The thing is, I'll turn fifty-two next month, so I've been having to deal with the sudden realization that my life is almost half over. It's caused me to wonder things like:
Sometimes I complain.
Sometimes I just feel sorry for myself.
Sometimes I am so self-absorbed, so self-centered, so preoccupied with myself and my circumstance that I loose sight of what's important.
What's important? In the grand scheme of things, in view of God's great plan, in view of eternity, what's important today, in my relatively meager, temporary life? Only after acquiring a grasp on what's important, versus what's not important—only then am I able to discern God's blessings that I have received, as well as those for which I should rightly hope.
Dear Reader: This article is not meant to be a universal statement of "the difference between men and women," or anything like that. This is not a global proclamation regarding the problems in all marriages. I offer it simply as food for thought. It is up to you, the reader, to determine where, if anywhere, its applicability lies within the context of your marriage. That being said, I would like to challenge wives with this: IF you are married to Mike or Rob, then are you Doris, or are you Susan?
Narcissism: self-centeredness arising from failure to distinguish the self from external objects…
Codependency: a type of dysfunctional helping relationship where one person supports or enables another person's addiction, poor mental health, immaturity, irresponsibility, or under-achievement.
The endless clanging of dishes being stacked in the back room permeated the atmosphere as pungently as the second-hand cloud wafting over from the solitary old man's cigarette two tables away. The afternoon sun beamed in through the dis-shevelled, dust-encrusted slats of the venetian blinds. Watching the blades of sunlight slice through the smoke, Blake thought to himself how eerily similar this was to a Great White concert as he finished his Yi-Shang Beef and Chow Mein.
One man said it like this:
"Every day, I have this choice to make. Every single day, and it doesn't ever go away. Every day, I must choose to view my life and my accomplishments either one of two ways:
When a man sees a woman he finds attractive, there is this internal impulse. Some kind of fundamental drive. Who knows where it comes from? But it transcends sexuality, for it comes up whether he's admiring his own wife, his daughter, his neice, or a friend's wife or daughter. It is a thing that arises out of the beautiful "femaleness," or perhaps the perfect femininity of the woman or girl. As a man, he sees this and admires it. He is momentarily captivated by it.
The man thinks to himself, "I want to hold her."
The stinging chill of the night air cut through my alpaca wind breaker like a Frenchman on a mo-ped in rush hour traffic as I reached for another fag. The distant, muted cacophony of the surf beyond the jetty, the pungent fragrance of the tailings of yesterday's catch, and the oddly diffuse brilliance of a full moon peering down through a meandering marine layer all conspired to set the mood—a doleful, introspective kind of mood.
There I was, standing at the reception desk at the doctor's office. I was locked up. Stumped. I couldn't answer her simple question.