Marcus

I knew from a young age that my brother and I would never be close. He was from my mother’s first marriage and with a full twenty years between the two of us he was out of the house well before I ever arrived. Our sister, his full my half, was young enough to babysit for the first few years of my life before she married and moved out as well. She was “sissy” then and “sis” now, I’m not sure I’ve ever called her by her name. My brother has always been “Nick”.

It never bothered me much, having a brother who was more like a distant cousin I saw on holidays and at family get-togethers. I think even when I was young I knew that distance and age would never really permit much more than that. It worried me though, sometimes, that I wouldn’t have someone there to do the things older brothers are meant to do for their younger brothers. I wondered who’d help me out of binds and give me advice about movies and music and life and toast me at my eventual wedding; things that I knew were often left to brothers. I didn’t dwell on it, but it certainly occurred to me from time to time.

Marcus is eccentric; I remember thinking that shortly after we started working together, and I told my then girlfriend as much. Some people are eccentric and it drives people away; they single out the eccentric as “other” and avoid and judge and whisper to one another, sneering with their self-assured “normalcy”. Marcus, instead, is an eccentric who draws people to him. He intrigues and engages; lures people in with wit and charm and confidence and the good humor of a man who doesn’t take himself too seriously. When my then girlfriend had the reaction of avoidance, of dislike, of singling him out as “other”, I knew that something was wrong with her, not with him. Marcus was eccentric and I admired him for it; a part of me hoped that he might lend some of it to me.

When I first started thinking that the woman I’d eventually marry might be somebody I’d like to one day marry, I was still lingering in a long dead relationship. I went to Marcus, asking his advice, and he told me in encouraging words what I had known for quite some time, but was unwilling to admit; that I wasn’t happy and needed to let myself be so. When the time came, he made a trip with me to my former apartment to claim my belongings and we packed what we could into the back of the trusty, aged bronco. The next day he gave me a box of kitchenware he could spare; pans and utensils and things he said were essential for civilized life and that night I unpacked them into the still empty cupboards of a still empty studio apartment that, somehow, did feel a bit more civilized for having them.

I had told Marcus and Alyisse that, as a near three decade teetotaler, I didn’t need a bar or “gentleman’s club” for my bachelor’s party; spending those dollar bills on a good dinner with good friends was perfectly fine. When the day came Marcus apologetically told me of the bars and dodgy clubs that waited patiently in the evening ahead, assuring me that he’d tried to rein in Alyisse’s grandiose plans but was outnumbered when Todd joined the planning committee. When we left the second bar and Marcus was the first to scale and straddle a just-more-than-life-sized public sculpture of an elk, I started to wonder how much he’d really tried to dissuade Alyisse from what would turn into my first drunken night out with friends. I’m glad he was there though, handing me a glass of water for each White Russian Alyisse sat in front of me and staying sober enough to ferry a barely coherent, babbling, stumbling version of me safely home later that night.

One of Marcus’ eccentricities I most admire is his skill as a storyteller, especially since I’m so self-conscious of my own abilities. He’s always sure of the next word; always charming and clever enough to please the masses but subversive enough to keep you wondering if the next sentence will make you blush and look away embarrassed. His wit is quick and his vocabulary and intelligence staggeringly broad. Because of that he can say almost anything and get a smile or laugh in response. I count myself lucky then to have had Marcus stand with me at my wedding and to toast my new bride and I in front of our assembled friends and family. As always his words were eloquent and heartfelt; funny and poignant. I realized, standing there watching him recount his version of Jess and I, that it was exactly what I imagined my brother would say at my wedding, just as all the other things Marcus has done for me in the ten plus years I’ve known him have epitomized those early ideals about what one brother does for another, and I realized that in those ten years I hadn’t worried about not having an older brother.

What My Father Gave Me

My dad told me recently that he's not the man that I think he is. Not in a "I'm actually a KGB defector hiding out in America" sense, but rather that he's not always been the best husband, or the best father, and that he doesn't deserve the praise and pride I have for him. At the time I didn't know how to respond except for polite denial, but to some extent what he said wasn't entirely without merit.

His marriage to my mother always had its ups and downs, which was mostly hidden from me as a youth but became more apparent as I got older. In the last few years before I reached eighteen there were fights and accusations and suspicion and then, finally, parting. He'd stayed through years of it, though, to make sure I had a dad at home until I was an adult. We drifted apart over the next few years, each of us trying to figure out his own next step, but I always knew he was never more than a phone call away if I needed him, as he was many years before when he showed up to a movie he had no interest in seeing after hearing his thirteen year old son had gone to see it alone and as he'd been for countless, confused talks when my teenage world seemed unbearable and endless.

After awhile, when we'd both settled into our new lives, we started calling more often and seeing each other periodically, though his work schedule and my class schedule seldom allowed much more than that. It was during this time that I started thinking about my early years and about who I'd become as a twenty-something. I'll admit that I'm no more sure of what I want to do with my life now as a thirty-something than I was ten years ago, but I think that I've become a good person, someone who treats others well and tries to live an honorable life, and as I thought back then of having grown into this I also thought of my dad and what I'd learned from him over the years, starting with drinking.

My father gave me my first taste of alcohol when I was too young to retain clear memory of time or place. I'm left only with a hazy recollection of sitting on the carpeted floor of our house on Elm street in Atlantic; I believe it was right after he and my mom had ended their long stretch away during which time I lived with my grandparents. He sat on the couch watching Wheel-of-Fortune with an only slightly chilled tall can of Coors propped between his jean clad legs and I got up and sat next to him. As a kid I was baffled by Wheel-of-Fortune and for the most part disinterested in everything but the colorful wheel itself, which is generally how I still feel about the show as an adult so I now understand why my father may have looked to alcohol as a means to see him through to the Cowboys game that was coming on afterward.

After a few minutes of watching Vanna pace side to side I asked him what he was drinking. "Beer", he replied; "its for grown ups, but its not very good."

Skeptical of his warning I asked for a taste; " If you don't tell mom, but only a sip, that's all".

I took the awkward can clumsily between my miniature hands and as I raised it to my lips I was hit first by the smell. I'd likely have thought it putrid had I known the word at the time; that rank, stale stench I'd find repugnant for years afterward and to some extent even now. A sip was all it took. It was flat and bitter, not nearly as cool as the can suggested and it fought back violently as I tried to swallow. I squinted my eyes and wrinkled my nose and I imagine my face looked as though it was having some abhorrent, rancid lime wrung from its pores; juice, pulp, peel and all. Even after I forced it down the taste lingered acridly in my mouth for some time. I hastily passed the can back to my father who smiled at me with the satisfied look of one who knew his work was done.

From that point until I was in my late twenties, I never tasted another sip of alcohol and I don't recall seeing my father drink after that either. It wasn't until years later, maybe my late teens or early twenties, that I heard in passing from my sister that my dad used to struggle with alcohol. I never saw it and don't think it was truly "alcoholism", just a bad habit like the Marlboro Reds I can't get him to quit. I know that he wanted to make sure I didn't succumb to the same pitfalls as him, though, which is why he helped me develop a healthy distaste for it from the start. I won't be so melodramatic as to say that it saved me from a life of drunkenness. Perhaps it did, but likely I would have been equally fine had I not shunned alcohol for the next twenty plus years. Not everyone who drinks spirals into the doldrums of alcoholism and despair, after all. I do know, though, that it did keep me away from drinking long enough to develop my own thoughts and feelings about it; to not simply go along with whatever my friends were doing, which inspired that approach in other areas of my life.

Years passed before I would again share a drink with my dad. It was the night of my wedding and he sat across from me on our new family's patio after the reception, a beer in his hand, still in the tie I'd tied for him earlier and with the biggest smile I'd ever seen hung from his whiskers. I remember thinking at some point as I sat with my dad and my wine, surrounded by smiling family and friends, that I must be a good man for my wife to have married me because I certainly came out the winner in that deal. She's beautiful and talented and brilliant and there's a moment of confused disbelief that flashes before the eyes of anyone we're introduced to as "Mr. and Mrs. Benton", as though their mind can't quite reconcile the disparity between her and the man who'd somehow tricked her into marriage. Had she lost a bet or was it pure pity? I like to think its because she believes I'm a good man and if, then, I am indeed a good man, good enough to win over someone as lovely as Jess, its in great part because of my father and what his own actions have taught me about hard work and honesty and honor, and it all started with that first sip.

He maybe wasn't the perfect husband to my mother, or even the perfect father to me, but who's really perfect anyway? It doesn't make him any less of a good man and maybe perfection isn't really what people need in life. Perfection leaves no room for experience or the knowledge that comes from making mistakes, which are each fundamental to true learning and life in general. In the end maybe people are better served by someone who, though perhaps not perfect, will do their best to teach them right from wrong, encourage their ability to make decisions for themselves and give them the wisdom to do it responsibly and, above all, to be a good person always. Again, if I am any of this, it is because of my dad who is the best dad I could ask for and no words are thanks enough for all he's given me; all I can do is try to be the man I know he is.

For Mom on Mother's Day (she would excuse the tardiness)

There are a million things I remember about my mother, about growing up as Karen Griffin’s son. I’d be lying if I said that none of the memories are bad, but I’m thankful that the good far outnumber them. Some I remember as if they happened yesterday while others are just hazy visions that hover in the distant corners of my mind, stirred up every now and then by a familiar smell or song or the occasional feeling of déjà vu. I cherish them all; good and bad, vivid and fading, because they’re all I have.

One of my earliest memories of my mother is of not recognizing her, which sounds awful until you gain some perspective. I was young; I don’t remember how young, only that I had enough life behind me that I could walk, talk and blurt out my own opinion at the most awkward moments. This particular moment was a reunion of sorts. I was living with my mother’s father and mother, or Grandma and Grandpa as I knew them. From the table in the dining room where I sat coloring well beyond the lines I heard the screen door open and close followed by the clamor of adult voices. I remember peering around the door-jam and seeing her standing in the living room talking to my grandmother. I couldn't place her, but I recognized her hair that fell in dark waves around her sunburned face and her lively eyes and the soothing cadence of her voice. She took a seat on the sagging flower printed sofa with a Virginia Slim held delicately between the tips of her right index and middle fingers. I stood motionless, frozen with curiosity, and as my grandmother passed me on her way to the kitchen for drinks she told me that Mom was here and that I should go say hello. It took me a moment for the statement to resonate within my young mind, and even then I was uncertain of everything except that I knew she was someone I trusted. I entered the room and approached timidly, feelings of both apprehension and familiarity coursing through my small frame. As I stopped in front of her she looked up at me with kind hazel eyes and a smile like a soft warm blanket on a cold day.

 “You know” I started, and she cocked her head attentively in anticipation of the long forgotten secret it seemed I was on the verge of sharing; some mystical truth about life, the universe and everything. “you shouldn't smoke. It’s bad for you”.

It may seem strange or unfortunate, but that is one of my first memories of my mother; a memory where I barely recognize her and proceed to chastise her health choices. When I was young my mother and father worked construction; not the kind that kept you in one place and allowed you to go home each night to your own bed and your loved ones, but rather working on highways and interstates that were miles away and kept them moving along as the construction progressed. They lived out of a camper for awhile and thought it best if I stayed with my grandparents. I never blamed them as a kid because I simply thought it was the normal way of things; I don’t blame them now because I know it was as much a sacrifice for them as it was for me and they were doing it to try to make a better life for all of us. So while one of my first memories of my mother is of only a vague recognition, it was for good reasons and I'm alright with it.

Other memories are more pleasant. I remember our summer vacations when I was still far enough from my teen years to look forward to family trips to Disneyland. Because my mother hated flying we spent two days crossing the country, my father manning the wheel in marathon driving shifts from Kansas to California and back again. My mom, much to my dad’s always quiet, stifled annoyance, would make him pull over at touristy junk shops and kitschy attractions that huddle along America’s highways in the hazy spaces where towns end and the long quiet stretches of world begin.

We would stay in the cheap family motels that once lined Katella Avenue across from Disneyland; The Aladin’s Lamp or the Castle Inn or one of the other charming, comfortable, just-this-side-of-trademark-infringement establishments that were bulldozed years ago to make room for mega hotels with none of the charm at four times the cost. When we settled into our room my mom and I would go out onto the balcony that overlooked Disneyland’s once vast parking lot where California Adventure now stands and watch the fireworks explode over the castle that peaked just above the trees in the distance, a taste of what the next day would bring. Somehow my mom would never tire at Disneyland. Maybe she knew she’d never get me to stand still and simply had to keep up or maybe being there made her feel as youthful and energetic as her eleven year old son; either way she’d rarely back down from a ride or stifle my rampant exuberance. To this day its one of my favorite places, not for the rides but rather for the memories of those long summer adventures that started with me half asleep in the backseat at four in the morning with my dad driving and my mom fiddling with the radio trying to find Fleetwood Mac. Those treks that spanned the deserts and the mountains where the sky beyond my backseat window fell into an endless horizon of adventure and possibility. Those few precious days where we smiled and laughed and my mom could give her son the childhood she never had and the memories she always wanted.

As I got older, things changed between us. Some of it was my fault; in fact I can probably claim the lion's share, but she wasn't without blame. My parents’ relationship was strained; in truth it had run its course years before, sometime after those perfect summers, and they only lingered together for my benefit. That rarely holds out for long, though. My mom eventually lost her trust in my father and things were said, or implied, often. My father shouldered it as well as he could at first but there is only so long you can be suspected of something before it becomes a reality. I was asked if I knew what my father was up to, told by my father that he thought my mom had stopped loving him long ago. I didn't care who was right, who was lying or what had happened; they were my parents and I couldn't pick a side and was angry that I felt I was being forced to. I spent less time at home and more nights at the ten dollar concerts that would play the Nile a few nights a week. The music was angry and loud, but I won’t be so cliche as to say its how I felt. I was certainly pissed at my parents for putting me in the middle and I suppose the blue hair and spikes hinted at an angsty rebellion I never really felt. In truth, though, I still loved them both very much, still maintained my grades and never thought of doing anything rebellious like running away, until I kind of did.

My mom kicked my dad out; got a restraining order in fact even though I know he never had and never would hit her or anyone else. Regardless, the suspicion and mistrust had led to fear and fear sometimes makes you do desperate things. I didn't know how she thought we would get by, her unemployed and me part time student, part time worker, and I asked her as much. I was angry at her and found a way out with the parents of my girlfriend at the time who graciously offered me a place under their roof for as long as I needed. At the time all I could think of was how right I was, how badly things had been messed up largely because of her and my dad, and how I just wanted out. Years later when I thought back on it I was ashamed and sad, feeling that I had abandoned her. She’d just kicked my dad out and then her son left; it must have been a terrible abandonment and I apologized eventually but am not certain it could ever be enough. But for a long time I’m ashamed to say I didn't go out of my way to keep in touch, and to be fair neither did she. The first time she called me was six months after I’d left; she wanted to check to make sure I had gotten new glasses and also to let me know she had moved to Tampa. I didn't quite know how to respond so I simply assured her I’d gotten a new prescription and said that I hoped Tampa was nice. It would be like that for some years; intermittent contact spread over vast swaths of silence, but every time she called I knew that it was because she loved me and wanted to make sure I was alright in spite of the massive asshole I’d been.

The calls got more frequent my junior year of college. I’d leave class and find voice mails waiting for me when I checked my phone; messages that spoke of doctors and tests and maybe cancer but then again maybe not; essentially a string of information that nobody wants to hear, especially from their mother. She had always been a bit of a hypochondriac and the optimist in me chalked it up to an overactive imagination. Regardless, she asked me, my brother and my sister to come visit her in Tampa in June. It would be the first time I’d seen my brother and sister in nearly a decade, and the first time the four of us were together since I wore pajamas with cartoon characters on them.

One of the last memories I have of my mother is not unlike the first; I didn't recognize her. When I walked in the door of her tiny apartment a few miles from the gulf shore she sat on the sofa with a Virginia Slim inching its way toward the thin fingers that held it so delicately. Her hazel eyes were not so lively as they once were. The Cher-imitating hair that had been dark and flowing all my life was silvery and pulled back away from her spotted and freckled skin. Her voice was still kind but she could no longer spare the warmth it once offered. I didn't remember her being so small, I thought. She would forget things and repeat things and I did my best to stifle an anger that I couldn't quite understand the reason for. I declined her offer to stay at the tiny apartment and opted for a hotel a few minutes away, partly because I didn't want to impose and partly for selfish, shameful reasons I can’t even name. I know now that she just wanted me near, just wanted time with me. I did stay one night, sleeping on the floor as she dozed quietly on the sofa, looking more at peace than I could ever remember, and I’m thankful I did because its one more happy memory of her I got to steal. I only had a few days before I flew back to Phoenix. The time was too fleeting, too crowded with three of us wanting her attention while at the same time trying to accustom ourselves to relationships that were not at all the same as they were the last time we’d all been together. Before I knew it I was saying goodbye with a promise to visit again soon, but I think I knew even then it would be the last time I saw her.

She fell after we all left. The hospital wouldn't let her go home, fearing for her safety, and eventually they transferred her to hospice. My sister, as much a nurse to our family as she is to her actual patients, was able to fly back in early August to be with her. She stayed with her and talked to her, calling me daily to provide updates. She caught me on lunch at work one day and said that mom had been asking for me, that she wanted to speak to me. I walked outside and sat in the cool shade in a bank of grass that ran along the storefront. Her voice was nearly a whisper and I could tell by the urgency of her speech that her thoughts were tormented. I strained my ears to hear her quiet words. She was sorry, she said. She hoped I didn't blame her, that I didn't hate her. She hoped I knew she loved me. I told her that I didn't blame her for anything, that there was nothing to be sorry for. I understood why she left and it was alright; I wasn't angry or resentful. I told her I loved her and knew that she loved me and that I couldn't imagine a better mother than her or a happier life than the one she had given me. Her voice trailed off again, less tormented though which I hoped meant she had found some peace. My sister picked up the phone then, told me she would call me with any news and I went back to work.

The following day, September 2nd, was my birthday. The worst part of having a birthday so early in the school year is that generally you're not able to skip class as easily as you might a few weeks into the semester when you have a better idea what the hell is going on. Because of this I found myself standing in the language building killing time before my Spanish class when my phone rang. I saw my sister's name on the screen as I pulled the phone from my bag and before I even answered I knew; I knew what words she would say; how shaky and quiet and tear stained her voice would sound. I knew how I wouldn't know how to react; how I wouldn't know what to do next or who I was supposed to call or what I was supposed to say; how the numbness would wash across my mind and take me and I'd hear nothing more after those first few words. I knew that I had known for weeks that my mother would die that day, my birthday, and still I was completely unprepared for any of it.

I am thankful for the numbness because with it came a sort of sleepwalking dignity, a composure that allowed me to mime the acts expected of me in that situation even though my mind had ceased to function. I don't remember the rest of the conversation with my sister. I don't remember what I said to my professor, I think some toned down version of the truth; a distant relative or friend of the family. I was afraid she wouldn't believe the truth and if she would I didn't want to be the guy in class whose feelings she felt she needed to coddle. I don't remember what I said when I spoke to my dad; I do remember his condolences, and I don't remember what I said to my brother nor what his condolences may have been. I do remember sitting in my car, though I don't recall walking the three blocks to get there. Somehow I managed it without falling to pieces. I sat there in silence for quite some time, perhaps a half hour, motionless and numb in the stifling September heat of my seclusion. I don't know what my thoughts were, how I felt; I only know that at the end of it, exhausted and disoriented, rather than burst into tears, I laughed.

I've moved around quite a lot throughout my life and because of this I learned to form strong bonds with people who I rarely see, to which I'm sure many of you can attest. We don't always get the relationship dynamics we want in life and with that in mind I've always striven to hold on to the people who are important to me no matter how far away they may be. The people I consider my closest friends, my best friends, are scattered all around the globe. Some of them I'm lucky enough to see weekly, others perhaps once or twice a year. Others still I haven't seen in two years or even four. This is true, too, of family. I'll go months without calling my sister or father and that trip to Tampa and a couple calls afterward were the only times I've been in touch with my brother since I was a teenager. When we're together though, whether its been a week or a year, we mostly pick up the thread of our relationship without missing a beat. I'd love to be in their lives more; to see their kids and go to their art exhibits and be a bigger part of their world, but again, sometimes you have to simply be thankful for what you have and not bemoan what you don't.

This is how I was able to maintain a relationship with my mother with limited contact for nearly a decade and its at the heart of why I laughed that day in the car with the news not an hour old. My mother knew how atrocious I am at keeping touch and realized she wasn't much better than me (I'd picked up the habit somewhere, after all). She knew how we parted on uneasy terms and how ten years apart can strain even the closest relationships. I think this was her way, or perhaps the universe's way of making sure I never lost touch with her again; that there would always be a day, a day set aside for happiness, that I'd think of her and smile; a day that would always recall the memories both happy and sad; my Birthday. That and my mother always had a great sense of humor; I'm sure she laughed at the surreal absurdity of it too. Thanks for the memories, mom, and for making sure I never forget.

Into the Deep End....

Initially I put off sharing this as I didn't want any undue pressure; afraid that if I'd stated it then people would expect more than I could deliver, or that I'd let everyone down when I eventually gave up the pursuit. However, a month and a half in I'm a bit surer of myself now, even though I'm yet very much only a novice, and wanted to share it now as a way of fortifying my dedication; of closing off the exit and not allowing myself to back out, as it were. That said, I'm pleased to say that, as of mid December, I've been actively focused on writing for the first time since my freshman year of college when my delusions of grandeur nearly prompted me to major in English.

I've always wanted to write, but like many dreams I always thought myself too mediocre to get anywhere with it so I let it go and concentrated on more practical things (like art history). it was always there though, nagging me like an itch. I'd write little stories for friends on occasion, but more often only for myself as a way to vent my creative stockpile. Then I'd re-read them, come to the conclusion they were utter rubbish and burn not only them but anything they'd come into contact with for fear the terrible writing had left some wretched stigma on the paper, the desk, the printer or anything remotely near them. I don't know what I expected; I hadn't really put any effort into them and had ignored what I'd been told was natural proclivity (not saying I believe this) for years, so of course they were pretty awful. I constantly compared my writing with the writers I admired; Neil Gaiman, Michael Chabon, etc, which is a fairly masochistic practice; comparing your beginning work with that of someone who has honed theirs for nearly as long as you've been alive. This was recently pointed out to me, and I'm trying to keep it in mind.

So, I've rededicated myself to writing; fiction, non-fiction, short story, essay, poem (no songs; I'm no good at that and freely admit it. Thank me for sparing you). Basically I'll write whatever I feel with two ends in mind; either I succeed beyond my wildest dreams and am able to support myself entirely from writing alone, or, like many writers, I do it in the mornings before I go to work, or sneak in a few pages before bed; use up my days off to finish whatever it is I'm working on in the hopes that it will be published and read by someone. At the end of it, if its not read I don't really care because I'm doing it for my own sanity as much as I am my desire to be Neil Gaiman (I'm sure you're all well aware of how fervent that desire is). I've finished one short story since I began this in December and started nearly a dozen others I wouldn't allow myself to work on until the first one I started was completed as I didn't want a bunch of unfinished pieces around to discourage me. You cannot read this first one, because like any first attempt its likely pretty terrible. I'm okay with that; in fact I hope it is as constructive criticism is much more useful than obligatory praise (Jess has a copy and I await her response). As I get better, find my voice, I'll likely start sharing them and I'd be happy if you read them (happier still if you enjoyed them but I'm not promising anything there). Either way, its what I've been up to lately and is the reason for recent cryptic and cagey responses to "so, Justin, what are you up to other than work?" "Um....crocheting? Spelunking? Why; what have you heard?".

Lastly, I just want you to know that its all your fault, you bastards. I blame all of you for this foolhardy endeavor. All of you who are so inspiring with your amazing careers and your studies and your writing and your painting and your photography and your music and the million other things you do that make me so proud to call you friends and remind me that I should do more to be deserving of inclusion in such interesting and brilliant company (especially my loving, supportive and brilliant wife). Thank you and I'll try not to let you down.

2013; In Which I Grow Up (if only just a bit)...

I've never given much consideration to the New Year. As with most quaint traditions I can certainly appreciate the charm of resolutions, but I've never been much for the holiday in general; too Bacchan for my quiet demeanor I suppose. For the last couple years Jess and I have greeted the coming year with a quiet dinner on the Upper West Side followed by a movie; strategically avoiding the maelstrom of Times Square and its drunken, tidal aftermath flooding the subways back to distant boroughs after the last bit of confetti and music have fallen from the cold air. We continued the tradition this year, though for me at least there was an anomaly; something markedly different from previous years; the feeling, or perhaps solely the hope, that this year truly would bring change and focus.

Its not to say that my life has not changed, especially in the last half-decade, but these changes at the time seemed less planned and more the spontaneous acts of astrological alignment. If I had been asked on December 31st, 2009, what the coming year held for me, I would certainly have said that I hoped it would bring marriage before the next new year (as I was already looking at rings), but I would have been reluctant to believe that one could propose, marry, honeymoon and move across the country to New York all before his 30th Birthday that September. Happily all of this transpired, and relatively smoothly given the chaos usually brought on by planning a wedding and a cross country move on their own, let alone in tandem. 

This year, though, is different in that the resolutions I've set are more grandiose than those of previous years; more deliberate and purposeful. Maybe its because I'm tired of my job, weary of selling and not giving anything to the world and sick of tarting it up whenever someone asks what I do for a living, trying to make it sound more consequential than it ever could be. It is a living, but that is all. It could be also that in my mind I need to better myself if I want to feel deserving of my lovely wife, or maybe I've simply figured out what I'd like to do with my life, if only part time (though I wouldn't swear to it and I'd hate to jinx it). Perhaps its all of these things at once or none of them at all, but whatever the impetus, for the first time I feel like I have a focus for the upcoming year and I've made my resolutions with this in mind. I've shared my goals with Jess and she's professed her favor and support, though I won't mention them here as I feel its bad luck to share your resolutions with just anyone (one more of those quaint traditions I so adore); plus it invites unneeded pressure on an already tenuous endeavor.

If nothing else, I think this year I simply feel more adult than before; which I suppose had to happen sometime. It has certainly been a late revelation and a transformation I'm not sure is entirely complete, if ever it will be. I'm happy to say that many of the insecurities of my youth have since been resolved and I've somehow stumbled into a life, one I'm still sometimes unconvinced is my own, where I'm able to walk the quiet, brisk winter sidewalks of the Upper West Side with my beautiful and brilliant wife; dressed in suit and great-coat with peaked collar and my hair as askew as the wind and products will allow, and distinctly more comfortable with myself than in years before, or at least a bit more adept at masking my awkwardness, anyway. Also feeling somewhat "fictional", as Neil referred to his own mindset in a blog post on that same evening. Either way I feel more sure of my goal, less than sure of how to get there, but positive I'm moving in the right direction as no step is truer than the one that, at first, feels the most unsure. With that in mind, I wish you all the best for the new year and the resolve to follow uncertain steps as you pursue your own hopes.