Chopping Down the Binary Tree

Not long ago, I had lunch with someone in the same-ish industry with the same-ish title but in a very different place in life. Let’s call that person Bob.

Bob is probably five or six years younger than I am. Maybe even eight or ten. Over less-than-mediocre chicken wraps (yay, Bob’s treat!), we talked about things. My history. Bob’s history. My work. Bob’s work. My philosophy. Bob’s philosophy.

At a certain point in the conversation, I realized Bob saw me as an old fool. A has-been. A washed-up nobody past his prime. It was all obvious in Bob’s line of questioning, in Bob’s body language, in the smirk on Bob’s face when I talked.

It was the first time that’s happened. It was the first time I wasn’t the smug little bastard on the other side of the table. The guy who had life figured out and was grabbing it by the balls.

I hadn’t been that guy in a few years. During most of that time, I avoided humanity like Marlon Brando avoided cholesterol tests. But I’m trying very hard to be the Michael Jordan of misanthropy and come out of retirement. So I’ve been having lunch with the world’s Bobs.

It wasn’t long ago that I would have fought against Bob’s arrogance to prove my relevance. I would have intentionally escalated the conversation in order to ensnare Bob in my trap of obscure music and pop culture references, literary name-dropping, esoteric advertising industry knowledge and logical solutions to the worst problems faced by mankind. I would have one-upped Bob until there was only one thing Bob could have said: “What an asshole.”

He couldn’t have said I was dumb or ignorant or irrelevant or weak or old. I would have covered it all. And in covering it, I would have been an asshole. I wouldn’t have cared, as long as I was just an asshole and none of those other things.

But at lunch that day, I let Bob win. I let Bob sit in that chair and think a lot less of me. Don’t get me wrong. I briefly thought about knocking out Bob’s teeth. But even the thought wasn’t satisfying. By engaging Bob that day, I would have been engaging myself. My slightly younger self. Myself five or ten years gone.

I don’t know what that says about me now. That I’m older and wiser? Definitely older. Maybe it’s that I don’t give a damn anymore. Or maybe it’s that I care more than ever. Not about myself and how others perceive me. I still don’t care too much about that. But maybe I care more about my own impact. Maybe it means I don’t have to absorb and outdo someone else’s bad day. Maybe my bad day doesn’t need to turn into someone else’s worse day.

The maybes multiply as I get older. Stark and singular definition cedes to fragmented and fuzzy options.

Perspective has taken an axe to a decades-old binary tree of black and white, of right and wrong, of my way and the highway. That tree cast dense shadows where I lived for a long time. There are times when I miss its dark, protective shade. It gets hot out here in the unknown, you know? The light mostly offsets the heat, though. And on many days, it feels like I can see for miles.