Doldrums

I find myself returning to perennial question: Is this IT?

Thirty six years old, a clever home, a family, a job teaching motivated children, a Rottweiler, a decent jump-shot, steady bowel movements and a nascent wine-collection. My wife doesn't like me playing video games so much; I'm addicted she says. And she's probably right. But I like them, and we fight about them (among other things). And I stop, mostly, until I un-stop. I like them because in the fantasy land of first person shooters, I am in control, I stop thinking about...well, everything. I disconnect.

When I return to the world, I'm a bit groggy, sometimes cranky and almost always completely unfulfilled. So, usually, I turn back for more. Which is when my wife gets REALLY angry. I can tell she's angry because her shoe is hitting me on the head, and her arm is attached to it (the shoe, that is) and her face is kind of red and squishy like she just bit down on a hot chile pepper.

I get depressed when my wife doesn't like me. But then I get more depressed when I realize, why should she like me? I mean, I don't really like me--otherwise I wouldn't spend so much time forgetting about myself. Or maybe it's my life I don't like--or is there a difference?

I shouldn't complain because I've got all those things I listed before, plus a step-son who can write better poetry than me and a new fan which has three speeds and a timer. And yet, I find myself sighing through much of the day. I worry about racism. I think most teachers at my school whine a lot. I don't have enough money to buy a hot tub with a lounge seat and adjustable jets. IS THIS ALL THERE IS?

I turn to Camus: "There is but one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide. Judging whether life is or is not worth living amounts to answering this fundamanetal question of philosophy. All the rest--whether or not the world has three dimensions, whether the mind has nine to twelve categories--comes afterward." A little later: "I have never seen anyone die for the ontological argument." I'd have to agree with Albert here; having raised the toilet seat of my existence, I have not seen anything so unpleasant or disturbing which would drive me to give it all up.

Does that mean that all of my questioning, my existential angst and such, is just superfluous whining? I mean, I've made my decision, right? I got out of bed and decided NOT to kill myself. Not conscciously perhaps--and maybe that is an even better sign. I didn't even consider suicide an option this morning as I bit into my apple fritter and found it was stale. Or would the consideration of suicide, going through the decision-making process each morning make life BETTER? Is that my problem? Am I not suicide-worthy? Should I go into therapy and ressurect the depressing landscape of my childhood? THEN there'd be some reasons to stick my head in a stove!

It seems to me that having consciously or unconsciously decided to live means that I shouldn't get to be afraid or disturbed or worried about anything. I don't know a damn thing. I don't know what to do with my life, what would be fulfilling, whether there is a God or whether LOST will make it to a second season; I don't know whether I'm making a difference in people's lives or what I should do to have butt-loads of fun like I did when I was in college and lived off my parents' fortune with six other guys who punched holes in the ceiling. I don't know a thing, and yet I've decided to not kill myself. Ergo: even with all of this uncertainity, life is not horrifying or boring enough for me to end it. The rest is gravy--big vats of thick, steaming gravy with bacon in it. To complain about anything at this point seems absurd.

So really, shouldn't I just get to play all the video games I want?