The way of a fool is right in his own eyes, but a wise man is he who listens to counsel.
A few weeks ago I had a dental procedure which involved general anesthesia. All went well, and I got home in a state of relative comfort, took a brief nap, then arose feeling surprisingly robust. “Honey,” I announced to the other room, “I’m feeling just fine. I was expecting to write the day off, but I think I’m actually going to get some things done today.” She didn’t see it that way and kindly pointed out that I was still visibly woozy and it was best not to push it. I appreciated her concern, but knew she was quite in the wrong and simply being overly cautious. “I know my own body. I’m fine, really!” said the fool in his folly.
I sat down in my recliner preparing to read through some mail, and with all manner of adroitness, reached for and donned my reading glasses. “See, I’m fine,” I repeated. Then peering over the top of my glasses (appreciably to make sure she saw how well I was doing) I became aware that I now wore not one, but two pairs of reading glasses. Quickly, I groped for the superfluous pair, fumbled them to the ground, and placed hope in the naive notion that my frenzy went undetected.
After reading the first article of mail for the third time, I determined this would be the perfect occasion to get my computer and respond to some likely gathering emails. Again my wife proffered her thoughtful advice: “You might want to wait a few hours before doing that.” “I’m fine,” the drumbeat continued, ”wholly lucid in fact.” I saw the look and knew what it meant. But as I say, she was wrong. “Don’t worry,” I assured, “I won’t embarrass myself;” and off I went to retrieve said computer. Striding–or weaving, depending on one’s perspective–through the back door and out into the world, I crossed to the far edge of the driveway and came to a stop, then stood motionless for some minutes, wondering why I was there. I tried to review my thoughts so as to retrace my steps and decipher the matter, but realized I had no thoughts.
Curiously, in my anesthetical stupor, far from feeling embarrassed, I was actually at peace. It was rather freeing, really. Life was a potpourri–a medley with no past, no worries, only the present and the myriad of options which lay before me.
I thoroughly enjoyed my time wandering in the wooze. But as you might expect, my mindless adventure had to come to an end. And this it did, abruptly, as the thought of the computer popped into my head and the recent past all came back to me. I celebrated the retrieved thought with a laugh more pensive than hale, glanced down at my mismatched socks, and decided now was a good time to go back inside and tell my wife she was right.
I hope this encourages you to heed sound advice today.
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