Tony is a bit morose, but he disguises it well. He’s been searching for simple pleasures all evening in the hopes of drowning a piece of his despair. A few drinks and three new digital albums later he’s still camped out on the couch in his underwear waiting for tomorrow to kick his ass into gear.

Tony has dreams of grandeur and he has reached a point when it is harder to believe in their truth. He is now usually older than the people he reads about in magazines. His tux is becoming worn at the seams. His belly is a wee bit round. And so he drinks.

I sympathize with my friend but I refuse to meet his late-night fate.

I, too, have watched some opportunities come and go, and find it harder to picture my face amongst those in the glossy periodical pages. But I can see the path to recovery. It starts tonight although I will begin tomorrow. I just finished my first semester (sorta) of teaching in the library. I have two weeks and some change before I must return to my job. I have the luxury of a new calendar year. And my boyfriend just called to say he missed me.

And so I resolve (with the hopes of eventually finding myself in duct tape pants and eyeliner prancing on stage or accepting the Nobel Prize in literature) to be smarter with my money and make a budget. I will go through those boxes of trash and old mail. I will meet my deadlines and try hard not to be late for meetings. And it is probably time to write for real, and stop simply piddling with penile memories. Exercise? Well, if everyone else is going to do it, why can’t I?

And so I write these down to begin to hold my ambitious moments accountable to my real life. I am ready to grow up and not just get older.