I Consider Procreation a Sign of Deep Personal Weakness

Right off the bat I will admit to stealing that line from Sue Sylvester. It’s fantastic.

I don’t really love children. In general they smell bad, the sounds they make are like nails on a chalkboard and they can’t do anything for themselves. I actually don’t like needy people, and the fact that they happen to be short doesn’t give them a free pass. I evaluate kids on a case-by-case basis. So, when I think about the legacy I will leave behind on this earth, I am really left to wonder.

When I was in grade school my teachers used to tell my parents and me what a gifted writer I was. I often had to read my stories in front of the class. In high school the classes I enjoyed most were English and literature. But instead of ending up at a great journalism school like Northwestern, I ended up at the United States Naval Academy (no doubt propelled by handsome, athletic men in uniform), an engineering school where everyone earns a Bachelors of Science degree. Don’t get me wrong. I wouldn’t have traded my experience there for anything. But I wonder why I didn’t listen when my plebe year English teacher held me back from class one afternoon and told me I had no business being at the Academy, but instead should be off in journalism school. Writing.

In business school, my finance and accounting professors thought I was mildly retarded, a blatant admissions mistake. My professors in my softer courses, which required creative thinking, thought I was something special, and not the Olympic kind. So naturally, my first job out of business school was in consumer marketing; where I spent the majority of my time in Excel performing quantitative analytics. Basically, I was analyzing numbers all day.

I am a deeply spiritual and religious person. I don’t believe in destiny. I know that we choose our own path, right or wrong. But sometimes, we get a little push.

I am genuinely happy with my life exactly how it is. Well, let me rephrase: I am genuinely mostly happy with my life, almost exactly as it is.

I’ve noticed something very strange happening to me within the last year or so. Sometimes I see babies and I feel a sense of longing. I of course mean the ones that are sleeping or have sense enough to keep their little mouths shut. When I see little kids missing their front teeth and smiling at me with nothing but innocence and love in their eyes, for one brief moment I melt. Those short little bastards are tricksters*. I have so much going on in my life right now. 99 problems, but a pimp (and a baby) ain’t one. This cannot possibly be where I am feeling a void in my life?

You know the question, “If money weren’t an issue, what would you do?” Well, for me the answer is easy. I would be the First Lady. Or an astronaut. Or a really famous Hollywood movie star. (Incidentally, June Cleaver is nowhere on that list.) But if I had to limit my answer to something real it would be a world-class Ironman Triathlete and Pulitzer Prize winning writer. Fiiiine. How about I would just be a writer who happens to spend four hours a day training for an Ironman?

First Lady business aside, Barack Obama wrote a book that sold millions of copies. I know he’s the President of the United States and all, but I read the book. It’s not that impressive. I didn’t laugh once. Sometimes it feels as if the only way I’m going to be a successful writer is if I can accomplish something on par with being a presidential candidate. I keep waiting for my chance to save a busload of Cambodian children from drowning in a lake; then push my book, Some call me a hero. I just call myself “Awesome,” on the Today Show. Realistically, I have to assume that’s not going to happen.

When I was a child I thought I could do anything and be anything. Senator, doctor, jet pilot. It was all within my reach. I had incredible parents whose belief in me was so great that it was contagious. At some point, tempered by life, ability and circumstance, that feeling faded. But life gets a little darker when we put our dreams away. (So, Mr. President, if things don’t work out with Michelle, give me a call. Also, should you need a writer on a mission in space, my schedule has recently cleared up.)

Sometimes my dream of becoming a writer feels as lofty as wanting to be a movie star. I mean, how does one even go about getting published? This is a sample of my typewritten cover letter to the Editor in Chief of Fitness Magazine:

………

[Please imagine the typewriter clicks as I type.]

Dear Ms. Betty Wong,

[Return typewriter to starting position. DING!]

I would like to write for your magazine. Both of my parents and ten of my closest Facebook friends think I would be fantastic.

[Ding!]

Sincerely yours,
L.E.G.

Post Script; please note the scented pink paper that this cover letter is typed on. It serves to illustrate what a creative writer I truly am.

………

It sure is tough to follow your dreams. Money is a concern. And so I’ve decided to partner up with my mentor. We’ve started a consulting practice. So unconventional! So exciting! So goddamn scary! These days I split my time between triathlon training, writing and my brand new company. There’s not a lot of time for much else.

Maybe I can’t have it all. Maybe procreation is for the weak. Perhaps I should just focus on greatness without distraction. It is possible that I could become a modern-day Jane Austen (but better since I am also a small business owner and a triathlete). My legacy could be through amazing literature that has an impact on the world. Indefinitely.

But I know that would never make me happy. Nor is it exactly fair, either. I mean, I hit the gene-pool jackpot. My DNA is entirely too fantastic to end with me. I consider procreation my obligation to humanity. This just adds an extra dimension to my dating criteria: Please fill out this brief medical history form before you approach me. Seriously, it seems that my body is reacting to a different kind of stress these days. In the same way I know that I am a writer (and world-class triathlete and savvy business owner), I know that my real legacy on this earth will be in the amazing life I leave behind. I just hope that my own children aren’t as annoying as everyone else’s.

I don’t know when or how any of this is going to shake out. Of course I am afraid of failure. What if my company doesn’t pan out? What if I never get published? What if I come in DFL again at my triathlon this weekend? What if I never find someone who can pass my medical history exam?!

Everyone has “What ifs.” At least we all should. These challenges are what make life interesting. Who wants to watch a movie where Happily Ever After is in the beginning, middle and end? So, if my company doesn’t pan out, I have an MBA and I can always get a (GULP) conventional job. If I never get published, the real tragedy would be if I never tried. If I come in DFL in Chicago, then I’ll sign up for another triathlon next summer and write about my training all winter long. And about that other thing? Well, maybe I’ll get a little push…

Although I live in Detroit (for now), where the beaches are closed due to e coli, the winters are so severe that they steal a bit of your soul every time you survive one, and the Lions are incapable of winning one single football game; I lead the most exciting life I know. And it’s not just because I change jobs and cities like underwear. It’s because I’m going for it. It doesn’t matter how I got in this position, but I keep getting pushed into it. I have to believe that it’s because I’m meant for something great. Every day is like Christmas. I have no idea what’s going to happen or how it’s going to end. But my God, I can’t wait to write about it.


*Urban Dictionary Trickster Definition: A sneaky little shit who practices the art of creeping.