Ah, yes, the lobster. A creature of profound significance, a crustacean with a lineage that extends back over 350 million years, a being that has clung to its hierarchical dominance since time immemorial. It’s not merely an animal; it’s a symbol, a beacon of ancient wisdom encoded in its very biology. And yet, here we are, in our contemporary chaos, blind to the lessons it offers. Blind! Can you believe it?
The lobster’s nervous system—an elegant dance of serotonin and octopamine—maps out the fundamental structures of dominance and submission. Do you understand what that means? It’s etched into their biology, their posture, their confidence. When a lobster wins a fight, it stands up straighter. Think about that. Its very physiology transforms in victory, its body declaring to the world, “I have triumphed!”—a declaration as old as life itself. And when it loses? It hunches, shrinks into itself, conceding its place in the pecking order.
Now consider this: Are we so different? Are we not as bound to these neurochemical realities as the lobster? Sure, we’ve built cities and universities and, yes, social media platforms—but at our core, our nervous systems are still calibrated for these ancient battles of standing up and shrinking back. You can see it in a boardroom, in a schoolyard, in the way people hold their heads when they feel like life is crushing them under its weight.
So, here I am, at 62, and I think about this more and more. Am I a lobster? No, of course not—don’t be absurd. But also, yes, yes, I am. Because we are all lobsters, you see. I’ve stood tall at times, but oh, I’ve hunched, too. You don’t get to 62 without bearing the scars of a few dominance struggles. You lose friends, you lose battles, you even lose some dignity—God help you if you’re paying attention—but if you’re lucky, you win some, too. And what does that leave you with?
Let me tell you what it leaves you with: resilience. The ability to rewire yourself, to recompose your posture after life’s great defeats. I mean, what choice do you have? Are you going to sit there, metaphorically—or perhaps literally—hunched over, or are you going to inject yourself with a little bit of that serotonin-like optimism and stand up straight with your shoulders back?
At 62, I find myself pondering these things. I’m a lobster who’s seen some things. The shell gets harder, sure, but the molting process—the shedding of the old to make way for the new—is more taxing. The older you get, the longer it takes to regrow what you’ve lost. The world feels heavier, the stakes higher, the battles less frequent but far more consequential. And yet, here I am, still molting, still reasserting my place in this inexplicable, absurd, often painful hierarchy of existence. Because that’s what it means to live—to be a lobster, if you will.
And what is our alternative? To sink into the depths, defeated, unresponsive, some forgotten crustacean resigned to its fate? No. No, that’s not acceptable. Not to me. You get up. You fight. You rebuild. Even at 62. Even when your claws are dull and your carapace cracked. Because if the lobster—this ancient, resilient, serotonin-driven marvel—can do it, so can we.
So, yes, I am a lobster. You’re a lobster. We’re all bloody lobsters, trying to figure out how to stand tall in a world that just keeps pushing us down. And if that’s not a lesson worth learning, then I don’t know what is.
Ah, yes, the lobster. A creature of profound significance, a crustacean with a lineage that extends back over 350 million years, a being that has clung to its hierarchical dominance since time immemorial. It’s not merely an animal; it’s a symbol, a beacon of ancient wisdom encoded in its very biology. And yet, here we are, in our contemporary chaos, blind to the lessons it offers. Blind! Can you believe it?
The lobster’s nervous system—an elegant dance of serotonin and octopamine—maps out the fundamental structures of dominance and submission. Do you understand what that means? It’s etched into their biology, their posture, their confidence. When a lobster wins a fight, it stands up straighter. Think about that. Its very physiology transforms in victory, its body declaring to the world, “I have triumphed!”—a declaration as old as life itself. And when it loses? It hunches, shrinks into itself, conceding its place in the pecking order.
Now consider this: Are we so different? Are we not as bound to these neurochemical realities as the lobster? Sure, we’ve built cities and universities and, yes, social media platforms—but at our core, our nervous systems are still calibrated for these ancient battles of standing up and shrinking back. You can see it in a boardroom, in a schoolyard, in the way people hold their heads when they feel like life is crushing them under its weight.
So, here I am, at 62, and I think about this more and more. Am I a lobster? No, of course not—don’t be absurd. But also, yes, yes, I am. Because we are all lobsters, you see. I’ve stood tall at times, but oh, I’ve hunched, too. You don’t get to 62 without bearing the scars of a few dominance struggles. You lose friends, you lose battles, you even lose some dignity—God help you if you’re paying attention—but if you’re lucky, you win some, too. And what does that leave you with?
Let me tell you what it leaves you with: resilience. The ability to rewire yourself, to recompose your posture after life’s great defeats. I mean, what choice do you have? Are you going to sit there, metaphorically—or perhaps literally—hunched over, or are you going to inject yourself with a little bit of that serotonin-like optimism and stand up straight with your shoulders back?
At 62, I find myself pondering these things. I’m a lobster who’s seen some things. The shell gets harder, sure, but the molting process—the shedding of the old to make way for the new—is more taxing. The older you get, the longer it takes to regrow what you’ve lost. The world feels heavier, the stakes higher, the battles less frequent but far more consequential. And yet, here I am, still molting, still reasserting my place in this inexplicable, absurd, often painful hierarchy of existence. Because that’s what it means to live—to be a lobster, if you will.
And what is our alternative? To sink into the depths, defeated, unresponsive, some forgotten crustacean resigned to its fate? No. No, that’s not acceptable. Not to me. You get up. You fight. You rebuild. Even at 62. Even when your claws are dull and your carapace cracked. Because if the lobster—this ancient, resilient, serotonin-driven marvel—can do it, so can we.
So, yes, I am a lobster. You’re a lobster. We’re all bloody lobsters, trying to figure out how to stand tall in a world that just keeps pushing us down. And if that’s not a lesson worth learning, then I don’t know what is.
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