Below The Fold

Actually, it’s a bit off. But three months and three days isn’t even viewable by the naked eye on the Gregorian calendar, much less the geologic calendar (which, despite what all those dodgy “intelligent design” bastards trumpet, are NOT one and the same…).
I just read this engaging piece by Paul Ford, and it kick started me down this path. What do I want from 31?
I guess I’d like to see 32, for starters.
I like what Ford says about crossed lines and tangled hearts. Aside from writers, architects and artists, legacy is relegated purely to those relationships we build. And even writers, architects and artists are often defined more by who they were than by what they wrought—especially by the legions of revisionists who seem hell bent on exposing Santa for a charlatan, the Easter Bunny for a con man, the Tooth Fairy for a thief.
But that’s what we are. A people of soul-voyeurs, looking to lay bare the strands of humanity of anyone who dares to exceed. We’re positively enamored with the mortality of the rich and the famous, dead or alive. It’s like their pain levels the playing field, and we seem so desperate that everything must be equal for everyone…but now it seems like I’m treading dangerously close to a political debate, which isn’t the direction I want to go in, so I will digress…
I’m hoping 31 brings me more clarity (much like the aforementioned Mr. Ford). Thirty has been good to me. In the last few years, I’ve learned how much I truly don’t know, and it’s really staggering. I could arguably spend the rest of my life simply surfing the internet. Of course, that would be a purely academic pursuit, and one of the things I’ve learned in the last few years is the need for the visceral reality of life is at least every bit as great as what can be read or taught. Wisdom comes with applied learning, painful experience and the understanding of the difference.
I hope 31 finds my balance even better than 30. I often feel I’ve spent the last 30 years as a top coming directly off of the string…that first few moments as it wobbles wildly on its axis, struggling to find its center. I feel like the last few years, I’m wobbling less and less. As long as some outside force doesn’t intervene—no proverbial pebble to trip against—I may soon right this top to a smooth and silent spin.
I hope 31 is free from those little pebbles, that I might continue to grow into a better man, a better husband, a better friend. Because these are the things that matter, in the end.
Well, these and how many cars I have, anyway, right?