Is enough ever enough?

I recently discovered the magic that is Mystic Tan – the spray-on tanning system. Years ago, I had tried it, but the experience of stepping into a phone booth and getting sprayed up and down while forced to hold my breath brought to mind images of concentration camps and torture devices.

Thinking it was a bit too traumatic to repeat often, I switched to tanning beds. Why I thought microwaving myself in a coffin was a better alternative, I’ll never quite understand. But, through time, I repeatedly was reminded of the realities of skin cancer and, even worse, increased aging effects that tanning beds caused. With the risk of looking my actual age, I decided to quit tanning altogether and embrace my white, Swedish skin.

This all worked fine and dandy until I was invited to a fancy event. Lambda Legal was holding its inaugural Landmark Dinner at the W Hotel. And not only was this an oo-la-la event at a hoity toity establishment, but as with all events where the majority of the attendees are gay, this one had a theme. All. White. This meant that I not only could not drink red wine at the event, but that I had to do something to distinguish my skin pigmentation from the clothes I would wear. I needed color, and I needed it now. Considering the lesser of two evils, I knew it was time to return to the Mystic Tanning torture chamber. This time, however, I have to say, not only did I brave the spray chamber and love the results, but I started going back for more.

Today, when I walked into the Palm Beach, no one was at the front counter. After a quick 30 second wait, the sales clerk on duty came around the corner, and immediately, I diverted my eyes. It was uncomfortable to look at him. He wasn’t deformed. He wasn’t scarred. He wasn’t missing a limb. He was drastically over tanned.

I realize any good retail establishment will encourage their employees to use and promote their product while on duty and in their everyday lives. That’s why the CEO created the employee discount. You go to the Gap, you’ll see the sales clerks wearing Gap clothes. You go to Taco Bell, you’ll see a few people working there who look like they eat it often. But, at this Palm Beach Tan with this sales clerk, it wasn’t just that he had stayed out in the sun too long or spent too much time in a bed. He tanned too often and too long. I thought his belt buckle should say “Samsonite.”

That’s when I realized I had to be careful. I liked Mysticing and the way it made the flab look toned, but if I grew to like it too much, I’m going to look like a carry on (I’m too short for a checked bag). Clearly, this guy, he didn’t stop. He thought he needed more. He looked in the mirror and although he saw his skin the darkest brown the crayon box could possibly offer, he thought, “I’m still too white.” None of his friends stopped him; there was no tanervention. He didn’t believe he was tan enough, and no one corrected him.

It’s not just him, and it’s not just tanning. I thought about other people and other areas of life… from tanning to travel, from swimming to sex, from eating to exercise. Do we know when to say when? Is enough ever enough?

Thinking about this guy and his tandiction is like me and sushi. Take me to a sushi restaurant, and I’ll clean them out of every roll. Roll after roll, I pick, I dip and I swallow. Every time, I admittedly reach a possible off ramp on the highway to Sushitown. I see a way to stop where I am. There’s a hint, a whisper of being full. Pleasantly pleased with what I had without a pressing need for more. But, then, something louder, overpowering and almost primal calls out for more! “More Yellowtail!” “More Salmon!” “More Spicy Tuna!” The brief moment of being satisfied has passed with the knowledge that there is MORE sushi out there to be had. I can’t possibly give up on my quest now when there is literally an ocean of fish out there ready to be served!

I have wonderful friends but rarely do they stop me. In the past, they have not intervened to remind me that while there are in fact oceans full of fish, I do not have to eat them all by myself… in one night… at one meal. More often than not, they allow me to over order and over indulge. I’m not sure if they merely are amused by my almost magical ability to make the sushi disappear or if they are counting down the days before I balloon up and they can start showing ‘before’ and ‘after’ pictures to the Guiness Book of World Records. (Do they still MAKE the Guiness Book of World Records or is that now more like the Guiness Website of World Records? With everything seemingly going paperless, I wonder…)

The over tanning and the over sushi-ing… these are all fine and dandy. I mean, sure, one can cause skin cancer while the other could quickly lead to morbid obesity. But what I’m wondering now, if we don’t know when enough is enough with tanning and sushi, do we know when it is with love? There are a lot of drugs out there, but none so intoxicating and none so addicting as love. Do we know when we’ve had enough? Do we know when we’ve been given just what we need? Or, are we going to always want more?

I ask for myself and I ask for others because as the famous lyrics of Joni Mitchell say (which I may not have quite understood until this moment), “I’ve been on both sides now.”

There have been times, rare as they may be, but there have been times when I’ve been given a choice—held the upperhand in the relationship. As we know, the upperhand in any relationship typically is the person that has the least to lose. The one who cares the least of the relationship’s outcome has the most power. Once every blue moon, that person has been me, and before me, available to me, has been a guy who was vying for my affections. And, since I’m typing these words at home alone on a Saturday night, clearly, I’ve passed on those opportunities.

For the most part, I stand by those decisions. Thinking of who those guys have been and what they were offering, I think the option of sitting at home alone on a Saturday night is a wiser choice. For the most part, that is… Tonight, I think of one, one of the ones that was at a period of time available to me, for me… right now, he and his boyfriend of three years are dining in a café with friends in Paris. I think of another who is out celebrating the birthday of a friend and is loved by many, successful in his career, creative, beautiful and fun.

For some reason, the ones I’m thinking of now, the ones that ‘got away’ were not enough for me at the time. And, while at the time, my line of thinking reasoned it out, at this exact moment, I can’t provide one good reason that I ever let either one of those guys go. Whatever didn’t seem right at the time seems perfect to me now. Sure, I can console myself now and say, ‘well, if it had been meant to be, I’m sure it would have happened, no matter what I did.” But, that’s a self-pacifying lie, like its okay to put on a little holiday weight because the winter clothes cover it up; just something to make me feel better. Hindsight is truly 20/20, and today I clearly see that I fucked up.

I know what I did because I see it from the flip side. Other guys (and I’m sure girls, for those that play on that team) make the same types of choices and decisions. They see someone and decide for whatever reason that they aren’t enough. Yes, everyone needs to have standards. Yes, everyone needs to have a checklist and ideas of what they want. But through marketing and movies and being forced fed how to define beauty and relationships, have we lost the ability to know when enough is enough? Am I subconsciously waiting to meet someone on the Empire State Building while a Harry Connick Jr. song places to a swell?

It’s hard to believe with a resume full of one after another of failed starts to relationships that I will ever have what I desire most. My track record is not good. While there have been the blue moon moments when I’ve been able to make the final call, 9 times out of 10, its the other guy who has the upperhand. So far, everyone has been consistent and passed on what I have to offer. Being that I am the common denominator in this scenario, it calls for some introspection for which I have a natural gift. I look and see what I’m bringing, and I scratch my head out of confusion, like a mathematical word problem on the SAT. I don’t get it.

Here I am: I’m in my thirties. I have a successful career. In my spare time, I do well using talents performing in theatre. And, in the meantime, I bought my own house, keep in pretty good shape, and managed not to develop any sort of chemical dependency that requires rehab. Sure, I realize I’m getting into my upper-thirties. No, I’m not the tallest person on the planet. Yes, that cowlick in the back of my head may be developing into a bald spot. No, my house isn’t completely furnished, and I can’t afford a maid or lawn service. But, all in all, I don’t find the package I have to present revolting.

Yet, for guy after guy, that’s not enough. Like me and sushi, the thought all the other fish in the sea is too overwhelming, and they want more. The truth is, I do it with sushi and men, so why shouldn’t they? It’s nothing I can judge. It’s just something I have to learn and deal with and rise above.

How wearing it can become as I try to remind myself everyday that what I have to offer (and what each person has to offer) is amazing—amazing in its uniqueness, in its rarity, in its imperfect perfection. How draining it can be to maintain hope that a man will truly sign up for the deal I’m offering… although almost every guy that I have ever gone out with since I jumped into the dating pool 8 years ago has found me in some way lacking.

Even more exhausting is when I focus on measuring up to others’ expectations, be they realistic or impossible. Like a kindergartner in a college class, eventually, in some way, I’d fail every time. Trying to be taller than I am, richer than I am, tanner than I am, stronger than I am, funnier than I am, smarter than I am, younger than I am… is impossible.

There is no more than what I am. And for someone, somewhere, someday, that is going to be more than enough.

that girl

I went on a date last night... one that had been basically 5 years in the making that finally happened, and I'm pretty sure that I turned into 'that girl' -- with the annoying laugh and all. Fast forward to 3:55 on the clip below and you'll know what I mean:



Not my finest moment.

RomCom 101

Every year sometime in between Thanksgiving and New Years, I like to watch all the movies I own that tie in to the holiday season. And, every year, I’m surprised by how many movies that includes.

Of course, there are the obvious ones like “White Christmas,” “Miracle on 34th Street” (don’t hate me, but I prefer the remake with Elizabeth Perkins and Dylan McDermott over the original—which is an unfair statement as I have not watched the original in its entirety), and “A Christmas Story” (even though I’m bound to watch it at some point when TNT plays is on a 24 loop every Christmas Eve). But, beyond the flat out, in your face Christmas movies, I own tons of other movies that have pivotal moments or scenes set around the time of the holidays… thankfully, most of them are romantic comedies, so this tradition I’ve established for myself is one that I thoroughly enjoy.

Every year, the holiday movie tour also includes: “While You Were Sleeping” (“I should have got a blue spruce, they’re lighter.”), “You’ve Got Mail” (“…unwrapping funky ornaments made of popsicle sticks and missing my mother so much I almost couldn’t breathe…”), “The Holiday” (“I suppose I think about love more than anyone really should.”), “When Harry Met Sally…” (one of the best lines ever: “And it’s not because I’m lonely, and it’s not because it’s New Year’s Eve. I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.”), and “Love Actually” (my current favorite: “Because it’s Christmas, and at Christmas, you always tell the truth.”)

Of course, the holiday movie tradition would not be complete without a viewing of “Sleepless in Seattle.” Seriously, hands down, one of the best romantic comedies ever made. Brilliant in so many ways, it is all about the best part of the relationship—how time, obstacles and situations were overcome to bring two soul mates together.

But, whether it’s time or age or experience that have made me cynical and disillusioned, this year, as I watched one of my favorite movies of all time, I saw something new. There’s an element to that movie that always slipped by me until the Christmas of 2009.

Meg Ryan was a total, crazy stalker in that movie.

Just look at the plot: she hears this guy on the radio. Develops a crush. (So far, so good. We’ve all done that much… I mean, I’ve been known to watch “White Collar” on USA and pretend that Matt Bomer is charming me directly as opposed to whatever character he’s talking to. I own my crazy.). But, then… she writes him a letter. Then… she hires a private detective to follow Tom Hanks around and take pictures. And then… THEN… when all that is not enough, she flies across the country to see him. From Baltimore to Seattle, she flies to go to his house, knock on his door and introduce herself. But, when he isn’t home, she follows him in her rented car and watches (hiding around a corner, mind you) as he plays with his son on the beach.

She did everything but boil a rabbit.

But, we excuse it. Why? We excuse it because she’s Meg Ryan (well, early ‘90s Meg Ryan… I think if present day Meg Ryan was pulling that shit, someone would put out a restraining order). We excuse it because it was written by Norah Ephron. We excuse it because a Harry Connick Jr. song was playing in the background.

Apparently, with just the right elements, stalking can be not only okay but fucking romantic.
While writing this in my favorite Starbucks (where my better writing typically originates), there have been about five guys that I’d gladly hire a private detective to follow (wait… new one just came in… make that six). By nature… or perhaps by nurture since I’ve watched these romantic comedies repeatedly for years… I have a tendency to make, shall we say, an “extra effort” to get to know someone. I don’t have scratches on my arms from hiding in the bushes outside where they live or anything, but I have been known to visit a particular facebook page several times a day. And there was that one time when I scaled the wall to a gated community to see if someone’s car was there… but that was YEARS ago…

Who can blame me? Aside from the unavoidable stalking nature displayed in Sleepless in Seattle, look at While You Were Sleeping. Sweet, Oscar-nominated Sandra Bullock lied to the guys’ entire family, claiming to be his fiancé. And, even with the huge charade and tangled web of lies that she put into motion, at the end, she still ends up marrying the brother and becoming a part of the family, to everyone’s blessing. Forget the fact that for three weeks she was fabricating a lie about their son who was in a coma. All water under the bridge, I suppose. Why? Because she’s Sandra fucking Bullock.

And, that’s just using the romantic comedies with a holiday tie-in. That excludes movies like Meg Ryan/Matthew Broderick’s “Addicted to Love” in which they actually put cameras to spy on the objects of their affection. Or “French Kiss” in which Meg Ryan flies to France (a longer trip this time) to (once again) spy on her ex-fiancé and his new girlfriend. Or the ‘80’s classic, “Overboard” in which Kirk Russell basically kidnaps Goldie Hawn and makes her his servant to clean his house and take care of his boys all in an effort to recoup money for a carpentry job that she didn’t pay him for.

No wonder I’m still single and utterly screwed up in the love department. I’ve tried to learn and model my dating life after romantic comedies in which lying, stalking and minor misdemeanors are not only accepted by considered, in the end, utterly charming and completely irresistible. I’ve earned an “A” in RomCom 101, but like geometry, it has no baring in the real world.

Meanwhile, if I happen to call a guy more than twice in one week, my friends widen their eyes, put up their hands as if they are attempting to stop a stampeding herd of horses and say I need to slow down.

But, in my perspective, using Meg Ryan as a measuring stick (which I’ve done most of my life since high school to my late 20s), I’m doing pretty damn good.

11:12

A few superstitions have stuck with me since my childhood. I still avoid cracks in the sidewalk. I still say the alphabet as I twist the stem off of an apple (typically, hoping for a particular letter). I still hold my breath when driving through a tunnel. And, I still like to make a wish when the time reads 11:11.

Pretty much from mid-November to mid-December, it seemed that every time I checked the clock on my phone, it was 11:11. Whether it was in the midst of my mid-morning work routine or later at night when I was determining how many programs on my DVR I could watch before bed, somehow I always seemed to be checking the clock on my computer, phone, microwave, alarm, oven, or TV at 11:11 on the dot.

It may have seemed to always be 11:11 because it was during that same time that I had something (or someone) on my mind and my heart. I had a reason and motivation to wish. It’s like when I decided to buy a Jeep. The next day, it seemed everywhere I went, there were hundreds of Jeeps.
During this month when it seemed it was perpetually 11:11, my heart’s attention was focused on a particularly special person at the time. For sake of this entry, let’s just say that I pulled the apple stem unusually hard on the letter “B” (and, no, that is not a veiled reference to masturbating). But, whenever I looked at a clock and it read 11:11, I would immediately think, “If I could make one wish in this minute, what would it be?” Without question, my wishes in that minute would center on B.

“I wish to hear from B today.”

“I wish B likes me as much as I like him.”

“I wish B is making a wish about me.”

“I wish B is the one.” (another hope from my childhood that I still hold on to… that there actually is a “one.”)

As every moment does, the minute of wishing passes and it becomes 11:12. The wish has been said either aloud or to myself (depending on where I was at the time). It’s been released to become reality or remain a dream. But, the release of a wish provides hope, so you can go into 11:12 knowing what happened the minute before and hoping that maybe as soon as 11:13, the wish comes true.

The 11:11 wishes were all coming to mind about B because of a planned trip to visit him in New York City in mid-December. With Christmas around the corner, the only way it could me more romantic was if Norah Ephron wrote every word we said. The most amazing city in the world at the most wonderful time of year with, who in my perspective, was with the most amazing guy.

B has charm and charisma in never ending supply. We met over Memorial Day when I was there visiting other friends. After a very memorable evening and day together, he followed the number one rule of entertainment: Always leave them wanting more. And, for a month after Memorial Day, I wanted more. I could think of little else but B, simply from the spell he cast on me in the time we hung out. He didn’t bother with follow up text or emails or calls. They were unnecessary, and he seemed to know it.

It was more than a feeling of being drunk on a person or feeling high from an emotion. It was almost as if I was a volunteer for a hypnotist. But, instead of establishing a trigger word that would have me clucking like a chicken, I was set off by a mere word or email from B; it would have me running. So, after a text that suggested I pay him a visit, I purchased a plane ticket to NYC within 30 minutes. It’s amazing how simply a person can release his pride. I can hold on to a grudge for years; I can release my pride in nanoseconds.

After the two weeks of waiting passed in what felt like dog years, I boarded the plane for New York with anticipation, excitement and the cutest clothes I could find safely packed in my suitcase. The cab ride to his apartment seemed to take forever. I was certain all of New York created a conspiracy to jam the roadways to slow the process of my arrival. When finally the cab pulled to the curb in front of his building and I had my bag out of the trunk, I could feel my heart in my throat.

When I knocked and he opened the door, would there be some sort of instrumental, orchestra swell? Would a Norah Jones song start to play? Perhaps, Etta James “At Last?” There was no good way to know until it happened, so with a shaking hand, I tapped my knuckles against his door. The knob turned relatively quickly, and there he was… the boy I had met over Memorial Day and relived old and created new moments in my mind with since. He gave me a quick hug, welcomed me in, and then…

He quickly introduced me to his friend, Sam.

The next 2 hours were spent with the three of us in his living room; they, on their computers, me, flipping through magazines and contemplating what Sam’s presence meant. Clearly a guest from the night before, I attempted to place his visit in context. Was he there merely benefitting from B’s generosity… providing a needy college student lodging in the city… but then again, can a college student be considered ‘needy’ if they go to Yale? Or, did his presence indicate more than the need for a hostel? Was he actually a trick from the night before? Surely not. Surely, no one in their right mind would have the person he slept with the night before still around when the person that he planned on sharing the bed with that night arrives. Surely, no one is that uncouth. Surely.

The test would come on Sam’s departure and the nature of the send off. A short hug. A briefly, friendly kiss. It seemed harmless. There was nothing to be concerned about. So what if B was getting his sheets out of the washing machine and putting them in the dryer? Just meant he’d like fresh sheets tonight, as would I. It was all good. Besides, the activities that occurred after Sam left assured me that there was nothing but good things to look forward to that weekend.

And I was right. The weekend brought an incredible gourmet dinner, a Broadway show, a crowded Christmas party, time in a hot tub in freezing temperatures, deep conversations, cuddling on the couch watching TV, and another high class Christmas party. And, if I edit out the parts at that last Christmas party when he left me alone for extended periods of time and when I saw him having a couple of extended ‘friendly’ kisses with someone, it was a really great weekend.

The last morning of my visit, as we lay in bed, he asked me what time it was. With my phone nearby, I leaned over the side of the bed, hit the button to bring up the screen and saw it there: 11:11. I told him the time with a chuckle, and then got quiet as I made my wish. The last wish.

We went on to brunch where he seemed melancholy and quiet. We returned to his apartment to wait for my cab, during which he bustled around his apartment arranging things. A friend of his suddenly arrived about 30 minutes before my departure time. The goodbye I had anticipated, dreaded and at the same time, hoped for, was at that moment undone. With every minute possibly available for the trip spent, it was time for me to catch a cab back to the airport. B walked me to the door of his building; with his doorman as a witness, he gave me a short hug. A briefly, friendly kiss. It seemed harmless.

And, almost identical to his send off of Sam.

In the back of the cab, I silenced the program on the TV and shed a tear or two. Not over the fact that I would miss B. Not over the fact that the weekend was over. Not over the fact that the cab driver had horrible body odor. I briefly cried because I realized all the thoughts and hopes and dreams I had invested in this weekend were mine alone. He hadn’t been doing the same thing. He had probably forgotten me before the door to the cab closed. So many 11:11s came and went for him; and if by any chance, he made a wish in any those minutes, none of them were about me.

Wasted minutes. Wasted kisses. Wasted wishes.

Now, when I look at the time and see that it’s 11:11, I search for something to wish for. I find nothing. The minute passes before I really think of anything worth wishing for. And, to be honest, I’m hesitant even to spend one minute wishing for anything. Lately, it seems my time can be spent so much more productively if I stop wishing. When I do spend the time wishing, all I find is that the clock turns to 11:12 and nothing changes. 11:13. Things stayed the same. 11:14, nothing. 11:15, nothing. 11:16, nothing. Each minute passes. Nothing happens. I realize the wish at 11:11 stays there. In that minute. The seed of a flower that won’t bloom.

What I really would like is to remember in the next 11:11 minute to wish to stop wishing. My goal is not to be jaded or hard-hearted; with the way I’m wired, I think that’s virtually impossible. But, at the same time, I have to go through a period when I stop wishing, stop dreaming. I have to step on a few sidewalk cracks every now and then and bite into an apple, stem included. Otherwise, I live in a world with my heart exposed… and when that happens, I get hurt. “Self-preservation, you understand.”

So, now, I’m living as if the clock is perpetually 11:12. The minute after the wish doesn’t come true. Like the day after Christmas, it’s a long road to the next wish.

I know that won’t last long, though. As every minute on the clock comes back around through the course of a full day, my superstitions, my dreams, my hopes and my wishes will return in one form or another. The names may be different, but ultimately, my wishes stay the same.

It will take some time to get to another 11:11, but each second that passes brings me closer to that minute, to another reason to wish and to the actual minute when that wish comes true.

Watched pots

I hate New Year’s Resolutions. My association of the term equals broken promises that you make to yourself. I have met enough people in my life that have not kept their word that I certainly don’t need to break a promise to myself. There have been enough people that have done a good job on that without my help.

I’m certain that there are people that have made major life changes through New Year’s Resolutions, but in my own experiences and the examples I’ve witnessed in others, they die off before Valentine’s Day. For this reason, I’ve been hesitant to set resolutions for myself.
Last year, I broke this approach to the New Year, and I set two resolutions for myself: in 2009, I was to write an encouraging note to one friend a week and write a blog entry once a week. Simple as they were, I successfully broke them both. Clearly, as my last entry was back in July, that resolution was suffocated by apathy. And with 52 notes that were to be written throughout last year, zero were ever composed.

Whether a self-fulfilled prophecy or not, I broke the resolutions I made to myself, deepened my belief that they are dangerous goals to establish, and found another method to disappoint myself.
Yet, with that said, at the start of this New Year, this new decade, I look ahead and wonder what I can change—about myself and the world I live in. I’d be lying if I didn’t have some ideas and some hope about the future. Sure, that “encouraging note” idea might make a come back for 2010… and the writing thing is always something I want to do more of, but, like most men I know, I’m hesitant to make an actual commitment again.

Instead, this year, there’s only one thing I really aim towards. It may be impossible and in all truthfulness, it goes against how I’m wired, but I think after three and a half decades, I’m ready to venture in a slightly different direction. The time has come for me to stop watching pots because the saying is true: they never boil.

I’ve spent so much of my life waiting. And, for a person as impatient as I am, that’s a surprising revelation, but I’ve come realize how true it is. I waited to drink alcohol until I was 27 when I realized that there is nothing wrong with a cosmo or two. I waited to do theatre until I was 28 when I realized I was cutting off a major passion and joy in my life without it. I waited for God to heal me of my homosexuality until I realized that is not something to be fixed. I waited to come out and accept the man God created me to be until I realized that I was living a ghost-like life, unable to truly move or feel anything.

In all that, I’m positive there is a plan involved. For whatever reasons there may be, some clear now and others not, I have been a perpetual late bloomer by design.

But, with such a long resume in waiting, I’ve allowed myself to continue that in other ways today—with a specialization in waiting for guys. Waiting for them to call. Waiting for them to email. Waiting for them to come over and say hello. They just become more pots I watch—and as hot as they may be, they never boil. They don’t call. They don’t email. They don’t come over and say hello. And, if they do, before long, they stop. So, I’m done waiting for things that won’t happen.

In 2010, I want that to change, and through some sort of slow breakthrough, I can see that I can make that change.

I’m not sure why it is *this* year that I can see this strength I have. Maybe it’s because the ‘00s didn’t seem futuristic enough. Maybe now saying ‘twenty-ten’ sets some sort of tone that flying cars and housemaid robots are around the corner, and it puts into perspective that the man I want to be has some catching up to do. Maybe just enough time and experience have come and gone that I’m a bit wiser.

“They” say: it happens when you aren’t looking. To that, I respond: Gee, thanks-- If I want advice that helpful, I’ll watch Dr. Phil. If I’m not looking, I’m doing it on purpose so that it *will* happen, so for all intensive purposes, I’m still looking. And, with my life-long desire for something more, I can’t very well see the capability within myself to act nonchalant about love. I don’t mind going on record by saying that I’ve not only wanted love my whole life, but I have full confidence in my ability to be amazing when finally in it.

“They” (was it “mama”?) also say: You can’t hurry love; you just have to wait. In this case, “they” (or “mama”) is right. There’s nothing we can do. We *do* just have to wait… and that’s part of the beauty of it, I suppose. The way it can sneak up on you. The way it can surprise you. They way it can change your world in a day. It adds to the magic.

It’s just now, this year, and hopefully in those that follow, I’m not going to watch the ‘love’ pot anymore; it doesn’t boil that way. I’ll still wait and hope (fish gotta swim and birds gotta fly), but I’m not going to be waiting, hoping and watching anymore. For me to remember not to watch it, I might need some distractions (perhaps in the form of encouraging notes or blog entries); but in 2010, the watch ends.

The pot can boil or not. Either way, life goes on. Not because you want it to, but because it just has to.