Deranged Ramblings

Upper West Side Mom : I would like to schedule a make-up class for my son. Me : Ok, great! Is there any particular day or time that would work best for you? UWS Mom : Oh, anytime really. Me : Ok, let me look at our schedule. How about tomorrow afternoon at 4:00pm? UWS Mom : No, Wednesday's don't work. Me : Huh. Okay.... It looks like there's a Friday at 12:45pm. UWS Mom : Actually it really needs to be in the morning, like before 11:00. Me : Right. Well... many of our morning classes are full. However, I think we could make space in a class Monday morning at 9:00am. UWS Mom : WHAT!? Me : What? UWS Mom : That's so EARLY! Me : *long pause* So... not an option? UWS Mom : Is there anything else? Me : Hmm.... Maybe Saturday or Sunday? UWS Mom : *horrified look* Me : Right, well then I think Monday 9:00 is really our only option. UWS Mom : *disgusted sigh* You don't have anything later? But still before 11:00? Me : No, I'm sorry. UWS Mom : *disgusted sigh* Are you sur

I have the unique opportunity to observe innocence every day. It appears to me in the form of wide-eyed and playful three and four year olds prancing around my office having fun. Sometimes they just sing softly to themselves, lost in their own fantasy world. Sometimes they explode into what, if replicated by an adult, would appear to be a psychotic breakdown. All of this is for the most part pleasant and often charming, or at least amusing -- but it can also be extremely uncomfortable. Innocence sometimes upsets me, because I know that it is fragile. It is a state of being that cannot last, but leads inevitably towards disappointment and despair. All is not lost, however, for even these dark places are not the end but themselves lead to another, more hopeful and wiser level of consciousness. But even though I know that, it doesn't keep me from looking at these innocent children and shuddering at the pain that lies ahead of them. At various moments, bits of their care-free world ar

Given that my very first blog post ever (recently discovered by archeologists and dated circa 2005) was a reflection on my 24th birthday, it seems somehow appropriate that I return to the blog briefly to record my thoughts about having survived yet another year. Today I am 29, which sounds like a respectable, mature age in which one can really be taken seriously as a proper adult who has his act together. Alternatively, 29 could be considered as the age in which one truly feels that their youth is dying, and that they only have one final year of fun and excitement before the big “three-oh” arrives with its attendant expectation of maturity. I don’t really feel either way. In fact somehow I don’t feel any different than I did when I wrote that ancient blog post about turning 24. I’m perhaps a little less confident and little more tired than back then, but I have the same idealism, the same neuroses, the same wry smile, and, with little variation, the same fundamental strengths and fla