I'm not sure anyone ever reads this blog, but I'm going anyway.
In the fall of 1998, a girl I fancied at the time told me, "You're just not deep, Barry." There were some other things said, but that was the gist of it. I wasn't deep, thoughtful, nor did I have rich character (or whatever she meant to imply). Now, nearly 20 years later, I still resent that statement.
What does that even mean? Do I think deeply? Sure. Do I feel deep emotions? Of course. Am I physically deep? Well, I'm 6 feet tall, top of brain to toes, and they bury people that deep to avoid the frost line so, yeah, I guess I'm physically deep.
I've been wearing the same outfit for 20 years. It's odd that I would do that, but I do it anyway. I choose to express myself in ways other than fashion, I suppose. My outfit hasn't altered, my hair hasn't changed, and I've had a beard wrapped around my face almost that entire time, too. But I looked into the mirror today. I mean really looked. And I discovered that I am not a sophomore, and that (despite my affinity for saying that I haven't), I have indeed aged since 25. My beard has patches of white, there are wrinkles near my eyes, and hair sprouting from my ears.
What does this have to do with being deep? Well, I don't know if my education (haphazard and unfinished) would classify me as an intellectual, but maybe time would allow me to wear the ribbon of having something worth giving in the way of rich conversation; an opportunity to really share ideas. Look, I told you my beard is white in spots. Remember Gandalf? He went from gray to white. I skipped the gray thing entirely, man. I'm snow on soot over here.
I have learned something since 1998, since that day on the bench with her in the high school lobby, feeling like my heart was being booted inside-out. What I figured out is simple. One, a high school girl (despite being a senior) does not know what it means to be deep, even if she believes she does. Two, a high school boy should not take offense to a high school girl's assessment of personal depth, because there's still plenty of time to... deep out, or something. Three, no amount of black pea coats and Italian leather boots are going to make you smart. Smoking cigarettes never made me cool or different from anybody else. I only smelled worse.
That day after school, surrounded by bricks at North Andover High, with teachers and students exiting on their way home, I decided that all I'd ever want to be was deep. I wanted to be the deepest guy anyone had ever met; smart, mysterious, maybe a bit insane? I guess maybe I'm halfway there, but only because I still have no understanding as to why anybody would want to be that way. Who is left to try and impress?
You?
Do you care? Of course not. You've probably got kids, a mortgage, or some job where you're really happy about a 6% contribution to your 401k. (Plus that company match!) You've got better things to be doing.
I digress. This is tangential at this point, but sometimes I have a need to write. I could do it privately, in some Microsoft Word document, but it's more fun to think someone might read this. You might even be asking yourself at this moment why you're still reading.
This is a place I put stuff that doesn't go inside books that I write/sell. My hands need a place to play, and the keys are soft on this MacBook. I don't know. You stumbled into my diary. (I didn't stumble, Barry. The link was on Facebook where you left it).
Fine.
It's not 1998 anymore. But fall is coming. Sounds like the only thing that might be deep, will be the leaves I have to rake up and drag into the woods.