Grow the F@&k Up


Our once-pristine freezer in Boston now reeks of beer – and broken glass – thanks to a forgotten bottle of Amstel Light, courtesy of my brother’s last visit. I’m the first to admit that I can be insanely anal about things being kept neat and tidy in the condo. It’s in my Virgo nature to be so meticulous and careful and clean. In the past, perhaps I’ve been too militant about it (though not without reason – broken glass and lost keys are more dangerous than minor annoyances).

Yet even the most easy-going among us have to take issue with shit like this. We’re not in college anymore. We’re in our mid-to-late thirties. As much as I enjoy a cocktail, I don’t do this sort of nonsense. I don’t get thrown out of bars for having too much. I don’t pass out in bathtubs and almost drown. I don’t lose keys and have to call the police to break in. And yet somehow I get saddled with the bad rep.

Oh well. I’m used to it. It’s more comical at this point, and my friends can only laugh with slight incredulity when they hear of things like this over and over and over again. At this point it’s better dealt with using a shrug than a shout or other carrying-on. Sometimes it’s easier to just walk away. It’s taken me almost four decades to learn that. Maybe it’s the mark of finally growing the fuck up and letting things go.


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