Satisfied with myself? Of course not! What are you, stupid? I’m five foot nine (on a really good day). I’m not faster than a speeding bullet, I’m not more powerful than a locomotive, nor can I leap tall buildings in a single bound. Am I satisfied with who I am? Jumpin’ gee willikers! No!

Sure, there’s Muggsy Bogues and Barry Sanders, non-giants who were successful in the NBA and NFL (National Basketball Association and National Football League). There’s also Audie Murphy, the most decorated American combat soldier in WWII, who stood only five-foot-five-and-a-half when he enlisted in the Army and only grew a few more inches in his maturity. They prove that no one has to be head and shoulders above to get ahead. (get it?)

Not that I’d want to be a girl, but look at Shirley Temple. She had the whole world (nearly) at her tiny little fingertips. Why, she could make Santa Claus cry. Roy Rogers could whip the toughest and meanest and never lose his hat. And back to the feminine side, look at Marilyn Monroe. Well, never mind. And I’m asked whether I’m satisfied?

Charles Atlas (also known as Joe) was so well-developed that his physique was the basis of statues all over the world. 97-pound weaklings became he-men following his regimen. Former president Bill Clinton could talk the devil out of his ice cream cone. And Ken Jennings knows all the Jeopardy answers. Am I satisfied? Gee whiz!

Goodness gracious. Richard Lustig won seven state-sponsored lotteries between 1993 and 2010. Tommy Morrison could punch harder than anyone. Babe Ruth could point into the bleachers and pop a baseball to the very spot. And Steph Curry can swish a basketball through the net from outer space from behind his back. Am I satisfied? Duhhhhhh?

Tom Hanks could be Forest Gump, Jim Lovell (astronaut), Sheriff Woody, Mr. Rogers, and Big. I can be me. Big whoop.

Am I satisfied with who I am? Well, let me think… (That’s me thinking.) Would I have my beautiful bride that I met at the salad bar? (a poem of an early post) Would she love me if I went around every week bending steel bars or punching people? Would my delectable darlin’ sit around while I jetted hither and yon playing ball games, making movies, or posing for statues? And what if I had all the luck or knew all the answers? Wouldn’t she just get sick of my know-it-all self?

I want to have to stay on my toes, ever cautious and careful lest my dimpled darlin’ decide I’m not worth the trouble. I don’t ever want to be on her trouble side, or take her for granted. I want to always be looking for how I can please her, not just stand up and flex, expecting her to swoon.

Does all this mean I wouldn’t like to add a couple zeros to my bank account, lose a couple inches from my paunch, add an edge to my game, or an inch or two to my frame? Not if it meant the miss of one single kiss from my beautiful bride. I love you, darlin’.