The Secret of My Success

Early next month I am slated for another Skype/radio interview, this time to discuss with the host the meaning of "success."  Success?  I've been giving this some thought lately.  What will I say?  And what do I know about success, anyway?

The host seems to think I know a great deal about it.

He's convinced I should reveal my secrets to others.  When I tried to beg off, explaining that I had a funeral in two weeks, and that his suggested interview time was smack-in-the-middle of the Gomer Pyle rerun festival on TV Land, he wouldn't back down.  And when I told him point-blank that I didn't think I had anything to offer on the subject of success, he didn't acquiesce one bit, but pressed on with other possible dates, times, and calendaring options.  "Actually," I said at one point, "I really don't want to do this."

"Ahhh," he shot back, "you'll do great.  Talk to you in October!"

And so it goes . . . .

But I'm still confused.  Should I go on the air and tell the truth:  that my wife is the secret to my success and that, since nobody else is married to her, they'll never be able to drive a 1991 Caprice station wagon (like me)?  Should I reveal that I saved 15% on my car insurance by switching to Geiko?  Would I be telling a lie if I said that (like Thomas Edison discovered) success is just 10% of life, and the rest is experiment and failure?

I'm still working these things out in my mind.  Still making notes.  But if I don't have anything to add to the discussion on success by October 1, I'm calling this producer back and telling him that I just can't miss this upcoming Gomer Pyle marathon.  It's too important for my mental health.  

Now . . . what did I do with the producer's phone number?  I'm so successful, I can't be bothered to remember the little things.