A Letter to Little Brandon

            For those of my friends who follow me on Facebook, you’re well aware I “like” and “share” some odd content. There’s quotes, memes, news articles, more memes, and pictures—lots of pictures. It’s just me being myself.

One such page I like and am an avid follower of is called Word Porn. No, it isn’t a page dedicated to raunchy photos of sexy librarians and alluring teachers; there are, after all, filters that prohibit such content from showing up in users’ News Feeds. Plus, it’s not like it’s that difficult to find such content elsewhere on the internet.

            No, Word Porn is a page dedicate to those who love literature and their creators. Regular posts from their administrators include definitions of interesting words, quotes from famous writers, and passages from poems and novels. I’ve “shared” more of their content than any other page I follow, including BuzzFeed and The Week. 

            The other day, they posed a question: If you could write a two-word note to your younger self, what would it say?

            I shared it moments later on my News Feed with my two words: Do it.

            Simple, I know. But the meaning behind those single syllable words was strong. I don’t believe in regrets, or linger on them much. However, for a brief second, I thought about it. What if I would’ve “done it” when I was little—and no, I’m not talking about regular pornography’s way of “doing it”.  I’m talking about something much different.

So what if I would’ve done it? What if I would’ve stood up to my fears and done what needed to be done? What would’ve happened then? Question upon question could pile up inside one’s head.  

So I let it be.

The next day, when I turned on my computer and loaded the internet, my Facebook page was open. The two word question—and my response—was the only thing I saw on the screen. Do it. Do it. Do it.

            That’s when I realized I should’ve been more specific in my letter. “Do it” is broad. Do what, exactly? See, I should’ve written my letter with two different words: tell them. By “them” I mean everyone, and by “tell” I mean everything.

I realize that that’s still incredibly vague. Just hear me out.  

When I was little, I did everything everyone wanted with little objection. I’d keep my comments to myself out of fear that I’d be persecuted for my ideas or opinions. I was a yes-man—or more accurately, a yes-boy—doing everything I could to appease others without first thinking of the impact it had on myself. I should’ve told them how I felt. Instead, I didn’t.

But after contemplating that a minute, I realized that “tell them” wouldn’t help my younger self any more than “do it” would. I’d overthought it, and when I reread the question a third time, I came to my final, definitive answer.

            “Be yourself.”

That’d be the letter I’d write. “Be yourself” is perfect. But not just any self will do. Not one that’s constructed by the judgments and condemnations of others, or by their impressions of who you are and what you should be. None of those will work. The only way to be yourself is to be your true self, my true self. It’s the self I’ve developed, recognized, and accepted now.

            Friends responded with some great two word letters to their younger counterparts. “Try it!” and “Slow down!” were some of them. “Trust yourself” was a third.

            I think some people could mistake the purpose of the exercise, though. They might take it as a means to look back at past failures and fears, relive them, and then wish they had done something about them sooner.

“Why didn’t I do it when I was younger? Why didn’t I tell them? Would life have been better had I? Oh, I wish I would’ve done it!” someone might bemoan.

Me, I think it’s a way to show how much you’ve developed. Writing that letter to a younger you is about self-realization, and knowing whatever mistakes you made or things you did or didn’t do, aren’t in control of you anymore. They’ve been conquered, and whatever it was you wanted to your younger to do—whether it’s trusting yourself, slowing down, staying positive, or what have you—they pose no threat anymore. They’ve been overcome. Deficiencies in character are now strengths. They hold no weight anymore, so there’s no need to worry about whether they’d given your life a different outcome had you improved upon them sooner.

In my case, I’ve done it. I’ve told them; and now, I live life being myself.

I hope you do too.

            

New Blog Post Tomorrow!

With starting a new job, this blog hasn't been fueled with as many stories of life, as life is getting in the way a bit. But fear not! Tomorrow a new post shall claim its place on this very blog!

For now, here's a picture of me with a book on my head.

Wildcat Weekend

 To graduating high school seniors, the idea of moving out and starting college can be one of the best feelings in the world. Not much can compare to the excitement of college parties, frat houses, and the loss of innocence. Having the option to take afternoon classes is pretty awesome as well.

            No, there’s nothing cooler than going to college.

            Except adopting a cat.

                                                                        ***

            One weekend in April of my senior year in high school, I found myself standing awkwardly in the lobby of a hotel in Denver. I casually would pull out my phone and check the time, or simply examine details in the lobby: the heavy velvet drapes, which were actually really ugly; the cream tiled flooring, which was actually really ugly; and the Check-In Here sign beside the reception desk, which I was indifferent towards. It probably would’ve looked suspicious, this eighteen-year-old kid staring at inanimate objects in the lobby, nervously checking his phone, had it not been for the two dozen other eighteen-year-olds and their parents scattered around the large room in little cliques.

Go Wildcats!

I don’t normally spend my weekends in hotel lobbies, but that weekend was an exception to the normal routine of working at a retirement home and doing homework. Being a good student had granted me an invitation to Johnson and Wales University’s Wildcat Honors Weekend, where new smarty pants students spent the weekend getting to know the campus and one another. Activities included an elegant dinner at a top restaurant in Denver, campus tours, a cooking demonstration, and a scavenger hunt around the Mile High City. I had already toured the campus multiple time with my parents, and I didn’t really need to see Denver, since I lived in one of its suburbs, but the idea of getting to meet others interested in cooking and academics made me decide to go. Though, it was the free hotel room really helped sway me. I wish I wasn’t so easily lured with pretty lobbies and mini fridges, because my Wildcat Weekend was more like a Fraidy-Cat Weekend.

            I’m an introverted person. Sometimes I get more joy out of being by myself than being with lots of people I don’t know. During high school, I was hyper-shy. I couldn’t even call myself a wallflower, because to be a wallflower meant you actually had to go to things like parties and high school sporting events and dances, where you’d stand at the punch bowl or lean against the wall and do nothing. Nope, you can’t call yourself a wallflower if you’re at home doing nothing.

            Thus my predicament: I believed, in some idyllic fantasy world, that I could go to Wildcat Weekend and meet people, despite my social anxieties.  I could be brave, couldn’t I? My mom was shy in high school, and now she’s friends with everyone and talks to random people at the grocery store. I could be brave like my mom, right?

            Nope.

            The charter bus pulled up to take us to dinner. I sat by myself and spent the fifteen minute drive listening to other kids talk with their parents and friends. They talked about how excited they were to start school, how excited they were to cook, how excited they were to be on their own, and how excited they were to be the next celebrity chef to have a show on the Food Network. Get real, I thought. I’m going to be the next celebrity chef on Food Network, not you.

These conversations went on and on. I got bored of listening to everyone have fun, so I stared out the window and looked at details of Denver: the Qwest building, whose blue sign wrecked the skyline at night, according to my grandfather; the bear statue leaning against the Denver Convention Center.  I stared at these inanimate objects, all the while wondering why my parents couldn’t have just taken the time off of work and come along with me. It would’ve been more fun, I thought, having someone there I knew.

            “We can’t leave your brother and sister alone for the weekend,” they said. “They’re younger than you.”

            Siblings ruin everything sometimes.

            “Plus, we’d have to pay for our room and dinner.”

            Money ruins everything sometimes.

            We got to the Moroccan restaurant, whose name I can’t recall, since it’s hard to remember the name of something you never knew in the first place. I took a seat next to a guy with messy brown hair and his mother. Instead of introducing myself, I reached for a glass of water, realizing that the best way to avoid being awkward was to keep occupied by drinking so much water your bladder had the potential to rupture. This, for those unclear, is actually more anomalous than just introducing yourself and shaking hands.

            The dinner was table d’hôte, meaning we ate what the university thought was least expensive to serve to sixty people. I took small bites of my dinner, keeping my head down and taking a sip of water every so often. Forty minutes into the meal I learned the name of the guy with messy brown hair, as well as the kid next to me, who had messy blond hair. It was evident I was the only guy who had access to a comb, since my hair was not messy.

This is not a photograph of the meal at the restaurant. I made this salad. 

            Being skilled at small talk, I started the conversation with messy brown-haired guy by mentioning how nice the food tasted.

            “Yeah, it’s good,” he said.

            End of conversation.

            This happened before I developed tinnitus in my ears, so my hearing was extra-sharp, so sharp, I could hear messy brown-haired guy’s mom mutter to him that he needed to be social and talk to me because I was lonely and had no friends here. But at that point the tuxedo-wearing waiters came by and cleared the table. It was time to go.           

            Thank God.

            I thanked the messy haired guys and their moms for sitting with me, and then bolted to the bus, where I sat by myself and watched the same inanimate objects pass by on our way back to the hotel, listening to everyone talk about how excited they were to have eaten at such an exciting restaurant and how excited they were to have met their new best friends forever and how excited they were about life.

            Shut up, all of you.

            The charter bus dropped us off at the hotel about five-thirty. Everyone started mingling in the hotel lobby. I ditched them and went up to my hotel room to call my mom. I paced the room while the phone rang. My sister answered it.

            “Hey, sis!” I said. “How are you?”

            “I’m great! We’re getting a cat!”

            I stopped pacing.

            “What?”

            “We’re getting a cat! Her name is Quinn.”

            “Put mom on the phone, please.”

            My mom has an affinity for cats. I do too. I just wasn’t aware she wanted to add a third cat to our family. I assumed Homer and Lily were enough.

            They weren’t for my humanitarian mother.

            “Hello?” my mom said.

            “You’re adopting a cat?”

            “Yeah! Your sister and I went to PetSmart to get cat food. We went and pet the cats in the shelter and I saw one that I fell in love with.”

            “What does dad say?” I asked, knowing he didn’t love cats as much as my mom and I.

            “He’s fine with it. We’re going to get her now.”

            “Wait for me,” I said.

            “Wait, what?” She sounded surprised. “Don’t you have activities planned tonight?”

            I looked at the itinerary on the desk. “It’s a scavenger hunt at seven. I already know Denver, so I don’t need to go. I want to see this cat.”

             “Okay, we’ll see you soon.”

            I hung up the phone and hurried out of the hotel room. I passed several kids through the lobby, including messy brown-haired guy, hanging out with some other kids. I smiled at him. He looked away. Later, I would find out that he was a chronic pot-head. Who’d want to be friends with him anyways?

            My family, sans my father, who was still working, met up at our house. The cat carrier was already set in the car, and one of the litter boxes had been brought up to my room with a bowl of water and food.

            “She’s going to stay in your room for a few weeks,” my mom explained. “That way Homer and Lily can get used to her scent before we let them meet.”

            “Works for me!” Having a cat as a roommate was much cooler than having some strange guy as a roommate in one of the closets the university called dormitories.

            My mom drove us to PetSmart. We unloaded the carrier and headed into the building. While walking towards the cat adoption side, my mom pulled me aside.

            “There’s something you need to know about this kitten,” she said. “She’s deaf.”

            I couldn’t care in the least bit. I was adopting a cat!

            “She also has a misaligned jaw. They’re thinking she was abused.”

            My mom had a love for cats, especially cats that needed extra attention or had hard lives. Our cat Homer, for example, was abused as a kitten by having his tail broken in a door. Lily, our second cat, had a growth deformity on her head that made her look like alfalfa from The Little Rascals. None of those attributes mattered to my mom, or myself. My cats were awesome members of the family, and I thought Quinn would be an excellent addition as well.

            “Misaligned jaw or not, if you like her, I’m sure I’ll like her too.”

            We met up with my brother and sister, who were in the cat room petting a small kitten as pure white as one could get. I observed this animate object: a sleeping kitten, curled in a little ball, one of her teeth sticking out of her closed mouth. She had back feet the size of a rabbit’s foot— large—just like mine.

            “Meet Quinn,” my sister whispered, patting her on the head.

            I fell in love with her immediately. I’d seen her but a few seconds and knew that one day, this cat would be a part of my world. I had no idea that when she’d grow up she’d head-bunt me, sit on my shoulder like a parrot, spaz around the house like a neurotic robot, or get the name Biscuit Head. All I knew was she had saved me from a dull and awkward weekend, and I was grateful to that sleeping ball of fur for doing so.

            My mom signed the adoption papers and my brother and sister, wanting to be part of the adoption process, helped pay a part of her adoption fees. I was soon to owe $20,000 dollars in tuition and could not pay-in to the adoption.

            “I bought her,” my sister would remind us, “so she has to love me.” On the contrary, my poor sister is Quinn’s least favorite person. It’s true what they say, you can’t buy your friends, I guess.

            Quinn was silent on our way home, content sitting on a toy mouse in her cat carrier. We brought her into the house and snuck her up to my room, avoiding Homer and Lily. I spent a bit of time with my brother and sister petting her and laughing when she’d hop from the desk to the window sill, her bell clinking with every head shake. Then it was time to return to the hotel room.

            “I guess I’ll go now,” I told my mom.

            “I hope you have a great day tomorrow. What do you get to do?”

            “They’re going to do a cooking demonstration for us.” I shrugged. “There’s also a campus tour. Hopefully I’ll be done soon and can come home. It’s boring not knowing anyone.”

            She hugged me. “Just be yourself and go get to know people.”

            Yeah, right. The only way I would meet people was if I wasn’t myself.

            The lobby was deserted by the time I arrived at the hotel. I made my way back up to my room, laughter and heavy breathing emanating from the rooms I passed. Whatever, I thought to myself. I just adopted a cat, which is much cooler than talking about how excited you were to be dropping your pants for the first girl you met on the trip, or how excited you were to stay up late and watch television.

            The rest of the night I spent in my hotel room, hanging out in a towel watching the news— I was eighteen and in a hotel room by myself, after all. What else was I going to do? Loiter in the lobby some more? No thanks. I could do whatever I wanted.

Eventually I got bored of being in just a towel and watching television, so I went to bed, occasionally woken up by the sound of kids talking loudly outside or in the hotel rooms adjacent to me.

            I woke up early the next morning and had a bagel and banana for breakfast in the hotel reception. Of course, I sat by myself and ate quickly enough to go back up to my room before everyone else woke up. That’s where I paced the floor talking to my mom about Quinn’s first night, which she spent with my sister.

            “She even slept on her feet,” my mom said.

            I wanted a kitten to sleep on my feet. I hoped it would happen that night when I was finished with the Wildcat Weekend.

            Around nine it was time to charter the bus once more, this time to campus. We unloaded near the modern culinary building. Standing outside was the JWU mascot, Wildcat Willie. He clapped and waved and jumped up and down, high-fiving us on our way into the school.

“How exciting!” one mother said.

Thrills a minute, I thought.

We headed into the kitchens. Normally, seeing Viking ranges and all the expensive cooking equipment would make me happy, but at that moment I really couldn’t care. I wanted to turn to my parents and say, “How cool is that six burner gas range?” I didn’t want to say it to some kid with messy hair standing next to me. It just wasn’t the same.

Dang, I look young. 

            A chef instructor walked in after we’d settled around several metal prep tables. He would soon be my advisor, and least favorite teacher. Why? During orientation, he didn’t discuss the mandatory book in our small group (George Orwell’s Down and Out in London and Paris) because “No one really reads books.” He also disliked my paper I wrote for his class because I focused more on word choice than on ingredient yields. But it was really the comment about reading that made me resent him from the start.

            “Welcome to Johnson and Wales! We’re so excited to have you all here,” the chef said.

            I’d heard the word “excited” so many times that weekend, I wanted to hit myself with a thesaurus.

            The chef then went on to prepare some simple meal I can’t remember. We got to sample a bit of it and then we were given a choice: go on a campus tour or go back to the hotel.

            That decision wasn’t hard.

            I found myself checking out at the hotel’s reception thirty minutes later, homeward bound. I made it home before too long. Quinn helped me unload my overnight bag, jumping into it and rubbing herself against my legs. When I leaned down to open a drawer, she jumped up and bopped her head against mine, rubbing her body against my forehead during her ascent. I laughed, picking her up. Looking into the vanity mirror, I pet her, cooing, “Look at us, Quinny. We’re made for each other.”

            Boy was that true.

I love this cat.

                                                                        ***

            My culinary career at Johnson and Wales was short lived. Many—and I mean many—students dropped out or transferred majors within the first semester or two. I lasted a year before I came to my senses and realized that words were my ingredients and stories were my favorite dish to prepare. Despite my shyness, I even made several close friends. My friends were phenomenal, and one I ended up dating after I’d left school. Even though I commuted to campus, I felt included. Now, we’re all Facebook friends, scattered across the country, communicating with “likes” and “shares” instead of actual words and meaningful interactions. Oh well.

Now, all that remains of my time at Johnson and Wales are some dulled knives, stained chef whites, and the ambitious memories of one day opening a catering business like my grandparents. The ability to flip an omelet also stayed with me. But what I value most about that transition year wasn’t the school and wasn’t the miserable Wildcat Honors Weekend. No, it was a little fluffy kitten named Quindolyn.  

            

V.I.B.

            My favorite holiday isn’t Thanksgiving. That’s not because I’m ungrateful for the things and people I have in my life, it’s just, well, not as awesome as Christmas or my birthday. Sure, it’s nice to see family, and you definitely won’t leave the table hungry, but I get enough of the political debates and the personal questions about why don’t I have a girlfriend and why don’t I find a new job and why don’t you have a better attitude at Christmas. So, when I have to answer these questions or defend my beliefs and eat pumpkin pie not only at Thanksgiving but at Christmas, it feels like déjà vu. Thanksgiving is Christmas without gifts and without church.  

I'm a classy Brandon.

            If it seems like I exaggerated the previous paragraph, it’s because I did, slightly. I love turkey and pumpkin pie, and can eat it anytime of the year. But I was being serious when I said I don’t really enjoy Thanksgiving.

            You see, the best part of Thanksgiving is when it’s over.

            Ouch.

            It sounds harsh, but let me elaborate: The best part of Thanksgiving is the day after Thanksgiving.

            Black Friday?

            Black Friday.

            Before I’m called a heartless capitalist who lacks the sincere appreciation of family time, let me clarify further: The best part of Thanksgiving—when I was younger—was the day after Thanksgiving.

            Better? Yeah, thought so.

            Black Friday was anything but a corporate folly for me. It was a day slated as father and son time.

            What did a typical Black Friday look like for young Brandon? To answer that, we have to go back to when I was a little, less opinionated, and more polite than I am now.

                                                                        ***

            By far, the best part of Thanksgiving was the morning of Thanksgiving. I’d rush downstairs to my mother and father, who sat in the living room. The Thanksgiving Day Parade would be playing on the television as white noise, until Tom the Turkey made an appearance. Once that ugly animatronic bird was gone, all eyes were back on the important task of finding stuff to buy. My mother and father would scour the newspaper that was scattered across the floor.

“They’ve got it here for $199,” my father would say, handing the advertisement over to my mother. “That’s cheaper than this place.”

She’d scrawl some notes in a journal. “Got it.”

            I’d jump into the mix, and before we’d know it, the newspaper would get passed around in some communal ritual. Once it’d made it through all three of us, it was sorted into stores we’d avoid or never shop at (Kmart, Walmart, etc.) and stores we planned on stopping at (ToysRUs, Target, Home Depot—shameless corporate plugs, I know. Just deal with it). I’d even peek at the list my father would be writing, you know, as preliminary planning for the following day.

Honestly, I didn’t care if I was surprised on Christmas morning. I was a patient lad.

            Mapping out the day was always simple: The store that had the thing we wanted most would be the one we’d go to first. If there were a limited number of door-busters available, we’d go to that store early as well. Stores that opened before 5:00am were crossed off our list. Some stores (Best Buy), we avoided entirely based on our better judgment.

            “I’m not waiting in that nonsense,” my father would mutter every time I’d mention something on sale at Best Buy. “Those people are crazy, sleeping overnight in tents and such.”

            Once we’d hit all the major retailers we wanted, then it’d be time for breakfast, which was always at a Village Inn. Classy, I know.

            With the newspaper exhausted, and the parade boringly moving along (look, it’s the exact same balloon from the last ten years! That’s so cool!), we’d clean up our paper trail and get ready for the day.

            Then would come the phone call from my grandparents.

            “Happy Bird Day!” my grandma would sing to me.

            “Happy Bird Day!” I’d retort. Then I’d pass the phone to my father, who then talked strategy with my grandfather, who also participated in Black Friday. Though, he had to do it by himself, which was nowhere near as fun as being with my Dad and I. I know I’m modest, no need to go email me about it.

            After the phone call from my grandparents, my father would go and bake muffins and I’d go back to doing whatever the heck I did on the computer, which was probably play Rollercoaster Tycoon or The Sims (Keep in mind that this is twelve-year-old Brandon; he didn’t search for dirty things on the internet, and he still doesn’t, mind you).

            Eventually, it’d be time for dinner. Many years, we’d go to my grandparents or my aunt’s house. We’d go have a good time with them, eating good food, talking about school, watching Survivor on television—which for some reason I enjoyed as a child—and eating devouring pumpkin pie. Over dessert, we’d talk about Black Friday, which my aunt participated in with my two cousins. After the dishes were washed, my father would drive us home early, and then I’d rush to bed, ready for the real fun to start the next day.

            Wake-up call for Black Friday was four o’clock. Early, I know. But I enjoyed it, much more so then than I did during college when I worked retail. My father would come in, turn on the lights, and whisper, “It’s time!” and close the door. I’d bolt from bed, get dressed in clothes laid out on edge of my bed the previous night, and meet him down in the kitchen, after brushing my teeth. Good hygiene is important, you know.

            I’d find my father pouring coffee into a massive travel mug. I hated coffee and disliked drinking it. Instead, I would make myself herbal tea. While the water boiled in the microwave, I donned on my hat, gloves, and heavy coat. Once the tea had steeped, it was out the door we’d go.

            “Here you go, navigator.” My father would hand over the advertisements and the list of things we needed to grab. I felt like a commander in an army: powerful and unstoppable.

            The car rides to the stores were awesome. My father would drive (naturally) with rock and roll playing over the car stereo. His cell phone would be charged and ready for any incoming calls from my aunt or grandfather; there were no text messages at this time, believe it or not.

            The streets were vacant and dimly lit by moonlight and streetlamps. Whenever a car would pass, I’d point, exclaiming, “They have the same idea as us!”

            “Yes they do,” my father would respond.

            The first store was always the coldest, since we had to wait outside in line before the doors opened. This generally was Target, where the line would wrap around the building.

“That’s a long line!” I’d comment, retracting my observation later in the evening when the newscast would show much longer lines at stores we didn’t go to.

We’d stand in line, talking with others, pumped to shop, and cold. Very cold. Then, the doors would open (finally), and it got crazy. We’d politely make our way in and grab a cart before hurrying down the aisles. We’d toss things in, and when the crowds got thick, I was in charge of watching the cart while my father darted into the mass of people to retrieve that treasured toy. We’d be in and out in a few minutes, unless we were stuck in the horrible lines at Kohl’s or ToysRUs. That took forever.

Once outside, we’d high-five.

We high-fived like this! 

“Piece of cake!” my dad would say.  

“Piece of cake!” I’d parrot back.

Unless we just left Kohl’s or ToysRUs, then it sounded like this:

“That was ridiculous!”

“Yeah, ridiculous!”  

We’d make our way to another store or two, the crowds thinned a bit. My aunt and grandfather would call and we’d share stories of crazy people we’d see at the stores. We were lucky enough never to have had any of those crazy people around us, so we mostly reported on the gifts we were able to grab.

Several hours later, my father and I would find ourselves reading the newspaper in a Village Inn, him drinking more coffee and me more herbal tea. This was before the “Very Important Breakfast” (V.I.B.) promotion, so an ultimate skillet was always what I’d order. He’d order the same. We would eat our meal, pleased at our spoils. Then, it’d be time to go home, where I’d distract my brother and sister while my father hid the gifts. My dad would take my brother and sister to Target or ToysRUs so they could say they participated in Black Friday, while I told of our adventures to my mother.

It was amazing, those Black Fridays.

I remember one year, when I was a freshman in high school, a group of girls came up to us and asked if they could interview us for a project they were working on for a class. The topic: Black Friday, and the reasons people do it.”

            “So, sir, why do you participate in Black Friday?” one girl asked.

            “Well,” my father said, looking into the video camera, “It’s just fun, you know? Going out and doing something different. It’s neat just to be in the rush. It’s exciting to see all the people.”

            “Why do you like Black Friday?” the girl asked me next.

            “I get to spend time with my Dad,” I answered.

            Earlier I said the best part of Thanksgiving when I was younger was Black Friday. My excitement for Black Friday died when I made it to college. I got tired of buying things just for the sake of buying things, and now that I had to manage my own money, I saw that “deals” weren’t really deals at all. Plus, the instant stores started opening earlier: midnight, and now even Thanksgiving Day, my father abandoned the tradition.

            “How stupid! How can you have Black Friday on a Thursday? Ridiculous,” he complained. “Who wants to ditch dinner for some cheap shit anyways?”

            I agreed with him. Then, I worked on two Black Fridays in retail and really agreed with him.

            “Bloody hell, why did I enjoy doing this when I was little?” I’d whine to my coworkers. “This sucks! People are assholes and I’m tired and bored. I want to go home and drink wine with my family.”

            Of course, I knew the reason why I enjoyed Black Friday when I was little. It was because I got to spend time with my father, who works two jobs and whom I didn’t really get to see all that often. Black Friday was a time for us to bond. I know, it’s silly to bond over buying stuff we don’t really need, but it was bonding nonetheless. I sure wasn’t going to bond with him over watching football, or worse, hockey; and he wouldn’t have the stamina to join a book club with me. We couldn’t bond over homework, because homework was a time of frustration (“I have no idea how to do this, Brandon. Go ask the neighbor,” he’d say). So Black Friday it was!

            Now that I’m an adult, my father and I have a lot more in common. We share stories of ridiculous people we deal with on a daily basis, and our Black Friday father-son tradition has transformed into Department 56 Village collecting, which, trust me, is a lot cooler, and more valuable in the long run.

            I’ll always remember those early morning drives, jamming to Ozzy Osborne and Metallica, waiting in the frigid cold for a GPS that would break a month later, eating breakfast at Village Inn. It was a time when it was all about my father and I, and all the attention made me feel like a Very Important Brandon (V.I.B.).

Even though the days of getting up early to buy discounted junk at stores is over, I’m lucky enough to have a father who makes me feel like a V.I.B. every day, no 4:00am wake-up call or long wait lines necessary. 

If you made it to the end of this post, congratulations! Your prize is a photo of me as an adorable child!