defining an extraordinary life

and exploring the opposite of one

Where do we even get started on defining an extraordinary life?

We can probably start with sketching out the life that we definitely don’t want.

• Homeless! 🏚️

• Penniless! 💸

• Friendless! 🧍

• Bitchless! 🥀

• No sense of positive, optimism or appreciation towards the few things you somehow manage to have

• And no sense of motivation, determination or aspiration to seek out opportunities of recovery to help claw your way out of the poverty line

Cool, that was easy.

But it doesn’t really establish what my anti-vision of an extraordinary life looks like.

The opposite of an extraordinary life isn’t a terrible life with no hope of improvement.

It’s an ordinary life.

What does an ordinary life look like?

A stable 9-to-5 job in corporate. At least, you think it’s stable. There’s a 1-in-4 chance you experience a redundancy at some point in your working life. You progress from a graduate/entry-level to senior to manager and probably hang around that manager title for forty years or so before retiring comfortably into a personal dwelling if you’re lucky, granny flat if you’re okay or government nursing home at worst.

You’ve got one, perhaps two, pieces of property accumulated over your lifetime. If you were born before 1980 in Australia, said property is a house but if you were born after, it’s probably a two-bedroom unit you only recently finished writing the mortgage for. Sorry, I didn’t make this economy.

Your wife tolerates you. It was butterflies at first, really good, and eventually turns into… I can’t really think of an insect that has a neutral connotation, but whatever that insect would be. You stay together of course because you genuinely are okay with one another and the idea of finding another partner at the age of 50+ is overwhelming and tiresome.

One or two kids who keep you up at night but that’s okay because you love them. You really do. One goes to school, one goes to daycare. You take turns dropping them off and picking them up. There’s probably a pet at some stage (statistically speaking, a dog), adopted somewhere between the first and second kid, knowing full well that their passing will form a core memory for your children.

You have a few friends who you meet occasionally. You had known them for forty years now and if anyone asks, you’re pretty tightknit, even though you only see them once a year at best. The majority of your conversations hover around parenting, work, kids, sport and whoever is running for US presidency at the time and how terrible of a job they’re doing.

Money is alright. You’ve got enough for emergency expenses. You’ve got your insurance. The ol’ reliable trucker gets you from Point A to Point B. You’re heavily considering whether it’s worth upgrading your seven-year-old iPhone, the same question you asked for the last four years.

Your tummy shows when you slouch but you don’t really care about it. Putting together an Ikea wardrobe knocks you out for the rest of the day. You probably don’t smoke — you’re better than that — but there will still be that crispiness in your throat that you can’t seem to cough away.

Blue jeans. Black Asics. A sports polo. Yep. That’s the fit, gentlemen.

And outside of work, outside of sleep… that’s about it, really. An occasional dinner. A movie from a streaming platform. Go for a drive every now and then. A holiday every 2-3 years. You sit down on the sofa and watch some NBA highlights for a game that happened last year and click on the YouTube video telling you why you ought to buy that new tech stock before it’s too late. Perhaps you do. It goes up by 20% but crashes a few weeks after. You don’t tell your wife about it. She won’t notice.

You haven’t read a book since university. You haven’t danced since your honeymoon. The last concert you went to was in your thirties and your favourite artist isn’t even active anymore. The thought of reaching under the table makes your back hurt and the last piece of poetry you interacted with was asking ChatGPT to generate something for your kid’s literature assignment.

You no longer shudder when waking up for work. You used to dislike it, mind you, but now it’s just second nature.

You haven’t made a core memory since the overseas trip to Japan in 2015 where you laughed so hard that tuna came out of your nose.

You haven’t made anything with your hands for years. You’re losing dexterity in your fingers.

And you swear you’re not balding and thankfully you’re not, but a lingering greyness crawls upon your sideburns, inching towards the top of your head — almost like a clock. And it terrifies you.

You live vicariously through your children, hoping that they’ll become everything you’ve ever wanted to be — as they look at you, wondering if you are all they will ever become.

Fuck, that’s quite a lot, isn’t it.

For the sake of the 40+ folks I know, I really hope that isn’t what an ordinary life looks like. I like to believe it’s more positive and meaningful than that.

I hope you love your wife and she loves you back. I hope you pop off every time Jokic hits that three-pointer. I hope your heart flutters with joy as you record your kid singing Amazing Grace at the school play.

What does an extraordinary life look like?

So, what’s the opposite of that?

What are the markings of an extraordinary life — to me in particular?

What are not the opposites, but my opposites, to everything we said above?

You have a stable income, either through a consistent bout of entrepreneurship and/or a diversified portfolio of stocks and property. You have more than enough to retire today, but you probably don’t, because there’s something that keeps your world turning and it excites you enough to spring you out of bed every morning.

Or afternoon. Or afternoon. Or night. Because other than the advent of your kids, your wake-time is not dictated by your occupation.

You own a number of properties you call home. You live in your favourite one, wherever that is — perhaps it’s in a sprawling quiet suburbia or a rural beach/mountain town or an apartment in the middle of the city with spectacular skyline views.

You love your wife more than anything in the world. Your relationship has never been better, reinforced like kintsugi, from all the hardships you had went through. Despite the ups and downs and the overwhelming time you spend together, you just can’t seem to get sick of one another. It doesn’t matter whether it’s meaningful conversation or a novel journey across the Carribean or making blueberry pancakes on a Thursday afternoon or scrolling TikTok before bed — your greatest rating factor of joy is one another’s company, to which you have it in spades.

One or two kids who keep you up at night but that’s okay because you love them. You really do.

And this one, uniquely, doesn’t change at all from the ordinary life.

The only difference is that you’re able to be more present for them.

You drive them, without fail, to their weekend soccer practice. You help them with simultaneous equations and enthalpy of change and Edgar Allen Poe. You hold the camcorder up and record them during their piano exam thinking I’m so proud of you. They grow up to be disciplined, thoughtful and curious and you encourage them to tap into their sense of play.

You meet your friends often enough. You all have busy schedules, after all. They’re from all corners of the world with a melting pot of worldviews that occasionally conflict with one another, but never destructively. Yes, you still talk about your kids and sporting events and whoever’s running for president — but you continue to build things together, like forming a shitty basketball team of oldies or a band with little to no sense of rhythm.

Money is plentiful. It’s more than enough. You have the newest versions of everything you deem important. If you or your wife or kid wants something, your first question is not how much it costs but whether it provides the value you wish. Maybe you donate a bit to charity or the causes you care about and don’t bother with the mental gymnastics of calculating how much is the minimum amount of money to spend on a birthday gift. The car is probably the ol’ reliable trucker though, unless you can really say you gain that much happiness from clocking one-twenty on a Ferrari.

You’re in the best physical shape of your life. Your plates are vibrant, home-cooked and full of colour. Your mornings/evenings are populated by a calming, personable walk. Your doctor tells you to watch your cholesterol, as per usual, such are the pains of growing old. And when your kids and their friends play soccer, you’re more than able to play goalkeeper (nobody wants to play goalkeeper), and perhaps even block a couple of shots.

You wear whatever you want to wear. Or perhaps your wife still wants to colour-coordinate and match aesthetics, which is more than cool — just because you both got wrinkles showing, doesn’t mean you can’t twin up those limited edition Jordans.

And outside of work, outside of sleep… you engage in your passions — the creative and spiritual pursuits that add fire to life. You spend a lot more time here than in work. Your time and money and energy are funneled so abundantly into the who and what that makes you tick — the causes you believe in, the relationships around you, the self-efficacy and actualisation that comes from doing what you love.

You read a few pages of fiction in the morning in your dedicated reading nook, a soft sunlight touching your skin. You danced tango in the kitchen last night — harmonising rather awfully with your wife, tiptapping as graceful as a falling anchor but you just don’t care at all because how can life be bad when you’re with her? You might not have read any poetry recently but that’s okay because you’re living in such a beautiful world already.

When you wake up, it’s a choose your own adventure. You can spring out with an immense burst of energy and tackle the day, or you can opt for laziness, tangling limbs with she whom you hold dearest.

You travel as much or as little as you want to. You’re mature enough to realise that the strongest core memories are not by location, but by people — and all your favourite people live under the same roof.

Your hands are nimble, tried and firm — for they have carved the extraordinary life you have.

And even though a white-haired snake of age slithers across your cheeks, it doesn’t terrify you too much, for you are happy and satisfied and proud.

You live vicariously through your children and the wonderful things they do — and your children look to you as guidance, sounding board and source of immense, unconditional support.

And you teach them that an extraordinary life is not a checkpoint to cross and obtain, but an ongoing mental state of appreciation, commitment and love for all around you.

In favour of an extraordinary life

An extraordinary life can be anything, but I like to say that it’s anything that deviates from the norm.

• Stabilo-pink Lamborghinis cruising down a rented highway;

• A polyamorous relationship circle where everyone ticks different needs;

• An executive position at one of the biggest companies in the world;

• A nomadic lifestyle armed with a laptop, duffel bag and open mind of experiences;

• Being a competitive video game player for a game that isn’t even that popular;

• Or a member of an indie brand, trialing pubs and hotel lobbies, formulating the next big hit at the back of a gym parking lot;

• Living by a barnyard and relying on three hens for breakfast;

• Taking your motorcycle for a winding tour across the country over the weekend;

• Building a portfolio of digital art between punching out automated reports;

• Making your own matcha in the morning before the day’s responsibilities catch you;

• Going for karaoke even though you have work tomorrow morning;

• Giving yourself the time and space, the physicality and mentality, to journal and hope and dream;

And as the list goes on forever, I am reminded than an extraordinary life already exists in so many people today — including my own.

A terrible life is easy to identify and hopefully avoid. It’s probably a little different if you’re in there (a bit like a toxic relationship where everyone except yourself sees that it’s not right) but I like to believe I can figure it out.

And this extraordinary life… it’s an amazing aspiration but I’m conscious of the incredulous pursuit of it all. There is no happiness in a life of constant wanting and dissatisfaction — of plotting a north star that makes you feel like you’re never enough.

What really scares me though is the advent of an ordinary life. One where I’m straddled in mediocrity, don’t know what’s wrong, and blindly accept the -60% R.O.I of exchanging five days of work for two days of freedom.

And so I’d like to believe that my life today already has a ton of extraordinary elements.

I can buy an espresso machine and practice making the most velvety cappuccino. I can dance alongside that busker on George Street. I can both put money away for a rainy day while every now and then, make it rain for those whom I cherish. I can go for a hip-hop dance class during my lunch break and wear something completely outside my comfort zone. I can hit up an old friend and catch up on the multitude years gone by. I can spare fifteen minutes to journal, introspect and find peace in my own mind.

I can look at myself in the mirror and smile at the wrinkles — what a privilege it is to live long enough to develop age lines.

So let this be a reminder that an extraordinary life exists just at my fingertips, and all I ought to do is squeeze it like a wedge of lemon.

Whether it’s through morning matcha, coach jackets, or going for a dance in the refrigerator light.