Hope is Not a Strategy & Other Wise Words

Okay, so Brian, my exit row companion on the flight to Houston was basically Anthony Robbins. Not that I'm super familiar with Anthony Robbins, but the things he was saying seemed like the kind of "you make your life what you want it to be" things that some kind of Anthony Robbins-esque person would say. It was like kick my ass-- in a good way-- Day 2. If someone somewhere isn't trying to get me a message... well, they should have told John and Brian. I have no idea how it all began. He said hello and yeah, I think that pretty much did it. What began with "reasons are one thing and excuses another" led to "hope is not a strategy" and "do you want someone to teach you to fish or to give you fish?" Apparently, he had some mentor somewhere like that old sports agent guy that kept popping up in "Jerry Maguire." There were stories tied to all of these little nuggets. And they weren't all about me. Thankfully. The long and short of it is I get it. I do get it. Really. I need to change my thinking. I need to take responsibility. I need to keep learning how to fish. And keep fishing even if I don't catch anything. Which applies to work and dating and pretty much the whole life plan. And to figure out a strategy to catch fish if my methods aren't working. Brian did throw me one bone-- that the whole dating thing sucked from what he remembered. And he's married. For ten years. With two kids. I guess he had not so fond memories of dating or LA. He kept telling me I should move.

Anyway, all in all, a fan of Brian. He was infinitely more entertaining than the very large woman invading my personal space between Houston and Ft. Lauderdale. I was a middle. I thought exit is always better. Even if it's a middle. But I was wrong. And I'm sure that Brian would have had some sort of nugget to explain why it isn'. Too bad he wasn't on that flight. He could have helped drown out the very loud man and woman behind me. Thank God for headphones and rap music. Yes, I rapped all the way to Ft. Lauderdale. Then retrieved my Mack Daddy rental car... some huge ass white SUV because that's all they had and felt like I had truly hit Miami.

I'm actually in Bal Harbour, Florida. I've never been to Florida. And although I got here after midnight and am typing this in the reception area while the registration clerk yells at her boyfriend in a language I've never heard before, I'm kind of digging it. Because I'm at a hotel. On the beach! It has a whole kitchen set up and two beds and I can see the ocean. I don't even care that I have to sit in the reception area for wireless access. Because I have a little balcony. And they serve breakfast. On the water. Even though tans are bad. Very bad. And you should never get them because they harm your skin and age you and could cause cancer...I'm on the beach! Oh, yeah. I'm working. Still. And I forgot my bathing suit. Still... it's enough to make me want to embrace my inner Orange County.

Tired now. Have to be up early. And this isn't too articulate. But I felt like writing something a little less fetal position. Am going to work on a strategy. In my sleep. And on the beach and at Sephora and Bath & Body Works. And in between, I might just get a tan. Well, a little one.