I’m not sure if it’s a sign of enduring hopefulness or inevitable folly that I seem unable to come to grips with the fact that I am mortal and in possession of no super human powers whatsoever. In earlier times of my life my tendency towards the superhuman has been exactly what I needed to push through challenging times, achieve far distant goals, or weather troubled times. In reality, it was killing me and I find it serves me less and less in my current incarnation. Perhaps I am growing tired, or old, or more mature, but I find at least a desire for more elegant and finessed responses to my circumstances. Yes, I think I will take that day off work because yes, I am finally old enough to admit when I am sick and in need of rest. No, I will not over-schedule myself just to satisfy the overall sense of social order or the expectations of others. I will also, at intervals, forget things, leave tasks unfinished for another time, and let someone else do the cooking. For these concessions I will receive (craft, really) a better sense of well-being, more time with the people that matter to me, and, ironically, the rest and good health I need to do well in my endeavors. All of which, it turns out, feels better than being super human ever did.