I know a guy who, rumor has it, used to write about professional wrestling, and then he moved to California and did what all ex-wrestling writers do: he asked his fairy godmother to turn him into a yoga teacher. Specifically, he asked his fairy godmother to turn him into the type of yoga teacher who requests that no hard alcohol be brought to class, just beer and wine. And he gave me a diabolical idea that’s been stuck in my head for a couple of days: love everyone and tell the truth. This is virtually impossible, of course, but I tried it anyway. I tried loving the guy in front of me at the grocery store buying sixteen packs of turkey hotdogs with an expired rain check. It kind of worked, even though he looked like he might be going home to cook turkey hotdogs for his blind, incontinent chihuahua while a kidnapped girl with baggy skin brooded in a pit in his basement.
That’s just one example.
There are so many people to love.
The point is, I’m taking a plane tomorrow with my husband and wee son to visit my parents, and for the next six days I’m going to try to put into practice the philosophy of an ex-wrestling writer who, rumor also has it, once snuck onto the infield of Yankee Stadium to sprinkle his grandmother’s ashes down the first base line:
I’m going to try to love everyone and tell the truth.
Bwa ha ha ha ha! Just kidding! I’m really going to spend all my time trying to keep Jackson from being forcibly baptized into the Catholic church.