Fine Print

I attended a training summit recently where the instructor was using overheads.

Toward the end of the presentation he put up a sheet that I could not make out. I was seated near the back of the auditorium.

I hadn't had any trouble prior to, but this sheet had a bit more text than it's predecessors and the type was smaller.

I've always been (a bit too) proud of my excellent eyesight and had just about comforted myself with the notion that the instructor had erred.

Noticing my difficulty a kind lady sitting next to me began to read aloud for me.

She's 72.

My only consolation is that she looks 50.

I believe it's attributed to Churchill to have said "Anyone who is not liberal when he is young has no heart. Anyone who is not conservative when he is old has no brain." I wouldn't consider myself "a conservative" or even "conservative" in the conventional sense, but my opinions are more measured than they once were. Comes with age.

But I did sell out for money. A quick story. In undergrad, I had an English prof rave over the first assignment I turned in. Seems I accomplished a first in garnering the only "A" she'd ever given for the assignment; being that it was so early in the term and she usually had to "whip freshmen into shape" before they could pass muster. It was really no surprise to me, I had supreme confindence in my writing skills. I've always had a passion for reading and writing; 'rithmetic was just something I happened to be good at.

For the rest of the semester, she tried like hell to get me to switch majors - from engineering to journalism or some such. I remained steadfast in my assertion that I had no desire to be a "starving artist." I eventually graduated and took a job in the industrial machine, moving from drab cube to drab cube, paying my taxes, supporting my family. Not a bad life. A good life even. But sometimes I wonder.

Now is it a function of what I chose to do - go the safe route? Or is it a matter of what I'm bringing to the party? I could be just as wistful about engineering had I chosen journalism. People are fickle.

Saw a stage production of "One Flew Over The Cukoo's Nest" in March. Performances were spotty, but it was college theatre, and the tickets were free, and our first night out in a while with old friends besides. We had a good time.

Saw the movie when it came out in '75?, '76? A real seminal point for me. Changed my tastes for movies (though I didn't recoginize it for awhile). Challenged my view of the world.

It's not a story about mental illness as I'm sure you know but about fitting in and individuality and the oil and water conflict between the two.

When I was a teenager and first saw the film, I vowed that I would never sell out.

Now at the cusp of middle age, I find that I have.

Up until a couple of weeks ago turning 40 was not an issue. With little over a month to go the angst has arrived. I'll try to keep the whining to a minimum

I really considered naming this "Millstone." Fortunately a sense of proportion prevailed.