Mr. Joyce Takes on the World

Me on my tenth birthday. Thirty-one years ago.  14,965 Days             That’s how many days I’ve been alive, so far. I was born 41 years ago; it doesn’t feel like it. It never feels like I’m the age I’m “supposed” to be. That doesn’t mean that I haven’t matured or learned things along the way. It just means that I’m not “acting my age,” so to speak. That means I’m not doing the stereotypical things a person my age would do. I’m not sure what a 41-year-old is supposed to do. Look at investment portfolios, have champagne with supermodels off the bonnet of a Mercedes? Is that what I’m supposed to be doing? Double points if the model is named Mercedes and has rack and pinion steering. Fuel injection is a given.             You are as old as you are made to believe you are. I’ve talked about this numerous times that being 40-something doesn’t mean you’re “over the hill.” I ...

      My niece Miranda is blue-eyed, brown-haired, and about seven pounds (as of writing). She sleeps a lot, cries when needed, and then passes out again. She likes powdered formula, being held, and her binky. She’s adorable, and still has that new baby scent. I never would have guessed that I’d love someone at first sight. Or, that I’d love someone who belches like a trucker. We all have our quirks.  It’s been twenty odd years since I last held a baby. I thought I’d forget how to do it. But the second that her mother handed her to me, it all came back. Holding her was practically instinctual. Just as baby’s know how to smile and kiss without being taught. There are some things that are built into us, and cannot be excised; no matter how confusing the world becomes.   Miranda opened her azure eyes, and then yawned. I kissed her on the forehead, and then the hand. She cried soon after, but I didn’t mind. I knew that this was her way of reaching ou...