As you know, Rand and I are social creatures. We thrive on seeing the people we love, on following the winding paths of your lives, on quietly building a history of private jokes and shared experiences together. We aren’t simply growing old with each other, we are growing old with all of you, and this brings my heart a sort of levity that I can scarcely describe. The closest I can come to is this: imagine a nest of baby squirrels inside your chest. It’s both squirmy and warm.
Usually, we host, because we bought this big, old, drafty house last year, and that is what you do with big, old, drafty houses. Our lives have become a pastiche of dinners and brunches characterized by noise and laughter and crumbs on the floor.
I am entirely okay with all of that.
What I am not okay with, my