Fourth letter in the series. Third one is here. Second one is here. First one is here.

Dear Levi,

Here it is. Already again. Another year. You are getting so big. I want to hold your hand. Your still-tiny-but-growing-s0-fast hand, and envelop it in the palm of my large and aging hand, and hold it tight. And then I want to do nothing else other than sit here listening to the Friday Night Lights soundtrack and have you sit nestled in my right arm, like a football, and fall asleep against me. Without a care in the world. It would comfort me to make you feel protected, secure, and serene.

Today was different, because it was really about the family, as well you and me. A few very special people remembered this day, and for that I am grateful. My dad, known as “Deep Rivers” to the grandkids, was here in Cali the weekend and got to celebrate your birthday with us today and yesterday. You are the last in the lineage of the Razgaitis’ name. Before I had a son I thought I’d regret the end of our family name; now, though, it seems perfect that the name rests with you. I wouldn’t want it any other way. I am proud of you in ways that only a dad can understand, for reasons that are unrelated to merit or even personal experience in knowing you in the traditional sense; it simply has to do with unbridled love and admiration for you. No. Matter. What.

Yesterday we were going to take RoZo go-karting as part of our celebration of you, but it rained so we’re going another weekend. I’m sure you would have been wired just like me, with an unbridled addiction enthusiasm for cars. There’s nobody left at the house for me to go and recruit to test drive expensive European cars that would give us a lifetime of headache and a wallet full of pain–yet a handful of fun. Perhaps that’s why I now drive a Prius. I just need a partner in crime to get into some car shopping trouble; you could have supported my habit charitable contribution to the economy. At least one Saturday a month, I would strap you into the back of my Dave-Ramsey approved 50-MPG wielding econobox and we’d go and drive the new 328, the Tesla S, maybe even a Fisker Karma–and anything else fun we could get our hands on. But it’s not really the cars I want to drive, it’s just the experience I want to have with you. A little co-pilot to take on adventures, to talk with, and to pal around together. RoZo make great adventurers as well, and I absolutely adore having two daughters–and would be thrilled if we had several more. But I know the father/son thing would be unique, and perhaps I’m selfish for wanting that too, with you.

So instead of go-karting, we did simple stuff and hung around the house. We sent you some balloons, each with personalized messages from each of us, and sent them flying away in the skies behind our house in California with the fog-enveloped mountains and  blue sky with whispy clouds as our backdrop. It was really magical to watch the balloons make their way upward to the point at which I lost sight of them. Each of us took our balloons and, from youngest to oldest, said a little something to you, and released them into the air.

An old friend of mine, Bob Bonanducci, is up in heaven with you. He was a mentor to me for years, and he forgot more about selling and human psychology than I’ll ever know. I used to go on sales calls with him during my College breaks (yes, on my own and for “fun”, this is how you learn good stuff!) to understand how to sell, connect with people, and learn some life lessons. Years ago, before he passed away, he called me and asked that I call him back. I was “busy” and before I knew it six months passed and I never returned the call. Before I knew it, I got an email saying he had passed away. I still regret not taking five minutes to call him back. He was a really good man to me.

Anyways, my advice is also wrapped up in a favor as well. You should go find Bob, he is the big Italian guy who probably has marinara sauce stained on his white shirt robe whilst surrounded by a group of people telling a story of some kind using all sorts of expressive hand movements with his booming voice. They’re all laughing, and mesmerized by his magnetic enthusiasm I’m sure. My advice is to listen, and learn a thing or two from Bob. And tell him I miss him as well, and that someday I’ll replace the phone call with a personal visit. Not too soon, I hope, but someday. The three of us will sit together and tell stories, and laugh. And just love on each other.

I still miss you buddy. All the time. More than you know. You are in my heart constantly, and you are inseparable from my soul. If you were here right now, sleeping in my arms, I would whisper that in your ear, and remind you that there’s nothing you could do that would keep me from loving you as I do and always will. And I know that mom, Royce, and Zoe would all say the same.

Happy 7th Birthday Levi.

Love,

Dad (and the family)

I love movies; someday I’d like to write some screenplays, or even produce a movie. Likely, this is among the (too many) things I dream about but will never get around to doing. If only I had 10 lives, or even get by on a few hours sleep each night, then perhaps. But, for now, in fleeting free moments, I’ll just let my mind wander to creating movies that only fit within a certain genre of “feel good” stories about overcoming adversity, leadership, and someone finding their “thing” in life–sometimes through the unlikeliest of people or circumstances.

So today Zoe woke up quoting scenes from Finding Nemo, a great movie, and begged me to watch it with her this morning. And, since it’s what one could classify as a crappy day and am postponing my bike ride–at least until this afternoon when it heats up from 42 to 45 degrees–I decided to sit down and see it again. Royce also joined us. There’s are some great scenes in the movie that make me think a lot about life and business, and I really do think it’s true to form.

So Marlin, Nemo’s dad, is on this quest for his son, and for most that have seen it the story revolves around this entire journey. And what I love about it is that he gets saddled with Dory, who is clumsy, charming, sweet, forgetful, and aloof. Yet he’s dependent on her. And despite Marlin’s hard core all out effort to find Nemo, they keep getting sidetracked–sometimes, usually, via Dory’s delinquencies. And this heavily annoys me. There’s little that I like in the movie about Dory, she’s just…well…annoying and incompetent. And we all have people in our life that we feel like are distractions or keeping us from getting what it is we want (perhaps sometimes it’s us), or where we feel like we’re supposed to be headed. I’m inclined to get really impatient with these people and events, I don’t love the tangents at times. A lot of times.

Finding Nemo, though, was this little reminder that some things are just a force of nature, and they’re going to go. And go, and go. Especially if you keep pushing. There’s an element of destiny to life. There’s also an element of “you’ve got to create it”, but often I think we discount the breaks and detours along the way that help us get to one of the milemarkers in life. And today’s reminder wasthat sometimes the detours and those “distractions” are not only part of the enjoyment of the journey (almost always after the fact), they also in some way help us get there, even when we can’t see it.

And a lot of times, I’m so fixated on getting there, and pushing hard to do it, I don’t.

Back to back blog posts one day after another? I’ve not done that in over a year.

But, this one was too good for me to pass up. And, not a “pat myself on the back type of good,”, but more like a “I can stop kicking myself in the face type of good.” Well, okay. Not really that either. But whatever.

A few weeks ago I wrote about a coat I was supposed to give away when I stumbled upon a car on fire (how, exactly, does one “stumble upon” a car on fire?). That story is here, and it’s about my complete failure to listen to the voice that said “give the guy your coat.”

So as I wrote that day, I haven’t worn it since and was determined to give it away. I’ve carried that coat in the truck of my car since March 4th. Practically driving around the streets of New Jersey Jake and Elwood Blues style with a huge megaphone shouting out for a guy that needs a large coat from Buckle (some of my friends are probably saying, please, the world needs less Buckle clothing to go around–keep your coat hidden away somewhere). Alas, nothing.

At one point, a friend of mine who I love, said “Raz, just keep your coat. I like that coat. Nobody needs your coat.” And, I thought, well if she would’ve said nobody WANTS your coat, now, then she might have a point. Still, I couldn’t shake it. Have. To. Give. It. Away.

Last night I’m walking in the City and I round a corner…and there he is! I knew the instant I saw him, standing on the corner with no warmth. Too bad I didn’t have the coat, I thought to myself, it was back in the car and I was late for dinner. So I kept walking.

Fifty steps later I spun around, ran to the garage and with the privilege of annoying some Central Parking attendants, grabbed the coat from the trunk, and brought it back to…Him.

I wasn’t going to blog about giving my coat away, this is a ridiculously trivial gift, and has more to do with me following the “voices in my head” (the one that said for me to give it away, not the one that screams at me to stop by Dunkin Donuts every two miles on Route 22). And, let’s remember, the only reason I have two blog entries about this is b/c I was selfish, hard of hearing, and logical in the first place.

So I was determined not to write about the follow up to this one. But…

When he put this coat on, his coat, and he wanted his picture taken, well, the smile on his face was worth a million bucks.

And all I had to do was pay a hundred bucks to see it.

Yesterday I was getting in my car after a workout in the gym and as I fired up the car, a song came on that brought back such a vivid set of memories from decades ago.

Growing up, even at the age of 9 or 10, I remember sitting in cars in our driveway. Just to pass the time. I’d daydream, pretend I was driving, and simply hang out. I love cars. And I love music. So when I could borrow the car keys and actually start the car and listen to music once in a while, now, that was the stuff. Until, one day, I started the car in the garage but failed to open the garage door (I was pretty young). That freaked my parents out a bit. But, I’m still here. Perhaps down a few brain cells.

Hotel California was the song I remember listening to at the age of 14, and I decided that was the first song I would listen to when I got my license and could go on that first solo drive. For years I looked forward to that moment, and when the day came, I grabbed my well used remixed tape with Hotel California and jumped into a 1979 Chevy Impala station wagon, my first car. It was a rust bucket, but it was mine (sort of). And it represented my ticket to freedom. And dreaming.

Many miles were covered cruising around Upper Arlington in that Chevy, and I write I can still hear that engine at idle which made a really distinct yet subtle and soft chugging noise at idle. Like a tired, but happy, horse. What made the drives fun were the dreams; I was 16, and had so much to look forward to, with aspirations of playing football (happened) at Ohio State (didn’t happen), of becoming a businessman (happened) and someday a famous one (didn’t happen–yet), and all sorts of related and unrelated thoughts of what my life could someday become.

Years later, I had another ’79 vehicle–but this one was the greatest car ever made in the world (well, perhaps second greatest to a ’91 560 SEL that I totaled in North Dakota which I still lament), a 1979 Mercedes Benz 300SD. It was my dads for years, but by the time I got it she was, well, a really tired, but also really happy, horse. Probably worth not more than the price of four tires–maybe eight–but I loved this car. This time I was a junior in College, and some parts of my life had come together better than I imagined, and others not quite yet. But I still remember the hope and excitement that I had for the future, and my dreams were….well, my dreams. Anything was possible. And some doors were shut, like my OSU football dream, but others were plenty open. Many hours were spent just driving around the countryside of Indiana, and I remember most the long drives where I’d open all all the windows and the sunroof with dusk setting while hurtling down a country highway in the middle of cornfields as dusk settles, the sweet smell of a summer evening. It was fun. Anything was possible.

Yesterday, when I jumped in, it brought back these memories and many more in what felt like a sudden flash. And then it brought me forward. To today. And life. Things I wish I could change. Things still left to do. Mistakes I made. Mistakes I don’t want to make. The life I live (for which I’m really thankful). And the life I wish I lived. Amazing experiences I’ve had. And amazing experiences to come.

Last night at dinner at 21 Club in NYC we were seated right down from what I’ll affectionately describe as “a really old dude.” And I could hear his laughter and saw a spark in his eyes, he was playful, charming, witty (yes, I did have some of my own conversations instead of eavesdropping on his, but was mesmerized by this guy, partly related to the thoughts going through my head from the song). And I kept thinking, all these old people are really just young people…trapped in old people bodies. With their own dreams, aspirations, and goals of greatness. With time ticking.

And it dawned on me, that even though I’m only 37, that’s exactly what I was feeling as well. I’m just at a different phase of it all, with some of my life irreversibly behind me and still some ahead.

Third letter in the series. My first one is here, and the second one is here.

Dear Levi,

I’m flying home from Dallas the day before your birthday as I start this letter; I was born in Dallas, you know, and it’s a great state to claim as ones birth since I think Texans appreciate this more than any other State. I’m sure by now you’ve met quite a few peeps from all over the world up there, including those from Texas, and yes, kiddo, I know many Texans can be loud, boisterous, and overly proud of their heritage. But they’re also my people. So hang with them, you’ll find they have a lot of heart. But I bet in heaven, it’s probably hard for the Texans to continue to proclaim, “Everything is bigger and better in Texas.” That’d be awkward to be saying that, then turn around and see Jesus standing above you tapping his finger and clearing his throat.

It’s strongly familiar that I write to you as I’m flying and looking outside at 30,000 feet with cumulus clouds spanning miles in the foreground of a soothing blue sky. Some of my best memories growing up were of me and my dad flying around in a little private plane he had, and I adored going to the airstrip with him to wash it, watch him do some mechanical work, or to simply go for a ride on what felt like a magic carpet. With me, you’d have to settle for a commercial flight—I don’t think I’ll ever get my private pilot license at this point (though I started when I was 21 and had enough time and no money; now, the opposite is true). But you’d enjoy flying with me all the same, traipsing through the airport, seeing all the sights.  You’d probably even find going through security as an adventure.

This year, my friend, is the year you’d start playing football. And even though it’s just March, we’d be getting ready now. You’d be so little, engulfed in a dizzying array of pads, protective gear, and a helmet too big that it would be weeble wobbling all over your little head as your little legs churn as you run. We would spend more time getting the gear on and off you, than you would actually spend time playing in a game, but I’d love every minute. I’d have you out in the yard, doing little drills and making you sprint and tackle–as well show you how to catch a football, which despite the teasing you’d hear from my College football buddies, I became moderately good at doing. And I’d probably secretly be hoping that you would grow to be 1″ taller than me, a few 1/10th of a second faster in the 40 yard dash, with a few lbs more muscle mass than I was in high school so you could really compete in the big leagues, at least some strong D1 stuff.

Instead, today, I am listening to Nicki Minaj sing “Moment for Life” which somehow is adding to my sadness, whilst sitting here just hoping you were with me–under any circumstance. And even if you couldn’t play football, we would do other things that you and I would be good at doing. Like making fun of the other kids playing football. Sorry, that was wrong, but that thought did enter my mind for a second. No, instead, we’d do the stuff you could do, and we’d find your gift and pursue it wildly. Like we’re trying to do with Zoe; she’s super talented at all things, but she just wants to cook and create stuff. And while I want her to be disciplined, I care more that she finds and develops her gift so the challenge is to try to do both without stifling her. So we cook a lot. And Royce has so many gifts, but even the stuff that she’s only “okay” at she is ferociously determined. I’m sure there are a few things that I’d push you to develop if you had the talent, certainly football being one of them. But I’d also dig whatever your natural gifts were–even if it were limited to Croquet and Knitting, though those activities aren’t the best for a hyper-type-A personality. I’d adjust.

I feel better just writing your birthday letter today; yet I’ve also let you down. I know you know, but your book isn’t done. No excuses my friend; it’s been a wild year, but I am still plugging away. Stay patient with me, and I’m sorry I’ve missed my committed date of having it complete—and I won’t promise another date until I know I can honor it. But I’ll keep working on it.

Normally I give you a bit of a family update; this year, it’s a bit too complicated for me to write, and I’m sure you know enough. We’re all good, though it has been far from an easy year.  RoZo and Mom say more than hello. And I know it’s hard for all of them not to be able to see you on this day. Mom thinks about you ALL of the time. This afternoon we spent some time in honor of you at the house. RoZo wanted to go and get helium balloons and tie cupcakes to them and send them off to you in heaven. And while a part of me thought this is a charming and magical idea, the pragmatic side of me is contemplating the potential consequences of a cupcake hurtling down towards earth at 50mph. We went with emotion rather than logic today, and off went the cupcake with six balloons. You can guess who picked out the football balloon. RoZo selected the rest. The kids want to send stuff to you so badly, and see you even if just for a minute.

I really miss you. A lot. Perhaps it looks like I’ve gotten on with my life and often forgotten much about you. But it’s not true. My heart aches for you. And I wish you were here, with me, right now. You’d think I were a cool dad, at least for now, finding me entertaining, funny, strong, confident, and dependable. You would look at me and proclaim things like “You’re the best dad in the world!” But as time would go on, and as years pass, you would see me for who I really am. A mix of some good attributes, but plenty of broken ones as well. But for now, I’d be quite perfect in your innocent eyes. Which would be very cool.

Today, I wish I could see those little blue eyes and what I know would be a mischievous smile with lots of cackling and laughter throughout the day–merciless teasing of your big sisters, who are pretty good at dishing it out as well. Little dude, I miss you more than you know. And this very day, my only prayer would be that JC takes you on his knee and somehow reads this letter to you.

There are probably too many snapshots of my life that I’d like you not to see, but today I wish you could see me and my eyes as I wrote this birthday letter to you. Then, with just one look, you’d know just how much I love and miss you.

Happy Birthday, buddy.

Literally.

We’re driving back from the NYC area to Western Jersey on Saturday late afternoon, just me and, then my RoZo sitting in the back. We’re jamming to some Rihanna, they’re telling endless stories, the sun is out…and we’re wearing shades, we’ve got a full tank of gas and a half a pack of cigarettes.

(okay, those last three are lines from the Blues Brothers)

Up on the right about a quarter of a mile ahead I see a car in flames, and the kids start screaming in the back. Anyways, since this isn’t the point of the story, I’ll speed this part up. Car on fire. Family of four were already out, the mom was convulsing in tears (I wanted to give her a hug, but didn’t). The Dad, a gentle giant who spoke broken english sprinkled w/ Spanish words looked in shock. Car appeared like it was about to explode. Moved them a few hundred yards away. Called 911. Everyone shows up. End of story.

But, as I was leaving, I looked over at the dad, he was shivering in the cold and had this tiny thin little blanket draped over his shoulders. It wasn’t bitter out, but there was a bite. And it was as if a voice said to me…

“Give him your coat.”

To which I replied “Woooooahhhhh! I just bought this coat. Like six weeks ago. And I only have two coats here in NJ, the other stuff is in storage. And it was expensive. I did my thing, this is ridiculous.”

So I walked around the car a few more times, realized the authorities were going to take care of him. Got in the car. Knew I was supposed to give him my jacket. Almost got out to give it to him.

Put the car in drive. Then park. Rethought it again. Back in drive, thinking this is absurd that I don’t need to give a guy my coat that I just bought, who I stopped to help (amongst many many people who just kept driving by). I did my deed, I thought. I did what really mattered.

As I drove off, I kept thinking “I should’ve given him my coat.”

And, nearly one week later, after having thought about this all week, I realize I didn’t do my deed at all. I was supposed to give him the coat off my back. Instead, I was selfish, hard of hearing, and logical.

When I should have been abundant, intuitive, and irrational.

So it’s a long ways coming, but anyways here’s our update. It’ll be a quick entry, one because at the end of the day nobody really cares THAT much to know the minutiae about our move, but I still have people who text or email and say “dude, where did you go?”

Where we went: New Jersey. Neeeewwww Jeaaarrssaaaaayyy!

Side note: my daughter, Zoe, recently said to me very sincerely “Dad, now that we’ve been here a little while shouldn’t we start talking like them? Like, shouldn’t I start saying “yooooous” instead of “you”? Ummm, no Zoe. Absolutely not. Please don’t even let those thoughts creep into your head.

So on June 1st I started as CEO of DealOn Media, a VC-backed start-up company that is in the Group Buying space (competitors that you might have heard of include GroupOn and Living Social). Here’s eight months of summary at what we did at DealOn: bootstrapped, built great technology, secured some big partners, didn’t close a few big partners we should have, made some brilliant decisions, made some lousy decisions, built a great team of incredibly-talented-and-highly-committed people (this was really the key success factor), tested and trialed to figure stuff out, figured more stuff out, got some momentum, and along we went until we unexpectedly and very rapidly found ourselves in a position where we started to get approached by a lot of buyers.

And, last week it was announced that we were acquired by ReachLocal. I never expected that we would get acquired within eight months, but we did more things right than not, we got a few breaks, we built and accomplished some pretty cool stuff, and we landed with a very successful publicly held Company that’s full of exceptional talent, passion, and commitment. Things I dig. So my Board and DealOn investors are (very) happy, I’m quite certain all of my employees are happy, and I think the buyers are happy…so, therefore, I’m pretty happy. While it wasn’t all fun and games (though we did have some fun, too), this has been one of the most stretching and adventurous business experiences of my life.

Here are a few links to the announcement:

http://www.screenwerk.com/2011/02/15/reachlocal-buys-dealon/

http://www.clickz.com/clickz/news/2026544/reachlocal-buys-dealon-plans-deals-exchange

http://www.socaltech.com/reachlocal_s_zorik_gordon_on_daily_deals/s-0033998.html

So, I left Olympia the end of May, and Erica and the kiddo’s came out in August. We’re at a temp location in Western NJ, and while we miss the West Coast immensely there are quite a few nice things about being on the East Coast–including being much closer to three of my sisters, Erica’s dad, and a MUCH shorter flight to see my parents (at one point on the West Coast we’d gone years since seeing them, and now we see them every few months).

There are things that I really love about being out here (like, that I’m able to write this from a coffeeshop in Manhattan and adore the energy in this town; I literally think my biochemistry changes when I drive through the tunnel to get into Gotham).

And there are things that I don’t love about being out here (like, working out at the gym w/ the natives in New Jersey. It’s not normal, and it’s an experience I hope you can bypass).

But, all in all, it’s part of the adventure we’ve been on and I’m grateful for every minute. Hour. Day. Okay, at least every week.   Seriously, I’m very grateful. And I’ve met some incredible people out here who have changed my life in so many ways.

Erica continues to homeschool, in an environment that isn’t that homeschool friendly or resource laden (“okay, now, which cult did you guys say you belong to again?” I promise, peeps, it’s not that weird; but it was way easier in the NW/Olympia where SO MANY people homeschooled); Royce is booting away the soccer ball in between reading books (I LOVE that she wanted her 9th birthday party to be a “bookstore birthday party” where they all got together at Clinton Bookstore to read and share stories out of books. Go Royce Go!). And, Zoe, ahhhh little Zoe. She’s more creative than ever, has turned into an aggressive little basketball player, and completely adores cooking (often but not always with me, and she’s an avid Food Network viewer). Ahhhhh, I miss our Oly kitchen! She could watch cooking shows for hours on end. It’s pretty darned cute, and I think it might be her gift.

Longer than I expected (it always is), the Raz Family update. The adventure continues…

Time for a quick post (written on Friday; uploaded on Sunday), it’s been forever since I’ve blogged.

This week’s a “vacation” (in quotes b/c it never seems to work out that way) week, and while I’m spending a lot of time in the Apple store to get some stuff serviced, I don’t mind. I love it here. And, judging by the perpetual crowd whether morning or night–or maybe just the market cap–a seemingly unlimited supply of people love it here as well.

Here’s why I love Apple, and here are a few reasons why I think they’ve done so well:

To begin, product innovation; these guys are tireless with their ability to see the future (okay, so Jobs is the ringleader on this one but there remain many internal beacons as well) and they have a team that can execute on it.

Which leads to, fantastic execution; most companies are lousy at execution. You can have great ideas, but with crappy execution it’s all irrelevant. These guys have the normal challenges I’m sure, but the stuff gets done. Testament to Jobs and the management there.

And this relates to, passionate people. The people that buy Apple are generally passionate (the only people that I know who don’t really like or respect Apple are Corporate IT guys who got shoved into lockers in high school, thus are still a little bit mad at life; I’m cool with the absence of love, except when these same guys keep me from using Apple products in a corporate environment ). But this passion from consumers didn’t start with consumers. It started with passionate people inside. And they did the things they did, that got them what they got. Go into an Apple store. These guys love working there. Compare to other stores that sell competitive non-Apple products. Huge difference. And it’s not just good for the business environment, it’s good for culture.

So there it is, some of my quick observations that relate to business in general; of course there’s more, I’m not even suggesting these are the “big three” (though they very well could be), this just really struck me while sitting here and it prompted a relatively quick post from a very happy Raz at a very cool Apple store in Bonita Springs.

Adios, off to the beach…and some work emails.

This one is a bit more…casual, and slap-dash, but we’re going to let it go anyways. It really is purely an outtakes version, was hoping for something a bit more sincere and thoughtful but it just didn’t happen that way. And I didn’t get the participation of Erica or Royce/Zoe, but we had so many people at the house it was a bit chaotic and not optimal studio environment. So, again, this is outtakes people. Outtakes. Not me in everyday every moment life.

Anyways, Happy Thanksgiving to everybody. And, by the way, when you get a heritage/free range Turkey (like we did) it is a BIT easier to understand how I did what I did, which you’ll see at the end of the video. Too much explaining will ruin the silly surprise.

So there it is, from the RazFam to yours–best to each of you!

-Raz, Erica, Royce, and Zoe

I hate germs.

And I can’t stand touching the door handle on the way into a public bathroom, but particularly so on the way out. So like some, I use the paper towel to open up the door handle on my way out. Sometimes–usually–there’s a trash can near the door on the way out. At my office there isn’t one.

And I’d move the trash can from where it was, to a location by the door. Which was just as convenient for those who didn’t use my method, and it would offer a receptacle for those who use the “towel on door” methodology.

But it kept moving back to its old location. Frustrated, I finally would just throw my paper towel down by the door once I opened it up and headed back to my office. Someone else would clean it up at the end of the day, I figured. I didn’t really think it through that blatantly, I just didn’t want to get germinated, and I couldn’t keep moving the trash bin. So I did this “right by the door paper towel toss on the floor” for 2-3 days.

Then one night I was leaving the office around 10pm. I was tired. Frustrated. Annoyed. Work, which overall goes really well and I genuinely am passionate about, had been particularly difficult that day. And I was sluffing out the door muttering to myself something about how hard my job was, the challenges of life in a raw start-up company, how difficult it is to be a CEO, and blah blah blah.

Translation: I was whining to myself.

Which I don’t think I do very often, but it had captured me as I was locking up the door.

And as I’m turning around I hear a little girls voice. I thought I was mistaken, it was after 10pm on a weeknight. But, sure enough, I saw a little girl–maybe 6 or 7 years old–running after her dad down the hallway. Her dad, as it turned out, was the janitor for the building–a hardworking immigrant, always cheerful and exceptionally fastidious. It was obvious as he was just finished cleaning the men’s room. The same one where I’d been casually throwing my door-opening-paper-towel-pieces by the door for a few days.

Suddenly a wave of my absurdity was cast over me. Not just for the extra trash I was leaving for this guy, but for how I was feeling about myself as I leaving the office. Here I was, fortunate in 500 different ways. Whilst making his job more difficult through my selfish little trash deposits. And here he was, I’m sure also in some ways very fortunate, but also going through the challenges of life cleaning buildings on the second shift. With his young daughter in tow.

I then realized, my job is easy. And isn’t particularly admirable.

His job, however. Now, that’s admirable.

I’ll forever remember it.

And I’ll never, again, throw a piece of paper towel by the door.