Thurman Dogood was an average man of average stature, unremarkable in every way.
He lived in an average house on an average street in an average town, where he walked average sidewalks to his average job to do average things. He returned at an average hour for an average evening with his family. Then, he did it all again. And again. And again.
Each day began the same. His wife sound asleep, his children in their beds talking to themselves. Somehow she had trained them to stay in their room until one of the parents was awake.
And so Thurman would wake, ignore his alarm, then relent to his responsibilities and sneak to the kitchen table for five minutes of relative quiet. Sometimes he got them.
He’d once considered himself an optimist and ambitious idealist. But now his life was filled with ordinary and he’d grown accustomed to it. When his first child was born he knew there was no point in fighting for more.
The glory days were gone, or at least paused. At his age, average was fine.
The Average Life of Thurman Dogood 