September 7, 2022

My dearest,

Being silly is a talent.

That’s what I said, sharing this sentiment with our friends and casual strangers who follow us on social media for some reason or another. And I believe this is true because it’s so very difficult for me to be silly.

You might disagree, nonplussed at my assertion, given how silly you’ve seen me over the years. (Nearly one-and-a-half decades now. Isn’t that wild?)

But there is always a part of me who wants to present the best side of myself, whatever “best” might mean (I doubt I know or would ever discover). I can be inappropriate, I can offend. I can be embarrassed by the tiniest detail. I do not want to be looked down upon nor, I’m surprised to say, do I want to be misunderstood.

I do not want to be a victim of self pity; I do not want to be a victor at someone else’s expense. But I have been both of these, I am ashamed to say; I promise to work my hardest at never falling for these own made traps again.

Above all, I do not – or I did not – want to appear to be silly, to be less than what I am. I fashioned myself to be serious, mature and adult. And, looking back, I doubt I was very happy being all that.

Then you came along and gave me permission to be silly. To be odd and weird. To make off-colour comments and be scolded for it but also – and this is the most important thing, really, if we pay attention (and most of us, sadly, don’t) – be forgiven for it. To fill you with disgust and dismay and dirty looks, and still bring a smile to your face anyway.

You allow me to be silly, and bestow upon me the gift of enjoying my silliness, because I can see how happy it makes you. And what makes me happiest is when we are silly together, two silly boys always finding the magic of being inappropriate, the miracle of being odd and weird… together.

Yours, ever and always.