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It’s halftime. The crowd wanders off to beers and bathrooms. The starters refocus. The benchwarmers listen earnestly to the coach, just in case. I stare at the scoreboard, illiterate as a pair of eyeglasses in a purse. This is my game, my field, my team and my audience. But what am I? Do I play or do I grow like the grass, barely aware of the painted lines?
The year has, somehow, nearly reached its midpoint and I don’t know what I’ve done with it – not that I have to do anything “with” it and not that come Dec. 31, a “you suck” bomb will go off right before the clock in my cell phone casually blinks midnight. I know this and keep cordoning off time anyhow, expecting the calendar to exert power.
But now is a particularly dodgy June to be battering myself with snarly questions. I haven’t quite started on my New Year’s resolutions and furthermore, I have a wedding to plan.
I teem with optimism and goodwill, and even free will. I foresee a long, foxy marriage. Nevertheless, there’s something existential about the months leading up to one’s perfect day.
It’s not angst.
My strange halftime metaphor and weird spring do, however, stink angst-ishly. I knew this stink long ago, back, back, hundreds of calendar pages back, in high school.
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