Most people go through life searching for that elusive thing called "meaning." For them it's not enough to just be. They've got to do. I certainly have been in that camp for as long as I can remember, but lately, as I get nearer to the end than the beginning of my time here, I grow less interested in doing a goddamn thing. All I really want is to lose five pounds, not be depressed and keep my heart from attacking me.
I have arrived at this uninspiring state after seeing how little my greatest achievements have meant in the grand scheme of things. This is certainly true for all of us, with very rare exceptions like discovering the cure for polio and the invention of the garbage disposal. But not being scientifically gifted, I have yet to do anything that anyone will remember for more than a few days after I'm gone -- a week if I'm lucky.
So, understanding the folly of striving for fame and/or fortune and especially meaning, I have concluded that what really matters after all is to "have a nice day," which is ironic since I dislike that expression, especially when uttered by the bagger at the supermarket who robotically tosses it in my direction as I'm walking away with my groceries. Yet it is now my number one goal.
Go figure.
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