One glance through the papers these days or a few minutes listening to the radio (we no longer own a television machine) is more than enough to make me fall back in love with my boring, normal little life.

Most of us, probably, have spent a fair bit of time wishing for or dreaming about stuff we don't have; money, celebrity, power ... a car with real guns that shoot when the license plate folds back. Okay, that last one was me.

But how many of us would really be happy once some of those items were attained? And what would we have to trade to get them?

The stewing pot Tiger Woods currently finds himself up to his athletic neck in has been a real eye and heart opener for me. Here is a man who has, for all intents and purposes, everything; money up the ying-yang, an unparalleled career, a beautiful wife, healthy children and Oprah's cell number. What could possibly be missing? Well, obviously something ... and something fairly important. I guarantee you Tiger has made a trade to get where he is. He gave something very valuable away. Something the rest of us still possess. For lack of a better term, and with a nod to the grammatically challenged Warren G. Harding, call it "normalcy."

I have had brief tastes of celebrity in my career. But nothing compared to the stratospheric heights Tiger lives at. I'm still able to go to the mall, hardware store, public loo and transact my affairs in relative, blessed, anonymity. And even on those few occasions when I am recognized, I'm always convinced the person is not sure whether he's seen me on TV or did I build his cousin's deck. And I like it like that.

I like that my harshest critics and my most devoted followers number those people who sit around me at the dinner table each night.

I like the size of my life. I frankly can't imagine living an existence as large as a Tiger Woods or an Oprah Winfrey or even a Barney Rubble. Although I'm glad they're there.

Because when I see Tiger holed up in his 157-foot floating prison, ironically named Privacy, I thank God for the thousand and one boring little joys in my own normal, little life. And I delight in them all over again.

Sitting by the wood stove, a dog's contented head in my lap. Walking through my lovely little town on a crisp winter evening. Making bacon sandwiches for my kids. Sharing a pot of coffee and the Saturday morning paper with my wife. Playing cards with my Mom and Dad. Board games. Potato chips and ice cold Coke. The smell of a Sunday roast. Reading in bed. A hot soak in a tub with a good book. Playing hockey with a good bunch of guys. Kawartha Dairy Ice Cream. Beer. Driving my kids everywhere. A good storm when I've got nowhere to be. Early morning lakes and canoes. Silence. My own thoughts. Writing. All these boring little things and a million more like them.

I'm not sure what the price tag of Tiger's yacht was. I wouldn't even want to guess what he's worth, altogether. But whatever the final numbers are, I'll bet you it's cost him a lot more than that to get there. A lot more.