So  Dorothy Parker over there is saying that wild, cruel and reckless waves are the way to live. Over here, Paloma pauses for the simplicity of Satie on the piano wafting through an open window. Waves, well, I’m finding those okay, and I’ve never had trouble enjoying simple pleasures. But What Does It All Mean in the context of my life today, at this very moment in time as mundane irritations and responsibilities ask for my attention?

I decide to ignore those irritations, as well as What It All Means and opt for Dennis Lehane escapism instead. He’s a native son, beloved in Boston, and I tell myself it’s fitting to be reading Mystic River so close to the body of water itself. I ignore the GRE book and good pens in my bag; I feel noble for having read some things of significance recently, therefore earning this guilty pleasure. At least until halfway through when Annabeth, Lady Macbeth that she is, says this:

Life isn’t happily ever after and golden sunsets and shit like that. It’s work. The person you love is rarely worthy of how big your love is. Because no one is worthy of that and maybe no one deserves the burden of it either. You’ll be let down. You’ll be disappointed and have your trust broken and have a lot of real sucky days. You lose more than you win. You hate the person you love as much as you love him. But, shit, you roll up your sleeves and work–at everything–because that’s what growing older is.

Well, dammit. There are a lot of things I love–people, poems, places–and perhaps none of them are worthy of it, perhaps I need to be aware of the burden that goes along with loving. Sucky days? Well, yeah. I know those. Today started off as one. Loss? Check. Hate? Hand in hand with the loving and mental turmoil to boot, yes. Getting older? Sure feeling like it.

In other words, I’m apparently right where I need to be. So here I go. Rolling up my sleeves, getting to work. GRE here I come.