Can't Hardly Wait

A friend once described me as a "right now kind of guy." When I first heard that, my initial reaction was sharp and quick: "No, I'm not," as I made a half-assed attempt to deny such an awfully true statement.

No one in my life has ever described me more accurately than petar ivancevic , my college roommate in Indiana, for two years. At first, I was ashamed of it, trying to change myself into a more reserved, responsible, and thoughtful person, and now, in my mid-forties, that's exactly who I am.

Forty-four years young, full of hesitation, more reluctant, and conservative (not politically speaking), all that sh**. I am reserved, responsible, mature, and less spontaneous than I ever thought I could be because, for some reason, I can't seem to do or be anything I want to do right now. I'm Frank Richard, and I'm at the tipping point of becoming Frank the Tank. Forgive me; this is the "being real" phase of my life, and I don't have the time or the energy to live up to anyone else's expectations of me.

Years ago, I started reading The Player's Tribune (phenomenal, by the way), particularly their series entitled "Letter to my younger self." These articles enamored me. Seriously, read from Ray Allen's perspective after winning an NBA championship, and tell me you're not inspired. I was, in fact, so inspired that I wrote my version of this letter, published it, and eventually read it to my former college soccer team a few years ago, but now I find myself with a different outlook on my life, or I guess you could say a point of view of who I've become.

I don't have to tell you to remember who you were when you were younger and how much it was drilled into you to start thinking (or if you're like me, dreaming) about who you want to become someday. From the moment you learn to walk, someone is already dreaming of a future for you until you can take over that dream and run with it. Here we all are, in our middle-aged lives, perfectly content with who we've become, knowing damn well that only a tiny percentage of us are playing professionally, performing surgery, putting out fires, or undercover working on bringing down the narcos.

No, you're selling insurance, you're managing someone's retirement account, you're running a small business, trying to hit your quota, or working for an ass and answering his emails well into your designated family time. Putting aside your career aspirations, tack on the rest of the baggage you're carrying around, like joint pain, grey hair, weight gain, or, you know...issues in the bedroom.

I can't help but think of all the advice I could give my younger self. Advice like, "Don't say that, or don't drive that one night, or don't quit that job," because hindsight is easy. But then again, what if our younger selves could peek into the future and write a letter to us? What would they say?

"Dude, don't eat so much, or "Come on, guy, go out more," or how about this one, "What happened to us?"

We could all think of a million things that we wish were different. Still, how many times do we make decisions today based not on responsibilities or maturity but on the concept that there's still a younger version of yourself that needs to breathe? In order for that to happen, we need to stop worrying about the past or feeling anxious about the future and live our lives "right now."

As my senior year ended back in 1998, a few of us friends snuck a bottle of Blue 100 into the movie theater to watch "Can't Hardly Wait." It's one of my favorite memories from back home in Minnesota with my best friends, Kelly, Howie, and Paul. We were idiots, and we made a lot of stupid decisions, but man, did we know how to live in the moment.

I'm not saying I want my life to change or that I'm ungrateful for what I have, but if my younger self could write me a letter or give me some life advice, I would go back to that one night at that movie with my friends and hand him a pen.

Knowing that version of myself, he would likely start writing the letter right now and not think twice about doing it later.

I love that kid

P.S. This isn't an article written as a cry for help, discouragement, or an outlet for depression; it's real life. Something that I personally believe is less and less spoken about these days.