Once upon a time, two people met and for a brief moment everything was perfect. Then followed a few years of confusion, a few years of no contact, until finally the two sat down to catch up.

In so many ways, this long-awaited meeting—hers—mirrored the first. A bar. A table for two. Way too much talking about business—him. Way too much teasing—her. And for a few moments it felt like exactly what it was supposed to feel like: two old friends getting together.

Time had been good to these people. If possible, the man looked better than he had that first time oh so long ago. The tension had left his face. The woman looked good too. She was more confident than when they’d parted. She knew not to expect any answers. Instead, she nodded as he talked, the night playing out in predictable fashion. There was even talk of the weather.

She realized then, that there was no going back. The person she’d glimpsed all those years ago was gone forever and left in his place was a man on a different sort of mission. The mission he’d chosen instead was so noble she couldn’t complain—there wasn’t any room for her anyway.

It started as a whim, a way to escape the silliness of what I’ve come to dread: the Facebook Birthday*. And so this winter, on the cusp of my 43rd anniversary of being alive, I decided to avoid it altogether and disabled my profile.

And here’s what happened, in pretty much this order:

Elation. (Mine.)
Panic. (From the two friends who noticed.)
Nothing. (From the rest of my friends.)

I had the best of intentions of returning to the madness at some point. As aggravating as some people may be, I admit it’s an easy way to stay in touch. But the truth is, I don’t miss it. In fact, not only do I not miss it, I’m pretty sure I’m improving my psyche by staying away. I like to say in every situation, there are two kinds of people: those who care about what others think and those who care too much. And in my previous FB life, I was an Olympic gold medalist when it came to the latter.

I stopped fretting about why Friend A never liked any of my posts or why B seemed to like everything I posted. No longer was I being annoyed by C and her crazy politics. And D? What a relief to miss the 2,000 pics of her Gender Reveal. What to do with unwanted friend invites? Now I don’t have to worry!

It’s so First World, isn’t it? And for those of you who excel at compartmentalizing, surely this is much hand wringing over nothing, but in talking to others, I know I am not alone in the insecurities prompted by social media. To Friend or Not To Friend is a very real dilemma at some point for everyone–whether you socialize virtually or not.

These days, my social media presence is confined to Twitter. The brevity of it, the very public nature of the platform, forces me to be careful in what I share, and at the same time, let it go. When the average life of a tweet is less than 30 minutes, you expect your tweets to go unnoticed. And because I have fewer “real” friends on Twitter, there are no expectations attached to things I post. This serves me well. In expecting to be ignored, I am somehow unburdened. On Facebook, the algorithm sometimes made me feel like I was being ignored by my own friends. My ego just isn’t built for that. Trust me, there is no audience more frustrating to a writer than a FB audience. FB isn’t meant for brilliance, although if you are brilliant at Facebook, you are likely brilliant at life. You probably even enjoy the FB Birthday.

*Background: Call me selfish but I’ve always enjoyed sharing my birthday with those who don’t need a reminder. And don’t get me started on the Office Birthday.

You never know what you’ll see at a sporting event. It’s been my motto my entire fandom. It’s what kept me warm during 0-degree-Opening Days and on the edge of my seat for 13-inning shutouts. Heck, even the blowouts and mismatches hold the promise of something never seen before.

In baseball, I’ve witnessed a 500th stolen base (Bonds), a 64th home run (Sosa), and as of Saturday, June 20, 2015, my first no-hitter: 8 2/3 of perfection followed by a controversial hit-by-pitch, closed out by a routine fly out. No, perfection didn’t happen but tell that to the 41,104 of us who high-fived and screamed together during every beat of the final three innings.

As it happened, I was keeping score during this particular game; lazily at first, sharper after the 5th when I sensed something spectacular might occur. And that’s where things got interesting in Section 311. Continue reading →

I had the TV on mute as I excitedly chatted away. I was discussing Labor Day plans when the crawl caught my eye. Something about another shooting. As quickly as it flashed across the screen, I went back to my conversation.

As much as I mourn what seems like daily shootings in this country, I equally mourn the jaded quality they have taken up in my heart. Oh, another shooting, my mind seemed to register. Shopping malls, campuses, movie theatres, gyms … it’s a new horror every day.

But this one was different, wasn’t it?
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Years ago I read Technologies of the Self by Foucault. How strange to read such a philosopher at a time when you’ve barely lived. My takeaway from one particular essay was that we always feel better about ourselves when we sacrifice our desires. I thought then as I think now, Why can’t we allow ourselves to enjoy simple moments of pleasure, and accept them for that? There’s so little in this world that brings joy. We should embrace the rare times we come across it. Instead, we give in and feel badly, like a birthday hangover from too much cake.

The best thing about having multiple confusing relationships in your life is that when one isn’t responding how you like, you can just switch to another.

 I have tomorrow off, you type, wondering for the 500th time what the heck was going on. Cool, reads the immediate response. Alllll riiiiighty then. Bait ignored.

The funny thing about this particular bout of confusion is that a week before, it was anything but. Just a couple of new friends checking in. Then a third friend jumps in, urging the other to take the plunge. And that’s where time first reversed itself.
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It’s 7 p.m. In an hour, a musician I’ve followed for years will take the stage in a venue not 5 miles from me. I am showered, groomed, and have a plan. Yet as I sit here, watching the minutes till I have to leave trickling down, I am trying to make peace with the fact that I don’t want to go. And that’s OK.

Why do we do this? Is it age? I know I’m not alone. You make plans, you look forward to things, and yet when it comes time to execute, you suddenly find yourself justifying a night on the couch watching “You’ve Got Mail” for the 99th time.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter, that the $30 spent on the ticket still goes to support the artist. It’s only $30, right? Heck, I am saving money simply by staying put and not purchasing the two $8 beers I almost certainly would’ve ordered. The extra sleep will help with work tomorrow. Heck, I MIGHT EVEN BE SAVING LIVES since god knows what could happen on the roads after 10 p.m. The justifications are endless.

When people ask me the difference between being 25 and 45, I always tell them sleep. I’m mostly serious — ask anyone with small children how they feel about sleep — but there’s something about aging and mental preparedness that plays a part in how we tackle the chores of life. On the surface, going to a concert may seem like nothing. In reality, there’s only so much stimulation a 40-something brain can take.

I am not an atheist. All around me, the smartest people I know have staked their flags in that camp. So far, I haven’t joined them. But while I am not an atheist, I also can’t say for certain that I believe in God. I won’t say because I am not smart enough to declare it either way. The world is so vast, so many things remain out of our control, miracles do exist—how can I say for certain? And so I continue to ponder.

I do, however, passionately believe in kindness. Therefore, when someone identifies as Christian, I take it at face value that they put others above themselves. I also believe that if you are going to tell people about your belief—and so many do so with incredible hubris—you need to walk the walk of all that implies.
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He’s back. Back in my inbox, that is. Back from the tidy storage container I’d packed all of the hurt feelings, joining the hundreds of texts and emails I’ve never been able to erase. I let this happen. Moving a thousand miles away simply gave me the courage to crack the door open. It started with a simple text.
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