Underachiever

My name is Prairie Wanderer.  And I am an underachiever.

I’m not a social climber.  I’m not a go-getter.  I certainly don’t keep up with the Joneses and you won’t catch me being a ‘company man’.  I’m not particularly ambitious, at least not financially, and my nose is nowhere near the grindstone.  I don’t put in extra hours and I’ve scratched myself from the rat race a while back.

I am an underachiever.

It’s taken me years to come to terms with being an underachiever, and what being an underachiever means.

For the record, I have a very pedestrian job at a modest salary with a local building supply company.  I’m good at what I do, and am well-liked and respected in the business, but it is not necessarily an intellectually taxing occupation.  I could do something with more prestige and more money and more opportunities for advancement, but it comes with more responsibilities and headaches and stress.  I don’t handle stress well.  In fact, I handle stress extremely poorly; I overeat, drink, smoke and generally blow a lot of money when under pressure.  Not a good scene, really.  And at the end of the day, I like what I do.  I like my coworkers (for the most part) and my clients and my little office and the rest of it.  I’m not working 14 hours a day anymore, and I’m not tying myself in knots anymore.

I used to be a company man and put my nose to the grindstone and all of that.

I was a sucker.  I knew it even then, but I sacrificed myself to the altar of ‘hard work’, thinking that I was Doing What Was Expected of Me.  The ex and I lived in an older house right beside a brand-new sub development in what was becoming a swankier and more exclusive part of town. 

I hated every single second of it.  I hated the suburbs and suburbanites and the whole lifestyle associated with it.  Nearly the whole suburban existence involved households so terrified of being out of step with everyone else, they were practically neurotic over it.  One person cut the grass.  EVERYONE was out cutting the grass within the hour, like clockwork.  One person on the block got a boat, EVERYONE was looking at boats the next week.  One house had a wine and cheese thing, someone else had to do one, except they would slightly outdo the last one.  The suburbs were dull and vacuous, and full of dull and vacuous people.  They gulped anxiety medication by the fistful and from what I recall, no one was ever really happy.  They worshipped lame fads.  When Sideways came out, everyone started becoming wine snobs.  When Trading Spaces was on TLC, everyone played at being interior designers.  Yoga?  Check.  Pilates?  Check.  Words like man-cave embarrassingly floated into the lexicon. 

As I said before, 14 hour days weren’t uncommon for me.  I worked and worked and worked, and then worked some more.  It was a common thing in my neighbourhood.  Everyone was working.  No one was home before 6 o’clock.  At least one parent in every household worked evenings and weekends.  And then they came home and did housework and yardwork.  And in the summer, they drove out to their lakeside cottages and did work out there. 

Partly, I worked so much because my ex-wife Annie was notoriously bad at holding down jobs.  The best she could do was 6 months consistently before she was ‘let go’, and it conveniently coincided with her eligibility to collect employment insurance.  Needless to say, it was a major point of contention in our marriage.  I forwent finishing my own education so she could go back to school so she could find meaningful work that she wouldn’t ditch after a few months.  This was easily the worst life decision I’ve ever made.  But the decision was made for good or ill, and I worked ridiculously long hours to keep food on the table and a roof over our heads, doing work I absolutely hated.  For her part, shiny new certificate in hand, she continued the same job shenanigans she always did.  Work x number of months, and then find a way to get herself off so she could go back on unemployment insurance.  Rinse.  Repeat.  Eventually she did find a steady job, but it was part-time.  And the cost of putting Nick into daycare made it almost meaningless from a financial standpoint.

Things came to a head in Christmas of 2007.  In hindsight, I think I had a nervous breakdown.  At any rate, after Christmas, I simply refused to go back to work.  I quit my job and took 3 months off.  Just like that.  Between my ex-wife’s lackadaisical attitude to work and money, my job, which was burning me out both mentally and physically, all the overtime I was putting in, and the growing emotional and physical distance between my ex and I, I was just done.  I needed a break.  At that point, I hadn’t even had a proper holiday in almost 7 years.  I was exhausted and overwhelmed on every single level, and was operating that way for nearly 5 straight years.  I had constant migraines.  I grinded my teeth so badly the dentist told me that my teeth were a year or two way from some major work.  I smoked like a chimney, stared at the ceiling wide awake night after night, chewed through bottles of antacids and I phoned in sick at least a few days a month. I had a knot in between my shoulder blades.  My knees killed me.  I felt like a 60 year old in a 30 year old’s body.

I was done.  D-O-N-E.

I stayed home for a few months and looked after Nick full time.  When I was ready, I took a job with less pay and normal hours and much less stress.  I explained to my ex this was how things were going to be from now on.  She was going to have to step up to the plate if she wanted our standard of living to stay the same or get better.

And a little over two years later, we split.  In retrospect, I shouldn’t have been surprised. 

This is all a much longer story with implications that run much deeper.  This is fit for probably about 5-6 blog posts and it casts me in as much negative light as Annie.  But we’ll leave that for another day.

Anyway, I stepped back and scaled down.   Downshifted if you will.  And now I couldn’t imagine living any other way. 

And I don’t see it as underachieving at all.  I am living life to the fullest.  Just on my terms, no one else’s.  I invest my time and energy into the things that matter to me; the boys, photography, soccer, friends and family.  I’m not a bum. I earn a living, I pay my bills, and I fulfill my obligations to my kids.  But the things I work the hardest on don’t have a financial payoff.  I’m cool with that.  And there are so many people who think I’m stone cold daft for not achieving my professional potential, but at the exact same time admire me for having the conviction to say no to all of that.

I ain’t rich.  But I’m happy.

- PW

Uncle Fred Flies Home

I bid farewell to my uncle yesterday.  He flew back to England, tired and looking after a few weeks to be happy to be going home again to his familiar routine.

Somehow in the inevitable fate of the universe, the relatives I like the least live the closest to me and the relatives I love the most live overseas.  My uncle Fred is hands down best uncle I’ve ever had.  I first met him when I was 12 and wished like hell he could be the uncle I could see every week.  He took me out to soccer games, walks, to the seaside.  We did more stuff in those 3 weeks I was there than my dad and I did in our whole childhood.  And no, I’m not exaggerating.  I hate to say this, but I wished Uncle Fred was my father growing up.  He’s a naturally charismatic man, charming and impish.  He’s kind of like Benny Hill without the creepy, pervy sense of humour.

We spent a week travelling around the province, soaking up some of the local flavour, but as nice a face as he tried to put on it, I could tell by the end of it he was bored to tears.  Manitoba doesn’t have a lot to offer between winter and fishing season, summer festivals and beaches.  Most small towns are farming communities full of extremely nice folks, but not really a lot to do and see.  We hiked in Riding Mountain National Park, but his back prevented anything too strenuous.

We had pints in many small towns and posed for pics in front of local large-sized attractions – ‘the world’s largest (blank)’.  And that was fun in and of itself.  I taught him the finer points of hockey as it played on the barroom television and he thought I was soft in the head for playing goal for so many years with hard rubber being shot at you at breakneck speed.  He taught me the finer points of soccer as well, especially playing the back.  We cheered our beloved Newcastle United to two straight losses and them missing the Champions League.  Out of all the soccer we've watched together over the last 25 years, when we're together our teams never win.  Not once.  Not even a draw.

And he was gracious enough to kick around the soccer ball with Nick and Gerry, albeit for a short time as his back was acting up.  But I could tell he was wanting to do more.  He indulged their roughhousing until I had to gently step in and tell them enough was enough, and their great uncle can't do too much more.

While he was here, he didn’t ask about my divorce, and I didn’t ask about Grandma and Aunt Tara’s deaths.  In the space of three months he lost his mother and his wife and it hit him HARD.  It’s not that I don’t care.  I do, and immensely.  Aunt Tara was my favourite aunt and I loved her very much, even though I’ve only met her a handful of times in my life.  But I think he needed family who wasn’t constantly tiptoeing around how he was feeling all the time and just cut loose and have some fun.  Which we did in spades.

But he’s not as young as he used to be, and at 3 weeks he was ready to go home to his son, daughter-in-law and his grandchildren and the pace and life of Northern England.  He could not get over how isolated he felt in Winnipeg, how cut-off and far away it was from other major cities, where the closest major city is 7 hours away in another country.  Driving around southern Manitoba and it becomes apparent that 90% of it is farmland.  Important, obviously… but not necessarily aesthetically pleasing, at least not for the long haul.  That’s not a cut on rural living or anything, it’s just the way it is.

We spent a last night at the pub, having a few more cups than we planned on having, shooting pool (he is REALLY good, while I am not really good), watching hockey, and not wanting the moment to arrive where I won’t see him again for a good long while.  But that moment came and went, we shook hands and promised I’ll be over the pond again soon.  He was a little teary and so was I, but we held it together okay.

I’m planning a trip over in a few years with Nick, all things willing and then later on with Gerry when he’s a little older.  It’s funny, because I’ve only been twice in my life, but I feel its incredible draw.  I’ve always felt I’ve belonged there and not here in Canada.  I feel like I’m home when I’m in England.

Moving Back to the Speed of Normal

That was a busy set of weeks, I gotta tell ya.  But I've been around, periodically checking up on you all and seeing how you've been.  For my part, I've been putting in some overtime at work, going to Nick's soccer games twice a week, taking the boys out to the park one weekday evening, taking them every other weekend, playing soccer & practice twice a week, doing a laundry list of jobs for mom and dad and maintaining a sort-of relationship in my spare time.  Probably not as busy as some of you experience, but definitely busy by my lazy, shoe-gazing standards. 

I've also been half-jogging/half-walking home from work - about 10 kilometers a day.  Not every day, but close to every day and that's good enough for me.  My goal is the 10k run on Father's Day - about 6 weeks away.  Doable.  But I'm not forcing the issue.  If I feel good and motivated enough, I'll go for it.  If not, then I'll do another run on another day.

The ankle is swollen and grumpy and aching - playing soccer has pushed it around a bit and it does not like it.  I'm fine when I play, but I have the icepacks ready to go when I get home.  It's nothing serious, and the orthopedic surgeon told me to expect this.  It's still a little frustrating though.

And yes, I've been seeing someone.  More accurately, I've been having sex with someone, as there is really no other dimension to our relationship.  I met her at a local pub my friend was playing music at, chatted, hit it off and have had this Friends With Benefits thing going ever since.  It hasn't been without its bumps, but she's fun and steady and uninhibited and a free spirit, which I think is what I need right now.  But while what we've had is fun, it has the feel of winding down now.  She wants marriage and love, while I do not. 

Did I mention she’s 51? 

I suppose that’s none too shocking anymore.  Intergenerational hook-ups happen all the time (as they probably always have), and thanks to the Internet, it’s really no big deal.  I’m fine with it.  She’s a little iffier about it, but she was attracted to my maturity and my masculine nerdiness so her defences were breached, so to speak, as she assured me that I was normally and emphatically not her type.  As for me, this isn’t even my first hookup with a woman in her 50s.  I had a fling with a 52 year old when I was 24.  No, I don’t have an older woman fetish or anything.  Sometimes things just work out that way.

My uncle is in town from England, and as it works out, all of my English relatives are the ones that I wished lived here instead of the relatives who actually do live here.  We’re doing some real nerding out over Newcastle United as they make their last concerted push toward the Champions League.  We’re also planning a three day road trip around Manitoba, and I’m really looking forward to it.

So… how are things on your end?  J

- PW