No, this is not a post about pregnancy. Perish the thought. The MO has long been relieved of that particular worry by the miracle of science. It’s blanks from here on out, my friend. And none too soon. The last thing the world needs is another little Orange running around. Having not changed a diaper in twenty-some odd years, I have no desire to bone up on that particular skill. It belongs on the rubbish heap of my life, far below comic books but slightly above high school geometry.

But I digress. This post is about expectations and the power they have over our happiness.

My stepson and I went trout fishing this morning. We have gone fishing before, but never trout fishing, primarily because trout fishing takes a certain finesse that generally eludes 13 year old boys. Regardless, I took a chance. But my expectations relative to his ability to execute the precision casting required of a trout fisherman were low.

In fairness, my stepson’s expectations were also low. We have gone fishing a few times and he’s caught a couple (bass, to be specific), but it hasn’t exactly been wall-to-wall action. Plus, the last time we went it was both hot and buggy. This being the case, we spent more time swimming than fishing. So, fun was had by all, including the unmolested fish.

Under this cloud of limited expectations, the two of us trod through the long grass and cattails to the creek. It was not an especially pleasant walk and, given his previous experiences, it contributed to a general diminishing of expectations on the part of my youthful companion.

As I remind my students, never tell a story where you aren’t the hero. This is particularly true when telling a fishing story. The upshot is that we caught a half dozen in the first hole and never looked back. In all, we caught a couple of dozen and even kept a few for lunch. Unmitigated success! So rare, yet so very sweet.

Of course, the feeling of unmitigated success is fleeting, no matter how many pictures you take. Just a short whiff of the news filled my head with thoughts of malice and mayhem. Foolish me. My expectations had once again led me down a rabbit hole. You would think that I would learn. But I never do.

On the other hand, what if my wife suddenly elevated her expectations? Would I be thrown aside for some younger, smarter, better looking man? Probably. Certainly, I cannot make myself younger or smarter. And the better looking thing is likely beyond my grasp as well. I might end up in an efficiency apartment, talking about the old days when I exceeded expectations.

Well, no matter what happens, I will end up talking about the old days when I exceeded expectations. In fact, I already do. You should hear about my high school sports exploits. Flying down the court, muscles rippling, thick hair flowing in the wind. Like Fabio and LeBron James all rolled into one. I hit a shot at the buzzer to beat a school 17 times larger than my own (factually true). It was like the movie Hoosiers and I was Jimmy Chitwood. The world was my oyster. I could do no wrong.

Three months later I found out there was a child on the way.  Oopa. I guess this post was about pregnancy after all. What a disaster that appeared to be. Expectations were certainly lowered. Stinky diapers and child support all around.

But there was a happy ending to this story as well. Last week, my son received his Ph.d. from Purdue. I never doubted it.

There’s that feeling of unmitigated success – twice in one week. I’m one asshole’s heart attack away from the trifecta.

I’m not expecting it. Then again, you never know.