Love is patient.
Every single one of us possesses an achilles’ heel. Evidently, mine is accepting that my grandoise master plan concocted in my subconscious hasn’t come to fruition.
The older and wiser I get, the more I realize and believe in the depth of my Being that I’m exactly where I’m meant to be. That every single solitary part of my journey to date has a purpose; the good, bad and ugly.
Yet, even though I *know* this, sometimes, my silly ego with a poor memory forgets.
Like today, while on Facebook, I stumbled across professional photography of a couple {K & C} who recently gave birth to their first child. My computer mouse and I innocently scrolled through the delicious images and instantly got drunk on their love…which has expanded beyond just two individuals in a romantic relationship. Now, they know what love beyond reason is. They created a human life, together.
My mind took an unexpected detour and suddenly transitioned into a time machine; I am sitting at Mr. Big’s dining room table in or around 2005/06 {I told you my memory stinks}. Mr. Big and C are in the kitchen cooking, K and I are enjoying conversation over wine, waiting for our boyfriends to serve us their home cooked Valentine’s Day dinner. K is telling me about their plans to eventually move in together…and before long, the rest was history.
That basic story composition has been regurgitated dozens of times with other couples. It’s like watching the same movie, re-made over and over and over but with different actors/actresses. You know the beginning, middle and end. After a while, you wonder when you’ll be cast to play the lead part.
When I felt tears filling up in my eyes, partly because I’m so overjoyed for their joy, and partly because I have ‘future envy’ {why aren’t we there yet, or even half way there?} — once again, I gently remind myself:
Our journey had some detours. I hold onto hope that we’ll arrive ‘there’ too someday…
Wherever there is.
My story, my scripted plan laced in patience may still be in the editing room, but I don’t think I can hold on much longer to the table-for-one cliché.
A few weeks ago, Big and I hung out with another couple who had just celebrated their 6-year wedding anniversary. They know our entire history, and vice versa.
Me: I still can’t believe that she gave him an ultimatum to get married. I just couldn’t do it, not my style. Do you think he still would have proposed even if he didn’t have that declared cut-off date?
Big: Yes, he still would have proposed, maybe not when he did though.
Meanwhile, I’m reading and working on a review of the book, Blow Me. It’s authored by a smart, witty gal out of Los Angeles. Her literary work has been compared to Sex and the City…which had me at, Hello may I please have a copy? She is very active in the social media world and has a weekly column, Ask Lennie. I couldn’t help myself…so out of curiosity I emailed…and submitted a question.
I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me that a fury of 20+ comments on her fan page plus another five on the web site were the result of such a controversial question.
How do you feel about women giving their man an ultimatum, like an engagement proposal deadline?
People vacillated between “absolutely not” to “hell to the yes.” I didn’t inquire because scripting a final proposition is something I’m considering, but because I truly find the dynamic fascinating. In my opinion, if your man doesn’t ask for your hand in marriage by {insert appropriate time based on your personal situation} then you either have an honest conversation about intentions, and/or you exit stage left.
As the brilliant Steve Jobs said, “You have to trust that the dots will somehow connect in your future. You have to trust in something — your gut, destiny, life, karma, whatever.”
I trust that our time will come. I trust in love.
Rolling the dice.
This is not my first rodeo in navigating a long distance relationship with Mr. Big…it’s my third.
In 2006 he moved to Phoenix, then moved home. Then relocated to a remote town in Virginia an hour away from our mutual stomping grounds, then moved home. And finally…Atlanta.
When he lived out west, adjusting to the 2-3 hour time difference depending on the time of year, not to mention lack of physical presence and scarce visits besides a trip home over Christmas and my 1 and only trip there in the spring, was incredibly difficult. One thing in particular I could never get used to: excursions to Vegas.
He took advantage of the short flight to Sin City many, many times…and even though I had never personally visited there myself, the image of XL breast implants, butt cheek sightings, go-go dancers, heterosexual women who evidently turn into lesbians for a 1-night-only show, and prostitutes galore didn’t sit well with me.
But because I was an impossibly understanding, non-confrontational, appeasing girlfriend — picking fights was not in my relationship repertoire.
Eventually I did touch, taste and see what the elusive city is all about thanks to a business trip, and my speculation was confirmed — on steroids.
Then we had The Big Messy Break-Up last winter, my trust was beaten to a pulp, and we’ve spent the last 12 months working on building it back up. My closest friends have commended me on how far I’ve come in the meantime.
“You’re so much farther along than I would be in your position. You don’t dangle the past over his head. You aren’t suffocating him with a jail sentence. I couldn’t do it…”
No, gaining trust certainly didn’t happen overnight, but once nightmares stopped occuring, when I could sleep through an entire night — not waking up in a worried panic wondering what he is doing, and cutting down on checking his email accounts on a regular basis…I knew that my confidence for his actions and behavior was normalizing.
So several months ago I shared the profound insight with him.
“I trust you.”
It was an incredibly liberating and freeing feeling. Because, frankly, I don’t think I ever totally trusted him in the past (even pre Big Messy Break-Up), even though I had no quantifiable proof he had done anything wrong.
Then recently the most scandalous town in Nevada reared its ugly head again. He was presented with an opportunity to fly across the country for a former colleague’s 30th birthday. My response was less than enthusiastic.
“I don’t feel comfortable with you going, especially for a random dude who I don’t know. If it was your BFF’s bachelor party, then I could swing it.”
Fast forward several weeks and we managed to discuss the topic a total of five times, which was four times too many. And in between those phone conversations, I ironically came across several disgusting articles (The Truth About Bachelor Parties), which only further validated my angst.
These passionate, revealing, and eventually mindnumbing deliberations exposed a very raw and real question: Do I REALLY trust him?
I sat with that question for a while, peeled it back, analyzed it, massaged it, and mulled it over, and over. And here is where I landed, with no strings or excuses attached: I trust him 100% in normal circumstances (everyday life). I trust him 95% in compromising circumstances (e.g. Vegas).
Realizing this may seem ridiculous as he could rendezvous with infidelity any given day, particularly seeing as though we don’t live in the same zip code. But the truth is I just worry if super duper intoxicated, with women throwing themselves on his lap, in a sex-crazed silo…he’d be more likely to make the wrong decision. In other words, why throw someone who is indefinitely proving they’re capable of monogomy, into a precarious position that prides itself on lies: What happens in Vegas…
Ultimately, the ongoing dialogue was constructive and helped us open the lines of communication even further. My frame of mind took a turn.
“I’m not going to demand you not go; it is your choice. And, if you do decide to go, I won’t hold it over your head.”
That last sentence proved to be nothing short of monumental for me, both emotionally and psychologically. Trust can’t be earned unless the opportunity is given to begin with.
I released myself from neurosis and toxic banter in my head, not to mention probably several verbal undercuts to his proverbial chin. And it felt incredible. I just let it go, literally.
Not only was I not going to throw daily pity parties over the (what I considered an unnecessary) trip, I was even going to get on board. Ok, maybe not both feet in the wet bar pool, but genuinely wish him well and fun. Ok, but maybe not too much fun.
As I write, he is in the air, Vegasville-bound to be surrounded by horny girls and gambling for a few days. And I’m at home rolling the dice, choosing to trust him.
Operation: Let’s move forward.
A highly anticipated, some might even call it controversial weekend has come and gone, and I’ve lived to tell about it.
When Mr. Big and I began what would become a long reconciliation process last summer, my focus from that point on was 100% surrounding us. I took it one day at a time – nothing more, nothing less. I also prioritized me as the #1 person to get on board in the relationship.
If my inner circle had questions, I was happy to answer them, but that was the extent of my energy. I was never looking for a thumbs up, advice, or approvals.
Whereas during past break-ups, I was seemingly more concerned about everyone but me. Did loved ones support me? Could they be happy for me? The check list of needed endorsements went on and on and on.
But this time around, seeing as though it was the equivalent of a cat’s ninth life, I knew without even necessarily consciously making the decision…that every facet of the process would need to be different.
And so, as we’ve moved along, better than I could have ever expected, it was finally time to reintroduce him back to my family. Because let’s face it ~ the hope is that someday my manfriend will be part of ‘my family’ too. The last interaction when my 5 siblings and him had seen each other was two Christmas holidays ago. To say that our final break-up [only a few short months later] poured salt directly into their wounds would be an understatement.
In March of this year, one of my brothers suggested we get together this summer to ‘fold him back into the mix.’ Not only was I surprised by the gesture, but also humbled. Despite all of the past transgressions, hurt feelings, and contradictions…a family member was able to rise above and attempt to move on along with me.
We booked our travel schedules and would meet in New York ~ he’d come up from Atlanta & I’d make my way from Virginia.
Just like a job interview, the suspense got pretty intense, especially in the final days leading up to the reunion. Would there be heated questions? A round table discussion? Would they throw him into a proverbial fire pit by way of a tongue lashing?
Although I’m inherently a realist, I’m also very much an optimist and could only speculate that they would stay true to our family’s protocol and play it cool. On the other hand, I didn’t necessarily put it completely past someone, say, if they consumed a lot of alcohol and their opinions or jaded emotions surfaced.
But it never happened.
He showed up with his head held high, yet was very respectful, courteous, and engaging. I imagine his tail was tucked somewhere between his legs, and was ready for cross fire should the situation arise. The hot pink elephant in the room kept her distance and quickly disappeared into the dark.
In the original conversation when my brother made the suggestion about a get together, he said, “I want to observe how you two act around each other. That’s all I’m really interested in; I think the interaction will speak for itself.”
Our chemistry and conviction in our love shined through; I’m sure of it.
To be a part of this resilient and loving family who genuinely wants their counterparts to be happy makes me very proud. That isn’t some lovely expression that sounds nice on paper; they truly mean it.
I know the people who share my DNA don’t want to see their sister burned again, and if they had the power, would protect me from future third degree blisters on my heart. But they ultimately respect my decisions and stand behind me as I navigate through this crazy thing called life.
Last but certainly not least, the final box we need to check in Operation: Let’s Move Forward is…my parents.
Yin & Yang on Valentine’s Day.
Not everyone is in love with Valentine’s Day; while 50 percent of women think it’s romantic, 61 percent of men say it’s a commercial conspiracy.
The Gift — For 49 percent of men, gift shopping isn’t necessary: they just want sex. And 20 percent of men want nothing at all. For women, 25 percent want a romantic dinner, 14 percent want a thoughtful card, 14 percent want sex, and 12 percent want flowers. And 13 percent of women say they’d be happy with nothing.
While men and women agree that sending flowers to work is thoughtful (71 percent of women and 63 percent of men think so), they disagree about red roses. Fifty-three percent of women said they’re clichéd, but 60 percent of men said they’re classic.
Survey Source: TresSugar
Beauty in disguise.
Life is short.
I’m reminded of this fact on a regular basis. And yet every single day I struggle to remember it.
Like today, for example…work was tough. It was Murphy’s Law, realized; almost every possible opportunity for something to go wrong - did. I’m lucky enough, though, to ground myself in “this too shall pass” mantras. When I wanted to cry, instead I decided to laugh. That was the best I could do.
I love love love my job.
Working with animals and producing tools and toys for them to live a happy, fun-filled adventure brings endless gratification. I’m not saving lives in an emergency room, or curing cancer, but in its simplest & humane form…I’m helping improve the relationship between people and their pets. And that is beautiful.
Yet it is near impossible to not get bogged down in the daily grind, feel the heat of deadlines, manage pressure from an unreasonable amount of work, juggle multiple responsibilities, and still walk through the hallways with a genuine smile.
Then there is my relationship with Mr. Big.
Somedays are harder than others. And the days that are sweet, produce crater-like cavities. I miss him, so much.
He flew home this past weekend and it flew by. Not the cliché kind ~ time slipped away from us ~ but literally it was only 36 hours. When we reminisced about the trip and I asked what his favorite moment was [laughing, borderline crying at a hilarious video together], I then reflected and realized that mine was simply *being* together. Literally, just feeling his skin, his warmth, his presence. Whether we were falling asleep in bed or cuddling on the couch — it felt like two magnets joining forces.
I’d venture to say that our connection is at an all-time high right now. It’s like when you’re in the early stages of running [coming from someone who considers herself a non-runner] — the first mile is the hardest, the second mile is uncomfortable, then by the third you start to get into a stride. I suppose we’ve reached a runner’s high…when everything just seems to fall into place.
Speaking of running, that is another hurdle. Although not fully ready to completely open the sensitive skeletons in my diminishing closet, but in short, I’m at a critical turning point to get my ass in action. I fell off the wagon in the fall from back-to-back travel, then fell into cookies and cupcakes over the winter holidays, ultimately leaving my wardrobe in an unprecedented famine.
I’m taking it one day at a time, easing my way back into a gym routine, munching on leafy greens and fresh fruits…and in the meantime doing my best not to [literally and metaphorically] bodyslam my ego.
So through all of these seemingly impossible or at best, very difficult trials…I’m surrounded by “it could be worst” instances.
Like the friend who has a hard time getting pregnant & has undergone two rounds of in vetro fertilization procedures. Oh and she also lost her father a few weeks ago; her estranged father who she had only recently started to reconcile with. And then there is the friend who is struggling between her ex-husband and current manfriend, trying to figure out her wants and needs and frankly, who she really is. There is also a friend who has a Mother battling breast cancer; she also happens to be the same friend who is in love with a man whose skin color happens to be black…and family won’t accept interracial dating, so she has tragically decided to not pursue what her authentic self and heart desires. Then there is the friend whose parents are on the cusp of a divorce after 30 years of marriage. Another friend is suddenly a single parent because her marriage succumbed to a husband who secretly became addicted to drugs. One friend found out her father slipped back into alcohol abuse and it has shaken the family to their core. I also can’t leave out the non-profit organization that I freelance write for who photographs children suffering from life-threatening illnesses…to [pro bono] leave their parents with beautiful moments captured on film to treasure smiles and memories forever.
I am Blessed. Sometimes it is blatant. Sometimes it is disguised. I’m inspired by loved ones who are facing challenges beyond comprehension, yet they choose to live & keep going every single day. They fall asleep with resilience and wake up with hope.
Every single day I try to remember, try to remind myself that the grass is not always greener on the other side. That I’m humbled to have employment. That I’m grateful to have someone I consider a soulmate. That although I may not [ever] be the skinny self that I’ve sketched out in my mind, I’m healthy and I’m alive.
Life is short, but sweet for certain.
In love and absence.
Mr. Big and I are approaching four months of existing in a long distance dynamic. It feels strange to know we’ve been physically apart longer than we were together after reconciling in August.
Living in the same town those two short months were amazing. Looking back I remember “little things” that were taken for granted at the time. Like him scooping me up on a lunch break at work. Or renting and watching a movie on his bed & in his nook. Ordering Thai food takeout and watching an NFL game. Accidentally falling asleep on his lap. Dressing up and meeting our friends out on the town for drinks and dancing.
Those moments of just literally being around one another - laughing, smiling, holding hands - play in my head like vignettes. They’re now memories, but I don’t want them to be. I want them to be here and now. Every day.
When I learned he would be relocating 450 miles away for an opportunistic job, I honestly had no idea if we’d make it; the odds were not favorable to put it gently. We had just begun a healing process, getting to know each other again (particularly our more authentic, more experienced selves), and navigating through the unknowns. So my motto was: Day by day.
I suppose a silver-lining element to being apart is that the separation serves as a catalyst to definitively make us or break us. If you can make it through this…
One thing I know for sure is — long distance relationships are awful. You miss each other terribly. Lack physical touch and presence. Get tired of phone calls and texting. Stress out about unreasonably priced plane tickets.
Another tough pill to swallow has been coming to terms with the fact that our initial expectations were unrealistic. “We’ll see each other every other weekend.” “We’ll make it so that the distance has very little impact.” “[Insert hopeful affirmation that you say to make yourself feel better.]”
It’s hard. Really, really hard. I’ve also recognized that I have a threshold and that abruptly happens at the 3 week mark. That is when I hit a brick wall. Absence may make the heart grow fonder, but it also makes the heart harden.
Will I one day take a one-way flight down south to join him, and stay there indefinitely? Sure. But we have some personal steps to take, individually and together, before that can happen. And in the meantime, try not to go certifiably crazy.
After a recent temper tantrum, I had what Oprah likes to call an Ah Ha moment.
Several instances transpired that were a sharp reminder of my situation (31.5-year-old unmarried-but-wants-not-to-be woman, who is trying to find patience in a long-distance dating scenario). Like when filling out forms at the Doctor’s office and having to write my Mother’s name as the emergency contact, also serving as my life insurance beneficiary. Receiving higher monthly rates at my new gym as a single member vs. a couples membership. Filing taxes and not finanically benefiting as my married counterparts do. Listening to my girlfriend (happily married with child) complaining that she desperately needs to find like-minded couples (also with child) to become friends with and asked me to essentially play matchmaker.
The list just kept getting longer, to the point where all I could do was chuckle. And then it hit me — with a reminder from who else but Oprah’s spiritual teacher Eckhart Tolle — I have to stop missing The Now. To continously miss The Now by chasing after some mental abstraction of the future, you miss the one thing that is real. Which, is Now. There is a grave fallacy of seeking ourselves in the future. No the ‘story’ in my head isn’t complete…but I’ll get there.
Coming to terms with circumstances out of my control is tough. Being states apart from my partner is painful.
But, as they say…nothing worth having comes easy.
Take a knee.
Themes. They’re everywhere. Consistently present. Each night as I go to sleep, the last 18 hours can easily and always be categorized into a specific genre; Mystery, Suspense, Sci Fi, Silent, Drama, Adventure, Romantic Comedy, Action.
However the last two weeks have been most notably tagged #Fantasy.
I’m an observer. People watching is a delicious past time. Particularly on the world wide web of social networking. Facebook is such a funny concept too — we ‘friend’ each other and passively keep tabs on daily happenings — collectively celebrating birthdays, anniversaries, job promotions, births, successful potty training, and weight loss/fitness accomplishments. But there is one epic, and I don’t use that word lightly, breaking news feed CNN-ticker worthy critical broadcast that by far takes the cake for responses: The Engagement.
Because I am privy to an updated inventory of every person, all 527 in my database, and their current state-of-the-union relationship status…I’m well aware how many of my immediate female peers are Single. There are were about eight of us left. And as of late, five of them crossed over who are now sporting shiny, expensive facets on their fingers.
Then, all of the tabloid-type TV shows started rattling off celebrities who had exchanged engagement experiences over the holidays, too. After losing count among my personal circle and famous folks, it seemed as though an unusually high amount of promises had taken place in a very short window. Was there in fact that many jewels going around, or was the bystander role from the sidelines causing me to be a bit melodramatic? Luckily one of my fave web sites posted article after article about the Fiancé/Fiancée announcements, assuring me I’m not making stuff up in the neurotic section of my head.
Christmas came and went. Then New Years came and went. And I couldn’t help but wonder what those women were feeling while going into 2011 with a monumental, life-changing commitment. Did they previously have “the talk” with their significant other? Had they looked at rings together? Was it a total surprise? How many minutes lapsed between ”Will you marry me?” and excitedly updating their relationship status? Did the road ahead feel scary, or like they’re headed to Disney World?
When Mr. Big and I reconnected about six months ago, I honestly didn’t know whether it was possible for me to ever completely trust him, wholeheartedly. I walked into a very vulnerable arena — putting myself out there again to give us one more shot — acknowledging that I could ultimately have to call it quits because there was simply too much water under the broken bridge. Moreover, I was extraordinarily skeptical…not knowing if it was even possible.
But it happened. I trust him.
Even saying those words outloud and expressing them in writing doesn’t seem real. For years and years during our former courtship, there was always an uneasiness that persisted inside of me. An unexplainable anxiety that fermented over time. And while there weren’t any tangible examples to claim my lack of total faith in his loyalty to me, still, the toxicity levels remained high.
Six months ago, I made a pact with myself: I will not walk down an aisle, greeted by Mr. Big at the end, if I cannot look in the mirror first and claim that I trust him. In the past, I literally couldn’t visualize a proposal out of his mouth, let alone exchanging vows. My mind wouldn’t allow me to enter a #Fantasy; it was a subconscious safety zone to not ‘go there.’
And now, I can finally see it. Not only do I feel a perpetual calmness radiate inside me, one I’ve never known before when it comes to feeling confidence in the person I’ve invested more energy into than any other aspect of my 31 years, yet also find it equally interesting that it’s no longer just about The Engagement. Sure the ring, the dress, flowers and flatware is bound to be fabulous.
But it’s about what comes after the first dance that really has me reveling.
“The best way to find out if you can trust somebody is to trust them.”
— Ernest Hemingway
Blog.
Hands of time.
I came home for Christmas. Technically it isn’t home though. My parents moved out of where I grew-up about five years ago to begin their retirement. Their new residence is 30 minutes away from the overcrowded, suburban city where I grew up til leaving for college and never looked back. In the beginning, the metaphorical separation hurt my heart. My Mother even made me take all of the trinkets, stuffed animals and yearbooks; there would no longer be a bedroom to call my own.
But as each year passes with countless visits and holidays celebrated in the cozy, professionally decorated abode, it no longer feels quite as threatening to my coveted childhood memories.
Every single time I return to the stomping grounds of my past, without fail I visit with a friend. No matter what, I make the time and the intention known that I’d like to see that particular person, taking turns among about ½ dozen lifelong friends each trip. And every time it is another reminder what a different script I lead than the majority of my peers. Today, for example, the small-stature partner-in-crime from our Catholic, private high school heydays stopped over with her 15-month-old son. Our most recent encounter was the Thanksgiving before last, making her son a mere 2 months old at the time.
She is that friend who can genuinely be placed in the we-don’t-have-to-talk-regularly-but-pick-up-right-where-we-left-off category. While I was mesmerized by the toddler’s pale, chubby, soft skin…and instinctively situating myself between him and every single sharp edge within reach of his newly discovered ability to waddle [the thought of a tiny, frail skull crashing down on a coffee table scares the hell out of me], my sweet spoken friend poignantly tells me while sitting Indian-style on the hardwood floor, about 20 minutes into our banter, “So, I’m pregnant.”
The first thoughts that run through my veins are joy. Untainted, blissful joy. Since we don’t talk consistently, I don’t know the ins and outs of her marriage. But from what I can tell, theirs seems to be solid. Come to think of it…I honestly don’t know behind-the-scene’s scoop of my regularly scheduled married comrades, either. When we’re single and co-navigating relationships, detailed information-sharing knows no bounds. But apparently once you are legally bound, those kind of inner circle secrets dwindle.
I digress. So I’m super thrilled to learn about this life-changing news. We eventually move onto other conversational subjects, after covering the basics [how far along, when is the due date, how did hubby take the news, and the like]. As I witnessed her caring for the cutie pie offspring smiling and cackeling, while another cutie pie nugget quietly grows inside her belly, I couldn’t help but think, “She’s lapping me.” Not in a negative sense, per se, but a factual observation.
That’s what happens. First they get hitched, then they get pregnant, then they get pregnant - again.
Mr. Big decided to take a break in travel and didn’t make the 450 mile trek back North for this annual holiday, so his colleague graciously extended a dinner invitation into their home for the festive feast. Big randomly texted me about an hour into his arrival something so sweet and equally surreal, I literally stared at it for a few minutes, digesting the unexpected dessert.
“He has an adorable baby girl. This Christmas makes me think of what ours will be like with our family one day.”
Enter: Our future.
For the first time ever, it finally feels like Big is there. We’re (both) currently at an intangible place of witnessing the workings of others around us building their futures together. And our sights are set to press Play.
The last 48-hours have been spent non-stop with family members and their little ones in my parents’ downsized house. And while I’m typically not claustrophobic - I really needed to breakaway for a bit and escape into a chic lit book. Something Borrowed by Emily Giffin is my homework, if you will, to help wrap my wordsmith mind around fiction…with the intention of composing one myself someday. My imagination was so far removed from reality, a good 2/3 of the way through, when I stopped to notice my Mother standing in front of a Grandfather wall clock in the foyer. She took an old fashion-looking key, inserted it into the face, and turned and turned and turned it.
“Mom, I didn’t know you literally had to wind the clock for it to work.”
She explained how it must be manually cranked, how the chimes are turned off so all of the relatives can sleep through the night and not be disturbed, and then noted that for some reason, “the clock is fast.” So she simply took her finger, placed it on the minute hand, and moved it backwards to where it should be.
I sat there with my feet up on the couch and book clenched to my chest, thinking, “If only life were that easy.” Move the proverbial Clock of Life backward, or forward, as you see fit.
I’ve come to a more peaceful place as far as my own clock goes. Sure there are times where I can taste a hint of envy on my palate from those that lap me. Or worry that my children will be much younger than their cousins. Or that my sister, 12-years my senior, will not wear a bridesmaid dress in her mid-forties. Or that my Dad who recently had a health scare and for the first time has shown significant visible signs of aging on his face, may not be able to keep up with the grandchildren I provide while he is well into his seventies.
But ultimately, although my tick tock may be beating at a different, slower pace than I dreamt about while growing up back on Four Oaks Lane, I’m comforted to know that the saying really is true: [at least] Time flies when you’re having fun.
