Stupid little boy

Looking back upon my life so far, I see a few moments that make me proud. I also see great heaping piles of things that I have said or done that are at best amusing, at worst simply awful.

Though I feel plenty mature at the moment, so did I then. Six months, six years, six decades from now, some of my thoughts and actions of today may look just as stupid to me.

Wisdom is a will-o-the-wisp, a light ever dancing away into the darkness, never grasped fully by any mortal man or Woman.

I cannot use youth as a carte-blanche excuse, nor mere ignorance. And yet, they cannot be completely exonerated as accomplices.

"Crime is a young man's game," someone noted recently. So, as well, are stupid pranks, the tendency to walk off your job in a silly rage and the acquisition of bad habits that one battles for a lifetime.

It is a New Year. I have made resolutions. I am not of the crowd who refuses to do so because of the likelihood that they will break them. When I stop trying to self-improve, when I give up Death-of-A-Salesman-style on my dreams and determinations, I might as well head for the exit door of life.

I hope that I will be kinder this year, raise my voice less, waste less time, work harder, be better.

But I will surely at this time next year look back upon the annum and still wonder, "What in the WORLD was I thinking?"

Proud of myself

Twenty years ago, I was a lonely, angry kid terrified to grow up. Was about to learn to drive, and hated every minute of it -- was scared to leave the very driveway behind the wheel. Barely knew how to write a check, let alone any of the other responsibilities of being an adult.

Last night as I successfully dodged black ice, heavy traffic and demonic detours to drive deep into the city after a long, but rewarding day of work, to meet my Wife and Her father at the Center to see a basketball game, I felt really good about just how far I have come since then.

I've driven all the way across the United States and in the maelstrom of Washington, D.C. I have met the Woman of my dreams and we've lasted fourteen years. I have a job with serious responsibilities, that for the most part I enjoy.

Like that country song they're playing these days, I sure wish I could write a letter to that miserable kid back in 1989 and tell him, hang tough, everything is gonna be okay.

I will decide what I am and what I am not

So the Christmas Party is over. Not too shabby. I feel the relief wash over me like the warm caress of my beautiful Sweetie. Who accompanied me last night. Who is everlastingly my confidante, cheerleader and best friend. She worried during the whole drive home in the blasting rain and fog, but we made it.

The great, big snarly ball of party-planning logistics can be put to rest for another year.

When I was a child, one of my teachers lamented that I was horribly disorganized. It remains a frustration for me to this day, not the lament, but the problem. ADHD and all.

But I refuse to lean on a crutch. If teacher and nature insist on telling me that I am incorrigibly disorganized, that is all the more reason that I will fight that label and win.

Today I was asked to perform the impossible: to locate a series of digital photos that I took at some point last year, among the thousands that I have taken, and forward them to a School Board member.

Mister Disorganized went promptly to his daily logbook that he made for himself, remembering that the event took place sometime near the beginning of the 2007 school year, found the entry for September 7 confirming the trip and when the pictures were taken, inserted the CD-Rom archive of 2007 pictures that he made for himself, opened up the September 7 file, found them and sent them.

Take that, O teacher of mine! Take that, ADHD! Don’t you dare tell me what I can’t do, what I can’t be. Don’t you label me.