Getting Up?

No one in the family who raised me ever excelled at anything. It wasn't expected. It wasn't necessary. As long as everyone hung their coats in the closet, took their dirty cups and plates out of the livingroom and didn't hide fudgesicles in their dirty clothes hamper (which I only did ONCE, for pete's sake) all was well.

"Excelled" in the real world probably meant that higher standards were met - standards higher than my dad conversing in Italian with Sally Starr at the station where he pumped gas. Standards that surpassed Aunt Annie's macaroni salad or Aunt Venzi's whipped butter on toast (although, at the time, NOTHING surpassed what the Italian Aunties put on their tables).

As long as there was love, and there was lots of love (it was called FOOD), I was a happy kid. So who needed to excel?

Since the days of youth and bliss (as in ignorance is) I have had many chances to get up off my ass and excel. But why? and how? Like many other Americans, I have found that nice comfy dent my butt has made on the couch so welcoming, so hypnotic and has that aura of "where I belong" that I feel strange not easing down into it and basking in the glow of vegging out for the evening. Every evening.

So if ever I am to excel it will have to be sometime between leaving for work in the morning and arriving to the total lack of enthusiasm from my coworkers at my arrival. Or it will have to happen during the 9 mile, 20 minute drive back to my home.

Unless...
I could manage to keep my butt off of the business end of the couch for a few minute longer each night.

In the spirit of true mediocrity, this will be my goal:

I will keep all of my body parts upright 10 minutes longer each night.

And perhaps my next goal will be to actually DO something while I'm in the position.

Baby steps DO eventually get the baby all the way across the room!