Happy?

September 4, 2018

Paying me an undeserved compliment the other day, Linda said I’m a deep thinker. For the record, I’m not. Arcane philosophy bores me, even lower mathematics puzzles me. I don’t think deeply; I think differently. I make a habit of trying to see the extraordinary in ordinary stuff, to ferret out what God may be trying to reveal in a storm or a salad. See what I mean? What normal person would even think to wonder what God might be saying in a salad, unless it’s one of those crystal ball, tea leaf reading folks? Like today, for instance.

Every month, a copy of Esquire magazine comes across my desk. It’s someone else’s subscription, but has the church’s address on it. No one seems to know who the subscriber is, but it ends up in my hands. Once in awhile, I glance through it just to remind myself how out of touch with society I am. I guess it’s supposed to be a monthly tribute to cool, but I just find it weird. Take the ads, for example.

No matter what is being advertised (usually clothes), I’ve yet to see a model that looks remotely happy, even though they’re sporting the latest and most expensive duds I’ve ever laid eyes on. I’ll mention one at random. I have to admit that in this particular ad it’s possible the model could be smiling. It’s hard to tell, since his face is hidden behind a megaphone. He’s wearing a $10,890 coat, a $12,095 suit, a $695 tie, and $670 loafers. The ad doesn’t say what his underwear or socks cost, but I’m guessing they aren’t Walmart Fruit of the Loom. I’ve never owned a car that cost even half that much!

Years ago, a pastor friend penned a short ditty that pretty much sums it up:

“I watch the joggers as they run by,

Mile after weary mile.

Tell me, if jogging is so much fun,

Why don’t they ever smile?”

—Vern Bigler

I wonder that about these models. They’re wearing the best stuff, posing for a national magazine, but no one looks happy. Maybe it’s because they don’t get to take the stuff home. But I wonder, even if I were disposed to waste that kind of money on clothes, why would I buy stuff that doesn’t seem to make anyone any happier? 

I’m sitting on my patio listening to six year old Gemma excitedly giving Linda a blow-by-blow account of her first day of first grade. I’m wearing stuff off the cheap rack at Walmart, the dog and cat are stretched out lazily, and if I am not cool, at least I am content. And thankful.