Back in 2016, a friend of mine needed quotes for an article he was writing for Verily Magazine, so he asked a bunch of guys the following question: how have previous experiences with breakups and rejection affected the way you interact with women?

I was in Mexico at the time, and instead of heading directly from breakfast to the beach, I decided to head back up to the room and jot down a line or two. Two hours and 1000+ words later, I had written what I thought was going to be the first post of a new blog I was going to start. 4 years out, I actually have a blog and somewhere to share what was a very cathartic writing experience. Enjoy!

If you’re on Instagram, you may be familiar with the trend among girls using the app to go over the top in wishing their girlfriends a happy birthday. They’ll post 3 or 4 different pictures to their story, each with a heartwarming (if cliché) caption like “I don’t know what I’d do without this girl in my life” or “this chica means everything to me” or “you’re the laughter when I’m sad, the ear when I need someone to listen.” You get the idea.

But here’s the thing: it only goes one way. Girls never do it for guys, guys don’t do it for girls, and guys certainly don’t do it for other guys. It’s like women have a monopoly on the market of public affirmation.

I’ll be honest. I’m jealous.

Have you ever noticed that hotel front desks are almost always an ungodly height? For a desk, at least. And only on the outside – the attendant’s side is usually pretty normal. You might think this is just an aesthetics or security thing (it’s much harder to jump over something tall), but I think the reason is much simpler: elbows. I rarely walk into a hotel in a state other than utter exhaustion, so I’ve always been appreciative of being able to prop up my arms and lean on the front desk as I hand over my credit card “for incidentals” and await my room key.

I struck this same pose in December of 2018 on the second night of our stay at the Holiday Inn in Phoenix. It had been another long day, complete with hiking 1,300-foot Camelback mountain on an empty stomach and then loading a trunk full of film equipment, so I was ready to get back to the room, have dinner, and go to bed. That plan had been foiled when my key wouldn’t work, so there I was, patiently awaiting a new one.

The gentleman behind the desk checked my ID, scrolled through the guest list, and began programming a new card. As he went about his business, I languidly scanned him. The plain white tag on his mint-green vest told me his name was Shawn. He was clean-shaven, wore thick-rimmed glasses, and sported a unique tattoo on the bridge between the thumb and index finger of his left hand. I looked more closely, but couldn’t quite make out the design.

“What is it?” I asked, gesturing.

“The three crosses at Calvary,” Shawn replied. “When I was 10 years old, I gave myself this tattoo because I knew that I would eventually get out of the gang life, and I didn’t want any gang marks on my body.”

My fondest Christmas memory is not of something I got as a kid. It’s not a song, a scent, or a snowfall, not a tree, lights, or a star. It’s not even of something that I gave.

No, my fondest Christmas memory is of a Play-Doh cup.

Allow me to explain.

The Colts were my world as a kid. I watched every game, read every article, cried when they lost and cheered when they won. I was obsessed. Whenever there was a choice between spending time with my family and watching a Colts game, I would choose the game.