Last night, I pulled down off the shelf a box of that grey-reducing beard shampoo. As I worked it in, I thought to myself, "What am I doing? I don't want to be 31-32 again. I just want to be me."

I like being 45. It's nothing I thought it was. I'm less Michael Scott in Fun Run, Dinner Party, and Goodbye, Toby with Steve Carrell at that age. Perhaps I lean more toward Matt Damon's character in Jason Bourne (2016): chiseled by age and apprehensive of the far-reaching tentacles of technology.

I snatched up the entirety of my clearanced-out beard dyes and released them into the trash.

I don't know why I put on pretenses. Long has faded the social groups that once meant something. Maybe that sort of context would add validity. Then again, I have always understood the value in Blessid Union of Souls' Hey Leonardo.

I guess my hope around New Year's Eve was that in 2024, I would be a part of something. In my pre-dawn cardio, my thoughts played: "This will be the year! There will be friends, deep conversations, coffees, real connections—just like what I once had at the Ugly Mug!"

Who are we kidding?

Let's be real: these days, I just send unanswered 5-word texts. That world is dead. Or, I'll toss another Message in a Bottle email. It makes me draw inward.

I just want something real.

He says, "Son, can you play me a memory?
I'm not really sure how it goes
But it's sad, and it's sweet, and I knew it complete
When I wore a younger man's clothes"

-Billy Joel