The Me That Was The Me That Was

Nick says I’ve mellowed.

I’m not sure what to think of that. Maybe it’s just Nick that’s mellowed, and not me. I’m not even sure what mellowing is, except that it’s probably a lot less interesting than… what’s the opposite of mellow exactly?

If I need, I can always read my old blog posts. All the way back to 2004. You can too, if you wish. They’re all here, along with old pictures of me looking younger, my family looking younger, and other people who I no longer know looking younger.

I used to write a whole lot more. I’m not sure why that was, though I suspect it had something to do with loneliness. There was a time not so long ago when I was lonely most of the time; every once in a while I get a taste of that again and remember how empty my days were. There’s something visceral and wrenching about that feeling. Of course, I don’t regret any of it. What I did and what I didn’t do, who I was with and who I wasn’t made me what I am today, got me to where I am today, and I very much like where I am. Is that wrong? It doesn’t feel like it.

My life isn’t particularly more rushed or hurried than it was then. I’m married to Laura (it feels odd writing that; I don’t write it often enough, I suppose) and we have a particular kind of life, but even in my resting state now she’s always here or somewhere close by. Depending on how you feel about people being close to you, that may sound particularly delicious or decidedly unsettling. Either way. I like it.

Everything is different. I’m no longer an observer watching the course of my own life; I’m involved, doing things, making things better now. There’s something to be said for letting go of that awful passivity that goes along with events simply washing over me. For all my bluster back then, I was cruising, really. Letting things happen to me. Letting my circumstances manipulate me. Letting what happened happen. You can’t ever get entirely away from that, of course, and there are always going to be things I can’t control, but there’s a difference between being on autopilot and taking the yoke.

I hate it when people write about themselves, but I’m allowed to be a hypocrite and a navel-gazer every once in while, I think. I can’t help it; going back to 2004 and reading what the me that was me then wanted to write about… it takes a guy back.

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