When Mack strode into a room, he was answered prayer.
His moderate handsomeness was exaggerated by his manly
swagger and confident spark. An affable smile synced with
a teddy bear face and movie star hair, he was the best blend
imaginable. Simple understated fashionable, ruggedly masculine,
boy-next-door charm, and artistic genius all in one!
He definitely had a unique and powerful 'something'
that most people desired. His actual self-concept might
have surprised folks, but his thick exoskeleton of magic
and triumph was sufficient for absorbing most folks.
This was a man of high-concepts and high standards,
given to excellence in all areas of his life; he had not met
a challenge he had not mastered.
Now in his woefully-named middle life, Mack had become
somewhat obsessed with the idea of perpetuity. He was
more than familiar with his own mortality, and his ripe
imagination gave birth to hypochondria and hysteria that
would have prided Howard Hughes. Every straining flow,
every pre-empted lift, every twinged muscle spelled his
imminent demise in blood-red neon letters.
Not a man of sentimentality nor wild abandon, the prototypical
hand-wringing or denial-based solutions were of no interest to Mack.
There would be no extra-marital affairs, no expensive sports cars,
no aesthetics-minded operations. He would meet his impending
spiral with steadfast heroism and aplomb. A man's man, both
thinker and doer, stalwart and unflappable. Classy, disciplined, and
Since his early days, Mack had been confounded by people.
His parents being regular battlers, he held no esteem for
disagreements. Confrontation of any sort or level made his
body seize up with fear. Unknowingly, he had distanced himself
from as many true relations as possible, eliminating the potential
hazard of humanity. The interminable sense of isolation was little
regarded since he maintained a frantic work schedule and
micromanaged every moment of his days. No moss grew beneath him.
But now, with contemplation and the newly awakening
fore-thought and self-awareness, his thoughts were churned.
Mack braced himself for what felt like a large intestinal
testimony clearing its path through his soul. There were
inner captives, longing to be free; their images were familiar
to Mack, as deja-vu accompanies certain dreams or places.
He and they had passed one another on a journey, long
before, yet simply not taken the time to become acquainted.
As his job became more and more tedious and unrewarding,
the bravado of seeking something 'more' frightened him less.
There was freedom in the possibility of the oncoming storm of
financial instability. This might well be his chance to strike.
But doubt rotted in his crevices, never having been released
and shown the light of day. There was still comfort in his tired
role of chief-cook-and-bottle-washer for the flailing retail store.
Once a landmark in the community of his youth, it now gasped
and prepared for death rattle.
The pluses seemed more gracious than the alternative, even
in a back-handed compliment kind of way. There was the
prestige and impact of having a good name and being well
thought of, but his co-workers and neighbors were not of the
same ilk. That was a hollow victory at best; he was the consummate
big fish in a small bowl. The relaxed scheduling did not offset the
painfully stressful drama of the store when he was present.
There was ease, too, in planning for greatness from the safety
of a solid desk with dependable pay; striking out --not even considering
making it--was another matter entirely. An untraveled path is
seductive yet awkward. Away from the light of the
other journeymen, conditions might be rough. It galled him to admit
his desire to assimilate and be a part of the pack. This dualistic part of his
nature vexed him; to be a lone wolf who longs for human interaction
and connection.
The ill-timed inner push to experiment struck him as ironic. Now, in
his time of imagined 'settling in,' wanting to upset the apple cart! His
inappropriate sense of humor was triggered, but the dread quickly
squashed it. There was a battle beginning to rage; the illusion of
quiet comfort versus the allure of unsecured promises of fulfillment.
He imagined this was The key moment where he would determine what
comprised his core character. There was concurrent excitement and
apprehension to see which opponent might appear victorious.
"Reinvention is a young man's game," he could hear his father
proclaiming. "You'd better be smart and stick to what you know."
The old man meant all the good, but practicality and discipline
were the name of his game, despite his artistic leanings. Mack
accepted that, despite the love and episodic respect, Dad was not
a source oozing support for his son's soulfulness or expressiveness.
Marianne, too, was a great wife, and fine mother to their kids,
but her outlook would be didactic, at best. Nary an argument had
occurred wherein his needs were considered; it seemed more
and more like life was ongoing penitence for past transgressions.
He longed to be heard...to have someone show concern for his wishes.
He had learned the hard way not to expect such empathy from his wife.
It would be all about the practicality, the logistics, how her activities
would be impacted, and what potential financial lifestyle changes would
ensue. His sacrifices were a given.
The home-front situation was a perplexing one at best, anyway.
Certainly the matrimonial relationship had become perfunctory;
more of a business arrangement. Still mandated by choice, not
obligation, but lackluster nonetheless. The kids were the focus.
They needed and deserved a connection that was unbroken;
consistency and security were so important to a child, as Mack
had long since known. But what if he moved the family, or lost
his shirt, or failed to make a name for himself? He would have
failed the kids and put them through hell for nothing, he mused.
This was exactly the extremist negative thinking that caused him
such regular agony. As a perfectionist, he typically lost himself in
his work to quiet such thoughts, and counter the notion of feeling
undeserving. But work held no joy of late....his typically sound
confidence was hollowed by this distraction. This horrible prediction
that he would end up Willy Loman, and there was nothing he could do
to avert this catastrophe. His identity had become firmly entrenched in his
job, his town, his relations. Who would he be, if not who he already
knew?
Keeping up appearances and attending to usual business is tricky
while likewise training an inner eye heavenward for a
timely cue. Some prophetic sign of promised prosperity, preferably
private. He had become spiritual over the last stretch, but this
matter weighed extensively and grieved his fledgling faith. Just how
much blind trust was he to have? And, what if his restlessness was really
his much maligned self-will exerting himself, and not what he was truly
'supposed' to be doing, besides? All of this was quite perplexing; fate,
divinity, pre-destination, uncertain choices, life.
Mack was the original "man with the child in his eyes," as Kate Bush
and others had penned. A splendid blend of devoted optimism and
dedicated petulance. A merging of joyful support and scornful
dissatisfaction. He was easy to fall full-in behind a project at the
expense of all else. Mack was consumed by the idea of being consumed,
and he often found himself knee-deep in a new interest before he
knew his feet were wet.
These attributes, peripherally known to the hard-working man,
were further cause for struggle. Was this push to 'explore self' some
new-fangled notion directly related to his pending birthday? A
longing for something dramatically representative of a marked
trend in avoiding getting older? His analytical processing would
relentlessly cross-examine every stray thought, every unrelated
concept, every random occurrence to seek a rationale for his
behavior and development. His hyper-obsessiveness and attention
to detail--what the kids called 'anal', and Marianne called 'OCD'--
frequently took over. Yet he was also prone to spells of zoning out
completely. Balance was something that had eluded him.
None knew of his conflicted nature; he was a master of
holding his cards close to his vest. By virtue of smiling sweetly or
becoming steely-eyed and stoic, his impenetrable
armor secured him from inquiry. His masquerade was so
well developed and long held, he became caught up himself at times.
Hostage to real and imagined limitations, he struggled to maintain
control over his real self. There wasn't means of living freely while
accommodating others. Sacrifices were an inevitable part of a successful
life process, but now he was questioning which sacrifices were
inevitable and which were renegotiable. There was a burgeoning
fire tempting him to transform himself, and feel the sufficiency of his
own skin.
At heart of this blessed soul was a fierce warrior who had
mastered many obstacles, weathered many storms. He was to be
praised for his ability to survive, and, finally, he was receptive to
this laud. Intuitively, he knew that exceptional things were in store
for him...that his distress was merely growing pains--a trivial
and unavoidable portion of his personal birthing process. Nothing
more than distraction, dilution, and discouragement of his established
capabilities and prowess.
Mack determined that all would be well, no matter the
specific outcome. He was discovering the value of the journey,
even as preoccupation with destination was waning.
His determination and discipline had made him who he was,
and he proudly recognized it was one aspect of himself he would
be carrying forward with him. The man he was becoming was
illuminated by the sunshine of the mind, and his spirited quest
was only beginning.
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