My Why

 It’s been said by scruffy men in itchy cardigans with the requisite leather elbow patches that if you wish to get your point across, there are four essentials for whatever you are attempting to convey to be complete. You must include the who, the why, the where, the when, and the what. I know, there are five! Yet, they’re still called the four, and sometimes just to confuse young, eager minds all the more, they throw in the how, which is often called the sixth essential.

It’s no wonder that, more often than not, you’d rather have a turkey vulture pluck out your eyes while sipping your morning coffee than read a news story nowadays. I think it’s more about propaganda than a lack of writing skills, and for propaganda to be effective, you must sacrifice the who and the why quite frequently. Even the what gets murky, and if it happens to be during a meeting of global elites, the where is bound to fall victim to editorial oversight.

We can’t have the peasants thinking for themselves. We must tell them what to do, and their idols must reinforce it by being first in line to accept whatever self-damage we endorse, and soon enough, you’ll have consensus.

This is why lunacy must be choked off in the embryonic stages and not allowed to grow. The conversation over whether boys can get pregnant and have periods should have occurred when the first such individual opened their mouth and uttered this inanity. Now, you have movie stars and rockers walking their malformed children like some poodle, reveling in the idea that their little boy is wearing a too-too skirt and lipstick.

It’s too late to put that particular genie back in the bottle, and the only thing left to do is prepare to help pick up the pieces of shattered lives and broken dreams. That’s the best-case scenario. The actual repercussions of this madness are yet to be felt. Give it a few more years, and check the suicide stats on former children who were pumped full of hormone blockers before they knew how to spell their name just because mommy wasn’t satisfied with being a day drinker. She wanted some street cred, and if she had to sacrifice her child’s future health and happiness to do it, well, it’s just a clump of cells, after all, even if it’s all grown up.

I’m waiting for someone to declare that their pet is transgender and see how long it takes for them to be accused of animal cruelty. But why? My pit bull thinks it’s a kitten; look, see, he’s saying meow. Good girl; now here’s your Fancy Feast, or is it, Sheba? I used to see commercials for both; I think, before I stopped watching television.

You know it’s bound to happen. I may have just given some attention hound somewhere an idea. Honestly, it would be funnier to see someone trying to get their cat to fetch a tennis ball than seeing so-called medical professionals trying to convince the masses that this is normal, wholesome, and has zero adverse effects. That’s just cringe and kind of makes you wonder if they crossed their fingers behind their back when taking the Hippocratic oath.

All that aside, I want to get back to the why. Why am I writing these musings? Why am I taking a position? Why am I risking hurt feelings and angry comments and being misunderstood?

Because I’ve been on a diet before. Actually, I’ve been on quite a number of them. The one thing they all had in common was that I had a specific number in mind. Crystal clear, unerring, flashing red and big. I had to eat broccoli and flavorless chicken, I would tell myself, until, one morning, I got on the scale and hit that number.

I’m bullheaded enough that I always hit my number. Then, once I hit my number, I’d go out and celebrate with a stuffed crust pineapple and ham pizza.

Then one day, I thought I’d outsmart myself. I hit my number, but rather than have the celebratory pizza, which would turn into celebratory ice cream, pie, cobbler, cake, cronut, and such, I still aimed for a lower number.

Guess what? Didn’t work. The quest for the new number after hitting my initial one lasted all of five hours. Why? Because in my mind, I’d predetermined this was the end of my journey, and I could start enjoying things that make life worth living again.

I hope you get where I’m going with this. If in my heart I’ve firmly established that I’ll be here to this date and not one-minute past, how many days, weeks, or months would it take for me to reach psychological ruination? It’s not about fear; it’s about endurance. If you’re prepared to run a half marathon, but when you show up the morning of the race, they tell you it’s a full marathon, how do you think you’ll do?

Ask anyone who’s ever done an Iron Man, run a marathon, or a triathlon, and they’ll tell you that at some point along the way, it becomes a mental game rather than a physical one. Sure, you need to be in shape, so your heart doesn’t give out, but many in shape people give up halfway because their mental focus is lacking.

I just don’t want to see you give up halfway. That’s my why. I want to see you finish the race.

With love in Christ,

Michael Boldea, Jr.