Precisely one Mad Monday ago, I turned 42.

No, I’ve never read the book. But I did watch the movie. It was terrible beyond imagination.

Regardless of where you might throw in your four score and 2 cents on towel-awareness in an era of social distancing, I am certain now that 42 is special. 

It is the precise ritual-of-existent-awareness at the bare crux of a one-or-two-year radius in which the likely mid-moment of your fallen-life-expectancy (give or take) is probable to come and go. 

Debate me on the nuances of the algorithms, but let’s not quibble: all things considered, at 42(ish) you stand in dire proximity to the existential epicenter of your own life’s relation to the mean! 

We probably call it “the mid-life crisis” because our best math teacher (God-bless her heart), was still never able to dictate into us “the mean” having much of any meaning. I think the most that I picked up is that “the mean” as a statistic is a very poor estimation of real life. Perhaps that was the reason 97% of us immediately discarded the concept too weird to bother understanding in the face of a competitor for truth like the (apparently) sensible “average.”

But that’s the point. The mean is outside the normal (often dead-wrong) “common” sense. That, correct me if I am wrong, is a big part of what the mean is for. It’s a place to gain a unique, but reliably accurate alt perspective. 

Not unlike a global pandemic. 

Or having your “Mean-Day” fall the day after Mother’s Day in the middle of a global pandemic….

And, while we’re at it, after I’ve had an “off” day, I’m usually pretty disappointed. So why all the fuss about wanting to take one “off” on purpose?

My Mean-Day was pretty awesome, even though it was an epic failure. I didn’t bother to plan it. I never do. 

One of my parishioners wished me a “happy” one, and I had a moment of awestruck wonder: what if I made an effort to do just that?

It was at this divine suggestion that I tried to take my Mean-Day “off.” Without bogging you down with details, here is my report on the matter: I conclude that I do not know what the word “off” means any longer. 

And I’m ok with that. 

For the next 42 sol revolutions, I will prefer not to anxiety-rage at myself over not making enough “off days” happen. I’ve spent too much time and effort clawing my way out of entrepreneurial, self-employed [#dangthatwasalotofcoffeetoday] workaholism to retro-guilt import its problematic assumptions about production and rest into my existential moment.

Tick. Tick. Tick. 

Two solid strides over the hill and the waiting is just getting going

……according to the mean….

But this next 42, I intend to take more time as I go about it, because I’m convinced of this: trying to make more of it is for the birds….
—
Be strong, and let your heart know courage.
Rev. Fisk