A Thursday Morning Metaphor: Beep Beep. You're On the Edge of a Cliff and You Have To Think Fast. Zoom.

Meep Meep.

Chitunga presented a metaphor a few nights ago that I've been thinking about ever since. He was discussing the dilemma a parent would face if they had two kids, both who were falling off a cliff - hanging on the edge - and what the parent would choose to do, should both kids be grasping for their lives.

I am picturing Casey, Cynde, and me hanging on a cliff by our fingernails. Butch and Sue come running to our rescue and work frantically to capture us from falling, knowing that gravity will do what it does. Sustaining our bodies on the edge for too long would be unlikely. Which of the three kids would they grab?

His analogy, as I heard it, was that he wondered who would reach for him.

As I thought about this conversation - and the depth of the dialogue that it was embedded in - I kept thinking about this cliff dilemma. In fact, it was on my mind all day yesterday and I couldn't help but think about what he was wondering by suggesting the story as a possibility.

I stewed on this for a day and realized, given my home situation and current living conditions, that I would indeed rescue him if he was hanging by his fingernails on a cliff.

Of course, I had to also tell him the truth. "In every scenario I imagine for myself, I keep seeing the same thing. Crandall has never been a hero. He's much more comfortable being a fool and living a life of silliness and impossible ridiculousness."

So, when I returned last night I told him that I would, INDEED, attempt to save him if he was hanging from a cliff by his fingernails. He can count on me for that. I'm in. That's a no-brainer. What I wanted him to know, however, is that my attempt to be brave, heroic, and grandiose has the likelihood that when I grabbed onto his wrist and pulled him up, more than likely I would falter in my quest to save him and inevitably catapult to my doom, as well. "Ahhhhhhhhh. Shit. Crandall, You stupid idiot. You lost your footing. Ahhhhhhhhhhh." SPLAT.

My point.

I'm not a savior. I want to be in my mind and soul, but I know myself enough to realize that my roads to good intentions are paved with all types of H-E-double hockey sticks. The gesture of a good deed, I kidded with him, would more than likely end up in my demise. This is, after all, what happens if a Woody Allen fool like myself tries to be bravado and over the top miraculous. The attempt would look great, but the reality would be something meant for Saturday Night Live.

But I would try. I am always trying.

Meep. Meep.