I had a conversation with a co-worker the other day during which I felt equal parts pity and dissent: a not uncommon reaction when opinionated idiots take a stand on something.  Although, it really isn’t fair to call him an idiot because that would mean I’m taking an equally opinionated stance, but it’s hard to respect someone’s point of view when you passionately disagree with their entire system of values.  He was explaining how he always assumes the worst from every situation, and while I can see how that sort of mindset has it’s practical uses, I couldn’t help pointing out how depressingly pessimistic it seemed.  My co-worker responded by saying “I’m not a pessimist. I’m a realist.”  It wasn’t what he said that bothered me, so much as how, and how he said it was with a smug satisfaction, complimented perfectly by the self-righteous smirk on his face.  He made it sound like it was a worldview to be admired, like the word itself gave it credence, like he was clued in on something to which the rest of us were foolishly ignorant.

However, while he saw himself as a man who had it all figured out, I saw a man who found a way to justify the abandonment of hope.  I saw a man who realized that following his dream was going to be a lot harder as an adult than it had seemed as a child.  I saw someone who had been hurt once or twice along the way.  He probably dusted himself off the first time, and maybe even the second or third, but soon realized the heartaches wouldn’t stop, that they were an unavoidable part of the human condition, and chose to withdraw from the game and play permanent defense, like a paranoid old man sleeping with a shotgun pointed at his door.  He chose to invest his talent and energy into work he despises, and for what?  For constant residence within the financial buffer zone:  an economic state of existence in which you never want for anything, yet are forever consumed by the things you want.

There’s a famous quote, by an unknown author, that reads “Reality is for people who lack imagination.”  It’s a motto that I’ve personally taken to heart, because reality sucks, and I find it astounding why anyone would want to spend their entire existence confined by it’s limitations. Life is difficult, and suffering is inevitable; but accepting that fact as a part of your reality, and tailoring your reality around that fact are two vastly different approaches.

Now, am I being unreasonably cynical and blowing this out of proportion in order to avoid discussing the shortcomings of my own viewpoints?  Probably.  I realize that being realistic has it’s advantages and that my particular brand of optimism has a tendency to border on delusional; however, in this case I don’t think I’m being unrealistic, and I’ll tell you why.  In the second part of our conversation, as I defended my idealism, I mentioned that I am in a constant search for the love of my life, and will not stop until I find her.  My co-worker responded by saying, “I’m sorry but I think all girls are deceitful, lying, sluts.”  And then with a shrug, “that’s just how I feel.”

Well, I guess nothing says bad personal experiences like stereotyping half the planet’s population.  I’m not going to sit here and pretend like I’m some altruistic acolyte for gender equality, but if anyone has ever deserved a solid kick in the testicles, it was that man in that moment.  All girls are lying sluts? Really?  Funny, how that conveniently absolves you of all wrongdoing before the relationship even starts.  You’re perfect, but 3 billion people are inherently flawed.  Sound logic.  Real fucking realistic.

My fear doesn’t stem from claustrophobia or heights. It’s the complete lack of control that I hate. Once I’m strapped in and the plane pulls away from the gate, I’m powerless to do anything except poop and pray.  My life is in the hands of somebody I don’t know and can’t see, but am supposed to trust to keep us from becoming a tragic side story on the evening news.

Whenever I explain this fear to people, they never fail to cite the statistical safety of the airlines and remind me that, while driving, I may have control over my own car but none over the thousands of other vehicles around me. I’m not going to discount that argument, but I believe there is a significant gap in situational awareness that would make a plane crash much worse than a car crash.  Car accidents are instantaneous, making it difficult to form even a single thought before you slam into that tree, but when you’re 60,000 feet in the air, there is a much more significant time gap between something going wrong, and everybody dying…plenty of time to panic. Every time the plane gives a sudden jerk or dip in altitude, two hundred silent prayers fill the cabin, because at this point relying on a higher power is the only option.  Now, if that turbulence doesn’t relent and the plane starts to fall, prayer turns to panic, and one person screaming causes another person to scream, and before you find the nerve to blink, you’re surrounded by dozens of people who all think that they’re about to die.  Not to mention that the free fall has only begun, and you still have a solid minute worth of unending terror to witness the depths of cowardice man can reach when faced with imminent death.  You might even discover that you’re one of the many, paralyzed by fear, crying out to be saved by a god that, five minutes ago, you weren’t even sure existed.

I understand the odds are slim, but finding out that I’m a total pussy along with a hundred other screaming strangers is not how I picture spending my final moments. Although on the bright side, at least no one outside of the cabin will ever know how pathetic the scene was before the plane hit the ground (mountain or ocean).  Therefore, our loved ones are free to imagine a more valiant end than a tin can full of people pissing themselves.

***Disclaimer:  I base the majority of the above information on projections that my own imagination has constructed from t.v. and movies. None of it was derived from anything remotely resembling a credible source.

I’m not a huge fan of condoms, but I used to be, back when I could barely get past foreplay without millions of potential children spewing forth into the world. I can even remember a couple of instances in which I double wrapped, just to save myself the embarrassment of apologizing for being so pathetic.  Due to these massive insecurities concerning my sexual performance, I convinced myself that I was a foremost champion of safe sex.  In reality, I was just trying to avoid an embarrassing nickname, like Pre-Jack or Minute Mac.  Thankfully, after a couple of years that I’m not particularly proud of, I gained enough confidence in my consistent sexual fitness that the idea of desensitizing my most sensitive of organs began to make less and less sense.  Then, the excuses started to pile up: they’re expensive, they make me associate sex with the smell of latex, and god help you if you get any of that lubricant in your mouth.  Fortunately, the universe hasn’t decided to teach me a lesson about being responsible by guiding one of my swimmers to the finish line, and it’s probably because I can barely take care of myself, let alone an impressionable child, susceptible to all manners of trauma and death.  For whatever reason, I’ve been allowed to be selfish pretty much my entire life, and I’m deathly afraid of the day I have to start paying it back, because I know I owe interest.

Hell, I can remember a handful of times in high school when I was so afraid my girlfriend was pregnant that I  mentally prepared myself for parenthood, ready to forgo college and get a blue-collar job just because I couldn’t be bothered to buy condoms.  And that’s when I was seventeen.  I had a friend tell me the other day that her sister started having sex in the seventh grade. For those of you trying to do the math right now, the average seventh grader is twelve years old, thirteen if they were born late in the year.  These kids aren’t even taking the time to wade through the emotional confusion of puberty or to familiarize themselves with their newly operational equipment. They’re just taking their new toys straight to show-and-tell without an ounce of patience or forethought to the consequences.

Nevertheless, as it is with all of the minor vices in life, teenagers aren’t the only transgressors, but they are the dumbest.  They don’t understand that their actions can have serious repercussions, no matter how many times parents try to beat it into their skulls.  Adults, on the other hand, understand that there are consequences, and often have intricate knowledge of the havoc that they voluntarily wreak on their mind, body, and soul: “I know that not using protection has the potential to blow up in a mass destruction of all of my hopes and dreams, depriving me of most (if not all) of my youth and potential; but the five minute drive to the gas station just sounds super inconvenient right now.”

It’s astonishing to me how easily people are dissuaded from common sense and reason. It’s the same reason why cigarette smokers continue to feed their addiction.  They know for a fact that it’s bad for them, but continue to indulge in the momentary bliss, leaving their future selves to pay the cost. No matter how sound the logic is, and no matter how much evidence people have to contradict their decisions, humanity will always give in to pleasure, just as long as the kickback isn’t quick enough to kill their buzz.

At a time when it’s not uncommon to see teenage girls pushing strollers and eating for two, it’s difficult to fathom the fact that this problem already has a solution:  a simple cylinder of lubricated latex capable of stretching over the length of a pickle, and in some cases, a cucumber.  Condoms are one of the miniature wonders of our society, but like the majority of miraculous gifts that technology has bestowed upon humanity, the undeserving masses have taken it completely for granted.