A couple of years ago, I read that an American, Po Bronson, had written a book titled “What should I do with my life?” What a fundamental question, I thought, and wondered why someone had not written something similar before. The book, which I have not read, follows the life journey of many individuals, and examines the underlying reasons for varied career choices that they make.
I have never particularly cared to understand the reasons for choices that people make, beyond assuming that their choices are a reflection of what they believe is good for them. One class of people always intrigues me, though. These are the perennial cribbers. They seldom speak without whining. Conversations centre around their many troubles. It is as though the gift of life is actually a terrible curse that has befallen them. They find a lot to complain about, and little to be thankful for. These are not poverty or disease stricken individuals. They are otherwise normal, well to do people. They just seem to have a very negative outlook of life in general.
When I come across such people, I wonder if they are for real, and I am forced to conclude that they are not. Their misery is a sham, an act to garner attention, some sort of play-acting. If life is truly so terrible, surely there is an easy way out available to all. So why don’t they go down that path? Because, despite all their woes, they really do think that life is still good enough to keep living and not give up on. So can they shut up or at least punctuate their pessimistic utterances with the occasional outpouring of sunny cheer that is more reflective of their genuine beliefs please?
Among all that “needs improvement” with humankind, one thing is certainly the absolute minority of people with some kind of life plan. Many of us in the corporate sector, spend much time debating and perfecting strategies, mission and vision statements for our organizations. How many have given even a few minutes in developing one such statement for ourselves? Would it not help us in our lives to define for ourselves the values dearest to us that we wish to remain anchored to? Identify what we really want to achieve, and the things we will not compromise on? Even step back and look at our existence as a detached outsider, to see if we are headed in the right direction?
Seems a better way to go about things than generally meandering through one’s days with a vague sense of “Just want to be a good citizen, give my family a comfortable life, etc”.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
That time of year
It is early November, and summer is in the air in Sydney. The shirts are coming off the backs of joggers in the CBD. Silly season is nigh, and one gradually succumbs to the general flippancy pervading the atmosphere.
One watershed event marking the onset of silly season is the Melbourne Cup, which happens on the first Tuesday of November. A newcomer to the country would probably regard his first experience of the event as a complete waste of time, but warm up to it by the time the second or third edition comes around.
For the uninitiated, Melbourne Cup is the biggest horse racing event in Australia (or as publicists may say, in the “Southern Hemisphere”!). The nation comes to a standstill to watch the race. It is officially a holiday in Victoria and ACT. Although a working day in Sydney (New South Wales), it is pretty much a holiday in spirit, with people departing their offices by noon and getting together with friends/colleagues in pubs/restaurants. The actual race happens at 3 pm and lasts for only a couple of minutes, but it is flanked on either side by food, drink, betting and banter.
Most pubs/restaurants run their own little side events to add to the fun, so one has prizes handed out for “Best Hat”, “Best dressed”, and so on. Women turn out in outfits invoking memories of TV serials depicting Victorian England, complete with hats of amazing variety. Some of the men are dashingly dressed too, and I wouldn’t be surprised to come across someone sporting a monocle, bow tie and top hat at one of these dos.
The race is beamed on large TV screens in these establishments, and for those couple of minutes, it is impossible not to share in the excitement of the audience egging on their favourites, carrying not only jockeys, but also hundreds of thousands of dollars placed in bets. There is something captivating in watching those superb thoroughbreds thundering the tracks, culminating in a moment of exploding cheers and air punching, as you try to figure out who actually won.
After the race, as people gradually troop out of these establishments, a few dollars poorer or richer (usually the former) and a few beers down the gullet, the inner glow of an afternoon well spent matches that of the warm November sun.
For the record, this year’s winner was an underdog aptly named “Shocking”, and I lost eight dollars in the office sweepstakes.
One watershed event marking the onset of silly season is the Melbourne Cup, which happens on the first Tuesday of November. A newcomer to the country would probably regard his first experience of the event as a complete waste of time, but warm up to it by the time the second or third edition comes around.
For the uninitiated, Melbourne Cup is the biggest horse racing event in Australia (or as publicists may say, in the “Southern Hemisphere”!). The nation comes to a standstill to watch the race. It is officially a holiday in Victoria and ACT. Although a working day in Sydney (New South Wales), it is pretty much a holiday in spirit, with people departing their offices by noon and getting together with friends/colleagues in pubs/restaurants. The actual race happens at 3 pm and lasts for only a couple of minutes, but it is flanked on either side by food, drink, betting and banter.
Most pubs/restaurants run their own little side events to add to the fun, so one has prizes handed out for “Best Hat”, “Best dressed”, and so on. Women turn out in outfits invoking memories of TV serials depicting Victorian England, complete with hats of amazing variety. Some of the men are dashingly dressed too, and I wouldn’t be surprised to come across someone sporting a monocle, bow tie and top hat at one of these dos.
The race is beamed on large TV screens in these establishments, and for those couple of minutes, it is impossible not to share in the excitement of the audience egging on their favourites, carrying not only jockeys, but also hundreds of thousands of dollars placed in bets. There is something captivating in watching those superb thoroughbreds thundering the tracks, culminating in a moment of exploding cheers and air punching, as you try to figure out who actually won.
After the race, as people gradually troop out of these establishments, a few dollars poorer or richer (usually the former) and a few beers down the gullet, the inner glow of an afternoon well spent matches that of the warm November sun.
For the record, this year’s winner was an underdog aptly named “Shocking”, and I lost eight dollars in the office sweepstakes.
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