As I’ve finally begun to feel accustomed to the ill-fitting costume of adulthood, I’ve noticed a new vulnerability to a kind of pessimism that has never tempted me before. Having spent the first 25 years of my life dreaming and expecting, I have come to the point where the dreams and expectations must be realized or discarded forever. You can guess which of those two outcomes is the more frequent.
I’ve never been a big dreamer. For whatever reason, one of the very most important dreams in my life is a house on a large, flat lot, enclosed somewhere among some mature trees and shrubs.