Mediocracy

The point of having a goal is to achieve something. Yet, for all the goals I have made in my life, I haven’t achieved a damn thing. I’m starting to wonder what roles dreaming and goal setting play in my daily life. When I was five, I decided to be the fastest kid on the peewee soccer team. Didn’t manage that one. My mother was asked to take me off the team for tripping my teammates during games. I figured if I couldn’t get to the ball, no one could. At eight years old, I would try out for the community theater musical. They were putting on Oliver, and I was dead set on being the show’s namesake. Turns out I can’t sing a note, so they put me in the ensemble with the other boys who were too young, too old, or too talentless to be the lead. Pubescent voice cracks, hairy chins, and bad BO filled the cast, so I never auditioned again. When I turned fifteen, my mom signed me up to work at a sleepaway camp the following summer. The goal was to earn income and learn important life skills in the process. The job lasted two weeks. Between losing one of the smaller campers for a very brief period of four hours and the uninformed decision to take a swim break while on a hike that resulted in the entire bunk getting covered in leeches… it was clear I wasn’t a good fit. They let me go and mailed me my first and last check.

I’ve had this recurring dream throughout my life that I was a rockstar, capable of shredding an axe in ways that would put Slash, Hendrix, or Morello to shame. It planted a seed in my ego that I’m capable of great things if only I would put my mind to it. I woke, unable to play a single chord on the guitar, but with a budding and dangerous self-confidence. It’s a certainty that I’m meant for more; no matter where my life may take me, it’s not over until I’ve done something important. What that thing is has never been clear, but that can’t matter that much, right?

I’m twenty-seven now and trying to start my own business. I don’t have a degree. Oh yeah, that’s just one more thing I tried and didn’t manage. I got kicked out of college in my final semester. Don’t blame me, though. That was entirely the administration’s fault. Several students protested the unjust removal of a tenured professor in my department. We stayed in the student center past business hours to make our point, and they expelled eight of us on the spot. I could have appealed. Some of us did and won. I was done, though. I guess it’s pretty easy for me to get discouraged, depending on how set I am on completing a task. If I’m not interested, then there isn’t a snowball’s chance in hell that I’ll get it done. So, if you put up a roadblock (like expulsion), I will likely roll over and give up with minimal fuss.

Anywho, my business. It’s life coaching. I know, why would someone who can’t finish or accomplish anything try to be a life coach? Someone who doubts dreams and goals and is skeptical of most values and belief systems can’t know how to motivate. As they say, those who can’t do, teach. I’ve always taken that to heart. It feels shitty to say when you’re talking about actual teachers who commit their lives to their students. However, when it comes to executive functioning, it’s much easier to talk the talk than it is to walk the walk. I can schedule anyone’s week down to the minute, but I can’t make more than a single commitment for myself on any given day. If I have an appointment at 3:00 pm, you best believe I’m calling off work for the day and sitting at home until 2:35 pm. I always leave enough time in my commute to get lost and still be five minutes early. My particular dysfunction could be ADHD, anxiety, or sheer lack of motivation. It could be a toxic dose of all three. Hard to say. All I know is someone else’s shit is easier than my own.

I have one client so far. Cruising right along. Her name is Rebecca. She’s a hot fucking mess. Thirty-five years old, single, no children, no career of any significance, minimal education, zero confidence, and no aspirations. I have my work cut out for me. It’s not that Rebecca doesn’t have a stable life secured for herself that matters; it’s the fact that she thinks everything that has or hasn’t happened to her over the years is a result of her bad fortune. She acts like an unlucky sucker who easily falls prey to even the most unwitting of schemes. She has no sense of power or self-determination. There is no accountability for her actions, good or bad. If something goes wrong, it’s par for the course. If she accomplishes anything, she gives credit to God or, now, me.

It’s interesting to be in control of someone’s life like that, having enough influence over somebody to impact their daily routine. I get texts from Rebecca first thing in the morning asking me what she should eat for breakfast. “Healthy and balanced,” is my usual reply. I’m not trying to dictate her every calorie, but I want her to know how food fuels her. All she needs is the reminder, and she knows what to do from there. My role in her development becomes essential. Without me, she is adrift. It’s a dynamic I never imagined myself in, but now that I am, I can’t picture being out of it. Not necessarily just with Rebecca, any client will do; I simply mean to say I’ve found my calling. There’s not much that I can’t schedule, plan, or inspire out of people. It’s what I’m meant to do.

“Chuck, help. Is royal blue appropriate for an interview? What about make-up? I’m not sure what color palette to go with.” Rebecca anxiously coiled the wired headphones around her fingertips.

“Royal blue can be an accent, but not a whole piece, and you want neutral, earthy tones for your eyes.”

“What about lips?”

“Muted. Think apricot, nectarine, or nude. It’s a bank; you’re not bartending at the Marquee.”

“Of course. Light blush?”

“Naturally.” I know what you’re thinking. How do I know these things? I’m a grown, straight man, not a Neanderthal. Developing a look is as important as cultivating hobbies, interests, or friendships. Women and men aren’t so different in this way. We all worry about appearances. Being perceived is a real bitch, and everyone worries about it. Even the ones who say they don’t. So, in light of this, I have taken the time to learn about what women must go through to complete their looks. Past partners probably deserve the most credit for educating me. However, I still deserve credit for caring enough to take it all in and remember. Most men I know wouldn’t give it the time of day, but most men I know don’t realize the amount of labor that goes into a woman’s morning routine. “Putting on a face” isn’t too far from reality. The process is precise, surgical even. One wrong shade, and the entire look is ruined. People will think you’re a prostitute, not a CEO. Those are the stakes, and men don’t even know they perpetuate them.

My mother taught me all about the double bind. The “damned if you do, damned if you don’t” curse of womanhood. The “don’t dress like a slut, but don’t be a prude,” “give an air of intelligence, but not enough to intimidate,” “make men look at you, but don’t invite them” double standards of living as a feminine person that haunt our interactions. I may disagree with the rules, but I know how to play the game.

“Thanks, Chuck. I don’t know what I would do without you.” I’ve been hearing that for years. It’s how I knew I needed to be a life coach. I needed to monetize my usefulness, my only marketable skill, decisiveness.

“My pleasure, Bex. Now, you remember your talking points?”

“Yes. Stick to my experience with money management: cashier, retail, and the coup de grâce, bookkeeping for a financial advisory firm.” She smiled broadly as she listed her greatest asset.

“Start with that. If they need any other experience besides that, beef up your work as a cashier. Tell them you balanced the registers and made bank deposits.”

“I don’t know how to do that, though.” She winced, presumably at the thought of lying.

“They won’t check.” She gave a skeptical look. “I promise.” I couldn’t make such a promise, but she didn’t need to hear that. She needed to hear that she was credible and qualified, that they would see her and think she was the best woman for the job. Perhaps that’s what I sell. Hope. False or not, who’s to say? All that matters is that my client believes me and performs accordingly.

A knock came on Rebecca’s door.

“Oh, that’s my ride. I’ve got to get going.” She stood, so all I could see was her waist and started toward the door.

“Good luck, Rebecca! Call me later. I want to know how it goes.” She nodded and hung up.