I was sent a magazine profile yesterday about a massively successful private-equity guy with a supermodel wife. The story began with him on the way to get life advice from Rick Rubin, which he didn’t seem to need, given the circumstances, and ended with his first baby being born.

I read enough to know he’d been handed a certain set of keys, and this profile was a peek through the keyhole into the perfect lives of other people. I closed out the article and tried to give my frustration a better name. Jealousy? No, not really. Lately I’m starting to realize that I have something people with a lot more often don’t have: enough.

Although meeting Rick Rubin would be cool.

And then I understood.

Give me the 52 year-old, who never ran into anybody who really gave a shit. He’s done what he’s supposed to do, but he’s been sitting on the bench his whole life, just waiting to get in the game.

The underdog.

I want something to happen. Does he meet someone who finally sees him? Does he reach the f-it point, and rebel against the limits other people put on him? Does he get a dog? I don’t know.

But something, where events conspire to make him wake up one morning and run down the hall and explode into the outside, where the sun and ocean wait to welcome him to a real life he didn’t think he deserved.

While the perfect lives of other people dance in circles behind the keyhole, to a warbled and warped piano waltz played by someone daddy knew at Harvard.