The other day, the delivery driver at my illustrious Italian pizzeria asked me why I worked there.  Or to be more precise, why I had settled for working at a place which was so obviously below my personal ambitions and coolness standards.

The short answer was that I had a mortgage to pay..but was that really it?? Or had I become lazy? Complacent? Content enough with the mundane tasks laid out before me? Or perhaps it was something else all together; a thing so typical & ugly, I shuddered to think it.  Was I afraid of succeeding? Of achieving something other than simple survival?

As Donna Summers belted out “MaCarthur Park” on our cheap surround sound stereo, I realized that it was a bit of everything. The mortgage part was true enough but there was perhaps a bigger slice of fear than I’d care to admit.

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