In 2013, I watched my first Mets game in three
decades, got hooked, spent the entire season rooting for them and going to Citi
Field and buying all sorts of merch, and enjoyed every heartbreaking minute of
it.
In 2014, I spent some time reading through about
ninety-nine percent of the published works of horror forerunner H. P.
Lovecraft, and enjoyed every creepy minute of it.
In 2015, I got my middle-aged buttock in gear and
walked a two or three hundred miles and lifted a couple tons of iron, and
enjoyed every sweaty, strenuous minute of it.
In 2016, I began studying for my tax certification to
begin a part-time gig preparing taxes for the masses for some extra coin, and
enjoyed every overly complicated minute of it.
In 2017, I jammed for hours and hours on the Gibson
Epiphone guitar the Mrs. got me for my fiftieth birthday, and enjoyed every
calloused finger and off-key minute of it.
In 2018, I marched with Napoleon throughout
18th-century Europe and studied side-by-side with this complex god-emperor, and
enjoyed every harshly fascinating minute of it.
In 2019, I dove deep into the Beatles oeuvre, read up
on Custer and his eponymous massacre, delved into the mirror-sports world of
Bundesliga soccer, marathoned through seasons of Under the Dome and 24 with
the girls after work, reread a half-dozen classic – to me – novels, and even
nursed an ankle sprain that nearly separated my metatarsals from my tibias and
fibulas, and enjoyed every glorious minute of it.
Why can’t we have good things anymore?
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