I’ve been told I’m an “average guy.”

Let me be clear, it was meant as an insult.
I should have been enraged; maybe the situation called for it. But instead, I felt something different—something sad.
Yes, I am an average guy: the average between my best moments and my lowest points, the average between the instinctive passion of my 20s and the mature consideration of my 50s, the average between what I wish to be and what I actually manage to be. And so much more.
For you (you know who you are), consumed by the obsession of being at the top every moment of your life, dismissing everything that doesn’t scream excellence—whether it’s social recognition, physical appearance, or wealth—know this: I have compassion for you.

Average compassion, ça va sans dire.