Bloggers Annex

Hi.  I’m Brillig.  I’m, um, just a chick who blogs.  That’s about it.  You can find me at Twas Brillig, when I remember to post there…

I’ve been here at BloggersAnnex for a while, but the stuff I do is mostly behind-the-scenes, so you might not have run into me here before, at least not that you knew of.

My latest gig here at the annex is to moderate The Writing Game.  Read all about it here, and then join us!  Just a note– I think that we will collect submissions for now and not actually post any stories until February.  That gives everyone time to create a masterpiece.  :-D  Hurry, though!  The spaces are filling up!

My other role here at BloggersAnnex is to act as substitute hostess.  Since Melissa is traveling this week, she asked me to help her out.  I’ll be here just for the first couple of days and then she’ll be back for the rest of the week!   Chances are good, though, that you’ll run into me again here–hence the introduction.  I hope so.  This is fun!

Blog on, Bloggers.  Blog on.

Some of us are in the Santa camp, some of us aren’t.  That’s all right; I understand and even agree with the philosophies of those who just don’t believe in Santa.  Yet, I am a big fan of this jolly old elf and I will tell you why.

Santa teaches children that when you are good, good things will happen to you.  Though this is an unaccountable lie (one of the hardest truths I have ever had to learn), it is a necessary infantile step towards a life of law-abiding, happy obedience. 

Santa teaches children there is hope.  Though he doesn’t bring the cure for life’s ills, (toys and games and wiis can never do that) his form of magic implies that incredible, wonderful and unusual things can and do happen in this sometimes sorry old world of ours.  He brings relief from the everyday, the mundane, the difficult, the dreary, the routine–and in the candle of our hearts he lights a flicker of hope that things can be better, if only for a day. 

Santa is a form of Christlike love and service that children can wrap their minds around.  In short, I truly believe that by believing in this darling man who has lived forever, whom I have never met in this life, who can be wherever he is needed in the blink of an eye and who loves me so much he is willing to ride through the freezing cold night in an open sleigh to bring little old me my hearts desire, it prepared my soul to believe in a brother who has lived forever, whom I have never met in this life, who can be wherever He is needed in the blink of an eye and who loves me so much He was willing to die for me. 

Yes, Virginia, I believe in Santa, believe in his goodness and its source: the same wellspring as all goodness in the world, the goodness of our God.

Heidi Ashworth writes at Dunhaven Place

Jeff called some friends from church, and they invited us to stay in their back bedroom, rent free, until we could find an apartment. I came down with a flu that first night and was in bed with a high fever for most of that first week. Our hosts didn’t seem to mind at all, made us feel completely welcome and comfortable. In fact, our first apartment was a studio space that opened up in their complex. Thanks to Dave and Elizabeth, we didn’t have to spend our first two weeks in Los Angeles without a home. They were good to us, and we were very grateful. 

A couple of months ago we had the opportunity to open up our own little inn to some road-weary travelers. Jeff’s cousin (who we’d barely crossed paths with a time or two in the past twenty years) needed a place to stay, and for who knows how long? But it felt like the right thing to open our doors, and our hearts, to this virtual stranger. A few days turned into a few weeks, and the inn remained open. The amazing thing is, after a few days I’m usually more than ready to see our house guests on their way. But this cousin was different. She was here, off and on, for about six weeks, and I was actually sad to see her leave last weekend. My office doubles as our guest room, and I often have a hard time giving up that space, and that computer, even for a night or two. But somehow I was completely content to be displaced. Hardly noticed any inconvenience. (As many of you may have noticed, the blog went dormant. But even that didn’t seem to matter.)

This wonderful guest in our home, despite her own family crisis, quietly went behind the scenes looking for ways and places to serve. She and her daughter helped the children with their homework, folded loads of laundry, cleaned out the food storage room, replaced the lights in the master bathroom, helped fix the kitchen sink, assembled my new drawing table…the list goes on and on. Somehow, too, she captured just the right balance of spending time with us without ever getting in the way. She didn’t expect us to babysit or entertain her, yet was always willing to engage if we wanted company or needed a listening ear. Normally, I expect houseguests to bring with them a certain amount of chaos, but this one brought calmness in her wake.

Initially I thought we were doing them this huge favor, letting them stay with us for an indefinite amount of time, but it ended up being such a gift to our family in ways I never imagined. The renewed friendship. The calming influence. The quiet determination to help out. The laughter, understanding and love. Just amazing.

I couldn’t help but be reminded of that night in Bethlehem when Mary and Joseph were looking for a place to stay. Turned down by countless others, the weary couple finally settled in a stable for that night of all nights. I’m sure at first the Innkeeper thought he was doing them a favor, letting them spend the night in his stable, but can you imagine the blessing it would have been to house the Christ child, the Holy Family, even for one night? I’m sure the stable-owner was blessed in ways far and above the little manger he offered the weary wanderers: The light. The spirit. The miracles. The love.

I keep thinking about our lovely guests, and how very Christlike they were in the way they occupied a space in our home, and what an unexpected blessing it’s been to have them here. It makes me want to recommit to make more room, both in my home and my heart, for the Savior. Every day. Because I realize now that making room in the inn is not just a gift we provide, it’s also, in the very act, a gift we receive.  And it’s one of my favorites.

When I finished beauty school, I moved to a charming little suburb called Edmonds. I found a lovely apartment there that was available for a SERIOUS bargain. It was a corner flat, half underground and tucked quietly away in the back of the complex. They claimed to need extra time to get the place ready, and wouldn’t even let me see it until they’d cleaned it. But the lease at my place in Seattle had run out and I found myself with no place to live. So I volunteered to move in and finish cleaning it for them. They were hesitant, but agreed.

When we walked in, I understood the hesitation. What I saw there gave me the CREEPS. There was a SOLID BLACK film of something that completely covered the bath tub and shower walls. All of the light bulbs had been replaced with red lights. There were knife and gun magazines in a pile in the middle of the floor. The place was Psycho City!

We rolled up our sleeves and purged the place of all filth, but I’m pretty sure that bleaching the Gateway to Hell would not make it a more pleasant environment. A dark and menacing depression still hung in the air.

Living just a few minutes from work, I would frequently drive home and spend my lunch hour there. On this particular Tuesday, I had come home to enjoy an hour of solitude in the middle of my day. I briskly approached the entrance, turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open.

The light inside my apartment was cold and heavy, with a blue tint that seemed to drain the color out of everything in the room. I passed through the threshold and stopped short. For no apparent reason, my senses were piqued. My hands started to feel cold and tingly. The sensation spread up my arms, through my shoulders and to my neck, leaving all the little hairs standing on end in the wake. My heart quickened. My palms started to sweat. All of my instincts were warning me that I was not alone.

“Hello?” The sound of my own voice was the equivalent of a gunshot in the muffled silence of the apartment. It broke the spell. I nervously laughed at my foolishness and walked quickly through the living room. As I turned the corner to the kitchen, my step slowed. My eyes darted around the room as the odd chill moved down my back. I shivered. It was unnaturally quiet; like someone had lined the entire room with thick blankets. I couldn’t even hear the click of my heels on the wood floors. The only sound was the unsteady whisper of my own breath. I cleared my throat awkwardly in a deliberate attempt to shatter the strange silence, and went about fixing lunch. As I worked, my fingers trembled. I found myself unable to blink. In moments such as these, I always take comfort in the songs of my childhood. I moved toward the kitchen table slowly, and began to sing.

“I am a child of God…”

I took a deep breath.

“and He has sent me here…”

My eyes began to well up.

“Lead me, guide me, walk beside me…”

The room was physically shuddering as the tension mounted to an unbearable level. Heavy tears spilled over and fell with unusual speed down my cheek.

It was then that I felt the unmistakable weight of a touch on the back of my neck. There were fingers, colder than ice, digging lightly into my hairline. I opened my mouth to scream, but nothing came out. My eyes were so wide that the muscles connecting them were aching under the strain. The frozen touch was burning my skin. My vision had tunneled to almost complete blackness. There was a terrifying pressure on my heart. Then, as I felt and a strange kind of heat on my left ear, I heard it.

Two words venomously spat out in a harsh, mangled whisper.

DON’T SING!

The tension trembling through my body turned to wild fear. It rolled through my limbs and up my torso, tore through my heart and into my throat, building in ferocity until it exploded from my mouth in the form of a blood curdling scream; the kind of hollow, unearthly scream that I had never before produced, even in my worst nightmares. I didn’t notice my plate hitting the floor and shattering into a hundred tiny pieces. I just ran. Ran for my life. Ran to escape what ever evil was in the room with me. But an oppressive kind of hopelessness followed me for days.

I don’t understand why some corners of the world have a propensity toward evil. This was not an isolated incident. Nor was it the worst or most extreme “encounter” that I had while I lived there. But, after everything I saw and survived, I am no longer afraid. I know that we are stronger than they are. That’s why they’re so angry. Because they also know that when push comes to shove, we will win in the end. This belief is what carried me through the haunted year that I lived in the Gateway to Hell.

The Narcissist writes at Nurturing Narcissism

So once upon a time there was this girl (yes, that would be me - who else do I in all my egomaniacal glory ever write about?). She was your basic timid, sheltered, humour repressed gal with huge heaping helpings of self-doubt and neuroticism tossed in to boot. Her view of the world was narrower than that of a blindered horse and she spent much of her time wrinkling her nose and looking down at people. And not just because she had overactive olfactory receptors and a few inches of height more than the average.

She was a bit of a prude, truth be told.

She thought people who smoked, drank, and carried on in other such ways were Bad People. She sneered internally at people with weight issues thinking them foolish for “letting that happen” or “doing that to themselves.” She winced when people used Bad Words and wouldn’t watch movies that were rated above PG (and some of those were a bit suspect). She wore shapeless clothing and avoided talking to people, partly because she was socially handicapped, and partly because she didn’t meet many people she could easily understand.

Understanding people was something that either happened or…didn’t. Attempts and efforts weren’t made. It was something that happened immediately or not at all.

The girl grew up painfully slowly. The process could even be described as torturous. Her misconceptions and preconceptions were essentially twisted into the form of weapons and used to whack sense into her depressingly thick skull. She married a man whose family did Bad Things, told Bad Jokes, watched Bad Movies, and used Bad Words. And she loved them. Her misconceptions shattered into many painful pieces. Sheltered shy girl slowly morphed into a more open minded, tolerant, and loving woman.

With a few glitches, of course.

Years have passed, and she still catches herself regressing at times. Glimpses of the judgmental side of herself surging forward into the ole limelight. Assumptions kicking into high gear and then falling apart in the light of truth. That truth being that people are far, far too multi-faceted to be judged at a glance or over a single fact of their existence.

I met a young woman Friday night. She looked to be about sixteen years old, with funky hoop earrings, stylishly tattered jeans and a sporty but sparkly top. Big curly hair was held back by a hairband. I was shocked to learn she was twenty-two and had two children. As the evening progressed and conversation flowed I found myself assuming. Assuming that a woman whose mother had beaten her was a woman I couldn’t feel a true connection with, my own childhood having been so idyllic. Assuming that because she loves to hunt and I find the sport distasteful, here was not a woman I could befriend in earnest.

And yet, I found that as our small group of women chatted and laughed together, that woman and I made eye contact more than once, sharing a laugh together. A brief spark of a moment wherein we could tell from the expression on the other’s face that we were thinking the exact same thing.

It hit me kind of hard. I often reflect on my personal transformation. I hardly know myself anymore. Sometimes I get a little prideful over it. I start to strut. I think of how far I’ve come and I’m too content and suddenly I’m sliding backwards.

Sometimes it hurts to be humbled. I’ve been there. I’ve faced up to what a wretched girl I was and how much I missed out on because I dared to think I had the right to judge people I knew nothing of. This time though, it doesn’t hurt so much. I’m smiling through the humility. It feels good to know that I am not done. That this moment is not the sum total of my potential.

I have it in me to be so much, so very infinitely more.

Kymburlee writes at Temporary?Insanity

Alright, alright. so there’s 5 love languages in life, blah blah blah.

But do you know about the 5 love languages of BLOGGING?

That’s right. I believe there are 5 love languages in this crazy blogging world…

The thing is, we all speak a different language. And we go through phases, where sometimes one is more important than another. Most of us speak all the languages, but it’s the order that can get us into trouble. Not every blogger is going to speak your same language. And feelings can get hurt when our blogging needs are not met by the people we blog with.

So to shed a little light on the situation, I give you:

Lurkers: (def.) someone who regularly reads your blog, but does not participate.
(They’re just like secret admirers…. kinda)

Some lurkers have blogs. Others do not. Some may subscribe to your feed, others have no idea what a feed is. But they come. Every day. For you.

In real life, a lurker may be “delurked” through routine conversation. Because they may mention something that you wrote about, but did not receive this information from you. This is when you call them out and demand them to comment. (Because we know you’re there, PEDER.)

Lurkers generally admire the bloggers they so quietly stalk. Sometimes, lurkers may be your ex-boyfriends wife. (Hi.) Sometimes they’re people you’ve never even met. (Hi.) But they stumbled onto your blog, and they are here to stay.

Lurkers are nervous about leaving comments. Sometimes they feel like they do not have anything witty to say. Or they disagree with you. Fear not, dear lurkers. We would probably love to hear what you have to say. But you don’t have to say anything. You have permission to lurk as long as you like.

Bloggers have egos. Egos need to be stroked.

Comments are a wonderful way for bloggers to interact with their readers. And as any blogger will tell you, they read each and every comment, and appreciate each and every word. Commenting provides feedback for the author; it lets them know if their words encouraged you, inspired you, touched you, made you mad, made you laugh…. Your words offer perspective, and help build confidence which in turn inspires the blogger to write more.

Other considerations: every blogger loves comments, but not every blogger leaves comments. Some comment religiously, even when they have nothing to say, while others never comment, though your words have touched them on some core level.

Besides, every blogger I’ve ever met is a comment whore. ♫ They want it, they need it, they gots to! gots to! gots to! have it…♫

hyperlink: the text that you can “click” on that will take you to another web page.

Hyperlinking is a simple service that shows you care. A link to another web page or site is exhilarating. It’s like finding a hidden treasure. There are SO. MANY. GREAT. WRITERS. And most of them blog because they love it. And we would never have found them, if it wasn’t for you, you hyperlinking fanatic.

Hyperlinking also lets the other bloggers know you love them. It physically shows them that you are a fan. That you notice what they say. That you think they’re brilliant. Or funny. Or awesome. Hyperlinking is a recommendation. It’s as if you’re saying, “Hey, if you like me, you’ll LOVE this guy!” It’s the ultimate compliment.

Hyperlinking makes the world go round. I would have never found girls like this, if not for the hyperlink.

There is no greater gift than to be added to someone’s blogroll. (except for commenting…)

Blogrolls are delicate things. People pay great attention to who IS and who is NOT on your blogroll. It directly affects their self worth. (Especially if you know you used to be on someone’s blogroll, and now you’ve magically disappeared.) ahem.

And while some of us may feel the desperate need to be included on the blogroll, we need to understand that they are beastly things and most are not updated regularly. (Even though after announcing you have updated and we’re still not on it, we get our cyber feelings hurt and we try not to dwell on it, but for the love! What do I have to do to get on your stupid blogroll already?!?!?!) ahem.

These are the serious blog readers.

Subscription to a feed makes bloggers feel warm and cozy. Especially when we see the numbers rising. (and falling. stupid unsubscribe button. grrrrr.)

And although subscription numbers may not match up to comment numbers, and may leave us wondering, who the heck is reading this anyways, we feel secure. Because while you may not publicly declare your love for us, you subscribe to our feed, because you have to read us. It’s a simple act that declares your love. And you do subscribe out of love, and not obligation. Because people that have aggregators like Bloglines and Google Reader, are serious blog fanatics. They simply do not have the time to comment on every blog they read. But they are reading…. oh yes, THEY. ARE. READING.

You didn’t know that I have a nemesis, did you?

If you know me personally you might be surprised to hear this. I, who avoid confrontation at all costs, have a nemesis.

He’s downright evil.

Even so, he seems to have a right to be here no matter how I’m feeling. I wish I could kick him out, but he has such a hold on me…

Oh, sometimes he tries to pretend he’s my friend. When I say hello I’m never sure how he’ll react. Most of the time he’s unkind, even demeaning. But at times he’s almost sweet, and nearly fools me for a day–but never more than two. Then he goes right back to being the biggest scumbag on the planet.

He’s not perfect looking. His gorgeous exterior has been marred. A big scar appeared across his previously clear face somehow in the last few days. I’ve been both feeling slightly sorry for him (because after all, I do have a heart) and wishing I had put it there. Goodness knows there are days I could gleefully stomp on his face. But I don’t, because in hurting him I only hurt myself.

So why do I keep going back for punishment? I’m not sure. I feel like part of me will be lost if I kick him out. Plus, in a sick way he keeps me in line. You know that line about keeping your friends close but your enemies closer? Exactly. Although I suspect that if I could keep him away for at least a week at a time perhaps I would slowly be able to make some progress on my own and not be so dependent.

Even if I kick him out, I still need to see him now and then. I can’t break myself of this. I tried kicking him out for a few months 9 years ago, but by the time I let him back in my life I was a mess. He made life even harder for me when he was away. Better to keep him semi-close.

I really, truly hate him. There are moments I could kiss him, but mostly I hate him. Even in those brief, kissable moments I still hate him because of what I’m sure he’ll do to me tomorrow. Although, I never cease to hope.

He’s leaving for a week. I haven’t told him, but he’s going. Would you like to meet him before I kick him out? He looks a little different in these pictures. I think he’s had some work done since. One of them shows him in action. I don’t know who he’s with, but he’s a whole lot nicer to her than to me. I don’t get it. What did I ever do to him?

Hmm…you know, maybe part of it’s my fault. After all, I do think he’s beneath me. I step all over him every day, sometimes several times a day. Come to think of it, maybe that’s why he hates me. Now I feel guilty. I’m going to send him on an all expense paid vacation for a week, maybe two.

Yes, that’s it. A nice location. Peaceful, quiet, dim light perfect for resting.

The closet.

Rebecca writes at Becoming

Hi, my name is Heather and you guessed it, I’m your Bloggers Annex host for this week. I’ve been a fan of the Annex since it’s beginning. Joining the BA team gives me an opportunity to put otherwise unknown bloggers in the spotlight, and I consider that an honor.

I’m a full-time stay at home mom in this current season of my life. Most of the time I love that, even if I never dreamed it would be this exhausting. I have two boys, Miles (3) and Asher (1). The way they see life is my inspiration for calling this ordinary life extraordinary. My husband is Ryan, the patient guy behind all the blogging I have the time to do only because of him.

I began blogging at The Extraordinary Ordinary just over a year ago. I then had the honor of being asked to contribute to The Mama Manifesto. Having a blog (and reading way too many excellent blogs) has been the catalyst in reminding me how much I love to write.

I don’t have any credentials that allow me to call myself a writer. No books written. No degree in literature. In my eyes, the beauty of blogging is that it gives those of us who feel quite ordinary the opportunity to express ourselves with words, any way that suits us. Every person is a writer. Putting pen to paper (or fingers to keys) and leaving our thoughts and feelings behind is what makes that so.

I’m thrilled to have the opportunity to read what you’ve left behind, writers.

(One last thing. I don’t normally sit in flower gardens and glow like an angel. If you have a good camera, you can make pretty much anything happen.)

It was the first day in my seven-and-a-half years of being home that ALL THREE KIDS were in school.  The sun had even come out to celebrate with me!   I was a bit sulky about having to do something as mundane as grocery shopping on such a beautiful day.  I was resentfully glancing over my 40 page dissertation (aka the grocery list), when I saw it.  It was on the endcap of an aisle that I have long since trained myself to ignore.  There were hundreds of other rectangular objects around it, calling out to the masses with bright colors and clever marketing.  This one called out to me from the deepest stores of my personal history. 

Caramello. 
Caramello! 

I’m sure I’ve walked passed it once a week for my entire adult life, but it had never actually called out my name before.  Well, maybe it had, but there’s no way I would have heard it over the whining and begging that usually accompanies the grocery store experience.

I stopped.  I turned slowly to face it; the warm brown color of the wrapper gleaming ever so softly in the harsh, florescent lighting of the grocery store.  An involuntary smile played at the corner of my mouth.  I looked to my left.  Then to my right.  Then, like a kid who’s trying to shoplift a verboten pack of gum, I snatched the candy bar off its shelf and tucked it underneath my bag of frozen peas.

At that moment, my entire shopping experienced changed colors.  Instead of the flat, gray obligation that has always been the shopping list, I was in a world of neon.  Every now and then I would peek at my forbidden treasure and grin sheepishly at the matronly woman next to me in the produce department.  I whistled as I hefted boxes of Mac & Cheese into my cart.  The cashier became my new best friend as we laughed together about things that weren’t actually funny.  I ran with the cart and jumped up on the lower basket, riding to my car like a teenager.  I made silly faces at a little boy who was passing by as I unloaded my goods into the back of my *Audi TT.*

Then the moment came.  I reached inside the last bag and pulled out my Caramello.  I just looked at it for a moment as my half smile spread to cover my entire face.  I sat down on my bumper and turned the bar over backwards. 

“Maybe I’ll find a golden ticket in here,”  I thought to myself as I gently scraped my lower lip with my teeth.

Tucking my finger inside the paper, I tore it straight down the back and quickly peeled away the golden foil.  The beautiful, milky brown of the chocolate made the glands in the back of my throat ache with desire.  I pulled apart one little square and watched the honey gold strings of caramel fight to keep the bar together.  I took a deep breath and looked at the sky as I placed it on my tongue.  I didn’t chew it.  I just let it soften in my mouth, so I wouldn’t miss a moment of flavor.

It is for this moment that I say no to the cookies at Craft Night; for this experience that I decline that bag of m&ms at the movie theater.  This is the moment that makes all the discipline worthwhile.  I released a happy sigh as I nuzzled deeper into my trunk and gleefully finished my sinful treat.  Maybe if I wait even longer for my next indulgence, it’ll taste even better.

Nah.  Not possible.

*I refuse to admit that I drive a mini van*

TheNarcissist writes at Nurturing Narcissism

I was a bit too far from home when the music stopped.  In fact, I was on the other side of the world when I realized that my return ticket had expired.  And then, without ever really having had a bird’s eye view of all the puzzle pieces, I realized I have a career, an off-shore pension fund, a house, a wife, three kids, and I was going to bed every night before 10:30 p.m.  How did this happen so quickly?  

What I’ve come to understand since the summer is that this aging didn’t happen all at once.  I became suddenly aware of it only after being confronted with some sobering images of myself after a reckless binge holiday with people not even half my age.

Now, I don’t want to give anybody the impression that I was a wild or irresponsible young man.  I never sewed any wild oats during my restless wanderings nor did I ever spend a night drunk under a bar stool. I did eventually graduate from the University, even though it did take me six-and-a-half years to obtain a four year degree due to my constant comings and goings. My free spirit and constant traveling made me the joke of my mother’s circle of friends who branded me with the stigma of being a “Fly by Night.”  There was simply nothing worse for their daughters to marry than a Fly by Night, but for me it was a title of honor!   Shortly after I married, (which everybody thought would be the cure to my disorder), my bride and I sold most, if not all of our belongings and set out to find our fortunes together on the other side of the world.  We just never thought that we would end up staying here. It was just a good stepping off point.  The education was affordable, the job that followed paid well, and the language wasn’t too hard to learn.  It all just slowly stacked up on itself without us realizing how long we have been away. It wasn’t real life, it was all just part of the big adventure.  So in much the same way that many middle-aged men wake up to realize that they’ve done very little worthwhile with their lives since college (and probably even less during), I woke up last September to realize that I had grown old and still hadn’t seen everything I had wanted to.  I was devastated!

Over the last summer vacation I took my two oldest kids for a week of adventure and exploration in Brussels where we gorged ourselves on chocolates, waffles, and Belgian fries. (Little known to the world is that French fries actually originated in Belgium). We spent afternoons sketching the beautiful eighteenth-century buildings of the Grand Place, we frequented the Godiva boutiques a bit too often, and laughed ourselves silly at the smaller-than-expected statue of Brussels‘ most famous underage resident, Manneke Pis.  I had a great time. And despite finding my son asleep on the bathroom floor in the youth hostel, sick from sweets and deep-fried chicken and fries the day before, they did too.  We swam in the city fountains, picnicked on grand staircases looking over the Royal Mile, and did we ever enjoy the chocolate and cocoa museum!  Did you know that dark chocolate contains more antioxidants than spinach?  We couldn’t believe our luck!

The highlight of the entire trip for the kids, I believe, was our visit to a theme park called Mini Europe, where one could travel to every attraction in Europe in less than ninety minutes, listen to every national anthem and learn the population density of every country in the European Union.  The Eiffel Tower was there together with Big Ben.  Venice, Pisa and the Roman Forum were all right there together under an erupting Mt. Vesuvius.  We saw the fjords of Norway and the royal palace of Madrid.  Both of the kids were almost jubilant with the crossing of every “mini” frontier.  Just a few weeks before, both of them had memorized all the flags of the European countries while we were rabidly watching the European Football (soccer) Championships, and so they would run from “country to country” pointing to each flag and cheering like each was their land of birth and it had just won the World Cup!  They seemed so aware of the world around them and seemed to understand that they live in a place with an astounding historical heritage.  It took me until I was sixteen years old to understand the world this way.  I am pleased that they appear to have a head-start over me in this field as I find it to be the part of life that has made me the richest!

But what surprised me the most after we had returned home and had our crazy photographs developed is that all of the photos which pictured me together with either my son or daughter were of a father figure, not a buddy or a playmate as I felt we all were to each other on that trip. I was wearing things that I shouldn’t be caught dead in, and my legs were a white color that I can only relate to the reader as “frog belly white.”   Good gracious, where did all my hair go?  I kept asking the kids if they had seen that chubby, bald, old guy who followed us around and got in all of our pictures.  Of course they laughed and insisted that it was just me and thought I was the funniest guy they had ever seen.

So here I sit now comparing these photos from the summer getaway with my kids with those from the years when I was vagabonding through Europe and Russia trying to find my place in the world.  Even though I look back on those days of “he who travels fastest, travels alone” with a deep nostalgia and would trade my investment portfolio for my (now missing) thick brown hair, legs of steel and a teenage physique of one-hundred fifty pounds, I look now with pride to my young ones. I see the same wonder and invincibility in their faces that was on my face when I was twenty and romancing older women in Itlay or conquering Moscow and the Russian hinterlands.  I wonder if I still have that look of invincibility that I see in the old photos–or do I really look like that fellow in the photos from Brussels last summer?  I don’t feel older than twenty-three (well, except maybe this part here around my middle) because I was enjoying the life of a “Fly by Night”  too much to take stock of gradual changes–thinking that if I just kept moving fast enough, like Einstein promised us, that I wouldn’t get any older in comparison to everybody else around me.  Each birthday was to me just an extension of the year before, not a closing of the last nor was it a progression through time. (I suppose the fact that my wife doesn’t age didn’t help to correct my distorted perception about myself). One day I just woke up and I was ***censored*** years old, and now all of the sudden I see that my son is more and more like I was in my teenage years–self confident and too curious to sit still–and that my girls are growing long and tall and losing their babyish looks and have become more clever than I am ready to admit. And I look more and more like my own father.  

I have resigned myself now to the fact that I’m *** censored*** years old and with it I am entitled to a bit of the good life.  I am also enjoying the role of being a proud father and I am convinced that my children will rise to great heights.  Being old(er) can have its perks and I intend to exploit those perks to their fullest.  But as I fly around the world now for my work, traveling in cushy aircraft seats and eating in the finest restaurants from Amman to Barcelona, I can only hope that one day an inexperienced border guard will find my looks suspicious and mistake me for a youthful revolutionary who is wanted for organizing disruptive student protests.   It would be an extremely ingratiating incident of mistaken identity which just may help to avert a proper mid-life crisis that is sure to set-in within the next ***censored***  years.