You guys are really too kind. I assure you that for me to spend my days and evenings doing what I do is also helping me. After all, I don't meet many people each day that get to work at a job where they can look back on each day, and be rewarded with the feeling that they are really living a life of meaning and purpose. It's not that I feel like I am changing the world or anything grandiose like that. It's really that each day I can find some small incremental progress in the fight. It's a rich life and a privilege.
Besides. If I wasn't doing this, I would certainly be getting into some kind of trouble. That would be following my life's previous MO. I would likely hang out at the airport, and if not tinkering with my plane, be "hanger flying" with my buddies there, who like to tell tales of daring do, (big lies) drink beers while doing so, and of course argue about meaningless things. Competitiveness is certainly a part of a pilots nature, and if the weather were bad, we would probably (between beers) just be seeing who could pee the furthest into the snow. Those regularly wasted afternoons would likely occasionally end up in the local pub, continuing an even more brash, obnoxious and loud diatribe about everything from who was the best and most daring pilot, who had flown the most challenging machine, and who had survived the most flying mishaps. Some discussion of prowess with the opposite sex would be needed, and without any members of the opposite sex present to deny the fabrications, the tales would involve feats that would certainly challenge the imagination of Don Juan. Of course shooting pool would be involved, and others from the bar would put their quarters on the table to play winner, and now the "mix" of people would include others who had likely had also had a few too many, and brand new arguments would in due course ensue about something not yet trashed verbally, perhaps some reflections on the nature of someone's mother who disagreed with a particular perspective.
About that time things would really go downhill. Obviously ,the discussion of the mother in question would be really brief, and someone would put their hand on someone else, and be right in their face. My mind, which has difficulty multitasking on the best of days since treatment, would lose control of my mouth, or at least not be keeping up with it. That would be the beginning of what could only be described as a really serious escalation of course. But worse, my brain would certainly have forgotten that it is no longer housed in a 25 year old body, (this is a major problem) but in that of a pretty feeble old dude. By the time it caught up the the reality of the situation at hand, things would certainly be moving in a direction that did not favor a positive outcome for me; I would be in some degree of pain, and given the extent of the group discussion now taking place around me, more similar conversations and outcomes would be taking place as well. Of course someone, perhaps the bar owner not wanting to see his establishment get totally destroyed, would have called the authorities, who by this time would be on scene.
I have always had a problem with figures of authority, and now have a brand new opportunity to express that displeasure, an non-winable discourse, (again probably very short) about the size of the officer's manhood would ensue, as clearly that is why he became a police officer in the first place. In due course after the appropriate amount of time for processing had taken place, I would find myself in some cage, with individuals that surely would be deciding if I was cute enough to e the object of their attention. Things would be seriously bad at this point as you can imagine. My brain has FINALLY, fully grasped the dire nature of my situation, and with some degree of haste I will need to urge my captors to give me that one phone call. This is where the ability to reason clearly really comes into play. Do I call my best friend to come and bail me out, (if can disengage himself from some TV re-run that he is right in the middle of while firmly planted on his couch) or do I call my wife? This is a serious dilemma. Obviously one has some degree of success, but it is based on the TV schedule of the evening - it does however have the advantage of me paying with a minimum of dues for my behavior and situation. The other choice has a guaranteed result of getting me out, but comes attached with some serious dues paying, (and promises of becoming a changed man, some groveling and the like, and an appropriate amount of time in penance for my behavior, where I may no longer complain about taking out the trash or other requested duties). Additionally, and at the very least, it will likely include a lecture on the nature of my relationship with my significant other, and why she, angel of mercy that she is, continues to put up with my incessant misdeeds. After an appropriate number of well behaved weeks, this kind of scenario would most likely play itself out again with diminishing positive returns, proportionate to how often it occurred.
So you can see that, given my proclivities to let the devil find things for my idle mind to do, that dedicating myself to the work of OCF is without any question, IN MY OWN SELF INTEREST. I am not as altruistic as you all think, and as you can see, many things hinge upon that decision, not the least of which is the longevity of my blissful marriage. Please do not think too highly of me, as this exercise clearly shows, I'm in it for myself�..
