a record and understanding of why he was so rarely home. And at his last Apple Keynote address, an obviously very frail man retreated backstage and laid his forehead against his wife. He was a visionary, yes… but I like that he was also human, flawed, loved, and loving.

4.

This is the funeral for Navy SEAL Jon Tumilson, who was one of 30 killed when their helicopter was shot down over Afghanistan. His dog, “Hawkeye” is laying close to his master for the last time. I realize I’m a softy dog owner, but this makes me cry. Hawkeye gets it, and yet, will never understand. Like all of us.

5.

The Egypt protests which gridlocked the country and eventually brought down President Mubarak had this surprising subplot. About 10% of the country are reportedly Christians. A suicide bombing attack at a Coptic Christian church had killed 23 Christians at the beginning of the year. And yet, during the protests, Christians encircled the praying and vulnerable Muslims to allow them to pray in peace and protection. How much would we change the world if these were the kind of actions Christians were known for? And how likely would it be for a potential bomber to blow up the same people who protected him while he prayed?

In 2006 this 19-year-old Israeli boy-soldier gets abducted by the Palestinian Hamas movement. He’s held in isolation and mystery for more than five years while his parents fight tirelessly for his release. Protests, demonstrations, and mentions of his captivity happened all over the world. Finally, in October of this year he’s released. Parents rejoice. Events are held. The press swarms.

Heartwarming. Yes.

But I can’t help the feeling that the difficulties of his life may be yet to come.

He lived in captivity, which I can’t even imagine. He was literally off the map for half a decade and he’ll never get those years back. But on the other hand there was a singularity of purpose in that time. Survive. Live to be released. His parents were living in a similar world of singular focus and laser guided love for their son.

But what now? Real life will have to invade for him and his parents. He’ll need a job and they will need something new to do with any free moment. And all the while I wonder about the elephant in the room:

He wasn’t just released, he was traded. Israel got one twenty-five year old, normal and unremarkable young man by giving up more than 1,000 prisoners of all kinds.

Elsewhere in the world more than 1,000 families celebrated the return of loved ones they thought they’d never see again. New lives were started. Old lives were returned. Because of one kid.

Gilad Shalit is worth 1,027 people. He can quantify his worth in human lives. His life for more than 1,000 others. And I’m left wondering if there’s anyone in the modern time who can say anything like that? Is there anyone else alive who will have to endure that reality?

Is there anyone on the planet who is worth 1,000 lives? Would 1,000 people give up their lives so Steve Jobs could have lived longer? What about Christ? He’s worth more than 1,000 lives and he did the opposite… He gave up His life so we could all live.

Gilad didn’t give up his life, he gained life in exchange for 1,000 others. He didn’t do anything but play bargaining chip for 1,000 other people. If Gilad had died so 1,000 people could live he’d be a hero. Instead he’s just going back to try and live like a normal guy. Years of political posturing and the result is Palestine going… “Okay, for 1,000 people… we’ll give you one guy.”

Now if Gilad goes on to cure cancer, or raise up Israel to newfound glory, or disciple thousands to be better than they were before… what a story that would be. But it’s more likely that he’ll just get an unremarkable job, get married, start a family, find himself out of shape and overweight and pissed at his kids about something. Just another guy.

What if some of those 1,027 released decide to cause more damage? I have no interest in getting into a Palestine vs. Israel discussion, I’m just acknowledging reports that some of those released were in prison for murder and/or terror attacks.

Yet I never saw this question in the Press. No one seemed to ask “Wait a minute…is this kid worth 1,000 lives?”. Does the family have a counselor prepared to talk to Gilad when the weight of this comes crashing down on him… cause I bet it will.

I’m reminded of the film “Saving Private Ryan” where Matt Damon is finally rescued but the entire squad that went to get him has now been killed. Tom Hanks, the last of the squad, is dying and he looks up at the kid and says “Earn this…”.  Then we return to present day and the kid is now an average grandfather who turns to his wife and says “Tell me I’m a good man….”. Cause how do you do enough to make your life worth the life of someone else?

As a father I ponder “Is my son worth 1,000 people?”. I don’t mean emotionally, as I’m sure Gilad’s parents would have (and did) anything to get him home. I mean intellectually, realistically. In one room, 1,000 people. In the other, my son. What’s the better call?

God chose the room full of people. Gilad’s parents chose their son.

What am I worth? What are you worth? And I’m not looking for a Sunday School answer here. If you were going to be traded for 1,027 other people… hell, 27 other people… would you feel worth the cost? Could I do anything over the course of my life to be worth 1 person? Or 27? Or 1,027?

Gilad Shalit will have to live with that question, and I bet it will be far harder than his time in isolation.

So what’s my problem? Am I just old before my time and wishing for the days of snail mail and the rotary telephone? Not at all. My issue is the feeling that facebook isn’t actually connecting us as much as it’s feeding our vanity and laziness.

The facebook “news” feed provides a platform for all kinds of inane blather. We see photos of people’s dinner, hear their plans for the next few hours, scroll past their political views, and anything else a person deems so riveting that the internet needs a record of its happening. I imagine some sociologist of the distant future uncovering the code from a day of facebook postings and concluding “no wonder their civilization collapsed, no one actually did anything but yet they considered everything important. “. If you have a facebook account, and you’ve ever posted a status, you are saying “this is important enough that everyone should know.” Sheer vanity, fed by the relentless content black hole that is the internet… a beast in need of constant feeding. So we update again. And God help us if someone actually likes what you post.

Which brings us to the lazy part of the equation, spearheaded by the “like” button. Someone else posts something for all the world to see, you read it and conclude that you are so impressed you must: call them, write something back, smile and pass it on to others… no, none of those. Instead you show your appreciation for their “news” by a single mouse click, less energy than it actually takes to scratch your own nose. Now the world knows we are a supportive audience of someone else’s vain chatter but we literally barely lifted a finger. We’re a part of the conversation! Yeah, us! Vanity and inaction in one little click.

Birthdays encourage similar lazy interaction in the supposed name of connection. As we scroll through Facebook everyday it automatically provides us with mass lists of birthdays without a need to actually keep track of important dates in the lives of others. And so our birthday passes and dozens, hundreds, thousands of people comment on our wall with some generic “have a great day” which they’ve probably copy/pasted on every birthday wall of every friend for the past year. I find it an interesting litmus test for my own quality of friendship. When a birthday reminder strikes me, I write my friends a private email. Or call them. Something where they can hear from me directly and the rest of the world has no idea. Sure, I appreciate the reminder from the facebook overlords… but if I can’t take the time to step out to personally and privately connect with that friend, then how important do I really count their friendship? And similarly, I seem to receive more facebook birthday wishes from acquaintances than folks I call real friends.

So here we are, not closer at all but on our own stage with our own megaphone screaming “look at me, I’m the greatest thing ever”. Meanwhile, all around us everyone else is doing the same thing and raising the inconsequential moments of our lives into an overwhelming din of point and click vanity.

I long for those moments of one on one time with the handful of people who know me, sharing things they wouldn’t dare put on facebook. Struggles, private victories, or even a shared experience, allowed to land with the private resonance of real connection.

But the facebook experience has grown to a strange blending of Cyberdine and big brother. We can’t unplug the beast, it knows all our secrets and has begun to shape the very culture which gave it life. We even continue to feed it with special shout outs to other members @WhoeverTheyAre. The same members who probably don’t have a picture from the last decade, or show anything but their children, or give us any real pertinent information about their lives, their truth, and their day to day. We know what TV shows they like. Where they grew up. And what day to post an ingenuine birthday wish on the home of their digital avatar. Yet we call them friends.

We’ve all been assimilated. The Matrix is real, and I’d like to unplug.

But for now you’ll have to excuse me, I need to go update my status with something car related… and I should probably tweet some inane moment of driving I just saw.

And one of you people will probably click “Like”.

In the last few years I’ve taken note of a few people who have remade themselves in their late thirties, forties, and so on. And in every case I’ve marveled at how they become ageless in the change.

I know a film executive who, upon losing his high-ranking position, looked at his life and said “I want to be a chef.” At the age of 39 he enrolled into a prestigious culinary school in New York. And since then he’s cooked for a living in high-profile jobs on both coasts.

Another friend who basked in the glow of the 90s internet bubble, made a killing, and then traveled the world when the bubble burst. Early this century he asked himself “what’s next?”, and inexplicably went to grad school and became a pharmacist. He seems very happy about it, and while I didn’t think anyone actually chose to be a pharmacist, apparently they do.

A former roommate of mine dabbled in nearly everything he could find all through college before winding up in strange third world countries working in public health and crisis management. When he decided on change, this marginally dedicated student headed to medical school. He’s well on his way to becoming Dr. Smith. (Not a pseudonym… he will be Dr. Smith and his patients will think he’s kidding.)

And then there’s the relative of a friend who has systematically changed careers every five to seven years and now, in his 50s, he’s a well-respected child psychologist. At least… for a few years I suppose. With wife and kids in tow he’s lived all over and made money in the internet, been a vet, had a corporate job in traditional business, and been a paid artist. “He gets bored easily” I was told when I first heard this story. But all I could think was… “Sounds like he succeeds easily!”

And I bet he’ll live forever. Well, maybe not forever, but at least until he stops shaking things up. That’s the lesson I’m finding in all this.

I have two living grandmothers, 85 and 90 (as of this writing…). And in the last year their lives have driven this point home. The 85 year old has been fading fast. She hasn’t been able to drive for decades and her social circle and number of activities has steadily decreased at the same time. The 90 year old has outlived two husbands and seemed to be fading herself until about a year ago when she got herself a boyfriend.

I promise this is not a blog about the dating life of 90 year olds.

The lesson has been seeing the huge improvement and new life provided by change. Sameness and lack of opportunity has worn and weathered my younger grandmother. Newness and activity is pushing the other into new health and awareness.

So where does that leave me?

Well, maybe life is a screenplay, and I’m nearly 40 pages in. I’ve past the first Act break where things really turn for the intriguing. And I’m marching my way through the destination part of the story. Problem solving. Striving. Working to advance the plot.

But Act 2 needs help. Without careful planning it sputters to an unfinished halt somewhere between 60 and 80 pages. With new ideas, and maybe a twist toward the unexpected, you can launch your story strongly to a triumphant 100. Maybe you can get to 110 or more if you’re telling a really great story.

So I’m pondering Act 2. Thinking about new things. Looking for character development and a good action scene to liven the plot. I’m just not sure what it is yet.

The truth I’ve come to is that change makes you ageless. Rewrites make better stories. And apparently life, like screenplays, needs good Act 2 surprises in order to have a strong ending.

Diapers are one of those constantly improving products, yet I’ve never heard of anyone who actually works in diaper development. Who are these secret refiners of the disposable shit-catcher? Do they work underground? Is there a bunker somewhere filled with diarrhea plagued toddlers and a haggard group of lab-coated scientists? Seal teams are publicity whores by comparison.

No matter who is busy improving the diaper, experience has brought me to great appreciation for their craft. Anything that can hold my son’s waste at bay and be thrown away like Kleenex is probably made with some kind of witchcraft.

Now there seems to be a growing revival of the reusable diaper, and I simply can’t make that compute. I’m not reusing toilet paper. And considering some of the things I’ve seen in a diaper, keeping it around for any reason is madness. I realize children and parents survive without disposables, but find some indigenous parent with a crap covered child and I’m certain they’d horde a box of pampers like it was the holy grail.

Even my son is aware of the wonder of his diaper. I’m not claiming he fully understands the concept, but he knows when things aren’t right in diaper-dom. Recently he was sitting happily on the floor watching Elmo-Einstein-Train, or something, and decided it was time to get up and come see what all the big people were doing. I happened to see him take two steps, pause and reach down between his legs to adjust his diaper. What followed was a few steps of the best John Wayne impersonation I have ever seen. The mini-duke swaggering across our kitchen.

I headed over to him and quickly saw the problem. He was leaving a trail of gooey heinous breadcrumbs from an over-worked disposable crap-catcher. He didn’t know what was happening, but he could feel that something was very wrong. My wife cleaned up the boy. I cleaned up the trail.

And I marveled anew that the human body can make things which defy categories. I thought only puke was able to occupy that bizarre space between solid and liquid, slick and sticky. I was wrong. This substance also possessed these impossible to classify traits. When faced with such a problem, any thoughts for the environment or concerns about consumption go straight out the window while you run for the cost-co tub of paper towels.

Of course I could have used a washable rag. But honestly, if we sat down to make a list of things which most belong in a landfill I’m certain most of us would say “things with shit on them.” And so, thanks to the diaper-design ninjas of the world we are more likely to see a John Wayne impersonation than a stain on the rug.

Thank you, strange hidden Pamper warriors. This is some serious shit.

These days I can be flying down the freeway, notice one out of the corner of my eye, and slice across three lanes of traffic to get our little man some slide time. He loves these places, but the adult in me only sees the vile plastic, wobble construction, and mats which were probably washed when Reagan was in office. Yet these places have revealed something much more interesting and unknown; playgrounds of all kinds have their own social order. Adults beware.

I first noticed this phenomenon when visiting an great indoor kid-gym in Park City. Since most places are 2 & up, but our little guy is pretty fearless, I have spent a fair amount of time following him down the twisting tunnels. Other kids do not like this. I have entered their sacred domain and I am not wanted. In one especially tight space, as Bodie navigated a stair half his size, a girl of about six came flying up behind us.

“Excuse me.” She said. “Excuse me” She barked. “Excuse me” she almost yelled as I pulled Bodie aside and she darted past.

Technically she was being very polite, but based on tone and body language she actually said “Get out of my way.” Then “You’re not supposed be in here”. And finally “Move or I’m going right over the top of him.” I may have been the closest adult, but she was my superior.

It’s not all bad, of course. Only a cursory glance at any kid-world will reveal the girl with the mommy complex – helping random toddlers whether they like it or not. Once I nearly thought one of them was going to carry our little man away. He paused at a stair and she took it upon herself to hoist him up and then try for the next one. Never mind that I was telling her we were on our way down at the time. It was like I was on mute.

Apparently playgrounds are also not a place for contemplation. When faced with a new piece of equipment or ride it is never acceptable to size up the activity and then decipher your next move. The correct response is to hurl oneself at the equipment and if it should give you a gaping headwound then cry hysterically until someone else fixes the problem. I learned this because my son is an observer.

At the moment, our little guy views slides with fascination. He’s a big fan of fast motion and understands what slides do, but there are steps to follow: First, approach the slide. Second, with feet square and one hand for support, slowly lower yourself to a seated position. Third, move both feet in front of you – which generally takes a struggle because you sat on at least one of them in step two. Four, inch yourself forward on the plastic until you begin to slide. Five, enjoy. However, the impatient kid behind him has a far simpler routine: First, run like you’re about to ignite. Second, slide when the world falls out from under your feet. Contemplation only pissed this kid off. He sat behind Bodie, put his feet in the middle of his back, and pushed for all he was worth. Bodie looked at me and then him with a toddler equivalent of “Dude, what the hell?”. And when I grabbed my little guy and pulled him aside this kid hurled himself headfirst through the tiny gap.

So the next time you see an eyesore of bright plastic tangled into slides and tunnels, know that it isn’t a haven for little people but an incubator for the future’s social issues. And look close enough and you may see what’s in store for the kids involved.

NASA will probably need astronauts who are up for a good ride to Mars but would like an extensive checklist first. Kids like my son will be a great match for that.

And somewhere a destruction derby will need someone to grow out a mullet and commit vehicular massacre for a case of bud and a lot of “Whoo-hooo…”. I’ve met the perfect kid for that as well.

As a seventeen year old senior, I remember thinking that I’d be thirty-seven at my twenty year reunion, and that was really old. There were two large errors in that assumption. First off, thirty-seven is far from old. And secondly, there’s no twenty-year high-school reunion on the horizon. Which brings me nicely to my point.

My High School experience was a lie. The perspectives it gave me on the world. The things it taught me. The people I spent time with. Ultimately, they were all proven irrelevant for my adult life. I realize that High School is a rite of passage and a necessary evil, but I experienced it at a fever pitch of breathless importance and it was wasted anxiety and breath.

I went to a small private school, and even in this secluded world our class was singled out as special and uniquely important. Teachers, Parents, and eventually other students talked about how close we all were. We were the class with no cliques. Real friendship and love for each other. I remember looking around at the time and thinking “Really? Cause I can tell you who the popular kids are and they aren’t looking for new members.” Now I look back and see how it was completely untrue. Other classes have stayed in touch. Had reunions. Kept up to date. We’ve never had so much as a dinner in twenty years. By the time I left college even the people I was good friends with in my HS class had dropped completely off my radar.

Until Facebook, of course, which ultimately closed the importance of High School with the smack of a pine-coffin lid. Because the only reason I can think of to reunite with people you haven’t seen since High School graduation is to see who got bald, who got fat, who succeeded and who failed. Morbid? Sure. But I’m yet to meet a single person who hasn’t obsessed over their weight, their outfit, or their story for an upcoming walk down the memory lane of High School. And wasting so much effort to impress those people is just High School all over again. Facebook nicely removes the hassle and expense of traveling to the event and the awkwardness of standing around trying to find something to say to someone you haven’t seen in two decades. Yet you can still tell the folks who bettered themselves, and those who are looking back on High School as the best time of their lives.

Seeing High School as a season, and not a milestone, is the main thing I’m pondering in all this. I know people who look back on it fondly. I know folks who hated it and look back with disdain. Obviously, I’m on the board of directors for the second group. But either way it’s four years which are given huge importance by our culture and then fueled to greater heights by the hormone addled, selfish teenagers who fill the hallways. I spent a year in Norway as part of the popular athlete crowd. I spent three years in Houston as part of the lower-society weird folk. And neither one of them offered any satisfaction or clear picture of the person I would become.

My son is too young for school, and still young enough to not really have friends or play-dates to give him social pressures. And if I can only offer him one thing as he marches into and through his school years, I hope I can help him find perspective. He won’t listen most of the time, I realize, but if I can just get through now and then maybe he’ll realize that who you are in school doesn’t dictate who you can become.

My accomplishments, struggles, and daily life are nothing like I imagined or believed they would be when I was seventeen. I’ve seen and done things which would probably seem impressive to that acne-plagued version of myself, but they would also sound like the life of someone else. High School was a bubble with poor ventilation. Real life and fresh air came later.

Am I a good man? Am I a success? These are questions other people will have to say. I’m happy. I’m blessed. I’m very different than High School suggested, and far better. Maybe everyone feels that way, but I suspect they don’t.

Life isn’t perfect, of course. There are things I’d change. Struggles I face that would have made my high school head explode. But I’ve lived more than twice as long as that kid in High School, and it’s the perspective that makes all the difference. I hope and strive to revel in the highs of my daily life. They are there, even when I ignore them to obsess over something that seems important but is actually irrelevant.

Like High School.