
“It’s not the cooking that is the problem; it’s the deciding of what to cook that’s the problem.”
That is how my wife describes the daily struggle of deciding what to make for dinner every single night.
“It’s not the cooking that is the problem; it’s the deciding of what to cook that’s the problem.”
That is how my wife describes the daily struggle of deciding what to make for dinner every single night.
I can remember the exact moment when I realized that mainstream hip-hop had passed me by.
It was when I heard Drake’s So Far Gone.
Last month, I turned 38-years-old.
I don’t immediately think of myself as a man in my late-thirties. I’m still struggling with the idea that I’m an actual adult.
It’s not that I feel 18 or 22, but like almost everyone else, I think of myself as some vague, younger version of me. Age has a way of sneaking up on you like that. It’s like growth spurt or a change in your weight. You live with it every day, so it’s gradual to you, but then you walk by a mirror and a different person is looking back at you. I still can’t believe I’ve been married for seven-and-a-half years and have been in the same relationship for thirteen years. I still think of the early ’00s as just a few years ago.
As Gertrude Stein once said, “We are always the same age inside.”
As I received well-wishes on my birthday, I couldn’t help thinking about City Slickers.
It’s often misguided – and sometimes even dangerous – to put value, worth, and emotion into inanimate objects.
I came back from vacation six days ago and I’m still recovering.
I am about to turn 36 years old.
I have been married for over five years.
I have a daughter that will be turning four this summer.