"C'mon, Baby, Light My Fire"

“If you ever plan on writing a book, going on a diet, or training for a marathon… don’t tell anyone or they will encourage you to death.”

I’m sure I got that quote wrong, but I know I’ve read something along those lines. Well, I’ve already done the first two of those things and seriously considered the third. I would be all for a marathon if it weren’t for my seething hatred of running.

The problem is; I’m a talker. I’d say that at least two-thirds of my ideas turn out to be hair-brained schemes at best, so saying them out loud in front of more logical people sometimes helps keep me grounded.

I gotta admit, though… this one has kept me up at night.

The other day I was out walking by the lake and decided to jog around to the least-trafficked side of the building. It was a cold a blustery day, smelling sweetly of winter.

My work shoes are already trashed so I decided to just veer off into the woods, mud notwithstanding. While I was pushing my way through the brush I scraped my hand.

I’m not a masochist but there was something delightful in the pain. Real men are supposed to have a few scars.

Quote Chuck Palahnuik through the words of Tyler Durden through the mouth of Brad Pitt: “Hell, even the Mona Lisa’s falling apart.”

Also like Durden, I don’t want to die without any scars.

Clarity was waiting for me in those woods. Call it intuition. Call it God. Call it Fate. Call it The Architect of the Universe. Call it dumb-friggin-luck. Call it what you will.

It was an epiphany of sorts I guess. One I may regret. One I may wish I’d never had. One I may question time and time again. But, like every 6-year-old male on the planet… I realized that I really want to be a firefighter.

While I was working my way back into the office, something in me wanted desperately to just turn and flee deeper into the woods. The thought of sitting down at that stupid desk (consequently the one I’m at now) made me so sick to my stomach I almost couldn’t do it.

The weird thing is; I don’t hate my job. It’s pretty easy and the pay and benefits are more than fair. There is almost no stress to speak of. It is comfortable and soft. Why should I complain?

While I was in those woods I realized that I felt so disgusted by the thought of it exactly because it was so comfy and soft.

I’ve always thought that, while the female body was created as thing of beauty, a vessel of life, that the male body was designed strictly for utility.

Despite our similarities (and please don’t take this in a sexist way or to reflect my opinion of what women are capable of, I think they are incredible), in my mind their purposes were as different as that of a delicate orchid and a rusty hatchet.

When I first got my stock broker’s license, I was terrified that I would be exposed as a blue-collar tourist in a white-collar world. It took me almost four years to realize that wasn’t really right. The truth is; I’ve felt so out of place because I’m going against my nature. Working this office job is like swimming upriver.

I don’t mean the nature of man or the order of the world, just something in me.

Before I made the final decision to go on an LDS mission, I had spent a lot of time talking with the fire chief in Cedar City. He trained the smoke jumpers. I spent a lot of time at his house because his son was good friends with my roommate. The chief would make us homemade pizza while we sat in the basement and watched MTV’s Fear every Wednesday night. I was almost decided on it then. I can’t believe it but that was almost 10 years ago.

Back then, the allure of the job was adventure and the outdoors. I chose a mission because I felt convinced that my time spent would be more beneficial to others, and myself. I was right. I don’t regret a second of it.

The irony of it is that I left framing because it was too dangerous. All of the sudden I had a wife and kid to think about. I couldn’t get knocked off of a wall or had something dropped on me and leave them alone. Now I want nothing more than to do one of the most dangerous jobs on the planet.

What I realized the other day is that I only go to work for a paycheck. It’s not a bad paycheck and it keeps us comfortable, but that is seriously my ONLY reason for going to work. My kids know that I go to work for the money, and nothing else. Aside from the dollar signs, my time away from home contributes nothing.

Like it or not, I am the rusty hatchet. I’m built like a tree trunk. I may have a slightly under-developed self-preservation gland. I’m good at digging ditches and chopping firewood. I am the utility model of the human race. I’m not pretty and I’m not fast, but when it comes to moving large objects or pushing things down, I’m your guy. That’s just the card I was dealt and I feel like I’m wasting it, getting soft behind this damn computer. What if I could use those skills to actually make a difference? What if I could look my wife and daughter in the eyes each morning before work and tell them that I love them and that I was going to work to try and help people? What if my daughters knew that, even though daddy’s job was dangerous and kept him away from home, it might help somebody else, even save somebody else. Wouldn’t that give them a reason to be proud of their old man? Wouldn’t that make them a little more excited to bring dad around for career day?

I watch guys here sit and eat themselves to death at this job and know I don’t want to go that way. Yeah, I know, you can work in an office and still stay in shape. You can also go to SeaWorld and not get wet, but it requires a lot more steps than it’s worth.

When it comes to cereal, I’ve always reached for quantity over quality. Regarding your number of remaining minutes spent on earth; I’m beginning to realize that it’s the other way around.

I don’t want to choose money and comfort and soft safety over what feels natural to me. Give me the five-figure pay cut, the Halligan, the bangs and bruises and bad shoulders, and give me all of the memories and experiences that go with it—good and bad.