The Quitter
As a man of moderation and means, my father credited his success to his strict methodology, which he doled out, circumstantially, in rousing sermons, designed to magnify my poor judgment in taking the low road, while highlighting the benefits of the high road.
In one particularly disappointing episode, obviously trying to hold back his frustration with me, he launched into one of his life-is-what-you-make-of-it speeches, which always came on the cusp of failure and regret. “Don’t be a quitter, Terry. You’ll never get anywhere in life without some stick-to-it-ness.”
“Dad, the coach told me not to come to practice anymore,” I explained.
“Why would he say that?” He looked at me, his head cocked like a confused puppy.
“Maybe because I stink. I’ve only played once in the past fifteen games and neither of us sees the point in continuing. Just chalk it up to another bad experience.” I walked away, leaving him alone, his sermon silenced.
In hind sight, I see my childhood was one bitter pill after another for him to swallow. Growing up with his branding guilt has taught me how to handle letdowns and lament, but I’ve learned that, like beauty, it’s in the eye of the beholder, or simply put, happiness is all about perspective.
However, he’d be pleased to know that I heeded some of his advice. I’ve managed to stick with several things throughout my life; men, my age and cigarettes.
After three marriages, one widowed and twice divorced, commitment has left a bitter taste in my mouth. While I still find men titillating, marriage is reminiscent of a piece of chewing gum, full of flavor for the first fifteen minutes before deflating into a soft wad of displeasure. A new flavor, every now and again, is fun for a spur of moment thing, great for changing things up but not for long lasting enjoyment.
As a woman, it’s my prerogative to be forever more, 35 years old, well, at least for the next ten years. Enough said.
And, like father like daughter, I’ve been smoking for nearly 25 years – oops – 20 years faithfully, until today. Today I quit, and with the help of some mind altering drugs, it’s a relatively painless process. Just to think, stick-to-it-ness is now available, without a prescription, in an easy to swallow pill. My father would be proud. Pity, it wasn’t around when I was a child, nothing like a good drug to cure what ails you.
Now if only my father hadn’t taken his stick-to-it-ness so seriously, God rest his soul.
* Terry McKee lives in southern Florida, with her husband, three dogs, two horses, numerous lizards and six dragon flies.
