Irony Is Not My Friend

I am a big fan of the American novelist John .  I’m not sure what drives my liking to his work, but something about his writing just grabs me.  Despite his creative influences being cut of a different cloth then mine, there is certain realness to his pen, which I somehow relate.  I always love his stuff.


Recently, I read Travels With Charlie , which is a bit of an anomaly compared to other Steinbeck novels.  Actually, referring to it as a novel is not quite accurate, as the book is really more a personal journal than piece of fiction.


Without giving away too much, I will simply say that the book chronicles the journey of Steinbeck and his dog (Charlie) looking to discover ‘real’ America.  Together, this duo spends a few months traversing the back-roads and small towns of America.  The process is simple enough, but the expedition proves to be anything but.


Early in the book, Steinback talks about an itch he has, one I to which I easily relate.

“When I was very young and the urge to be someplace else was upon me, I was assured by mature people that maturity would cure this itch.”

I love that passage.  I am that passage. 

I find it painful to sit still.  For me, to be idle is to suffocate.   While reading this book, I found myself repeatedly envious of the premise – that is say, the trip itself. 

Steinbeck’s story unearthed memories of a similar, albeit much smaller trip of my own.  Prior to my senior year of high school, a buddy of mine and I embarked on a mini journey of our own.  Keeping planning efforts and decisions simple, we eradicated prolonged preparation by way of a coin flip; heads would take us east, while tails would bring us west. 

The results of that simple coin flip pointed us towards the east.  We then loaded the car, pressed the gas pedal, and embarked upon our one-week journey.

Epic is probably an inappropriate adjective to describe that simple voyage, but our travels were indeed impactful, the memories have not yet faded to black.  All these years later, my pal and I occasionally laugh in reminiscence of that trip.  It seems great adventures do indeed cement themselves into the brain, forever a welcomed companion.

I try not to let it get the best of me, but I’ll tell you this - irony can be a real son of a bitch.

For years, I’ve gotten up every day to go to work.  During this time, my moments away from the office were precious, something to be protected and used strategically.  Routinely, I was in the habit of safeguarding vacation days such that the folks guarding the Coca-cola secret formula were impressed.

But here’s the real kick is ass … at long last, here I am with nothing but time.  Devoid of burdens facing regular adults, I am free to color my blank canvas of time with any adventure mosaic that might move me.  Sadly, I have no crayons. 

And so it is, I have an abundance of roll-over minutes.  If left unused, there will come a point wherein this time, such a precious commodity will vanish into thin air.

I lack work, the enabler of money with which to fund crayons for capturing the adventure that could be.  Surely, my situation is not bleak when compared to so many others.  The truth is I am fortunate; I have no real financial strain, just less disposable dollars than before.  It could be far worse; I understand the significance of that.  Believe me, I do.

But, I cannot help but to conclude that Fortuna has an odd way to her will.  My sudden abundance of time is now without a partner to fund what could otherwise be a beautiful partnership, together enabling fabulous adventures.

I catch myself smiling just thinking about what could have been, but evidently is not meant to be.