Fluff

I'm a self-avowed fan of fluff. It's not very manly of me, I admit, but I'm unabashedly fond of Angora rabbits and alpaca fleece. It doesn't take a grizzled ex-Marine to appreciate the advantages of goose down over bare concrete.

But fluff comes in many forms. Many consider Shakespeare and Jane Austin to be fluffy as well. Brain fluff. (and, yes, I'll admit to being a fan of fluffy literature.)

One may--and, probably should--question the long-term effects of fluff. Is it possible to escape the gravitational pull of a fluffy lifestyle after you've indulged long enough?

Fluff is cute, comfortable, and companionable. However, it is not good for developing abs of steel or a mind of metal. Case in point: neither Maximus Decimus Meridius nor Saruman the White were fluffy guys.

The enterprising mind will try to grasp the advantages of both worlds. There are two ways to accomplish this. One approach is to embrace fluff and substantive labor simultaneously. Unfortunately, such behavior would probably involve laughing uproariously at your calculus book or sleeping in chainmail. So, no, count me as a skeptic.

The second approach is to embrace one for a time, then switch gears and bask in the other. A lot of working adults have this as their penultimate goal in life. Work your heart out for 40 years, then chill in the easy chair of retirement with a tall glass of lemonade. This isn't a bad approach, but be warned, once you've acquired a taste for charcoal toast, it may be hard to relinquish it.

Lazier members of society eschew the idea of toil altogether. If you can't take it with you, why bother?

Suckers for punishment form the opposing echelon of thought. Somehow--and I would love to learn the secret--they've managed to put a facade of leisure on their house of horrors.

But, eh, at the end of the day, life is pain. Anybody who says otherwise is selling something. Even fluff can result in pain (to which anybody who has gone to a lion petting zoo can attest).

Ask too much of life, and you'll be disappointed. Ask too little, and you'll be infected with the same fatal cancer.

Be content.

(Yeah, apparently my parents weren't off their meds when they gave me the same advice. Parents know what they're talking about. Who knew?)

Until next time,
- Daniel