This World of Hurt
As we return to the grindstone after those holiday expeditions where we get the rare opportunity to tether ourselves together, allowing our family tapestries to unfold to reveal the glory of human existence, let us take the time to remember why it is we gathered in the first place:
To bring joy to our elders through a near vengeful vindication about the dangers of unheeded wisdom denied by those on the front side of youthful perspective.
That’s a fancy way of saying the holidays are for — connected through blood or bonds — an extended group of people to get together so the older ones can laugh at younger ones for making the same mistakes they did after being warned by the parents they didn’t listen to either.
No matter which of the countless accurate definitions are applied, there is a gravity that surrounds a family. It often keeps some members close to the core. Others fall into an elliptical orbit, traveling sometimes great distances before returning with something new to share. Some are gone for years before the return, others return on a regular basis, and still others—for as many reasons as there are stars—never again feel the gravitational pull of the family unit.
Families are often a force unto themselves, as the impact one can have on a community has a wide aperture of possibility. The Macy’s family gets together for Thanksgiving each year and has a parade. You might have heard about it.
On the other hand, some of our families have sections of emergency action plans dedicated to them because less than 12 hours into the new year, the liquor store shelves are empty and jail cells are full. Most of our families fall somewhere between.
I’m not ashamed to admit my family isn’t in line to have an event named after it. Not even a small one. Although I suspect that could have just as much to do with marketing than anything else.
No matter how you dress it up, getting people to come out and support the “Hurt Groundhog Day Extravaganza” is a tough sell. In fairness, however, I should also admit that my pedigree — one to which I have no doubt made entries — necessitates the need for a couple of reputable bail bondsmen to be listed in my contacts.
As an individual, while the likelihood of a future New York-level event becoming a family’s namesake is slim, I do have an award-winning column that bears its name, and I haven’t had to use a bail bondsman — at least for myself — in more than 20 years. The reason for each is the result of family, and as I have grown, so has it.
Families evolve as each of us gradually transitions from the child applying permanent parker to the wall, growing into the parent who tries their hand at amateur chemistry to create a concoction to counteract the components of Sharpie ink, later becoming the laughing grandparent who watches as the streaks of infantile artwork is wiped away along with several layers of the paint beneath.
In a rare moment of retrospection of my work — in truth I was looking to see what year I started writing this column — I experienced a moment of overlapping timelines, where prom dresses and pixie sticks were briefly connected in an instant through the artistic wormhole of a story retold with one that has yet to be written.
I wrote the first installment of This World of Hurt in April 2011. It was a raw, near-talentless attempt at the humor of shopping for my daughter’s prom dress. Flash forward, I haven’t written about serving her son pixie sticks for dinner, but he’s only two, and he has a sister, and another sibling due any minute.
And as a sat back in the joy of the pending vengeance I plan to achieve through the spoiling of my grandchildren, I suddenly became aware of an unsettling truth, I was the artistic wormhole. I have often been forthright and with little guilt admitted that for over a decade, I have waged an anthological smear campaign against my loved ones, writing humorously about the fact I live in a house dominated by women, and the wide range of ages and complexities between my six daughters and son.
What a difference a decade makes, as that family of nine has multiplied into a crew of almost 20 through matrimony and procreation. There once was a time when our matching family Christmas pajamas were simply made for a cute family picture.
Now, that purchase can alter a store clerk’s monthly sales percentages, and the use of a wider-angle lens is needed to get everyone in that picture. And the photo shoot was amazing to watch. Getting that many people to say cheese at the same time is hard enough. The reality was like trying to scoop dry rice off a subwoofer with a single chopstick.
What was more revealing during the shoot was the epiphany I had while watching, thinking how it was going to make a great story to share, then suddenly realizing my work was neither how I would be — nor how I want to be — remembered. At that moment, I wasn’t writing my legacy, I was looking at it... and our youngest daughter is still in elementary. We might be able to get this Groundhog Day celebration up and running after all.
We are not designed to be here long, and what we learn while traveling along our life’s path, we are meant to share, and as the growing chaos I call family continues to grow, I’ll keep sharing what I learn from the inhabitants along the evolving islands of son-in-laws and grandkids that are popping up just of the coast of This World of Hurt.