In the bathroom sits a shaving mug into which I swirl a wet brush each day to soap my face before I shave with an old-school safety razor. I could go on and on about why I use such things, and I'm sorely tempted, but instead I'll just describe how the shaving soap seems never ending.

In December, seeming near the bottom of my shaving cup and having found a local shaving soap maker, I bought a puck of new soap. Two things to know about me in these situations: I love that the shaving soap lasts and lasts, but once I buy a new puck, I can't wait until I finish the old one.

There remains just the smallest sliver of soap in the mug. Hardly enough for a lather, yet each morning there's still soap left for the next day. It's kind of driving me crazy because I'm stuck on a couple stories I tell myself.

The first is that I'll finish the soap any day now. The second is that a new soap will change my life.

Both stories are fictions, but that doesn't keep me from acting on them over and over. I'm Charlie Brown with the football, except eventually I really will finish the soap. Charles Schulz never got around to drawing Lucy letting Charlie Brown kick the ball, but I know what happens. No matter how he kicks the ball, Charlie Brown remains Charlie Brown, no happier than he was before, maybe not even as happy.

I'm writing this at night. Soon I'll go to sleep, proud to have figured this much out and developed a bit of wisdom. Maybe I'll sleep well and wake tomorrow refreshed. Then I'll wet the shaving brush and swirl it in the cup, and I know just what I'll be thinking: "Today just has to be the day I finish this soap, start the new one, and begin living a tremendously better life because of it!"

Lucy, Charles Schulz, and maybe Buddha (looking a lot like Snoopy) will all laugh themselves silly watching me stand at the sink, froth all around my mouth, wearing a hopelessly naive smile.