Random Stuff

There's this guy. World-renowned billionaire. Tech genius. Inventor and entrepreneur. Athletic and talented and handsome with a jaw so chiseled it looks like Zeus came down from Olympus and carved the f.u.c.ker himself.

This guy's got a small fleet of sports cars, a few yachts, and when he's not giving millions of dollars to charities, he's changing out supermodel girlfriends like other people change their socks.

This guy's smile can melt the damn room. His charm is so thick you can swim in it. Half of his friends were TIME's "Man of the Year." And the ones who weren't don't care because they could buy the magazine if they wanted to. When this guy isn't jetsetting around the world or coming up with the latest technological innovation to save the planet, he spends his time helping the weak and helpless and downtrodden.

This man is, you guessed it, Bruce Wayne. Also known as the Batman. And (spoiler alert) he doesn't actually exist. He is fiction.

It's an interesting facet of human nature that we seem to have a need to come up with these sort of fictional heroes that embody perfection and everything we wish we could be. Medieval Europe had its tales about gallant knights slaying dragons and saving princesses. Ancient Rome and Greece had their myths about heroes who won wars single-handedly and in some cases confronted the Gods themselves. Every other human culture is replete with such fantastical stories as well.

And today, we have comic book superheroes. Take Superman. I mean, the guy is basically a God with a human body wearing a blue jumpsuit and red underpants on inside-out. He is indestructible and unbeatable. And the only thing as sturdy as his physical fortitude is his moral fortitude. In Superman's world, justice is always black/white, and Superman never wavers from doing what's right. No matter what.

I don't think I'm exactly shaking up the field of psychology by suggesting that, as humans, we have a need to conjure up these heroes to help us cope with our own feelings of powerlessness. There are over 7.2 billion people on this planet, and really only about 1,000 of those have major worldwide influence at any given time. That leaves the other 7,199,999,000 +/- of us to come to terms with the limited scope of our lives and the fact that the vast majority of what we do will likely not matter long after we've died. This is not a fun thing to think about or accept.

Today, I want to take a detour from our "make more, buy more, f.u.c.k more" culture and argue for the merits of mediocrity, of being blasé boring and average.

Not the merits of pursuing mediocrity, mind you — because we all should try to do the best we possibly can — but rather, the merits of accepting mediocrity when we end up there despite our best efforts.