I remember sitting with my kids watching The Incredibles and seeing myself. There I was, oversized, crammed behind a desk, and completely stifled.
I am Mr. Incredible. All men are.
We have bodies built for action, broad shoulders, muscle, and testosterone. If stagnant too long, my leg shakes. Occasionally I have an inexplicable desire to lift something, with no emotion at all I will simply want to throw punches at nothing, and when in the company of other men, I shove them for no reason.
Really, it’s not me; it’s this thing I’m inside of. It wants to go. I like to read books and talk. I like to write and paint; play chess. It wants to run, lift, and strain.
My football days ended when college recruiters never called. My rugby career came to an end with my first child. My boxing career ended when I realized my brain was what paid the bills, and my opponents kept hitting it. I tried running but got tired of never going anywhere. So what I was left with was a remote control.
I think we men left our capes in the closet some time back in the 50’s. Factories became mechanized, getting things from A to B was all done by road or rail, and soldiers began riding in helicopters more than marching. No seas were left un-sailed, no poles were left to explore, and Bally’s opened.
I know the kids are screaming and the dishes are undone. I know baths need to be taken and the trash isn’t yet at the curb, but let him go. It isn’t his fault. It’s not his fault that he was born in a place and time that has no need for his superpowers. He wants to read that bedtime story, but his leg is shaking under the table.
Just let him go.