February 77

I didn't know it could get that hot in February.  Yet here it was, 77 degrees on a Thursday.  So I went for a run in the park.  There were a ton of people there -- a few walkers, some frisbee golfers, and the local high school baseball team beginning practice. 

It's like you know it isn't supposed to be this warm, but rather than ponder what we've done to the Earth or what else this might mean, you figure you'll take advantage of the weather while you still can. 

One of the frisbee golfers was topless.  It was not a woman.  Although he did seem to possess a couple of budding physical attributes normally associated with the female anatomy.

The wind had blown all day -- gusty and unrelenting -- like I rarely remember.  I don't know where the wind comes from, but I think it must be from someplace in the past, because it so often awakens some memory.  I sped up, trying to outrun this particular one.

It should have been a beautiful day -- the breeze, the sun, the familiar ping of a bat piercing the air and signifying that summer wouldn't be too long.  But something was eerie.  It wasn't supposed to be this warm.  Not yet.

I continued to ponder as I ran one extra lap than my usual, an attractive girl sitting by herself in the grass unknowingly serving as my motivation.  The wind continued whipping as if we were oceanside. And you knew a storm was probably on the way.

But it never stormed.

I thought for all the world it would.  But the rest of the evening, all night, and into the next morning, there was only the wind -- the past. 

Swirling.  Howling.  Beckoning.

"I've seen sunny days that I thought would never end.  I've seen lonely times when I could not find a friend.  But I always thought that I'd see you again..."

...and holding

The passing of another year in one's life is met with a variety of feelings and reactions, often largely dependent on what particular year it happens to be.  Well, this particular year happened to be the big one for me.

No, not that big one.  That's next year.  But as I can't promise I won't be under 24-hour psychiatric care by then...

Now if you think I'm going to sit here and ramble on about getting old or the blinding speed of the passing of time, and that I'm gonna be all pensive and self-wallowing, well then, I must say, you know me quite well.  Frighteningly well, as a matter of fact.  It's actually making me a bit uncomfortable.  Stop it.

Thirty-nine arrived this past weekend.  And I turned and ran like a little girl. I'm so not ready for this.

When I think of thirty-nine, I think of a guy with a beer belly who's out of shape and helps coach his kid's little league team, but really has no clue what he's doing, and besides, his kid isn't even interested in baseball and would rather be in band but he continues forcing him into sports.  No one in particular, just a general guy.

It just sounds so... grown-up.  So... not me.  And yet, it is me.  There's nothing I can do about it.  I mean, if Ponce de Leon couldn't find the Fountain of Youth, what chance do I have?  Although with GPS technology being what it is these days... Hmm.

Anyway, I celebrated -- or more aptly, commemorated -- the occasion by having dinner in Nashville on Saturday night with friends.  We ate at a Mexican restaurant called Tito's.  Then I closed out the evening by singing their baby girl to sleep.  My friends', not the restaurant owners'.

Sunday was spent with family, a blessing I treasure more and more as the years continue to pass.  It nearly freaks me out every time we're out to eat and Mom orders off the senior menu.  My Mom!?  In my mind, she should still be forty.

How did this happen?  Where did my thirties go?  For that matter, where did my twenties go?  And are they now in the same place comparing notes and saying things to each other like, "Really?  He did the exact same thing when he was with me."

I know all the platitudes.  Life begins at, er, after thirty-nine.  Thirty-nine is the new twenty-nine, or whatever.   But I, for one, happened to like the old twenty-nine just fine.  In fact, I've made a unilateral decision:  I will not be having any more birthdays.

Allow me to clarify.  I'll still be accepting presents, I'll just no longer be counting years.

And heaven help the person who dares put an ad in the paper next year with a photo of Baby Bone that says "Lordy Lordy, Bone is..."  Well, you know.

Anyway, I thank you for allowing me to freak out a bit as I prepare to approach that age which shall forever remain unspoken.  Thus begins my attempt to ward off a crisis of the mid-life variety which, by some acounts, may have already begun.  That should make for some fun blog posts in the coming year, wouldn't you say?

I figure at best, I'll continue to age gracefully and achieve my goal of being the youngest 39-year-old you know.  At worst, I'll go kicking and screaming every step of the way, torturing myself daily with the question of what have I done with my life, and maybe wind up with my own Scott-Baio-Is-45-&-Single-esque reality show.  Or at least, some good meds. 

Either way, I realize that someday we'll look back on this -- yes, even this -- with wistful heart and older eyes.

"She said, you're pretty good with words, but words won't save your life.  And they didn't, so he died..."

XXI to XVII

For those of you who don't follow me on Twitter, we have a special treat for you today.  Seeing as I basically live-tweeted the Super Bowl yesterday, I thought I might share said tweets with you.

Think of it sort of like when the cable company offers free HBO for the weekend.  A brief glimpse into the premium side of Bone.  Or if you missed the game, think of this as the Cliff's Notes.  This is all you really need.

So sit back, pretend you're on the couch there with me as we take in the sights and sounds of Super Bowl XLVI.  Or I'll even let you sit on my Bama beanbag if you want.  And I hope you brought a friend.  Otherwise, there could be some weird tension if it's just the two of us.

(Note: I dozed off a couple hours before kickoff.)

/Begin Twitter log
I just dreamt I was chewing like twenty pieces of gum -- Wrigley's, Spearmint and Doublemint. #nap #subconscious

Aaaaand I missed Kelly Clarkson.

Why don't they keep score with #RomanNumerals? OK, I will. That's IX to... Wait, what's zero in Rome?

Apparently, there is no Roman Numeral for zero.  #IGuessThatsWhy

Officially abandoning my quest to elliptical the whole first half. Can't hear the commercials.

IX to III. Ah, much better.

My Mom, the other day: "Tom Brady's nearly too pretty to be a football player." What's an appropriate response to that? "Uh, yes, he is?"

Speed dating! Bahaha.

There's way too much football game in between these commercials.

X to IX. VIII seconds left in the half.

What's Madonna gonna sing?  I'm hoping for "Papa Don't Preach."

Oh!  That was a G.I. Joe movie trailer.  I thought it was gonna be a kickin' Mountain Dew commercial when it started out.

Bueller!!!! FTW!

I sure hope everybody's at a Super Bowl party.  Else I'm probably losing lots of followers tonight.

Off night for Budweiser. Wow.

Collinsworth: "You get an offsides, and then that 3rd and 8 turns into 3rd and 2." Evidently they're giving 6 yards for offsides now.

Hyundai tonight.#winning

Also loved the Seinfeld commercial. Betcha never could've guessed that.

And then there's the ads that make me never want to buy a product from that company.  Ever. #Samsung

And your Roman Numeral final tally: XXI to XVII
/End Twitter log


If you would like to join me on Twitter -- and after that, well how could you not -- just leave your Twitter handle in the comments and I'll follow you.  But hurry, I plan to cut it off at a thousand followers.  (For those who are curious, I currently have 22.)

If you would like to subscribe to HBO, contact your cable or satellite provider.  Then you can DVR Curb Your Enthusiasm and invite Bone over for a TV night.

I know, BYOB... Bring your own beanbag.

"Papa don't preach, I'm in trouble deep.  Papa don't preach, I've been losing sleep..."

I got ninety-nine blog ideas, but Groundhog Day ain't one

(That title made a lot more sense yesterday.  Trust me.)

Some people do a New Year's post on the last day of the year.  Some wait until the first day of the new year.  But I, I have taken the road less traveled by -- and by less traveled by, I mean probably not traveled by at all.  For I have chosen this early February spring day for my obligatory New Year's post.

I rang in the new year at Axl's.  The night was replete with old school Nelly, multiple complaints from the neighbor, and chopping wood.  The latter is not a euphemism.  Oh, how I wish it were.

Axl had recently reconnected with a high school classmate of ours, and she was on hand for the chopping of the wood, er... party.  At some point, Axl disappeared upstairs, returning a few minutes later with several of his high school yearbooks -- En Retrospect, they were always titled.  I believe it's Latin, meaning "to commiserate over wasted years."  And so the three of us spent entirely too much time doing just that.

At first it was interesting, as we discussed what we remembered about each other.  "I remember Bone always used to sit in the back of the class.  And you were always drawing or writing something."  That was news to me, as I didn't realize I was writing, even then.  And after all, surely there is some value to knowing how others view you.

But then it got to be a bit much.  "Even though H won Most Likely To Succeed, I voted for you."  "I still think you're the most likely to succeed, Bone."

See, I don't need to hear that.  What good does that do me?  For me, New Year's isn't about remembering and learning from past mistakes or thinking about the ways you can do better, it's all about forgetting.  Actually, that's not just New Year's, that's kinda how I view every day: I don't want to think too much about the past, and I sure don't want to ponder the future.

Beyond that, it was a bit of a backwards year for me.  The Januarys arrived in November.  And December was just a lot of days.  I had six weeks of the blahs.  For the first time in my life, I found myself dreading Christmas.  And usually, I'm Mister Christmas.  No, really, I actually had someone say to me, "What's wrong with you?  You're usually Mister Christmas."  Although I'm not sure how official any of these titles really are.

Nothing very devastating happened.  I was just going through some things, stuff was weighing on my mind, and that definitely contributed to a lack of blogging.  But then January was nothing like itself.  There was another Bama national championship to celebrate, and re-watch multiple times.  I saw Gordon Lightfoot in concert.  And the weather has felt more like April. 

So a most belated Happy New Year to you.  And there's reason to believe, maybe this year...



"I guess the winter makes you laugh a little slower, makes you talk a little lower, about the things you could not show her..."