A Belated Thank You, 6 Years Later

At this point, I know enough to know that I know very little.  And years ago, when I thought I had it all figured out, I didn't know a damn thing.  But what I can tell you is that at times my world has been falling to pieces rather than falling into place, at least in my own mind, and the more time spent reflecting on those times, the more I realize what a debt of gratitude I owe to the people who buoyed me during moments of sadness, self-flagellation, and what I find to be retrospectively hilarious angst.  This note goes out to one such person in particular, my friend Lauren.

In the summer of 2007, I found myself newly single for the first time in over three years.  While the dissolution of that romantic entaglement was the right decision, I didn't prepare myself for how I felt in the aftermath.  There was a sense of liberty and relief, to be sure, but also an acute understanding that I was now alone.  All those small things to which I'd become blissfully accustomed - having someone to check in with, go out to dinner with, hold hands with - vanished when I walked out that door.  Friends told me instantly they were "glad to have me back", but most weren't allowed to see my private moments of self-doubt.  Again, it seems ridiculous to me in hindsight, but at 25 years old, I was questioning how in the world I would ever find a person capable of loving me.  

Lauren and I never fell in love.  But she did show me a future brighter than I fathomed existed at that point.  We met through a mutual friend, and after one hilariously hapless instance when I walked her to a cab that first night (you'll have to ask me in person for the full story), I screwed up the courage to ask her out, and she mustered up the idiocy to say yes.  After a series of premature and presumptuous romantic overtures on my part, including a mixed CD (this actually happened...in the last 6 years...awesome), it became clear that we were not destined for romantic glory.  That didn't stop us from building great memories, however, including dancing to Frank Sinatra in my studio apartment, me tumbling ass over teakettle trying to hurdle the net during while playing tennis with her, and the night she wore her tights (you'll have to ask HER for that story).  

What I know now is that I feel indebted to Lauren.  In an odd way, she somehow managed to make me feel handsome, smart, and desirable all while we veered further into the platonic.  She made me feel valued, and she still does.  This overdue thank you is a small way of me telling her how much I value her too.  

Mr. and Mrs. Peter and Megan Mulheran

Another Megan?  Real original, Pete...

These were my first thoughts as I stepped out of the oppressive heat of a Boston summer day into the infamous Sail Loft, a creaky ramshackle dive protruding into the waters of Boston Harbor.  Cousin Pete had circled back into town for another visit, and had brought his new girlfriend Megan Williams along for the frivolity sure to ensue.  While I didn't know at the time that this cute little brunette was to become Pete's wife, it was hard to miss how instantly smitten he was with her.  

Soon after moving back to the Twin Cities, I started to spend more and more time with the two of them, and my life has been immeasurably better for it.  Megan instantly became a fixture at Mulheran family functions, and it felt like she was destined to be there all along, while Pete became a fixture on my speed dial (do people still have speed dial?  I'm sticking with it, you get the point).  

One of the first times I felt I had truly come home was that first Christmas back in Minnesota, when I found myself at McCoy's Bar and Grill with Pete and Megan, as well as a few other assorted family members and friends.  Surely an innocuous event from their perspective, we all piled into my car with no discussion, invitation, or pretense after dinner with the family.  That tacit sense of belonging, and the welcoming nature they have always shown me throughout their relationship has made me incredibly lucky and proud to call Megan and Pete both friends and family.  (Side note: this was also when Megan discovered that I owned music by Nelly on my iPod, and has excitedly requested I play it every single time she has been in my car since...)

As we celebrated their marriage this past Saturday, I could only fathom the feelings they were experiencing, as this outpouring of love from almost 300 revelers left broad smiles permanently etched on each of their faces throughout the afternoon and into the cool, gray evening.  Megan and Pete, I am ecstatic the two of you have found each other, and want to thank you for being such great friends.   

Uncle Paul

While groggily thumbing through my email on Monday morning, rapidly deleting the growing daily dose of deals, sales, and minutiae that commerce foists upon me, I paused at a pair of messages that had popped in from each of my parents.  The bulk of email from my mom used to be of the "pass this on to 8 friends for good luck!!!!" ilk, and my dad's still veer towards "Obama is evil, democrats are evil, the sky is falling", but each subject line mentioned Uncle Paul.  Not me.  My Uncle.  Dad's little bro.  As it turns out, Monday was the 40th anniversary of his far-too-precocious voyage to heaven at age 16.

Paul David Mulheran was born in 1957, between John and Peter.  Beyond that, I can't tell you much about the guy.  I've heard he was clever, affable, and gentle of heart.  But that's about all I know.  What I can share, however, is that I find myself disappointed that I never had the opportunity to meet him, and imbued with an onrush of emotions when I read my dad's anguished words about how hard it was to lose him, and how that pain and sadness never really ebbed.  

That evening, weary from a long day of travel and work, I sank into a couch cushion and lazily thumbed through my phone, perusing still more emails.  My sister, Mary, who should really have a blog herself (and can you sing on blogs?), had penned a beautiful missive to our dad, noting that many of the characteristics he had used to describe Uncle Paul are traits she sees in her baby brother.  Maybe, she  opined, this was God's way of giving Dad more time with his little brother.  Besides being overwhelmingly flattered (and seriously, my ego is healthy enough already...), I consider it a tremendous honor to be the subject of such a comparison; I hope that it's not only valid, but that it provides my dad joy, comfort, and pride. 

For a little over 10 years now, I've also answered to the name Uncle Paul, as my siblings have brought six fantastic boys into the world.  They were a driving force behind my decision to move home to Minnesota, and I'm overjoyed that I get to spend time with all of them.  It's a name I bear with great pride as a homage to the past, and it makes me happy to be a living embodiment of some of my father's memories of his brother, Paul.  As I told my dad, the only comparison more flattering would be if I reminded him of himself.