You may already be a success. And don't know it.

A friend recently asked me a question. Then told me not to answer.

We were discussing another business venture I was embarking on because I'm always embarking on something. Since he was joining me for this voyage, we needed to go through our next steps. Then he stopped mid-sentence.

"Before we can go any further, I need to know what you call success."

I could Merriam-Webster it for him, if he wanted.

"What's your definition of success?" he clarified. "Before we can start this, I need to know how you define it." Then he told me not to answer. "Just think about it. You need to spend time on it because how can you know you've achieved it until you've clearly defined it?"

I started to say, 'I'll just feel it,' but stopped myself before sounding like a millennial.

Hungry Is As Hungry Does

When I asked him for an example of what he meant, he told me about his dad.

An entrepreneur, too, his father worked for himself for one major reason: he wanted to eat lunch when he was hungry. While most companies established the lunch break between noon and 1 pm, his dad said he wasn't always hungry between noon and 1 pm.

"'What if I'm hungry at 11?' Dad said. 'Or 1:30?' He didn't want it dictated to him when he had to eat. He wanted the freedom to eat when he was hungry and not eat when he wasn't. Having that freedom, for him, was success."

Thinking Outside the Clock

For me, the definition came down to time. Not books sold. Not money made. Not recognition. Just time, oddly enough.

What I didn't want was to spend it in unnecessary meetings, obligatory luncheons, and seeking dust-collecting awards. I'm not a schmoozer. I don't need applause. I don't care if anyone knows my name, unless they want to buy my book. Then I want it tattooed inside their eyelids.

What I did want was to spend my time with the people in my life, to write entertaining/witty/thought-provoking stories, and to work on projects for organizations with eternal value. To do that meant I needed to have control over my time.

Control over my time = success 

It also meant I could eat only when I was hungry.

A Life By Any Other Name

Even though we try to avoid it, we often define our success according to cultural or family expectations. We never stop to put our own definition to it because the world has already done the hard work and defined it for us.

We've been convinced that happiness doesn't come until we...make a specific yearly salary...hold a prestigious title...receive peer recognition...live in a certain neighborhood...follow all the fashion fads...vacation in certain destinations...exude a predetermined beauty standard...have a recognizable name...and so on.

We're often chasing after a success that, once caught, we may not even want.

No wonder some of the richest, most famous among us are also the most miserable. They've achieved "success." And to fully embrace all that happiness, they self-medicate to get through the day.

Your Private Award's Ceremony

We must define our idea of success. I didn't realize how dissatisfied I was with my achievements until I recognized my standard for judging wasn't my own. It had been implanted in me years ago and never forcefully challenged.

I realized what the majority of the world viewed as success, I did not. So I've stopped seeking it.

Maybe it's that way for you, too. You may not even realize you're desperately working for something that, once achieved, you won't want. Or maybe not. But we don't know until we take the time to define success for ourselves.

And, in the end, your definition might surprise you. In fact, you may discover what I did. That success was something I'd already achieved.

What about Watermelon man?

John says we're soft.

He didn't mention anyone by name. It seemed like a general statement, i.e. everyone. This he told me under the direct summer sun while shining each watermelon in the back of his truck.

He might have a point. At this moment, I'm sitting in my 76-degree home and eating apple sauce, which is the equivalent of apples post-chew. Before I even sat down to write this, I changed from a dress to shorts, so I could get cooler. Then I poured a glass of cold water, so I could be more refreshed. And turned on my ceiling fan, so I could labor under a perpetual breeze.

Too soft? Yeah, okay. You've got me there.

I've driven past John nearly every day for weeks. Through the excessive heat warnings, the temperature map plastered on Drudge, the dire predictions of death's imminence if you step outside, there's John. Sitting off SH 97. Waiting to grab customers leaving Sand Springs and heading toward Sapulpa. And hoping they might fancy a fresh watermelon.

In the, aghast, triple digit temperatures.

When I asked him how he handled the heat, he simply said, in this very country boy voice, "I'm use to it. I didn't have an air-conditioner until 2009."

And there you have it. John's tough.

He is, by the way. Quite so. I don't know if he's a man of integrity or honor, of intelligence or information, he could be all of those things. Or none of them. I only spoke to him for a quarter of an hour, and that included getting interrupted by customers and losing my pen twice.

He is, however, a worker. When I asked him why he does it, he simply said, "You've got to do something."

That you do.

John use to lay cement. He still does to fill in the payroll gaps. It's work few people want because, and we come back to this, they're soft. And he isn't. Not a point he makes for vainglory sake. Just a reason why he can always find work.

He sells watermelon in the summer, hay in the winter and spring and fall, and works a few cows in between time. That all came after a short duration of hauling. It didn't, however, pay the bills and so he had to move on.

No nest egg. No unemployment benefits. He just moved on to whatever work was before him.

"Are you making money selling these?" I asked this after one of John's customers asked me if I like watermelons and I accidentally answered honestly. No, not really. I should have used more creativity to get out of that one.

Yes. He's making money. He's sold 1,025 watermelons in five weeks. Or, another way to look at it, he and his business partner have sold 38,700 pounds of watery fruit. To put that in other terms, John has sold the weight equivalent of 500 books, four SUVs, and two killer whales.

That's a lot of fruit.

He drives 350 miles one way to Texas to pick them up, and then all the way back to sit in the brutal heat. Within weeks, or even one, John says there won't be any more watermelon. So he's got only days to turn his last load around.

"If you'd wear a green-stripped t-shirt, we could sell these in an hour," he told me.

Aww, shucks. Thanks. But today I wore red.

John is one of those rare breads in American culture. He works without complaint and does whatever needs to be done. And doesn't believe life is unfair, he's been short-changed, and someone owes him recompense.

Though, if you wanted to buy him a cold beer, he'd drink it.

"I have to do something."

He didn't take my compliments easily. I admire that kind of tenacity, that kind of work ethic, that kind of pioneer spirit. When I told him I saw that in him, he just did more hemming and hawing and a little grin here or there.

"So, what do you do with your down time out here?"

"I just sit," he said, back to polishing those money makers. "I figure out when I'm going to go bankrupt and how long before I'm living out here in my truck." Then he laughs. "Nah, I'm just kidding. I'm going to be just fine."