"Where life's headed, I have no way of knowin'..."

That's a line from a Tom Petty song ('Time To Move On' from the album Wildflowers), and it's also an all-too-common worldly theme--or fearful preoccupation, anyway--that I've been contemplating for the last few weeks with increased intensity and frequency. I'm going to be thirty in May. I have no idea where I'm going to live next year. I don't know whether to run the full Pittsburgh Marathon or just half of it again. (Sounds like a trivial concern, but that's a big difference when it comes to the necessary discipline and training.) I want to really push my skills and challenge myself as a skydiver in the coming year but it's going to be very difficult to find the time or the resources to make it happen. My full-time job is...well, just a job, a means of paying the rent and enjoying the rare privilege of better-than-average health insurance. Then there's this reliable old curmudgeon of a life-narrative trope, if you will: I've been single for my entire adult existence now, and despite the fact that I am absolutely ready to transition into my thirties--a decade that will, with any luck, prove to be the best ten years of my life to date--, I am keenly aware that my chances of finding love, even short-term companionship with benefits (use your imagination...), are very slim. Of course, I'm concerned as well about the responsibility of carrying on the family name. If I don't conceive children, the Jehn name dies when I die. That's a really intimidating, frightening situation to have to face. Alas, so much to offer--at least I'd like to think so--, and no takers, as always. (Forgive me my indulgence of a little melodrama.) You know, I'm really just goddamned sick of my perpetual aloneness and apparent undesirability, frankly--sick of thinking about it, more accurately, because if I were more comfortable in my own skin--more accepting of my current prescribed role in this world, more grateful for my countless blessings, less inclined to constantly compare myself to other people and crucify my own character as it consistently fails to meet the impossible expectations of our vulgar culture--, I'd be a far happier person.

Just so I won't lose you in eye-rolling frustration at my brooding, my two or three loyal readers, I'll end by listing some of those aforementioned blessings. I'm grateful to have my friend Greg, who has turned me on to sharing tea on Murray Avenue a few times a week (rather than hitting the bar and spending four times the money). I'm grateful for my friend Amanda who has stuck with me through thick and thin for almost ten years now. I'm grateful for my family. I'm grateful that I was able to include three pieces of art in last Friday's Arbor Aid show, which drew over 500 guests and scores of spectacularly talented woodworkers and craftspeople. I'm grateful that I made five skydives on Sunday and finally earned my B license. I'm grateful that I'll be an uncle in February. I'm grateful that I have a best friend who will always be my best friend, at least until the day that one of us keels over; how many people can say that?! I'm grateful for all the friends unmentioned here. I'm grateful that I survived my dark episode in October. I'm grateful that I can go out and run seven or eight miles if I want to. I'm grateful that I'm healthy. I'm grateful that Squirrel Hill Magazine publishes an article penned by me in almost every issue. (Unpaid, but potentially crucial in the event of a future job prospect.) Hey, you know, this list could go on and on. That's a good thing, right?!