Bad Motherfucker

I've just recently turned 38 years old. The very statement blows my mind. In conventional terms (i.e. according to the National Center for Health Statistics) I'm halfway through my life, given that the life expectancy for a male in the United States is 76.3 years old. 100% of people who I've talked to are borderline stunned that I am now 38. I take that as a compliment, although I suspect it could be my gleefully immature sense of humor and go-to-hell attitude that gives them that impression rather than my stellar physical conditioning and trim figure.

So, I've done half the shit in my life that I am going to do, huh? I'm not sure how I feel about that particular tidbit of info. What have I done, really?

I've helped to bring a beautiful child into the world who will someday do great things (of that I have no doubt). I've married my high school sweetheart and stayed happily married. I've become a published author. I've managed to parlay zero education into a steady income from a career in a field that I knew nothing about before moving to Texas in June of 2005. I've written (for better or worse) my first screenplay and am in the process of revising it in preparation for sale with a trusted and respected comrade. I've made tons of acquaintances and a nice circle of very good friends, real friends.

I've also grown fat and soft. I've done plenty of damage to my body with various drugs, alcohol, cigarettes, & poor choices. I've missed out on a cubic fuck-ton of opportunities due to my own sometimes crippling laziness and procrastination. I've been a walking pile of wasted opportunity, and I can no longer blame that on my sometimes unusual upbringing. I own my shit at this point. All I can do at this point is to actually learn from my mistakes and get better. 

Like any one of you, I am proud of many of my choices/accomplishments and woefully ashamed of some others. I'm not an unrepentant sinner, but I'm certainly no saint in anyone's book. I'm a comically mixed grab-bag of thumbs up and thumbs down. 

I have no issue with that ominous, over-the-hill number of 40. It really doesn't mean a fucking thing to me. There are two numbers that I am concerned with: 51 and 48. 

51 is the age at which my grandfather, Sonny Monroe, died (I believe it was cancer). 48 is the age that my father, Danny C. Monroe, died of a massive heart attack. They were both damn good men who were deeply flawed. They never really had their priorities straight until it was much too late. I swore to myself as I grew up that I wouldn't do the same. My father was wildly unfaithful (I am not and have never been). My grandfather was a hard man and, shall we say, safe from ever winning the "Husband/Father of the Year" award; I pride myself on the job I have done as a father and my wife thinks I'm pretty damn awesome (if not a little self-centered). 

I have lived my life by three key mantras.

The first one is to be sure to learn something new every day. If you learn just one thing every day then it can't be a total loss. Whether that is a little factoid or a lesson learned the hard way is irrelevant. The important thing is to learn and to share it. Knowledge is true power, and it should be shared.

The second one is The Golden Rule. Y'all know that one, don't you? It's the one that says "Do unto others as you'd have done to you". If you look closely at virtually all religions you'll see that it's the one thing they all have in common. It's MY RELIGION. There is a God out there, and he believes that turnabout is fair play. 

The third is summed up in the phrase "This above all: to thine own self be true". Polonius said that in Hamlet a few hundred years ago. It pretty much hits the nail on the head. In varying turns throughout the day I will shock, impress, amaze, or appall people........but you will never be able to say that I am not being true to myself. I don't know how to be fake. It's just not in my makeup. Take it or leave it. 

I believe I have already stepped ahead of my predecessors (fine men that they were). I have learned from their mistakes. Sure, I still drink and eat and smoke too much and I probably work too damn hard. I don't know how to get after it any other way. Go big or go home. 

My forecast for the 2nd half of the game? It'll be a comeback, folks. I have to believe that. I will finally eliminate the worst of my habits and get back in some semblance of shape so I don't keel over at work one day. I will make a living with my words, be it with fiction or screenplays or blogging or commissioned articles. I'm not taking no for an answer. 

After all, my wallet says it all. I'm a bad motherfucker.