Uncle Seymour's list

My uncle Seymour was a man ahead of his time (nearly four months premature, to be exact). For that reason, few people could understand most of what he said. Growing up with Uncle Seymour, however, bestowed upon me the rare ability to appreciate and learn so much from a man who had lived a nearly flawless life as a corn farmer of 34 years.

One of the greatest gifts that Uncle Seymour gave me was a comprehensive life plan that clearly laid out my every move starting from age 7 and lasting up through age 45. Modeled very roughly after his own life plan, this baby was flawless. It left nothing to question. It spelled out all the key benchmarks I would need to pass to be a success. The list had everything from learning to ride a bike (age nine), scoring a 1580 on the SAT (age 17), going to college at Duke (age 19), getting married (age 23) all the way to welcoming the birth of my fourth child, Billy (age 41).

And while the roadmap that Uncle Seymour laid out for me was undoubtedly lofty, it was also quite attainable. In fact, with the exception of 650 or so SAT points, I've been right on track to own a minority share of the Cleveland Browns by age 32.

My uncle has not only given me directions for life, he has, more importantly, given me his unconditional love. I know that he will always, always be there for me... just as long as I stick to the list.

While I manage to make it look easy to adhere to the plan that destined success, there have been a handful of times that I have admittedly struggled to do so. While it's not something I like to talk about at parties, there have been times when I have found it difficult to stifle my own creativity and judgment even in the face of the common sense embodied by Uncle Seymour's infallible reason.

In fact, there is one specific case that I remember as if it were yesterday. In fact, it was yesterday. While shuffling through my ACES book bag and putting the finishing touches on my proposed schedule for next semester, I abruptly started to feel sick. Suddenly, I found myself running to the trash can to throw up. Naturally, I quickly attributed the incident to the mildew-flavored body odor of my next-door neighbor, Yana Skakun, and dismissed it. What was strange, however, is that even on her off nights, Yana's B.O. doesn't usually hit me so violently.

I started to consider that part of the problem may have been the fact that my schedule for next semester made me feel like I was signing up for a four-month prison sentence. Though I was well aware that part of Uncle Seymour's plan involved me finishing up my premed requirements so that I could get the MCAT out of the way this spring in order to focus on the LSAT for all of next year, I questioned for a moment whether this was something that I actually thought I should do.

Of course, that reflection truly lasted only a moment, as Yana had just returned from playing in her trough and thus her stench was more potent than ever.