When Was the Last Time you Saw A Typewriter?

Recently, I read an Article on Yahoo News called Things Babies Born in 2011 Will Never Know.  In the article, the author made predictions about things that exist today but that will be obsolete to kids born today. Among the items she marked for obsolescence were fax machines, travel agents, newspapers, mail (aka snail mail) and wristwatches.

After reading the article, I perused the comments made by some of the readers.  One reader was particularly adamant that the need for a wristwatch would never be obsolete.  I found this comment amusing, considering the fact that I stopped wearing a wristwatch about six years ago – when I started carrying a cell phone full time. 

I was surprised by the passion of the audience who, for the most part, believed that everything that exists today will continue to be useful and exist well into the future.   These people are delusional. 

To prove my point, I made my own list.  I call it “Things That Existed 30 Years Ago But Are Obsolete Today.”  Here are some of the items from my list:

1. Typewriters – When was the last time you saw a typewriter?  When I was in high school, typing was considered a difficult skill to master.  Not everyone knew how to do it and those who could do it well could turn it into a lifelong career.  If you had told someone thirty years ago that they would have no use for a typewriter in 2011, they would have called you a kook.  Yet here we live in a world without typewriters. 

2. Pocket Calculators – I had never seen a pocket calculator until I was in the seventh grade.  A few years later they were everywhere.  And so useful.  They could help you do your taxes or be used to calculate a lunch tip. Everyone owned a pocket calculator in 1984.  They seemed to have a hundred uses.  And yet I don’t even own one today.  My cell phone took its place.

3. Phone Booths – When I arrived at college, I noticed that there was a phone booth at the end of the hall in my dorm.  There was one in every dorm.  And on every street corner, or so it seemed.  If I wanted to call home and ask my parents for money, the phone booth was my ticket.  I remember sitting on the hard wooden seat telling my parents about my latest test until the operator interrupted to tell me I’d used up my last quarter.  How much does it cost to use a pay phone today?  I have no idea.  Because in a world with personal cell phones, who needs a phone booth?

4. Music Stores – When I was in high school, one of my favorite stores at the mall was “Listening Booth.”  They sold records and cassette tapes.  I would spend hours thumbing through the selections looking for just the right artist whose album I wanted to purchase.  I think I bought a Millie Vanillie tape at the Listening Booth at the mall.  (The fact that I purchased a MV tape will need to be reserved for a future blog.) Think about it, when was the last time you were in a record store?  They don’t exist today. (Coincidentally, neither does Millie Vanillie).

As a society, the things we want and need change over time. When that happens, the old ways are discarded and new ways are adopted.  It’s called progress. It’s inevitable.  We can try to avoid it.  But it will happen.

I don’t think many people will argue that land lines (aka a “home phone”) and VCRs are knocking on death’s door.  But I’m going to go out on the limb and make some bold predictions of my own.  Here are some things we use today that I think will become nothing more than antiques before this century is half finished.

            1. Pens

            2. Sign Language

            3. Television

            4. Gas Stations

            5. Libraries (the actual buildings, not the concept behind them).

Think I’m crazy?  I guess we need to wait and see.

Now it’s your turn.  Look around you.  What are the things that you think are useful today – the things you can’t live without.  Will they be useful to your grandchildren?  I think you will be surprised by your answers. 

Wandering Around the Parking Lot Looking for My Car

Sometimes, even small changes can throw my day into a spiral.  Take parking places.  When I go to work, I always park in the same spot - every day.  Except last Tuesday when, to my dismay, someone had taken my spot.  And, as all the surrounding spots were also filled, I ended up parking in a completely different lot. 

I know, it doesn’t sound like much of a problem.  Except that when I left work at the end of the day I did what I always do.  I walked to “my” spot in “my” lot.  Only “my” car wasn’t there. 

My first thought was "Crap, did someone steal my car?"  My second thought was "Crap, where did I park?" It took me about ten minutes of wandering from parking lot to parking lot clicking my key fob before I found my car. 

What can I say, I am a creature of habit.  In most cases, habits are good because they help us with important things -  like finding our cars. But after a while doing the same thing over and over again can get tedious.  When that happens, sometimes it’s time to make a change.  It’s time to find a new parking space - no matter how scary the thought of losing your car may be. 

Last year, I had to make a big adjustment.  I changed jobs.  For twelve years, I had been working in the same unit, for the same boss, with the same people, in the same office, doing the same work.  I had my parking space. 

Then, in what felt like a blink of an eye, it all changed.  I was in a new unit, with a new boss, and new people, and a new office and doing new work.  For the first few months, I felt like I was wandering around the parking lot looking for my lost car.  Only this time, my key fob wasn’t working and someone had turned out all of the lights.

As time progressed, I settled in.  A year later, I felt good.  I felt like I fit in.  I liked my work.  I liked my coworkers and boss.  I  had found my parking space again.

The thing I learned is that change is inevitable.  You don’t always get to keep the same parking space.  Sometimes you need to move your car.  And though it may be a bit unsettling, it’s often the case that finding a new parking space is just what you needed to get your engine going again.

Chocolate Scrambled Eggs and Zucchini Pancakes

Bowls and spoons had been strewn across the counter tops.  Eric’s (8) face was streaked with flour.  Emily (5) was sucking pancake batter off her hands.  Beth (3) had syrup dripping from her nose.  The kids had been “helping” me make pancakes.  It would take me all morning to clean the mess. 

I sighed as I surveyed the scene.  I wasn’t sure what had possessed me to make pancakes from scratch.  Next time, I resolved, we’d just go out for breakfast.

I am not a good cook.  In fact, I would go so far as to say my culinary skills are slightly less than mediocre.  Case in point – There was the time I made scrambled eggs using chocolate milk. A little hint, don’t try it.  You will be disappointed.  Then there was the time I misread the recipe and added two cups, instead of two teaspoons of salt, to cupcake batter.  Let’s just say they made a better salt lick than a dessert.

Given my genealogy, making a meal should not be a challenge.  After all, I come from a long line of fabulous cooks. Take my Nana.  She could cook anything.  Every Sunday the entire family would gather for an enormous meal.  We’d feast on stuffed chickens, pot roasts, and hearty beef stews.  And Nana always served a homemade pie or cake to top off the meal.

Mom and Dad were both superior cooks as well.  Dad makes the best French toast this side of Paris.  It’s crispy, with the perfect amount of saltiness mixed with sweet.  My mouth waters when I think about it.  And after working a full day, Mom could breeze into the kitchen and concoct a hearty feast using nothing but canned peas and Jimmy Dean sausage. 

Theresa and Tina are great cooks too.  Recently, Tina created a zucchini pancake.  She basically took a recipe for potato pancakes and modified it using zucchini.  The dish was so good that I still wake up at night thinking about it.  And Theresa is famous for her clam chowder.  So I can’t say that the cooking genes skipped a generation.  It appears that they just skipped me.

My culinary failure is not from lack of trying.  When Ken and I were first married, I would buy the ingredients.  I’d read the recipes.  I’d spend hours in the kitchen stirring and stewing.  But nothing I cooked ever turned out quiet right. 

One of my main problems, I have concluded, relates to attention.  No matter what the recipe, not matter what the dish, I am guaranteed to be distracted at a crucial point in the process.  The phone will ring in the middle of the mix and then I can’t remember if I already added a cup of water or still need one more.  Then before you can say Betty Crocker, what you thought was a cake turns into batter soup. 

The other issue that plagues me is spillage.  It’s almost a guarantee that when I step up to the prep station something will be spilled.  And, according to Murphy’s Law, the thing that will be spilled is guaranteed to either stain or stick or both.  I never knock over the half cup of water.  But put grape syrup in front of me and you can bet dollars to donuts that it will end up on my blouse.

Being that I am such an inferior cook, you might be surprised to learn that I spend a lot of time watching The Food Network.  As Rachel Ray twirls about the set, I marvel at her spectacular food creations.  The site of Emril kicking it up with a dash of cumin amazes me.  And I’m always impressed at the cleanliness, and quiet, in the kitchens. 

A couple of years ago, I had an idea for a food network show.  Bobby Flay would come to my house and, in less than an hour, cook a four course, healthy meal for five using only the ingredients in my pantry.  Little hint there Bobby, you won’t find saffron or lemon grass in my kitchen. 

Bobby would need to prepare the meal with Beth clinging to his leg.  At the same time, Emily would be screaming, “I want a glass of water!”  Eric would be asking Bobby where he put his hockey jersey.  The final evil twist in the show would be that Bobby would need to convince all three children to eat their vegetables before they could have dessert.

Now that would be reality TV that I could sink my teeth into.

This I Resolve

I am standing in the kitchen looking at my 2010 calendar.  I thumb through the pages.  The dates have been filled.  The events are past. In a few days, it will be a new year. 

I tack up a fresh calendar for 2011.  It’s clean and bare.  It represents a new beginning. As I prepare to ring in a new year, I stop for a few minutes to reflect on what has been and what is yet to come.

I’m not one for making resolutions.  My experience has been that more often than not, my resolve fades before President’s day.  So I shy away from the yearly tradition of jotting down ways to be better.  

Still, the chasteness of the new year beckons me with possibilities.  As I prepare to turn the pages on my new calendar, I can’t help but succumb to the allure that is offered by the clean slate.  A thought begins to form in my head.  I decide to pick one simple idea and to make it my pledge for the next 365 days. 

We are all imperfect beasts.  We fall. We falter.  We fail.  That’s way it’s easy to critique those around me.  That’s why it’s easy to recognize the foibles of others.  And I know that by focusing on the faults of my friends, I can easily avoid considering my own flaws. 

But criticizing others does not make improve me.  It does not uplift me.  It does not better my life or the world I live in.  My resolution for 2011, therefore, is simply this.  To concentrate on what I can do that is right instead of focusing on what others do that is wrong.

I pick up my pen and scratch a thought on January 1.  “Do good.”  This I resolve.

Finding the Fool in You

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again.  I am crazy and so are you.  There is no escaping it.  It’s a fact. Crazy is all around us.  It’s in our blood.  It's in our DNA.  It's written in the book of our lives.  We can’t help it.  We are all crazy.


It was almost  a year ago when I admitted my own insanity.  And since then, my life has been better because of it.  No more thinking inside the box.  Now I get to paint the box with rainbows and unicorns and pretend that it's my castle.  All because I am crazy... and so are you. 

Now I know what you are thinking.  You are saying, “Hey, I am NOT crazy.”  I hear you.  I understand.  I commiserate.  You are delusional.

The fact is, you are not normal.  I know this because I know you.  And if I know you, you must  be crazy.  See how it works? It's like Alfred Adler said, "The only normal people are the one's you don't know very well." 

It’s OK with me if you are not ready to confront your inner fool.  You wear your denial well. But, take it from me; admitting that you are insane will be your first step toward happiness.  When you are ready to be honest with yourself and to face the facts, let me know.  We’ll talk.  We'll laugh.  We'll order some Chinese take out. 

Unlike you, I have embraced my madness.  I relish in my alternate reality.  I am in tune with my insanity.  It’s liberating to know that I am badly dressed, not because I have poor taste.  Rather I am dressed like this because, through my neurosis, I believe myself to be beautifully adorned.  You see, it’s not my fault.  I am crazy.

Crazy also gives me an excuse, I mean explanation, for my messy car.  The crumpled McDonald’s bags sliding off the back seat. The moldy, half-filled cups of coffee in the tray.  The pennies scattered on the floor.  They are not there because I am lazy, or untidy.  They are there because I am crazy.  If I were sane, my car would be clean.  See how convenient it is.

Because I am crazy, I can play hop scotch in the swimming pool.  I can pretend to be a Princess or a Power Ranger.  I can talk to the flowers and the birds.  It's OK.  That's just the crazy lady who lives next door, the neighbors will say. 

Crazy is my answer to everything.  Need to exercise more?  Can’t, I’m crazy.  Need to wake up early? No, it isn’t good for my crazy.  Can you help me move this couch? Sorry, not right now, my crazy is having a flare up.  Whatever the project, whatever the problem, I can avoid it just by being crazy. Crazy is powerful stuff.

You are still not convinced, I can tell.  What is it?  The label?  You don’t like being branded as bizarre?

Well consider this.  In the game of life, we all wear labels.  Mother.  Father.  Sister. Brother.  Our friends and neighbors pick the labels that we wear without even consulting us.  At least with crazy, we get to choose the tag that fits us best.  You can consider, for example, peculiar.  Or eccentric.  Or extreme.  Any will fit.  All will do.  And you get to choose which to wear, which will fit you best.  Personally, I prefer mad as a hatter as it reminds me of Alice and her trip down the rabbit hole. 

Plus, there are many labels that you could wear that are much worse than crazy.  Like “incorrigible.”  Or “unreliable.”  Or “100% Acrylic.”  Or “dull.”  When compared to these, crazy is not quiet as dreadful.  It’s just like Marilyn Monroe said, “Imperfection is beauty; madness is genius. And it’s better to be absolutely ridiculous than absolutely boring.”

So join me my friend.  Resolve today to lead a ridiculous life.  Be bizarre.  Act outlandish.  Welcome the weirdness inside of you.  And be the fool you were born to be. 

What A Mess!

Blobs of bright blue frosting were smeared across Beth’s (3) cheeks.  Her fingers were caked with pink and purple sprinkles.  She looked up at me and gave me her “look what I can do” smile just before she plunged her palms into the bowl of nonpareils.  She squished her hands together and then lapped the tasty embellishments off her fingers. I noticed smudges of sugar stuck to her wispy brown hair and dabbed behind her right ear.

It wasn’t just Beth.  Emily (5) had been piling a mountain of pink frosting onto a small star shaped cooking.  I found my self thinking, "How does one get icing on one's socks?" She looked like a volcano that had spewed pink lava all over her dress.   Even Eric (8), who was often more careful in his creations, was licking globs of sugar off the back of his hands and wrists.  

The tabletop was a rainbow of frosting - yellow, red, green and blue.  The floor was dusted with jimmies and sprinkles.  A spoonful of purple goo lay next to Beth’s chair.  And I had just stepped on a half eaten cookie that Emily had knocked to the floor.

I groaned.  What a mess!

When I had planned our family cookie making evening, the picture in my head was much different.  In my imagination, Ken and I were sitting quietly in the kitchen helping the girls outline sugar cookie angels with decorating gel.  I had pictured Eric humming “Jingle Bells” as he dabbed tiny red icing dots onto a tree shaped cookie.  In my vision, the room was calm, quiet, and most important, clean, just like a scene from a movie or on TV.

As usual, my reality turned out to be a bit more frenzied than my visualization.  I suppose my selective memory, the same one I used for vacations, had kicked in and I had forgotten how messy this project had been last year...and the year before that....and the year before that.  It was worse than an evening playing with Play Dough.

I hadn’t factored in the inevitable spills or the arguments over who gets to use the pink icing first.  I had miscalculated the number of paper towels I would need - apparently, ten rolls was not enough.  I had forgotten to line every surface in the kitchen with newspaper to protect against the certain destruction that accompanies most projects in our house. And I had completely discounted the chaos coefficient.

Maybe decorating cookies wasn’t such a good idea, I thought.  Maybe we should have bought Santa a box of Oreos instead.  Maybe we should skip this activity next year.   

I was just about ready to dump everything in the trashcan and chase the crowd from the kitchen when I noticed Emily.  She had been sitting quietly in her chair for almost five minutes heaping icing onto her cookie.  She was smiling.

“Mommy.” She grinned. “Look at my cookie.  It’s beautiful.”

I leaned over Emily’s chair and hugged her around the neck. “It is beautiful, Honey Bee.” I whispered.  “And so are you.”

From One Generation to The Next

According to Wikipedia, traditions are beliefs or customs shared by one generation to the next.  It derives from the Latin word, traditio, which means, “to hand down.”  Traditions are great.  They give us a sense of things that came before us.  They give us a sense of things that will come when we are gone.

Holidays and traditions are like peanut butter and jelly, they are a natural fit. 

In my family, the main Christmas tradition has always revolved around Christmas Eve.  For as far back as I can remember Mom, Dad, Theresa, Tina and I would gather at Nana’s house for a Lithuanian feast.  Other relatives, like Aunt Nell and Uncle Al, Nana’s sister and brother, would be there as well.

On Christmas Eve, just after the setting of the sun, we would push through Nana’s front door and stomp the snow off our boots.  In the dining room, we could see the table set with Nana’s best china and goblets. As we peeled the scarves away from our chins, the scents of perogies, bleenies, and kielbasa would warm our noses and call us toward the kitchen.  There we would find Nana conducting an orchestra of pots and pans on the stovetop. 

As the years passed, I grew taller and Nana grew older.  One day Dad proposed a new idea.  Why don’t we move Christmas Eve from Nana’s house to ours?  

What? Move Christmas Eve? Change the tradition? No.  No way. Traditions are traditions.  They don't change.

But it’s a lot of work, Dad explained.  And Nana was getting too old for all of the cleaning and cooking.  It was time, he said, to change.

The following year our Christmas Eve meal moved out of Nana’s and into Mom and Dad’s home.  And several years later, after Nana had passed away and Mom and Dad had sold their place, the tradition changed again. Theresa became the new holiday host. A few years later, Ken and I moved to Illinois.  The days of eating the enormous Christmas Eve feast of my youth would end for me.   

My own children have never experienced the Christmas Eve meal that I grew up with.  We’ve been living in Illinois and the rest of the clan still lives in Pennsylvania.  It’s just too difficult to make the fourteen hour drive in the middle of the winter. 

So, we make our own traditions. We spend a quiet Sunday afternoon trimming our Christmas tree together.  We decorate cookies with pink and purple icing.  We visit with Santa.  We open gifts from our relatives on Christmas Eve and gifts from Santa on Christmas morning. 

Yet even though things have changed, there are parts of the old traditions that continue.  We still share a family meal.  We still spend Christmas Eve together.  We still have a home full of love and happiness.  

I suppose, in the end, the most important part of any tradition isn’t the things you do.  It isn’t the place you gather.  It’s sharing a feeling from one generation to the next.

Preparing for Take Off

Do you remember the last time you were on an airplane?  Maybe you were on a business trip.  Or maybe you were going on vacation.  If your flight was recent, the plane was crowded and everyone was grumpy.

As the plane rolled away from the gate, you may have thumbed through the in flight magazine.  Or maybe you leaned back and closed your eyes.  Or maybe you chatted with the person seated next to you asking the old standard questions like “Where are you going?” and “Where are you from?”

The one thing you probably didn’t do was listen to the flight attendant.  Maybe you saw the thin young man wearing a pressed blue uniform standing in the middle of the aisle.  Maybe you noticed him holding a seat belt and pretending to buckle it.  You may have even been aware that he was talking.  But chances are, you probably were too busy shoving your iPod into your purse to hear what he was saying.   

Too bad, because he was saying something important. 

“The cabin is pressurized for your comfort and safety. In the unlikely event of a cabin depressurization, oxygen masks will appear overhead. … If you are seated next to a small child or someone needing assistance, secure your own mask first, and then assist the child. “

If you are a frequent flyer, it’s probably OK to ignore this scripted message.  There’s a good chance it will never be relevant on your flight.  But if you are a mom or a dad, listen carefully.  The words were meant for you.

Like the cabin, a parent’s life is pressurized.  We try to maintain a delicate balance to ensure the comfort and safety of our children.  But sometimes, every once in a while, the cabin depressurizes as we hit turbulence. 

When that occurs, our first instinct is to care for our children.  To guard their safety.  To protect them above all else.  It’s an instinct.  We can’t help it.

But to best care for our children, we need also to remember to care for ourselves.  If Mom is not healthy, she cannot tend to the health of her babies.  If Dad is not happy, he cannot bring happiness to his children. 

Secure your oxygen mask is a statement for parents.  But it’s not a statement of selfishness.  It doesn’t mean that we get to be gluttons in the pursuit of our own happiness.  It doesn’t mean we stay out all night partying while our children stay home pining for us. 

It means that if parents don’t tend to their own basic needs, their children will suffer greatly. Because doing what is best for our children also means doing what is best for ourselves. It means slowing our pace when we are ill, so that we can recover for tomorrow.  It means allowing ourselves a few minutes of quiet in the morning so that we’ll feel better when the kids wake up.  It means giving ourselves a break now and then.  Secure your own oxygen mask first is a reminder that we can’t take care of others unless we first take care of ourselves.

Soon it will be time to make a few resolutions for the New Year.  Some may write, “To lose ten pounds.”  Others will say, “To exercise more.” Whatever yours may be, if you are a parent, make sure to include “secure your oxygen mask first.”

It's Only Half Begun

“It’s called a Warrior Dash.” I was saying. “Basically, you run a 5K race that includes things like crawling through mud, climbing cargo nets and jumping over fire.”

My co-worker, R., narrowed his eyes and frowned.  “Did you say, jumping over fire?”

“Yea, it sounds like a lot of fun.  Um….., doesn’t it?”  By the look on R’s face, I was starting to doubt my earlier enthusiasm.

“Not really.” He said.  “It actually sounds dangerous.  And kinda pointless. Why do you even want to bother?”

I shrugged my shoulders.  “I don’t know.  Just to prove I can do it I guess.”

“Oh, that explains it.” R replied.  “Your having a midlife crisis.”

A midlife crisis?  Did he say mid-life crisis? Me? I hardly think so. I dismissed the thought.  But for some reason, R's words continued to turn in my mind all day like a sock tumbling helplessly in the rinse cycle. 

Was all of this exercise and good eating just a psychological reaction to reaching the mid-term of my existence?  Was I just becoming another statistic of middle-aged women looking to recapture their youth? Would I be doomed to spending my evenings drinking cheap wine in dusty bars while stalking much younger prey? Would I ever be able to find a decent pair of heels for less than fifty dollars?  (Sorry, my mind had started to wander on that last one. That happens when you start to get old.)  

I’d seen friends and coworkers go through mid-life crisis.  It normally involved fast cars and hair pieces for the men; boob jobs and tighter dresses for the women; and copious amounts of alcohol for both.  One guy I know even went as far as to buy a fast car and a hair piece on the same day he got drunk and met a woman with a tight dress and a boob job.  Given the fact that I was sober, driving a minivan and still wearing my comfy sweat shirt to the grocery store, I felt pretty safe.

Still the idea bore further exploration.  After all, maybe I was experiencing the Midwestern, cornfield livin’ version of the midlife crisis.  If I were destined to spend my days listening to fiddle music and attending barn dances, I wanted to be prepared.  So I decided to break the idea down to its essential elements and see if there were any substance to it. 

Well, point one of a midlife crisis is the presumption that one has reached the middle of one’s life.  Though I may be forty cough-cough years old, I am certain that I have not reached the medium of my lifespan.  By my calculations, I have many, many years before I reach the top of the hill. Oh, did I mention that I plan to live to be a hundred and thirty (making my midlife around age 65)?

Point two of a midlife crisis is the state of crisis.  I stood in front of the mirror and assessed my reflection.  Was I in crisis?  I checked my arms and legs.  They seemed to be working properly.  I checked my head.  Well, my eyes didn't work as well as they once did.  And there were a few new wrinkles.  And a grey hair.  But a pair of contact lenses, some concealer and a cut and color would fix that right up. I looked at my butt.  (Good lord, is that my butt?) Well, the good news was that I didn’t LOOK like I was in crisis. 

I didn’t feel like I was in crisis either.  At least I didn’t THINK I felt like I was in crisis.  After all, what exactly was a crisis? I wondered. I decided to check.  I pulled out my dictionary and thumbed my way to the Cs.  Crab. Cries. Crimson.  There it is, Crisis.  I crossed my fingers before reading. 

Crisis.  A noun.  An unstable situation of extreme danger or difficulty.  Hmmm…by that definition, I wake up in crisis every morning and it lasts until I down at least three cups of coffee.   A fine definition, I thought, but not very helpful in this case.

I decided to try the Internet instead.  According to Wikipedia, a mid-life crisis is an emotional period of doubt and anxiety sometimes experienced by people who realize that their life is already half over.  I sighed with relief.  That cinched it.  I am definitely NOT having a midlife crisis. 

After all, my life isn’t half over.  It’s only half begun.

Everything is a choice

“Everything is a choice.” 

Several months ago, I had written the words in blue ink on a piece of white notebook paper.  The paper was tucked into a folder.  The folder was pressed into a desk drawer.  Like a long, lost scroll, the message sat dormant, waiting patiently to be rediscovered.  I found it today while I was rifling through my files, deciding which papers to keep and which to discard as I prepared for a new year.

I set the paper on my desk and stared at it.  I let my mind drift through time until it arrived at the precise moment I had felt compelled to record the thought. 

“Everything is a choice.”

A few months ago, I attended a mandatory work conference designed to make employees better.  Better employees?  Better people?  Better something else?  I really don’t remember. 

What I do remember is not wanting to be there.  I groaned internally as I thought of spending my day doing ice breakers and team-building exercises. I dreaded the thought of wasting my day being talked at.  But I had been told that the event was mandatory.  Grin and bear it, I told myself.  It’s just one day.

To be fair, I really like the company where I work.  I’m paid well. The hours are consistent. My workload is challenging, yet manageable.  People are friendly and I always have the sense that upper leadership wants to do the right thing.

But, like so many big companies, my employer has its share of Dilbert days.  I’ve come to expect and accept them as part of the deal.  My fear and suspicion was that this particular conference would be another Dilbert day. So far, my fears appeared to have been well founded.

Just after lunch, one of the presenters began to talk.  His name was Tony.  Tony was wearing a white shirt and a blue tie.  He had dark, curly hair and a trimmed beard.  He looked happy to be there.  While I can’t recall everything he said, I remember his message.  It was elegant.  It was simple.  It was true.

“Everything is a choice.”  Tony told us. 

“You can wake up and choose to accept your day as it is.  You can choose what you eat.  You can choose what you wear.  You can choose to be sad.  You can choose to be angry.  Or you can choose to be strong.  You can choose to love.  You can choose to succeed.  Our life is defined by the choices we make.” 

“Many people,” Tony said, “spend their lives arguing for their failures.  They blame others.  They criticize their circumstances.  They lean on their weaknesses.  They make excuses.  They complain about their lot in life.  They choose to be unhappy.”

“But you have the power to overcome failure, others, circumstances, weakness, excuses, and life.  You have the power to be happy and successful.” He told us. 

“Everything is a choice.  You can choose to do better.   You can choose to be better.  You can choose to act better.  Choice is the power.”

As Tony spoke, I perked up.  I listened.  I thought about the message.  I picked up my pen.  I wrote down four words.

“Everything is a Choice.”

My life is my choice.  I am not a slave to my circumstances.  I can choose to be healthier.  I can choose to be happier.  I can choose to live the life I was born to live.

“Everything is a choice.”