"Just write," she says.
"I don't know how," I say. "Not anymore."
"It's just like riding a bike," she says. "Just get on. It will all come back to you."
So tomorrow morning, I leave. In about 8.5 hours, to be precise, I leave. Again.
This time, I'm going to Las Vegas, for 6 days. It's supposed to be for a vacation. At least that's what I keep telling myself. Anything more than that will just be a bonus.
I'll go and I'll have fun and I'll celebrate my birthday and I'll spend some time with someone who actually appreciates me. As a person, and as a man.
I should be excited. I should have been chomping at the bit for a month, in anticipation of this trip. But, I'm not. And, I haven't been, and it's kinda too late to start now.
It's not that I'm dreading this trip. Nothing like that at all. It's just that I'm not nearly as excited as I should be. As I could be. As I want to be.
I'll go. And I'll have a good time. I know that I'll have a good time. And whatever happens will happen, and then, most likely, I'll come back home.
And there's the rub, I think.
No matter where I go, or how long I'm gone, the odds are very good that I'll still have to come back.
And there's no longer any reason to come back.
And the funny thing is, back when I was 30, I realized that I'd forgotten how to ride a bike.
You don't turn the bar to steer, you just lean. It took me a while to remember that.