[dropcap]Y[/dropcap]ears ago, I met motivational speaker Zig Ziglar. It was at a conference, with an auditorium full of people. We in the audience participated in Zig’s exercises, guaranteed to either make us happy or rich.
But never both.
One such activity involved writing a letter to the sixteen-year-old version of ourselves. Turns out, old Zig liked mine the best. He asked me to read it aloud before three hundred of his fans. Here’s how it went:
How’ve you been, you handsome devil?
Listen up: in a few years, you’ll find yourself in an establishment outside Geneva, Alabama. Some joker will pick a fight with you. He’s ugly, and answers to the name J.R. Whatever you do, don’t mention the Auburn-Alabama game or he’ll beat you like a bare-assed ape. As an addendum, don’t dance with any ladies in the aforementioned beer-joint.
One of them is J.R.’s girlfriend.
Moving right along. When driving down the highway, always watch for roadsigns marked, “fresh asphalt.” I know it’s ridiculous. But it turns out, deputies take these signs very seriously.
So do county judges.
On another matter: if you find yourself at a swanky cocktail party with your wife, don’t let your buddy Andrew fix you a drink. Also, don’t incite the crowd to sing Sweet Caroline. It’s tacky. And no matter how Andrew insists, never attempt to breakdance. Ever. The mayor happens to be at one of these parties, and your wife Jamie will disown you.
She will leave the party without you.
Your cellphone will be dead.
And it’s a nine-mile march back home.