You wake to find your niece, who is spending the weekend, standing by the bed asking you to go buy donuts. You groan to yourself, but fight your way out of bed, down the stairs, and into the car to go get them. And she absolutely beams when you return. And you’re so glad you went.
The morning continues, and your daughter interrupts your Sunday newspaper ritual to insist that you join her for a run. And you try to put her off, but she’s having none of it. You groan to yourself, but trudge upstairs to put on some running gear. And you set out with her and your wife (who has returned from her twenty-seven hour shift). And they smile as you run. And you’re so glad you joined them.
Later, you settle down to read a book. But your son complains that he still hasn’t used the new baseball bat he got for Christmas. And he wants to go to the batting cages. You groan to yourself, but bundle up and head down the highway to the weird Putt Putt joint where the ’80s never ended. And he whacks ball after ball, muttering words to each of them under his breath as he swings. And you’re so glad you brought him.
Then it’s the end of the day, and you’re beat, and all you want to do is get off your feet and sit the F down. But you throw a dinner together, and then you play music while you do the dishes. And your wife comes in, and she likes the music, and she wants to two step with you around the kitchen. You groan to yourself, but oblige her. And suddenly, you’re twenty-one years old again, and it’s summer in Chicago, and you’re at a bar named Whiskey River, dancing to country music with a cute girl from the volleyball team who seems like she might be into you. And your son cuts in. And everybody is having a great time. And you’re so glad you danced.
Then you reflect on the day, and you draft these thoughts. And you wonder what part of you is doing all this groaning. And whatever part it is, you’re so glad that you keep ignoring it.