LATE BLOOMER

History shines lightly on the late bloomer.

Here, I am, nigh unto my thirtieth year, and I've accomplished nothing.

I've achieved so little of my potential, it's humiliating.

Just think:

When Ringo Starr was my age, he'd left the Beatles.

When John Kennedy was my age, he'd blown up a really big boat.

Amelia Airhardt had been lost to history by this time.

{When Mozart was my age, he'd gotten laid.}

When Dr. Seuss had reached my years, he could do his own laundry.

When Billy Hoskins was my age, he could cut his meat.

And when my grandfather was my age, he had left the house unsupervised.

Yes, history does not favor the late bloomer

(or the meek, but that's a story for another day).

Someday, though, I shall rise out of this miasma of shame, escape my cocoon, and raise myself to my natural level.

Perhaps then I shall cross the street.