Kool-Aid Man Logic

I walked into a wall the other day. It wasn't particularly embarrassing, except for the fact that it happened in my own home.

I was on my way to the other room to explain to my wife how ridiculous it was that a contract I’d just reviewed had so many "obvious" blunders. You can imagine how much weight that critique carried when I walked face-first into a section of drywall that has never once been a door.

It’s easy to spot a typo in someone else’s work; it’s much harder to spot the wall in your own hallway.

Sounds poetic, right? It isn't. It was a choice.

I was so eager to point out the flaws some overworked admin missed—likely while skipping lunch—that I didn't see the literal barrier in front of me. Nature has a way of rectifying that need for the upper hand with a sudden dose of physical irony.

Then came the double-down. Instead of owning the blunder, I tried to rebrand it as "extreme focus." I wasn't clumsy; I was just so deeply immersed in the problem that I decided to Kool-Aid Man my way through the house.

It was a classic case of the blind leading himself—and then blaming the wall for being there.

The thing is, the wall didn’t move. It heard exactly why I was in a rush, yet it didn’t budge on my account. No matter how vital it felt to point out someone else's shortcomings, the physical world remained unimpressed by my importance.

We spend a massive portion of our lives having run-ins with walls. But I’ve started to wonder if life might be a hair nicer if we spent that energy finding the doorway instead—ideally with something more uplifting to say than a critique of someone else’s typos.

Maybe the goal isn't to be the person who finds the most flaws, but the one who finally learns how to walk through the house without hitting the drywall.

Besides, my wife doesn't follow concussion protocol.

Word Count: ~320 words

Approximate Read Time: 1 minute, 20 seconds