I’m one of those people you hate. You know, full of optimism. The world is delightful, and nothing can get me down. I’ve heard people like me talking to others, and I’ve thought: ‘what a …’
Well, we won’t go into that.
But nothing, good reader, is how it seems.
I was optimistic as a kid. Not inside, you understand, but how I reacted to life. I suppose today I’d have been classed as hyper-active and put on drugs. In earlier times, I’d have had the ‘Devil in me.’
I was the kid who would see a high gate … with spikes on top … in the snow … as a challenge. As I hung there, a spike through my hand, I said: ‘Ouch.’
I was the kid that nothing could touch. Hence, I wasn’t looking that Christmas Eve morning when I went tumbling into the electric fire.
Optimism is such trouble
Two years and nine surgical operations later, my optimism – my indestructibility – was still there. It wasn’t inside, but it WAS on the surface, where it counts. And as adolescence came and went, the optimism transferred to the opposite sex.
Sometimes I was successful, at other times not.
You mean I wasn’t a babe-magnet?
That’s the trouble with optimism. It’s a good outlook to have, but it causes misjudgements and calamities.
I realized this eventually, and decided optimism must be tempered with pessimism. It is not a depressing outlook to have, but a means of survival.
Nowadays I live by a simple mantra: plan for the worst and hope for the best. I do this because I’ve realized life must be a balance or it’s a bitch. And with this outlook, most of the surprises are good ones.
© Anthony North, August 2007
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