…that “Genius is the act of perceiving similarity among disparate things.”

Not to brag, but I think I’m almost there.  I looked around this weekend and was surprised by the striking commonalities between:

  • My life philosophy and Billy Beane’s Moneyball philosophy.  In sum:   forget superstardom.  Above-average, over time, will be enough.  (And btw, Slow And Steady Wins The Race never looked better than with Brad Pitt at the helm.)
  • Metallic costume jewelry and flat, greasy hair.  Two great looks that look great together.  Believe me–I combined them last Friday night and the results positively shone.
  • My and my brand new steam iron:  shiny (see above), occasionally hot, and committed to wrinkle removal.
  • Our new van payment and my seventh-graders ginormous math homework assignments.   Both leave me anxious, intimidated, and exposed to a dizzying array of terrifying numbers.
  • My wardrobe for the coming winter season and the current selection at Redbox:  nothing, nothing, nothing.
  • Ethan’s short temper lately and my short temper lately.  Wait.  There is no disparity here.
  • Michelle Obama’s Let’s Move campaign and my aspirations to clean out my walk-in closet.  Both are asinine in their objective and mind-numbing in their futility.  Put the nation on a diet or organize my Merona “sweaters” from lightest to darkest?  Take your pick.
  • Sing-Off and my kids’ new favorite fruit leather from Costco:  snappy, sweet, recently discovered, and with just enough substance to go down guilt-free.
  • Waxing my own eyebrows and cleaning out the oven.  I endeavored both last week, and though each challenge was awkward and a bit beyond my skill level, man did it feel good to strip off all the crud in the end.
  • My thirty-eight year-old self and the lemon jell-0 I made Ethan for dessert tonight.  Both are jiggly, set in their ways, and more tart than sweet.  Loved by some but not liked by all.  And never quite able to keep up with black cherry.
  • 9:00 am church and having a baby.  You go into both exhausted and terrified, doubtful that you’ll ever emerge on the other side.  When the ordeal finally passes, you walk away from it with a romanticized memory.  Hobbling out to the car, you naively think to yourself:  That wasn’t so bad.  I could do that again.

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