The pieces that don’t seem to fit, obviously.

A couple of summers ago, I found myself at a house that belongs on a T.V. show. Celine Dion has a place next door. Tiger Woods has a place just down the road. I kid you not.

And, in a strange turn of luck, I found myself alone in this place for an afternoon.

What did I do? I made myself a drink (obviously), grabbed my iPod and the book I was reading at the time, and walked out back to enjoy it all to this view:

Here’s my thing with all this: the pieces don’t seem to fit, do they?

I had that true gift of a view, and my browns were directed at words on a page, pages I’ve read more than once. I had the sounds that accompany such a view, and earbuds—the modern version of the closed office door for those who don’t have an office door to close, the new towel on the doorknob to signify you are in the freaking zone so don’t disrupt the magic happening here— were occupying my sense of hearing. The drink? Well, that part fit. Obviously.

Here’s the thing: it all fits. And, it’s not up to us to decide when the magic happens.

Somewhere around sunset—you know, that part at the end of a warm summer day when the sunlight is gone but light still remains—it hit me.

I put the book down, took the earbuds out, got up from the chair, and walked down to finish the rest of the day with this:

(Drink in hand. Obviously.)

All the pieces that didn’t seem to fit led me to that moment, in chills at the beauty of it all.

The pieces that don’t seem to fit…somehow, they do.

Where I Live, and I’m Not Wearing That

I live in Lexington, Kentucky. I was born here, but not raised. Regardless, it is home.

Let’s talk about that.

Lexington is on the small side of big. It doesn’t take long to get from one side of town to the other, even during rush hour traffic. You might hear some people complain about the traffic here, but they are mistaken because they haven’t been in truly heavy traffic ever/for a long time.

It isn’t the traffic that’s bad. It’s the drivers. And, I’m convinced most of them have genetic ties to Ohio. It also explains why Lexington has more tire stores per capita than any other city in the U.S.

Those last two statements might not be facts but, admit it, they are fantastic variables for a correlative research study.

Is Lexington cultured? That’s a good question, and it depends on how you define “cultured.” It has an opera house and it has porn shops. Most cultured cities do, right? So, yes, all you condescending big city folk out there (you know who you are), Lexington is cultured.

Maybe the better question is, “Does Lexington have a culture?” For me, the answer is, “Yes.” For me, there are three things that make this place home. These things are intertwined, so pay no attention to the order.

University of Kentucky Basketball

UK itself is a huge part of Lexington’s identity, and I’m proud to say I’m a graduate of the university. But, you can read more about that here.

I grew up a fan of UK basketball. It wasn’t pushed on me and I wasn’t bombarded by it. It just was. I’m willing to bet you’d hear the same from countless others.

UK fans are dedicated, we wear blue whether or not it’s a game day, and some of us are rabid beyond cure. And, if someone here isn’t a sports fan, they most likely enjoy the social events surrounding a game…you know…because it provides an excellent reason to drink and wear blue. Especially when March rolls around.

(See. Drink in hand. Wearing blue. Not a game day.)

If you’re going to live here, get used to it.

Keeneland

When someone who has never been to the area asks a Lexingtonian when to visit, they’ll get one—or both—of these answers:

1. Keeneland’s Spring Meet
2. Keeneland’s Fall Meet

Keeneland is our Thoroughbred race track. It’s beautiful. It’s historic. It’s an experience rather than a place. And, because it only happens during a few weeks twice a year, it never gets old.

(The finish line. For the horses, that is.)

For us, it’s a way to kiss summer goodbye and it’s a way to tell winter to piss off. People get dressed up for no apparent reason other than to spend a day at the track. You get to see just how beautiful Kentucky girls are but, conversely, you will also be exposed to a seersucker suit.

Let me tell you about the seersucker suit. Throw in a horrid tie and a pair of Ray-Ban Aviators or Wayfarers, and you have the devil offspring of Slim Shady and a prepster douche. I’m not wearing that.

At Keeneland, you’ll see just how much money there is in Lexington. You’ll see how much we love our horses, our atmosphere, our people, our visitors and our drinks. It’s where we go for Saturday tailgating (try doing the doubleheader with a UK football game), for Sunday brunch and for workplace outings. And, a few years ago, you could have witnessed how many beers I can consume without falling down.

Yes. April and October are wonderful times to be in Lexington.

Bourbon

Alright, so bourbon isn’t Lexington-specific, but it is a Kentucky thing which makes it a Lexington thing. I don’t care if you think you don’t like bourbon, you will try it. And, when you do, make sure you’re with someone—like me—who will make sure you try a good one. Oh, and while we’re at it, you’re going to try the bourbon barrel ale.

Bourbon is part of the culture, but it’s more than that for me. It reminds me of my Grandfather. He was a Maker’s Mark collector and, on occasion, sipper.

(You might even get it as a Christmas gift.)

There’s more to Lexington’s culture, of course, just as there is with any place. Someone who was actually raised here could tell you much more than I can. I can’t say I’ll be here forever, but I know what I’ll miss if I leave.

In the Fray

On this New Year’s Eve, I’m writing about a resolution.

The holidays have become increasingly more blur-like as I’ve gotten older. But, I’ve recently become very aware that entire years are beginning to resemble an out-of-focus photograph—you know what it is because you were there, but you wish you would have captured the detail, the true color, of the other person’s eyes.

To be completely honest, things have become such a blur that I rarely know the actual date of any given day. I know the year, I know the month and I know the day of the week, but that’s about it.

I’m kinda tired of living life that way.

As I’ve gotten older, time has become precious in so many ways—both personally and professionally. The phrase, “stop this train,” immediately comes to mind. All of those moments, the ones that reside in general terms such as “earlier” or “a few weeks ago,” the ones that seem to put the blur in our auto-focus, those are the ones I want to live. Those are the moments I want to be able to appreciate for the meaning they provide in my life.

So, am I going to make some forsaken resolution like, “live every day to its fullest,” or rely upon some inspirational quote that I’ve heard a million times but pretend as if I just heard it for the first time?

No. I won’t. I can’t.

The fact is there will be days when I’ll find myself falling out of bed instead of jumping out of it. The fact is there will be days better suited for the pace of a marathon rather than the rush of a sprint.

Great days. Bad days. Partly cloudy days. It’s the combination of the three that contribute to the blur, the combination that makes the blur increase with each passing year—especially when I’m not really paying attention.

My resolution for 2012 is to simply be aware, to more than occasionally look out the window of this train. I’ve allowed entirely too many moments, too many colors, to become lost in the fray of living life in general terms.

In 2012, I’ll take the specifics. I’ll take the color of the other person’s eyes every day of the week…and twice on Sundays.

And, just in case I don’t get to tell you later, Happy New Year! Wishing you all the best in 2012…

The Present

Perhaps more than any other holiday, Christmas is completely intertwined with our long-distance memories, the memories that make Christmas a very personal picture for each one of us.

For me—and, maybe for many of you—those long-distance memories can be traced back to my childhood. Every Christmas Eve and the better part of every Christmas Morning was always spent with my extended family at the home of my grandparents. They loved Christmas. In many ways, my grandparents were—and, still are—Christmas.

They taught me what Christmas should be.

However, at the same time, I absolutely love holiday movies that feature unplanned dinners at Chinese restaurants, total meltdowns (NSFW), and the laughter that ensues when one of my family members (name withheld to protect the oh-so-very-guilty) recites lines from those movies.

In addition to no Christmas seeming quite complete without watching those movies at least twice, I find a common thread that is meant to sew a new button into place.

As we get older and as new family members are welcomed into the curious mix, our memories of what Christmas was become more difficult to apply to what Christmas is.

As enough time passes, as we continue to hold each year to the expectations of what will never be replicated, we begin to see that we’re being unfair. We begin to see that we’re stuck in a never-ending gym class where we always choose the promise of a new year, the addition of a new family member, last.

There comes a time when a new button needs to be sewn into place. That new button, the one that will continue providing the lasting memories for the new people in our lives and for ourselves, is creating new traditions.

Without fully realizing it, my family and I have been doing some sewing over the past couple of years. After my grandparents passed, my extended family started the tradition of gathering at my parent’s home on December 26th. This was completely new for all of us—for both the veterans and the newbies of the family.

But, it’s something that has created entirely new memories for me, and it has become a cherished tradition in the process.

So, what’s my real wish this Christmas?

It’s to be fully present as those new long-distance memories are taking place. Because they are. Every year.

For some of these new traditions, we might simply be playing a supporting role. In others, we might be the ones who take the lead. It really doesn’t matter. What matters is that we’re fully present and not living in the past.

We want to be sure we’re present during Christmas because, whether celebrating it with a room full of loved ones or with only one whom we love, that is the best present we can ever give.

That present is the beginning of our next long-distance memories.

And if you want to join me for my new tradition of standing outside around a blazing fire with your beverage of choice, easy conversation and Santa-watching, I’ll be waiting.

Wishing each one of you a very, merry Christmas…

You Make Me Uncomfortable

Look me in the eyes, and tell me making eye contact with someone doesn’t make you uncomfortable.

Maybe I should clarify who “someone” is.

“Someone” is somebody who made you look.

Maybe I should clarify what I mean by “uncomfortable.”

“Uncomfortable” means in that moment of shared existence, you weren’t yourself. Your daily list of things to do was interrupted, you stood a little straighter, you wished you were wearing the black shirt instead of the white one.

You were uncomfortable. And, you wanted more.

Why? That’s because uncomfortable is where the fire is, and I don’t know anyone who doesn’t like to sit around a fire. I’m telling you right now, uncomfortable is a good thing.

Not that there’s anything wrong with being comfortable. I want to be on the couch with you, both of us in lounge pants (see also: sweats), no makeup, no pretense, just as if that’s the way it’s always been, the way it was always supposed to be.

But, when we lock eyes during a break from whatever—reading, writing, watching, browsing, playing—because you’re that someone who made me look, I want to be uncomfortable. Just for a moment.

Because a moment is all it takes.

The Haircut and What He’s Not Telling You

A fresh haircut. There’s nothing quite like it for a guy. It makes him feel clean again, newer, younger than he was before he walked through that door and heard the bells jingle to signal his arrival.

And, that’s when it happens.

No need for defenses. He’s trusting. He’s assured.

How often do you get that from him? (How often do any of us get that from anyone?)

He sits in that chair looking like a dyslexic superhero, his fashionable fate in the hands of someone wielding razor-sharp metal, not realizing that when he walks back out that door, the gloves go back on and the guard goes back up.

He’s not going to tell you that he wants you to be his barber, someone he doesn’t need to defend against, someone he can blindly trust, someone whose presence assures him that everything will be alright, that he won’t have to go to work tomorrow wishing he could wear a hat to disguise that effed-UP haircut underneath.

It’s not even that you’re doing something wrong, because there’s a decent shot you’re amazing. It’s not like he’s giving you any indication that he wants something more or something different, and that isn’t fair to you. But, if he’s not going to tell you—and he probably won’t— then I just did.

There’s a lot that goes into that, I know. Guys are difficult and stubborn. Alright, fine…we’re total assholes when we want to be. And, we all have stories gone wrong, histories in need of repair.

That’s the thing. He needs your help and he’s not going to ask for it. It’s not like you have to go buy new lingerie, seven-inch heels, and turn the tables in the bedroom (although, it certainly wouldn’t make things worse). It’s not like you have to drag him to counseling or turn off the T.V. when the game is on. Most importantly—and don’t ever forget it—it’s not like you have to turn into someone you’re not.

That’s because you’re amazing. I don’t know your guy, but I know you know how to make him feel like he’s always getting a haircut.

You might be surprised what you’ll receive in return.

Remains of the Day

I’ve been thinking a lot lately. Probably more than I should. It’s part of who I am and, as detrimental as it might be, I still do it. I know this all too well. People throughout my life, in all the varying degrees of relationship statuses, have been kind enough to bring it to my attention. Too much thinking, too much action without direction.

I don’t think much on the past, never have. I tend not to dwell there for whatever reason. The majority of my time is spent in the present.

And the future.

A couple of days ago, I received an email from a friend. The one sentence I remember said, “I hope your book is going well…are you finished yet?”

Damn.

I’m left with these thoughts at the end of each day. They are the remains of my day. And now, as I get older, they are the remains of my life.

Plotting a life in a way such as this is tiresome. It makes me older than I should be, no matter what the mirror says.

But I know what excites me. We all do. And that’s what keeps me, what keeps us, thinking.

It suddenly occurs to me, as I’m typing this sentence, that I have no idea where I’m going with this. My life is now reflected in a blog post. I have a sneaking suspicion that remains of the day weren’t meant to be dissected.

The difference is that I’m sharing it. I’m not keeping this thought between my head and the pillow. Here’s what I’m thinking:

My remains of the day should be spent thinking about what I did, not about what I hope to do. Because when I do, when I’m acting instead of hoping, when I’m doing instead of adding to the list, when I’m creating instead of calculating for effect, it means I spent the day doing what I was meant to do.

Remains of the day. The tie is off. Dinner is done. The sun has set.

Tonight, as I slip under the covers and my left hand finds its way under my head, as my eyes begin to straddle the blurry fence between open and closed, I know I’ll be thinking about what I did today instead of what I hoped to do.