I wish I was more like the superstar guys I see in social media. I’m sure their beautiful wives drive Mercedes Benz SUVs on their way to mid-day yoga classes or tennis matches. And I’m sure these guys have big, roomy offices with lots of windows and black leather couches around shiny black tables. That they wear their dress shirts unbuttoned just enough to look like a pirate – but no one says shit to them about this because Pirate Boss also wears a big platinum watch that they’d take off and bludgeon you with if you did. For lunch, these guys fly to other cities and inspire people just by showing up. Sometimes they even circle the airport and wave to the crowd as they’re leaving. They’re heroes, these guys. Pillars of hope. I know that one day if I play my cards right? And say all the right things? And get my teeth bleached? And work really hard? I can be like them too, and send my children to the best private schools that money can buy – and surround myself with hot female assistants who smell like cinnamon.
But until then, I’ll just sit in my wife’s old car typing away while my kid practices in worn cleats on the lighted soccer field in front of me.