Contemplating contentment

I've never put much stock in a lot of the psychological manure thought up by the classical psychologists. Although Carl Jung always struck me as being less full of crap than many, the notion of synchronicity sure seems like a large wheelbarrow load of the stuff. And yet when, two days after posting my album cover made from a photo of a classic Rolls Royce, I was tailgated home by a late model Phantom, “synchronicity” was the first word that came to mind. I'll leave off repeating the next few; I hate being tailgated, and I like to try to keep this blog under the PG-14 wire.

Anyway, with that huge silver grille looming in my rear view, I pondered what sorts of wrong choices I might have made in my life that had led the guy in the Rolls to be driving what he was driving and me to be driving what I was driving. The thought occurred to me that if he didn't get off my bumper before the next time the driver in front of me randomly applied her brakes, I might find myself a bit nearer to being able to afford a Rolls – but I digress. I imagined I knew where he'd eventually turn (north into the neighborhoods of sprawling mansions and two-acre lots in Fairview) and wondered to myself what sort of work he must do (if any). Was he married with a family? Were they happy, or did they only put up with their workaholic husband/father because it was a lifestyle choice? Could he afford all of those fancy things, or was he in hock up to his eyeballs, developing an ulcer while chugging Dewar's and agonizing over how to stay afloat and keep the IRS at bay?

It was about that time that we came to an intersection where we parted ways – he turning north toward Beverly Hills Fairview and I heading south toward where my loving wife and kittens waited in our unpretentious, warm, dry home to welcome me after my day at the software mill. After I'd had a chance to relax in my humble but comfortable chair, we'd thank God for our many blessings and have a simple but satisfying dinner. We'd clear away the dishes, washing some by hand and tossing the rest in the fancy dish washing contraption, and then we'd settle in to watch a movie on our new flat-screen TV and enjoy the luxury of deep bass and crisp surround stereo from the new receiver and speakers I installed over the weekend.

And I'd realize that I didn't want the Rolls Royce (I love my Dorian); the house with ten bedrooms, five baths, two kitchens, and a media room with theater seating; the alcoholic trophy wife and avaricious snob-spawn; and certainly not the financial headaches. I realized, in that moment, that when I stopped long enough to realize it... I'm content with how green the grass is (or isn't, at this time of year) in my own yard.