This post has nothing to do with anything heady, nothing to do with healthcare. I’ll pause for a minute while those of you who have better things to do with your time click the ‘X’ in the upper right corner.
Is there a time when regressing in your private life seems awfully attractive? Play along with me for a minute. My wife and children are headed to Miami for a month; thirty days, 720 hours—I’ll defer to you to figure out the minutes.
While I am not looking forward to having them gone, I am looking forward to my Ponce de León hours of rebirth; finding my archived inner-self. I may start by watching every Clint Eastwood movie—in order—smoking the Parodi beef-jerky cigars Clint favored in his B-movie westerns. Lots of ill-advised scratching. Socks skewed asunder in a forensic CSI Hansel and Gretel manner from one room to the next—follow the yellow brick road. An ADHD month where I am able to accomplish everything that never made it to my to-do list.
What if via a time machine you were metaphorically single for a month? I watch the Science Channel enough to know that a time machine requires one to travel faster than the speed of light which according to the laws of physics is mathematically impossible. But suppose.
My first initiative—the Celine Dion CDs will be placed on the coffee table as coasters or tossed off the deck as though they were ninja shurikens (stars). I then block “Dancing with the Stars” from the cable box. People Magazine is used as fireplace tinder even though the temperature outside exceeds 90. I get a thirty-day reprieve from the ‘just shoot me now’ question, “Should I do this or that,” knowing if I select column A she will select column B.
Pulse and BP both drop. The lawn begins to grow. Prior to the return of my family, I will be able to hide a giraffe in the grasses of my suburban savanna. The anticipation of next thirty days reminds me of the book, The Cat in the hat Comes Back, knowing full well I will have to dedicate a few days removing all of the pink spots which have accumulated. Paraphrasing…
“Then their mother came in and asked what did you do,
Did you have any fun; tell me what did you do?
Should I tell her about it?
Now, what SHOULD I do?
What would YOU do
If their mother asked YOU?”
That is how it appears to my inner Braveheart character. The real me cowers knowing I do not have what Madeline Albright so inappropriately referred to as the cajones to pull this off—I am pretty certain she was also two spheres short of having the cajones of acting with the dignity required of her position—forgive me for being impolitic.
I am well trained. The lawn will be mowed, the cover will be placed on the grill when it is not in use, the hose will be coiled neatly, the dishes will be aligned anally in the dishwasher, utensils upright and not spooning with one another. The dust balls will surrender to the vacuum, and the plants will be watered.
Life goes on and so shall I. The dream was good while it lasted. I do not know if it is fear or cowardice which takes precedence.
If you call me during July, and I do not answer the phone, I may be vacuuming or dusting. Please leave a message and I will get back to you after I run out of Pledge.
Paul M. Roemer
Chief Imaginist, Healthcare IT Strategy
1475 Luna Drive, Downingtown, PA 19335
+1 (484) 885-6942