“Through cookies, all things are possible.” – TeeJayye 1:37
Sometimes I just don’t want to.
I’ve been sitting here for a while, staring out the window, knowing there’s a golf course right up on that hill over there, only shielded from view by my next-door neighbors’ big ugly house.
But I’m not gonna go. I just don’t want to. The excuses are flowing freely.
Originally, I didn’t want to because it’s 100 degrees outside. Then, it was that I’m playing a scramble tomorrow and need to regrip my “new to me” putter if I’m going to carry my team. Now, it’s that I need to write this newsletter. Which, I don’t really wanna do either.
To be truthful, I kinda just wanna go to bed. I’ve been to my “real” job today, I have a slight cough that won’t go away and I don’t feel very inspired to write anything meaningful.
Excuses are easy.
Then again, that’s also why I feel the way I do today.
There’s a dark cloud of not living up to my potential looming over me. It’s been bugging me for, at least, a few days now.
Make excuses, don’t accomplish anything, feel like shit about myself, and repeat. It’s a vicious cycle.
It’s almost like when you’re on the golf course and you aren’t sure what’s wrong with your swing but you can’t get a ball to go where you want to save your life.
You get so pissed, but you aren’t sure what to change or you’re afraid to change too much, so you just keep hacking away with the same broken swing and wounded pride.
Stupid, I know. As if doing the same thing over and over was going to change the outcome.
It’s funny though, I think, because, most of the time, we know how we’re messing up.
We know what’s holding us back. We know what’s keeping us from our dreams. And we know what we need to do to execute that perfect little 2-yard draw.
Yet, somehow that’s the one thing we refuse to do.
I dream of playing golf, yet I make up excuses of why I can’t go play. I want to write a newsletter, yet I’ve taken about 12 breaks while trying to write this thing.
At the end of the day, the only person who can save us is ourselves. Ultimately, we have to put on our big kid pants and get this shit done.
We are the only person, in the entire world who’s going to provide for us. The only person who is going to take care of us, so we’ve got to be the person who says, “Okay, buck the pity party. Let’s get something accomplished.”
We have to buckle down and pull our swing back together. Shoot, we’ve got to get off our asses and get down to the course before that. This also means we need to sit down and finish this newsletter. Well, I do. I don’t know why I keep saying we. (Look, it’s just easier if I put some of the blame on you, okay? I’m sorry. I know you weren’t the one who made this take 14 hours to write or the one who ate all the cookies but I just need your help, okay? Otherwise, I won’t be able to look at myself in the mirror. I’m sorry. Thank you.)
When it’s all said and done, and the lights go on, we’ll be the only one standing on that stage. We are the masters of our destiny, and we can create anything we want.
But we have to do the work to create it.
No one else can perform your play, no one can hit your golf ball, and ain’t nobody got the time to write yo damn newsletter. So you’re gonna hafta sit down and write it yourself.
The odd thing is, the more I write, the better I feel. It’s as if accomplishment has a direct link to the self-esteem part of your brain. Or it’s the cookies. Can’t quite tell yet.
New putter, new grip. Took all of 15 minutes. And now, I actually can’t remember why I waited so long in the first place. I did it so quickly, I surprised myself. “Wow, I’m getting good at this,” I thought.
We’re also somehow, some way, however, slowly because I keep rambling, coming to the end of this newsletter. I, honestly, wasn’t sure that we’d make it at the beginning, but here we are, at the top of the mountain, and only down a pack of chewy chips ahoy. If that doesn’t show you anything is possible, I don’t know what will.
I guess the only thing left to do is get down to the course. Meet me there?
Just don’t forget the cookies.
