Not That Profound

Her doomscrolling, however, has become habitual.  It is not only when we’re watching television. It is also while we’re driving in the car, or lying in bed, or getting ready for work in the mornings, or having drinks at a bar. My wife is constantly checking her phone for news that either angers or upsets her whenever there is a spare moment.

Jon and I had finished volunteering at the food bank and were driving back to the church to meet up with our prayer circle when the call came in. 

We were also attending the comedy show “Smiles for 26.2 Miles” at The Strange Brew Tavern that night—I had also written a piece about the event for the Ink Link—which left Paige and I with roughly three hours to saddle up to some barstools and celebrate my birthday at the place where I should rightfully receive my mail.

It was apropos of nothing when my 22-year-old daughter recently sent a text message to inform me that not only do I listen to a steady diet of “Dad Rock” but I also dress as if it were still the 1990s. 

At precisely this point of every year, somewhere around the Ides of March, I launch into the same sentimental, navel-gazing screed about baseball and the symbolic significance of the game, about hope and rebirth and poetry. 

Liz, my wife, and I had been streaming “Tell Me Lies” on Hulu, which is a show that a 50-year-old man has no business watching, much less enjoying. We binged on it for three straight days, rarely moving from the couch, and, suddenly, it was over. 

After weighing my vacation plans, comparing them to my financial ledgers, I decided to spend my Winter Break this year hanging out at Chelbys each afternoon, drinking draft beer with The Lunch Crowd, a group of friends who I rarely get to see these days due to my work schedule. 

For those who may be unfamiliar with Padilla—and, let’s face it, he is not exactly a household name in the United States—his story is bizarre, yet strangely inspiring, in a dancing-with-madness type of way.

When we moved into our current house, almost a decade ago, my wife and I shared the downstairs bathroom. It’s a small, standard affair—a bathtub, a toilet, a sink—but it was tacitly agreed upon when we moved in that our three kids would share the bathroom upstairs, and we would take the one downstairs.