Of Obama and Pancakes

I am making pancakes for dinner and thinking about Barack Obama. It is appropos of nothing; only the truth. I’m in my post-holiday reverie, having packed up the holiday decorations, yes, a mere three days after the main event. Typically, I don’t wait this long. It’s my eagerness to get on with it, already, that sometimes overtakes my ability to enjoy the now.

I’m wondering what we’ll do for NYE, sad that it won’t be the bash of years’ past, with silliness, rocket fuel, shouts of “Kitchen!,” pizzas the size of card tables, friends’ trivia, drama, some unknown party’s bra dangling from the ceiling fan, someone hurling in Dave’s tiny bathroom, Sean’s many eventful birthdays, unidentified parties making naked snow angels in the yard, Denny firing on someone’s girlfriend, right in front of the other guy, test tubes of alcohol taped into jacket pockets, an icy ride in a Mack truck; so crazy the memories that many of us share and so few of those previous participants will be around to yell “Kitchen” again this year. I could tell you stories.

Somehow I’m living both past and future. The present’s making me edgy.

This week, while on “vacation” I’m being tugged into the future, fielding calls from reporters and clients, one, memorably taken while at the Smithsonian Metro station in D.C. Imagine your mind being entirely in one place while your body’s in another. This is what time travel feels like, I think.

Back to Barack and the pancakes; I’m not hungry but I’m eating since that’s what we do, at an appointed time, give or take. Will the senator’s path and my own cross? If it’s possible, I’m in. There’s work to be done and I’m eager for tomorrow.