One thing I do like about my job is the office. While most people ascribe to have penthouse-like river views, corner offices secluded and private, I don’t. In fact, that seems like a jail sentence to me. I’m more of a mid-90s dotcom boom giant warehouse open floorplan kinda guy. I’ll settle for my current setup though. With five designers in one room, you’re bound to talk about some engaging things.

This morning we got on the topic of graduate school, regrets, fears and the Ivy Leagues. As we mused and projected, I began to discover something about myself that I think has been lingering over my head for the past few months: I have a debilitating fear of failure. I’m paralyzed by the thought of failing.

As I tug on the first few strands of this unraveling string, I can see other threads come undone as well. I wonder if all along, my academic success was merely a cat and mouse game with my desire to do anything but fail. While I certainly did fail along the way (cough, honors physics and analysis, cough), it was never in a true sense of failing. It was a stumble for the normal student. A “C” is hardly an academic deathblow. Could this have been the only reason that I worked my ass off to get ahead, to get top marks?

While it is a distinct possibility, I think perhaps the more realistic determination is that it was merely a factor. I think I was afraid to fail, and perhaps that was the first line of ‘defense’ when I got down and wanted to quit. As if my psyche slapped me on the wrist and chastised me for even thinking of throwing in the towel. But even if it wasn’t the sole factor, what else could this fear have destroyed in my life?

My choice of college, for one. This is what I’ve realized today. Sure I could have been “meant” to end up at a small liberal arts school in the midwest. Yes it could have been the “best” place for me ultimately, but how would I know? When I was 18 and steering my future, I just wanted something small, something attainable. Why? Probably because the ring that you can see looks most plausible and within reach. I’m afraid that I settled.

Now, I don’t regret my choice. I met my soon-to-be wife here. I got my first (and current) job here. I made friends that I’ll have for life here. I negate nothing with these words, except the “what ifs” of my life. What if I had listened to my guidance counselor and applied Ivy League? What if I had ‘gone big’ and believed in myself? Where would I be now? Would I be working on my PhD in social theory, or education or design? Would I be teaching at a college somewhere, seeking tenure? I guess I’ll never know, but I ache to nonetheless.

I’m that person that hates the “what ifs” and everything that they stand for. I avoid those situations like the proverbial plague. The unchosen choice haunts me for everything that it could have flourished to be. This road not walked is far more romantic than the one that dusts my shoes today.

If I don’t believe in myself, I won’t believe in the choices I make. And if my choices aren’t purposeful, pointed and deliberate, the attractive mystique of the lost opportunity will continue to seduce me.

But I awake from my daydream, back to the world of voicemails and unfulfilled tasks. The alternate ending to my life (though not near completion in reality) can’t be dwelled upon for too long, for life will indeed pass me by.

But a guy can always wonder…

I have no idea why, but today I was randomly reminded of an incident that happened when I was a child. Although mildly embarassing, it’s comforting to know that ignorance (in the true sense of the word) can really be a powerful learning tool. Or at least a humiliating teacher.

So I think that it was February, and I think that I was nine years old. What I definitely remember, though, was that I had just been to the mall with my mother (though not mortified in any preteen way) and had snagged a shiney new copy of Ninja Gaiden for the PC. I was giddy. I couldn’t wait to get home, rip out the 5.25” floppies (no joke) and install this whip-ass game on our 286 (really, not joking). Oh what a dork I was in hindsight.

Unfortunately, mother had a different plan. Why she didn’t speed home with the skill and intensity of a racecar driver, just so her youngest son could put his hard-earned chore money to work, it’s beyond me. For some reason, ravioli and deli meat was higher on her agenda. So we went to Sofo’s. This guy was not amused. In fact, I decided that I would rather sit in the front seat of the ‘85 Cougar and read the box over and over again whilst she shopped. Besides, one can’t be seen in public too much with their mother.

So after about the fortieth time of reading the box (seriously, was she flying to Italy for this stuff?), and mother not seeming to be anywhere in sight, I got bored. And what happens when Brian gets bored? He looks around for something to play with, which almost always ends in disaster. This time was no exception.

A quick glance around the car proved rewarding, in the discovery of a shiney new object of my boredom: a black plug thingy. Now what the hell is this? The little graphic on the front looked like a victrola record player. What’s sad is that I knew what a victrola was, but not this foreign object that was standard (unbeknownst to me) in EVERY AUTOMOBILE IN THE US.

So what is one to do when curiosity gets the best of them? Well, for me, I decided to experiment. I couldn’t pull the thing out on first try, to further inspect it. So I did the converse, and pushed it in. It stayed in for a few seconds, then popped out. “Hmm. That was curious. Why did it do that?” I thought. Next logical step: repeat. So, I pushed it in again. Same response. This time, I knew something was up. So I decided that it had to come out. I was a scientist, and explorer on a mission. I was a tactile being that had to understand the inner workings of everything, and nothing was about to stand in my way. Sure enough, a big yank and out of the dashboard it came.

Now, what happened next is the real stroke the genius. The little braniac in the passenger seat, upon pulling it out and seeing that it was glowing red, decided to TOUCH the foreign object. That’s right. And it was at that exact second, as my skin made contact with the heated coil, that it all made sense, that everything clicked and I knew what this thing was.

I had successfully touched a twice-heated cigarette lighter. Genius.

Upon returning to the car, my mother found me passively sitting in the front seat, clutching my finger and looking puzzled (I’ve always, rather peculiarly, been remarkably calm in dire situations). Her inspection yielded one very burnt finger with perfectly-shaped concentric rings radiating outwards on my skin. Her nine year old son had successfully branded himself.

I learned my lesson, sure. But not because it hurt like hell or anything normal. No, I learned my lesson about what a car lighter did and how it worked because it severly impeded my Ninja Gaiden playing for a week or two.

It’s ok. The game sucked anyway.

So, I confess. I’m entralled by Extreme Home Makeover on ABC, Sunday nights. I dunno if it’s their heart-wrenching stories of hope and human will, or if it’s the “no-sh*t! they didn’t just do that” construction jobs they do on these houses. But in 7 days, that’s damn impressive.

That Ty fellow, however, gets on my nerves.*

Among the hydraulic beds and other whacky things they’ve come up with, they’ve missed one big idea. So consider this as my submission to their (or your own) idea vault.

Technically, I cannot take credit for this. I didn’t originally come up with the idea, though I did help impliment, and certainly helped enjoy the fruits of it. Are ya ready? Stadium bedding. Yea, that’s right.

My junior year in college, I lived in a 3-story duplexed (ha) house with 9 of my friends. We ran an “arts house” which basically gave us the privelage of jacking the University on our heating bill (they footed it) all the while sponsoring artistic-type events on campus throughout the year. Suprisingly, we didn’t half-ass it. Or at least too much. But that’s beside the point.

Nine people in a house is fairly significant. There was a ton of drama, but that’s to be expected. Needless to say, the end of the academic year yielded a much needed release of stress. We had all been through a lot and were anxiously awaiting summer. Or at least the day when we knew what the hell we’d be doing to make money that summer.

So, as it turned out, we had about three weeks before the rent on our new house started. The five guys in the house were splitting off and moving a few streets over, and the four girls were splintering off as well. So, with three weeks off in a big old house, and no one had jobs yet, there was of course a lot of free time on our hands.

However, we were not your typical Animal House college students. We were nerds. So what are nerds to do? Build stadium bedding in our living room, to accomodate as many people as possible to watch our blindingly large 27” TV (The Kings of Comedy DVD to be exact).

I think Seth was the originator of the idea, but by the end we were all involved. We disassembled two University beds (you know, the vault-able type) from the third floor and bump and banged our way to the common living room on the second floor. Several configurations and much heaving and we had ourselves a veritable, outright stadium bedding in our living room. We were rebels. We were rock stars.

The first bed (top tier) was vaulted to bunk-bed height. The second bed was placed in front, at a slightly lesser margin. The third row was a section of our precious L-couch, put on cinder blocks. The final, front row VIP section was the other half of the couch, affectionately dubbed “The Bitch,” for it’s ease of moving in and out of residences. Unfortunately, the only pictures of this monumental achievement are on video.

The absolute ingenuity of this project still amazes me. Well technically it wasn’t hard. But I thought it was damn cool.

Ok, so there was one design flaw. ABC can work that out before the national debut.

Seth woke up three mornings in a row, on the top tier, and stood up to be whacked in the face with the paddle fan on the ceiling. I laughed heartily from my bed in the other room.

* I do respect Ty (Pennington?) though, because as obnoxious as he is, he was a fine art major in degree, and still paints and produces. Along with being a pretty fine carpenter. But damn he’s annoying.

Only in this incredible nation could I be sitting on a couch, cell phone in hand, in suburban Cincinnati, wirelessly watching the polls on the internet, accompanied by the monotonal drone of Peter Jenning’s voice on the television.

No matter the outcome of the election, I will support whomever wins. I still love democracy. I still love freedom. Sometimes it just takes a little thing to make me wake up and realize it.

Dear Self,

There are times where I have absolutely no clue what’s going on with you, emotionally. And as someone who prides themself on being emotionally “in-the-know,” this is both terrifying and paralyzing. And as much as I loath a writing style such as this, perhaps I’ll break my own rules for once, per chance that together we may figure this out.

You are great at diagnostics. You can analyze, dissect and get to the root of things with ease. Complex psychological and/or emotional patterns are easily apparent to you. So, why in the hell can’t you figure out why we’re so unhappy right now?

First off, you should be happy. You’re engaged. Nothing could make us happier. The problem is, the fiance lives 100 miles away. While dating, this caused a sense of longing, but now that half of your life is in another city, that makes you feel torn and stretched. You have a house and an extended family waiting for you, but accessible only on the weekends. The other half of your life is in Cincinnati. And the question of “where will you live once married” scares the living crap out of you.

What else? You are securely employed, and paid well. Opposite side: All of your friends are soon to be doctors and lawyers, with impending salaries that make ours look like we’re running a lemonade stand. Problem is, I don’t care about money and I’m not competative. But yet I still care about this, and wish I was paid more for what I do. Is it a “fair compensation” issue? Do you merely want a reasonable wage for the amount of work that I’m currently burdened with? I’m not sure. All I know is that you feel like you cannot support a family on what you make currently. Somehow, someway, something along the way has equated money with success in your life (most likely for it’s ability to be a Provider). This is a problem and source of stress in our life.

You certainly have plenty of ‘toys’ to play with. Cameras, audio equipment, laptops, speakers, and so on. Your hobbies are well induldged. Opposite side: Your damn visual nature and love of aesthetically beautiful things make us lust for new, shiney products. I hate this part of you. And while you rarely act on the impulse, it’s equivalent to holding back a river. It stresses me out nonetheless as well, and makes the previous problem all the worse.

Your friends. You are more than blessed with a wonderful group of friends. So what could be wrong with this part of your life? Well, no one’s around. Local friends are all too busy with school. Scattered friends are too far away to be seen on a regular basis. This is another *big* source of stress for you, I fear. For some reaon you always needed a strong friend connection. However, this is an inevitable part of life, something we must move past.

Your creative drive. You’ve always thrived on creativity, and being surrounded by such. You are currently, however, not surrounded or involved with consistent creative projects. This leaves you feeling unfilfilled and together we don’t feel like we’re “ourselves.” How can we fix this?

Well, the career path is another big one. Let’s not forget that. Perhaps related to the last issue too. You’re happy doing what you’re doing, because you can derive a sense of accomplishment from it. Once that’s gone, though, you’re not sure if you want to do that forever. You are scared as hell to go back to school, though you know you want to. But for what? Psychology? Education? Art? Humanities? PhD or MA? I think we’re getting a little closer to the bigger ticket items, because this one strikes a major chord of fear. You feel like a failure for not getting an extended education. You fear that not getting a master’s degree or higher will leave you unqualified for higher paying jobs. But you’re so tired of working so hard at work and can’t imagine going to school on top of it. What they said about not taking a break was true. You should have gone straight to grad school. So now what are you going to do? What do you even want to do with your life? It’s a little late to be asking yourself this, for the record…

We can’t forget the daily struggle of your self image. While you’ve made great strides in this…losing over 110lbs, caring/learning about nutrition and health, etc…it’s still a constant battle to continue on. It’s the last thing you want to do every day. It takes up so much of your time. But you can’t give it up, and surrender to it. But this doesn’t make either of us feel any less stressed out. Add it to the list, shall we?

I’m sure I could go on, listing what’s happening in your life to make us both stressed out. Unfinished art pieces. Responsibilities not fulfilled. It all adds up though.

So, self, I ask you: what are we going to do about all of this? You walk around feeling like you’re going to puke because you’re unhappy/unsure of life…but how are we going to change that? We’ve got to start somewhere damnit.

Ok. Agreed. Let’s mark off tennis instructor from possible career paths. That’s a start, right?