So. I’ve mentioned that I have a piece in a book called Not Alone: Stories of Living with Depression. Yeah, it surprises me, too. Thing is, if you met me, you’d probably think “he seems like a pretty happy guy.”
The truth is: I get by.
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Dear Lisa,
When we married nearly twenty-one years ago, little did we know…
The twists and turns that life would take to bring us to this place: the loss of a job just three months into our marriage, working two, and three, jobs to get by.
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What? you’re thinking. It’s Friday, Friday. Gotta get…
Oh, never mind. Rebecca Black was so last month. đ
Anyway, it’s Friday–why is he running a Wednesday Haterade piece today? I tell you why:
I’ve reserved a special spot in my shriveled little grinchy heart of choice vitriol for a special lady:
My wife.
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Just a few short days ago, I was boogie boarding off the Southern California coast with my son, getting pounded by the surging surf.
Now I’m back here, awash in a sea of cubicles.
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So, this past weekend, Jon Acuff hosted his first ever Quitter Conference (based on his book of the same name). Aside from having a serious case of “Quitter envy,” my weekend was a pretty good one. In fact, I drowned said envy (wherein I compare my beginning to some more successful soul’s middle) the watching of films.
On Friday evening, my wife and I had our first date night in sometime, and saw the new Steve Carrell movie, Crazy, Stupid, Love. From the trailers, it appeared to be “yet another romantic comedy,” of which men, if you’re married (or soon to be married), you are contractually obligated to see a certain number of. (This number to be determined by your spouse/significant other).
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