The Lost Year

I’m not one of those men who cries a lot like some milquetoast nancy boy.

Except that now I am.   I’m apparently now one of those men who cries at the drop of the hat.  You see, starting in January I found myself crying at the end of Notting Hill and Bridgett Jones’ Diary.  Why was I watching these movies to begin with, you might ask?  Hugh Grant, of course.

As a year, 2011 wasn't a banner. I had some personal losses -- lost a dog, a horse, my dad, some good friends moved away, my oldest boy left for college, etc.  And while I know others have it much worse and I know I should count my blessings yadda yadda, I decided that it was much more preferable to wallow in my own self-pity and slip into a sort of middle-aged melancholia, initially fueled by drams of Pennsylvania Dutch.  I deserved it.

But upon reflection, perhaps my melancholia was not as much propelled by these sad events, or even by the Dutch, but by my decision to move myself and my two boys to live for a few weeks this Summer at our ranch along with my nephew and watch the DVD box set of Lost every night.  And I took to reading books like A Moveable Feast and The Great Gatsby, books from whence my own mortality screamed at me from every page.   Lost and Hemingway -- no wonder I was depressed.  What the hell was I thinking?  I knew it was bad when an AT&T commercial made me weep.  

My sixteen year old boy, Hunt, took a job at our favorite watering and eating hole, the Scenic Loop Cafe, not a stone's throw from the ranch, probably just so that he could escape this melancholia.  My nephew was taking the summer off after graduating from college before his job started in China, so he stood fast with me as he had nothing better to do and I had a credit card.  My youngest boy, at eleven, does not possess a car and so was stuck with me.  He would play video games while I worked during the day.  Then we'd watch an episode or two of Lost, go to supper at the Cafe, repeat.  On weekends it was just me and The Boy, fishing and shooting and watching Lost or sometimes a screening of Sophia Coppola's Lost in Translation, another uplifting movie for middle-aged men to contemplate.  A perfect mud pit of self-pity in which to wallow.  It now occurs to me that everybody who had a means of transportation took themselves away from me.  Lulu wisely stayed in town and ignored me, Hunt worked, Harrison was in Austin, leaving poor Wywy, who doesn't have a car, to babysit sad ole' dad.  We were basically joined at the hip.  I made a few new friends and deepened old relationships at the Café where we ate and Hunt worked every day.  But wherever I went, Wywy was my little buddy.  It was great for me, because I can’t imagine enduring melancholia without my little bear as a companion.  When he looks back on it, he'll either reflect on the fond memories, or...... well there’s therapy.

Last summer we got through every season of Lost except the last, increasingly enduring its wild and seemingly pointless plot maneuvers.   This weekend we decided to finish it and be done with the damn thing, because I teach my boys to finish what they start, even if I'm not so good at it.  Tonight Wywy and I watched the last episode.  It wasn’t even really sad, but I found myself having to turn away from him, oily-eyed, to keep him from seeing my eyes.  Keep in mind, this is a ridiculous TV series with fictional characters who weren’t even alive to begin with.  But there you have it.  It's done.

It’s December now and we’re winding down the year.  I’m ready to write-off 2011 and start over fresh on January 2, 2012 with a new vigor.   I don’t regret 2011.  It was a year I’ll always remember, like an indulgent lucid dream.  I got a lot closer with my two younger boys, and my nephew who I miss now that he's in Beijing, and the new friends I made.  But, now it’s time to put the last DVD back into the box set of Lost, start working 12 hour days again, regain my tennis game, and start reading chipper self-help books, like the Four Hour Workweek, or something.

But I'm not starting any of that until January 2.  Until then, break out the Pennsylvania Dutch and put in Lost in Translation.