The Stick, THE STICK. (or, A distraction worthy of the Gods)

So, there I was. Outdoors. Again.

I know, I know—I keep doing this to myself. It’s almost like I want to suffer. But this time, something different happened. Something magical. Something that made me forget why I performed such an act of external open air madness.

I found a stick. A STICK...

Now, I realize I’ve just lost half the audience right there. I can hear the landslide of eye-rolls from here, mostly from the ladies. You’re looking at your screens, shaking your heads, muttering, "Is he seriously about to tell us about a bloody stick?"

Yes. Yes, I am.

Because right now, I can also see the Guys out there. Yes you.

You’ve leaned in a little. You’ve put your drink down in front of you, Your head is tilted slightly to one side. You’ve even said—out loud, possibly to no one—"What kind of stick was it?"

Oh, my friend, let me tell you.

If I weren’t already married, this stick would be mounted above my bed. This was, without a doubt, the single finest specimen of stick I have ever encountered. It had weight. It had presence. It had that perfect weathered look, as if it had seen battles long before I arrived, patiently waiting for the right champion to wield it.

And I won’t lie—I did the test.

I held my hand above it, fully expecting it to shoot into my grip in a dramatic whoosh of destiny.

It did not.

I had to pick it up like a damn muggle.

But that didn’t matter. Because, from that moment on, I was a wizard.

Now, let’s be real—this isn’t just me. This is universal. If you pay attention next time you’re out, you’ll see it.

Somewhere along a woodland path, the female of the species is up front, power-walking in all the latest gear, focused, determined, moving with purpose. And behind her, just out of striking distance, is the guy.

And he’s got a stick.

He’s twirling it. He’s slashing at invisible foes. He’s taking down rogue ferns and threatening bushes that got too close. And if he’s really been out for a while? Oh, you’ll know.

Because the longer the walk, the bigger the stick.

Short, whippy one? They’ve been out maybe twenty minutes. Something long, solid, with real staff potential? That guy has been outside for an hour. At least.

And let’s not pretend. We all do the same things with it.

On the walk back to the car, I tested its power.
Goblins? Defeated.
Balrogs? Denied passage.
And, obviously, I tapped it on the ground to see if it would start glowing like Gandalf’s.

It didn’t.

Still. Magic isn’t always instant. Sometimes, you have to take it home and let it attune to you.

So, I did.

Now, my wife—bless her—has known me for a long time. She saw me walk in, saw the glint of pure, unfiltered excitement in my eyes, then saw what I was holding.

“What’s the stick for?” she asked, already bracing for whatever nonsense was about to come out of my mouth.

“Balance.” I said, with absolute conviction.

The judgment in her eyes was immediate. But I ask you—who among us is truly free from such whimsical hypocrisy?

Tell me you’ve never tried to open automatic doors with the Force.
Tell me you don’t still turn to the horoscopes first, just to "check."
Tell me you haven’t, at least once, pointed a TV remote at the screen and thought about switching it off with your mind before actually pressing the button.

Exactly.

Anyway, I proudly took my wizard’s staff into my lair (also known as the office).

My wife watched. Waiting.

“You’re not bringing that stick inside.”

I held up my hand. Looked her straight in the eye.

“I’m bringing the stick inside.”

There was a pause.

“…Your doing what? sorry?”

“…Nothing.”

So, now, my staff guards the entrance to my lair.

Because, sometimes, you just have to believe in the magic.

And if the moral of this story is still unclear, it’s probably something like this:

Sometimes, the best things in life are the ones you weren’t even looking for.

And sometimes, you just need a really, really good stick.