The Life of a Goof

             I am a goof.

             I have settled on that term.  It encapsulates my personality more precisely than any other word.  It is who I am and who I will be.  I will walk this earth until my dying day a goof. 

A secret I have kept for a few decades now is that I’m still seventeen or so years old.  I’ve married, had three kids, a couple of homes, and a bunch of dumb jobs.  I’ve gained weight and lost hair. I’ve moved to Oregon.  But I’m still seventeen.  I still really don’t know anything else than being a goof.  I’m sorry. It’s not a choice, I promise.

A goof is not a serious person.  I will never own a successful business or make adult contacts.  I will never be a boss. I will never do lunch with prospective clients.  You would be stupid to try to go into business with me.  Come on. I’m a goof. 

I’m not admitting that I’m immature.  No.  I have been seeking wisdom in this world ever since I cracked a book.  I learn, mature, change, adapt.  I grow and I think and I grow some more.  I have priorities and I stick to them.  But I’m a goof.  No denying it.

What is a goof?  Remember those priorities?  I only have a few.  The rest of the potential priorities of life mean next to nothing to me.  I just don’t think about them at all.  I have the important things figured out and the rest is a giant pile of who gives a shit. I have fantasies about mattering to more than the few people in my life, but they’re fantasies.  I don’t mind entertaining them because they don’t get in the way.  I don’t have the traditional American white guy ego.  I’m a goof.  I have no urge to compete, stake my claim or make my mark.  I only need to prove things to myself and I have nothing to prove.  Why?  I’d rather watch Avengers again or write this blog.

             Goofs need to goof.  It’s how we get along in the world.  I don’t know if there are more type of goofs out there, but I know how I operate.  The pain, suffering, terror, anxiety, and uncertainty of this world are met with goofiness.  It’s not that I don’t understand the severity of these things, it’s that I was built to absorb ALL OF IT. I can’t.  If I do, I can’t be a husband, father, family member, or friend.  I don’t know what I would be.  Probably a quivering pile of tears and poop that huddled in a corner all day.  If it’s the choice between that, and no adult male will ever take me seriously, I’ll take the latter.

             I make jokes. I do this spur of the moment.  I break the tension and relax people.  I will text or call someone if I have something funny for them.  I have to.  I must goof. I write books and write these blogs.  I have to.  I’ll never make a lot of money.  I will never earn critical respect or accolades.  I’m too busy being a goof.  The only way I will ever be successful is if someone catches sight of my goofiness and figures out a way to turn it into a paycheck.  That’s it.  The religious must pray, the industrious must work, the goofs must goof.  We all have our roles.

             I’m responsible.  I work, I pay the bills, I’m learning how to better take care of myself. I’m not ‘goofing off’ or ‘goofing around’.  Those terms are for amateurs.  No, I live this shit.  I’m going to miss out on a lot of things in the adult world because of being a goof.  It’s a sacrifice.  There is a price I will pay.  But there is something to be said about sticking to what you believe in about yourself.  What is that something? I don’t know.  Probably something goofy.