Just Writing

Modern-ftn-pen-cursive

Today I have no clue what to write about. So, I’m just writing, and we’ll see where we land. I think this is my first blog-o-nothing. You might wanna buckle your seatbelt.

I’m typing from an Embassy Suites in Atlanta tonight. I’m on a business trip for an executive board meeting. We made some big decisions like what to do with money and how to approach marketing and the biggest decision of all—which restaurant would provide our dinner. Makes a guy feel all warm and gushy inside.

And as I sit here typing at 8:30 while watching the X-Factor because I can’t seem to find the football game, I find that the older I get, the more boring I become. I remember when we had our first child. We were young and programmed to stay up late. But after a couple weeks of no sleep, our son fell asleep one night at about 7:00 and we both looked at each other and asked, “Is is too early to go to bed?” The answer then was yes. Now, it’s always no. In fact, a 7:00 bedtime would be heaven. Life with three kids can be exhausting.

I also realize that the longer I’m married, the more fruity I become. When Kristi, my wife, met me I wore jeans, tennis shoes, and a polo—all. the. time. And when I say “a polo” I mean literally “one polo.” It was a three-colored Tommy Hilfiger polo. It had three big blocked stripes that ran horizontally through the shirt. It was 90s heaven. And it was about 2 sizes too big. After we were together for awhile she finally got the courage to tell me how horrible it was. Then she started dressing me in tighter shirts and fancier shoes. Things I’d have never been caught dead in before her. She’s indoctrinated me over the years. I now regularly find myself putting lotion on my face, paying attention to my sock color, and noticing when other people wear brown shoes with black belts.

Ugh.

But, I still carry a small piece of me from my pre-marriage, pre-fruit days. In the bottom drawer of my dresser there’s a piece of clothing that sits forever encased. It’s a multi-colored Tommy Hilfiger polo. It’s now only about one size too big rather than two, but every now and then I’ll pull it out, throw it on, stand proudly in front of the mirror and remind myself of how fruit-less I once was. (That’s deep.)

I leave it on until I realize it doesn’t match my belt. Then I have to take it off.

Read more “just for fun” posts:
Dear 19-Year-Old Me
5 Foolproof Steps to Making New Friends
A Game of Musical Beds (completed by you!)

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