My New Wallet

New things bother me, they always have. A running joke in my family for quite a long time was an old wallet that I had and my refusal to replace it. It had been a pocket buddy of mine for about ten years and it showed its age.

It was tattered, frayed, discolored, and torn. 

I loved that wallet. It was an extension of myself, it carried more than just my money and cards. It carried my experiences. 

That wallet was in my pocket when I had my first kiss, it was in my pocket when I saw my first R rated movie, it was in my pocket when I flew out to Los Angeles with the wild hopes of becoming the most famous stand up comic in the world, and it was in my pocket when I returned home with my tail between my legs.

I didn't want to let it go. Its battle wounds reminded of all of the things I had endured while it was in my possession; the things that made me stronger, the things that made me better. 

Everything I had done, my wallet had done with me. It happily held some of the most important things in the world to me, and it never once complained after one of the many perilous journeys through the wash that I accidentally sent it on.

I've got a new wallet now. 

I've had it for about 2 months and I've hated using it. Every time I opened it up it didn't feel right.

But then, today happened.

First, I broke this wallet's washing machine cherry and sent it on its first sudsy journey. And then, just a few short hours ago I accidentally dropped it in a bowl I use for popcorn. Popcorn that I season with Old Bay.

And now, I'll happily call it my wallet. Because in reality, it was never about sharing an experience, it was about independent experiences. My old wallet didn't give a shit about my first kiss, it didn't care about any of that. It endured, in its own way, through the perils of being a wallet. That was enough for me.

I don't know what it says about me that I can't connect with someone or something that hasn't seem some shit, but that's just how it is for me. That's how it's always has been for me.

Maybe that's why I'm looking to be a trauma therapist some day. There's just something about the way we endure, as people, that I find to be truly remarkable.

You can bend us, you can tear us, you can run us through the wash, and though sometimes horrific, those things really end up just making us all more special and interesting in the end.

My new wallet is better than my old wallet. It's design is flawless, it is sleek and is made with superior material, but it wasn't until it showed me that it was capable of being knocked on its ass, and getting back up, that I was interested in it at all. 

The hand we're dealt with is bullshit, it never matters. Some of us get pocket rockets, and some of us get trash, the people who know what they're doing don't even need to look at their cards to make the right call. And really, the call they make is the only interesting part of the game.

My new wallet has some awesome new frays on its edges and it currently smells like the Chesapeake. God, I love my new wallet.

Why I Leave The Lights On

I'm not a man of communities. I'm not one to generally belong to anything greater than myself.  Attach an "ism" to an idea and I'll cower away from it. I was an Eagles fan once, I'm not anymore. My interest in the Eagles, as it turned out, was only fueled by the love for my Grandfather. I'd watch the games with him and his joy was palpable, I'll never forget those days. When he became too sick to go to the games, I stopped going and stayed with him in his house to watch them with him. And when he tragically passed, I reluctantly went to one more game with my Father, and the whole time, I couldn't stop crying.

I'm not a man of communities.

I take solace in the fact that the select few people I let into my life all make me better, and I ask for nothing more than that. From friends who are funnier, more creative, and more driven than myself, to a younger brother who often feels like the real role model in the relationship, I have amazing people in my life.

Yet, none of these people wear the same clothes as one another. None of these people are united in a common cause. None of these people, in fact, have much of anything in common with one another except for the mutual love we all share.

That isn't a community, it's something more.

I'm not a man of communities. And yet, I left the lights on.

It was an odd choice for me, really. I never grew up with holiday lights, it's not a terribly Jewish tradition after all. But last year, with the winter feeling more miserable than usual, I bought some on impulse. They're nothing special, really. Just some plain, cheap, crappy white lights. I hung them up, and didn't think much about them. I really bought them to try and cheer up my then girlfriend, who was bummed out all of the time.

Winter came and went, and the lights soon found themselves in my dusty storage room in the basement. I didn't think about them any more. But as winter came back this year, I found myself wrestling the lights away from a large cricket, and before I knew it, they were hung up again.

I can't quite tell you why I hung them up. In reality, they make my house look stupid. I have no idea how to hang them and make it look all nice like my neighbors. But I did it anyway.

As I came back from one of my usual psychotic grocery adventures at 3AM a few nights ago, I noticed that all of the houses on my block had turned off their lights. It made sense, most folks are asleep at that hour and who wants to waste money on electricity powering lights that few will see?

Me.

I leave the lights on.

I leave the lights on, because, as it turns out, I do belong to a community. It's not a community I asked to join. In fact, most of the members of my community probably hate that they're members of it in the first place.

It's the community of the crazy sons of bitches who can't fall asleep. The people of the night.

My computer room is right next to a main road. At an hour like now (2 AM) I don't hear all that many cars. But I do hear some. And every time I hear one of those cars whiz past, my decision to leave the lights on is validated.

Maybe some of those people are out on a rare trip, and would hardly ever find themselves on the road at an hour like this. Maybe. But not at all of them. Some of them are people, just like me, who are at their best when the sun has been down for hours. Maybe they've even learned to embrace their proclivity and have found jobs that make use of this leaning.

I don't know.

But, for those select few, beautiful people who live as I live, the lights are left on for you.

And sure, most people driving past my house, should they notice the lights, would probably assume that I left them on by accident. I'm OK with that. They still get the benefit of some cheer during an otherwise bleak time of year. Winter is only warm, after all, because we make it so.

I like to think though, that maybe one person, just one, will drive past my house at 4 in the morning and know that I left the lights on, just for them.

Lofty, I know.