Something lovely & a little strange: “When I was a boy, I hated beets. I hope I can protect my son from beets until he’s old enough to hold in the tears. They’re not worth it. When the battery in my watch died, I still wore it. There was something about the watch that said: ‘It doesn’t matter what time it is. Think in months. Years. Someone loves you. Where are you going? There are some things you will never do. It doesn’t matter. There is no rush. Be the best prisoner you can be.”
The New York Times, Learning to Measure Time in Love and Loss
Something that reads like a deep breath: “The simple truth is it won’t be unless you will be first. That’s the thing about Monday. It only crashes into you if you don’t crash into it first. There is no career unicorn, trust me, I have looked with great fervor. All there is are these two hands, these two feet and grit. Always grit. Grit is one of those funny things you don’t seem to find until you’ve had enough Monday.”
Jon Acuff, Dear person going to a job you don’t love tomorrow
Something simple but substantive: “But you find your tribe. Jerry Seinfeld said in an interview last year that his favorite part of the Emmy Awards was when the comedy writers went onstage to collect their prize. ‘You see these gnome-like cretins, just kind of all misshapen. And I go, This is me. This is who I am. That’s my group.’ By your 40s, you don’t want to be with the cool people; you want to be with your people.”
The New York Times, What You Learn in Your 40s
Something you’ll have to chew on a bit:
“We should probably stop bragging about Jackie Robinson, and remember that he died young. We should probably cite Ginger Rogers mostly as damning evidence. We comfort ourselves with individuals who get over, ignoring the broad masses who — necessarily — cannot. I think we should pause before noting that Sally Field is ‘aging well.’ Most of her fellow human females will not. That is because the very notion of ‘aging well’ is riven with all our notions of who owns their body and who does not.”
Something grimily, magnetically horrifying:
“On August 2, 1998, a woman of no importance was beaten and strangled to death in a cheap motel in Las Vegas, Nevada, that rents rooms on an hourly basis to prostitutes, drug addicts, perverts, and, on this occasion, a trio of alleged murderers for hire. Across the country in a grand mansion at the end of a quarter-mile-long driveway in the rolling hills of Delaware, an heiress from one of America’s most prominent families and her third husband were making plans for the opening of an exclusive new golf club that he would manage on land that she had inherited. The two stories are closely related.”
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