It’s time for another post because I just now have a free half-hour for the first time since (reading my own blog…) June 2nd.

I’m trying to think now of all the things that happened in May that I never got around to blogging about. The only thing I can think of is the fact that I’ve been thinking about discontinuing the blog entirely, because I have a hard time letting go of useless obligations. Blogging is one of those things that I consider a “useless obligation” because the most interested readers of it are either a) people I’ve never met or b) people I talk to on a regular basis anyway. The people I talk to regularly mostly know stuff before I post it, and the people I never met probably wouldn’t be interested if I didn’t post on a regular basis¹ or wrote my posts in a humorous manner². Quite often I wonder what’s the point. For the people who have never met me, it’s a mostly anonymous forum in which I could post my every innermost thought, though I can’t because of all the people who do know me. I’m sure a lot of bloggers fall into this dilemma, and probably have discussed the topic but I haven’t seen it because I don’t have time to read their blog.

I feel like I should stop talking about being busy, because at this point it’s like pointing out that I’ve been breathing in and out all day long. Everyone just assumes it. Everyone is busy. Everyone is multitasking. Everyone has divided attention. Everyone has a lot of balls in the air.

So take out the busy and what is new? Jennifer and Anna are out of town, which leaves me and Tara at home. I am surprised how different it feels to be focused on one child at a time. Tara is three years old and her needs are very basic at this point. She basically wants food and attention. She would drink milk for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and snack if we let her, and she wants eyes on her all the time. She wants to be played with and she wants an audience when she’s acting like a big girl. She wants her sister and her mom to come back home but mostly she wants food and attention. I’m trying to remember back to a time when that’s all I needed. Food and attention.

My birthday is coming up and for some reason I feel as though it’s some sort of milestone. I don’t feel any older than I used to, and I don’t feel like like I’m having a midlife crisis (or a midyouth crisis, as Jennifer insists I had when I turned 19), but 37 seems to be a number of significance. Somehow the number thirty-seven seems to me to be a number where I can’t deny that I’m old-ish. It’s not mid-thirties. It’s so close to forty. Not that forty is bad, I know many of very active, attractive people who are over forty and could out-run and out-drink me any night of the week and who actually do that on a regular basis. There’s nothing wrong with forty.

If seventeen-year-old me met thirty-seven-year-old me, I don’t think seventeen-year-old me would be disappointed. I’ve made some money. I have a terrific family. I have the freedom to pursue my interests. My name can be found on the hard drives of something like 30 million computers running at this moment. I’ve been to Europe, Asia, and the Playboy Mansion. Each of the last five years I’ve looked at one of my photos and said, “this is the best image I’ve ever made.” I don’t have a good life–I have a great life.

At this point, this pseudo-milestone, this passive flop from one demographic bucket to another, the most significant question I can think to ask is, “when will it be enough?” When will it be enough to be satisfied with simplest pleasures? When can I get by on food and attention?

¹ This is less true than it used to be, because RSS aggregators make it easy to keep up to date on a bunch of different blogs regardless of the frequency of posts.

² Being funny takes a lot of time, for me at least.