This evening in class we are asked to write about
control. We are supposed to make notes
about things we try to control in our lives.
I smirk because I, of all people in the room, know there is no such
thing as control when it comes to our lives.
Life is one giant crap shoot, usually without the shoot and just full of
crap. Life wears humongous steel-toed
boots, and those boots are usually kicking my ass.
So I start thinking about the things I try to maintain
control over in the course of a typical day.
I've given up control over my body; I'm ripe into middle age -- there is
no such thing as control these days.
Knees refuse to turn when I do, hips pop when I bend, and my skin has
suddenly decided that teenaged pimple-forehead would look pleasingly attractive
on me.
I wrack my brain: Control, control, control. I decide that smacking my head against the
cinderblock wall would be more beneficial than this exercise. What do I try to control in my life? I write down the word work. This makes me
smirk even more.
Work is probably the one thing furthest from my control out
of anything going on in my life. I can
control the weather and the stars and the ocean tides more easily than I can
control my job. Work is a roller coaster
ride: Every morning I show up, strap in, and get ready for whatever it throws
at me. Sometimes it's the kiddie
coaster; some days it's Kingda Ka. By
the way, anyone who knows me also knows that I do not like roller coasters.
After a few minutes of writing other stuff to try and make
my paper look full of great promise, I concede and write: What do
I have control over in my life?
Nothing. Absolutely nothing at
all. Just like it should be.
Short and sweet, honest to a fault, my class writing
assignment is done. I should write more,
but I have an excuse: I've lost all
control.
