“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.
The Passion of Christopher Pierznik 