So yesterday was my birthday. Yes, yes, shower me with affection and adoration! OK, enough. No, really, that’s plenty. And…we’re done.
My mom made it out for my birthday and it’s been a fantastic visit. She brought me a gift in this beautiful little box, asking me to be very careful with it.
That’s right: 2 empty Reeses cup wrappers. She said it was worth it to see the look on my face: pretty gift, empty box. And she laughed! Hard! Look at her! Head thrown back!
Now, I like to look at my years like presidential terms—my 39th year is saying its inaugural speech before a crowd of thousands (ok fine—50); 38 is on Marine One back to Crawford.
New year, new terms. New set of big hopes and campaign promises.
I have to have a moment of introspection beyond the limelight, in the quiet times between celebration and well wishes and lofty expectations. 38 was an alright Year—it had a tough row to hoe after that clown, 37, squandered a surplus and pissed off the Day Job Dragon. 38 had to fight through the flames, maintain some decorum, and eventually rub the Dragon’s belly long enough to calm it down. Tough year. But 38 took risks and pushed an aggressive campaign—the book launched, the publishing company became a reality, I get to talk to all of you. 38 brought it all together.
This new year is like my mom’s empty present: a beautifully wrapped gift with nothing inside. I have to fill the box. 39 has to take all the heady promise of this birthday and use it with all the hubris this year offers. This Year has to pick up where its predecessor left off. Push it forward. Build on what we accomplished. Build something bigger.
It’s a new year. I’m filling that box.