Non-Fiction
I have a photo of Bill Clinton that I keep on a shelf at work. I’ve always liked the man of course, but it’s more complicated than that. Clinton reminds me that most of us exist in shades of gray. There are few, if any people that are all good or all bad. Real cowboys don’t wear a white hat to help you know who to root for. Sometimes there isn’t anyone to root for. We can’t all be that person we looked up to. We’re not our fathers or our mothers, no matter how much we may want to be. But their perfection rarely lasts beyond our early childhood. We are all flawed. Most of us are walking contradictions. We judge, but say we don’t. We draw imaginary lines around what we believe is acceptable behavior. A number of us are kidding ourselves.
In a few months I will be thirty years old. Looking back, I don’t recall any specific comprehension of the age I am now. I am different, but the same. I believe in people. I appreciate others more now than before. I miss old friends that I’ve lost contact with over the years. I regret some decisions that I’ve made. I am fiercely proud of others. I’ve never been motivated by money. I have more than some, less than others. I often look slightly disheveled, a bit haggard. It’s a by-product of my sleepless lifestyle. As I’ve grown older I’ve traded Grisham and Clancy for Sagan, Dawkins and others that cause me to propose long winded hypothetical questions to Nicole. She pretends I’m not insane. I wish they all could be California girls. I’m not religious. I think organized religion is part of the problem. But I believe there is more than this life, more than we could ever comprehend. I’ve grown more cynical with age, but maybe more loving and understanding. The most important people in my life have all been women. I owe them everything.
Next Saturday I’m going to marry the sweetest girl you could ever know. True story.
