Wondering Where The Story’s Gone

70th Street PierWhen it’s sixty degrees at six o’clock in the morning in January, you go running whether you want to or not.

These are interesting times. It’s the beginning, I think, of what basketball teams call “a rebuilding year.” There’s a lot of new: a new marriage, a new home, a new job.

And so I find myself discussing merged bank accounts, 401ks, and APRs. I find myself discussing end tables, floor lamps, and color palettes like stone, ecru, linen, and honey. I find myself discussing org charts, workflows, and merit increases.

All of which is fine, but radically different from, say, amplifiers, cover tunes, or track listings.

Now, I’ve had a prolonged adolescents, to be sure. I’ve relished a fair dose of irresponsible fun: sex, drugs, rock ‘n roll. And I’m ready for all of this. But it takes some getting used to. It takes some getting used to the fact that my guitar is in its case, ProTools is in the closet, and “Mister Rogers & Me” gets 1% of my time to MTV’s 99%.

And yet I know I’m doing the right thing, and that I’m on the right course. It feels right, it just doesn’t feel easy, or terribly exciting. It just feels real. And real important.

It’s tough to measure the growth of something when you’re looking at it all the time like, say, one’s self. But sometimes (like last night) you notice that your jeans feel a little too snug. So you wake up before the sun, lace up your sneakers, and run towards the river.

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