The Good Years | The Quiet War

I keep waiting for things to calm down.

I've been doing it for years.

Get through this week. Finish this project. Pay this thing off. Handle whatever fresh pile of shit showed up Tuesday morning that apparently couldn't survive until Wednesday.

Then I'll have some room.

You probably know how that works out.

There is always another Tuesday.

That's the part nobody tells you when you're younger. You think eventually you'll reach some stable version of adulthood where the major problems are handled, the money is right, everybody you love is okay, work stays at work, and Saturday morning belongs completely to you.

I'm starting to suspect that place doesn't exist.

And I think a lot of men waste an enormous amount of their lives waiting to get there.

We don't call it wasting our lives, of course.

We're being responsible.

We're providing.

We're building something.

And most of the time, that's true.

That's what makes this one dangerous.

Because there's nothing wrong with working hard for your family. There's nothing wrong with sacrificing. There are seasons when you put your head down and fucking handle it because that's what needs to happen.

The problem is when a season becomes a decade.

When after this becomes the answer to everything.

I'll take her somewhere after this.

I'll call Dad after this.

I'll get back in shape after this.

I'll pick up the guitar again after this.

I'll see my friends after this.

I'll be more present after this.

After this.

After this.

After this.

Meanwhile, life doesn't know it's supposed to be waiting.

Your kids get older.

Your parents get older.

Your friends scatter.

Your body changes.

People leave.

People die.

And occasionally something happens that makes you look backward instead of forward, and you realize something that absolutely kicks you in the teeth:

Those were the good years.

The years you were trying so damn hard to get through.

Not because everything was good. It wasn't.

You were tired. Money was tight sometimes. Work pissed you off. The house needed something. Somebody needed something. You had problems then and you'd have problems now.

But the people were there.

You were there.

And there were ordinary Tuesday nights you would give damn near anything to have back.

That's what I've been thinking about lately.

Maybe the good years don't announce themselves.

Maybe nobody hands you a sign saying, Pay attention. You're going to miss this.

Maybe they look exactly like this.

Bills on the counter.

Too much shit on the calendar.

A dog barking at something that isn't there.

Somebody you love telling you a story you've already heard while you're half listening because your brain is still solving tomorrow's problems.

And maybe the point isn't to stop working or stop building or pretend responsibilities aren't real.

The point is to stop treating your actual life like the waiting room for the one you're eventually going to enjoy.

Take the trip.

Sit on the porch another twenty minutes.

Call him.

Listen to her story again.

Pick the damn guitar up.

Whatever your version is, you already know what it is. It's probably the thing you've been telling yourself you'll get around to when things settle down.

Do some of it now.

Because things aren't going to settle down.

There will always be another project.

Another bill.

Another problem.

Another Tuesday.

But there won't always be another summer with these exact people in it.

These might be the good years.

Act accordingly.