I have a very vivid memory of being 18 and making a mistake. I think it was my first. I was dating a girl and she was supposed to call me at 8, but she didn’t. When she finally called around 10 I said—Where were you? I thought you died. I learned my lesson. Never tell someone you thought they died. Apparently it’s offensive.

I have been trying to write a Remembrance Day post all week, but it’s not working. It didn’t flow. The first post I wrote was a rant about the hopelessness of the world. But, who wants to write that? More importantly, who would want to read it? No one. After that all my attempts were scattered and trying to pull too much together. Like when I tried to shove my shoes into my bag this morning. They wouldn’t fit. I bet you would love to know why I would put shoes in my bag and not on my feet.

One of my questions from the aforementioned post was—where have all the great leaders gone? But I decided that wasn’t really my question. My question is—with all the stories, movies, songs, etc. of heroes and leaders—why don’t we emulate what we want to believe in? If we are our stories, why do we love the good guy, but act/are the bad. This got me thinking that perhaps we don’t have all the right stories.

I remember that Thomas King pondered what the world would be like if we started with a communal myth (like Falling Woman) instead of a curse/tragedy myth (like Adam and Eve). I would like to think that I have replaced the majority of the stories that hold me back, but last night with Leif I realized I still haven’t got all the right stories. Or perhaps there are not enough communal stories to replace all the cursed stories I have ever heard.

Leif and I were out for tea and then beer (I had beer) and nachos last night. I mentioned that I wondered if Leah and I would end in tragedy. Now, I know what you are thinking—Rhett didn’t learn your lesson the first time. Now I don’t necessarily mean that this is going to be a Greek/Shakespearean tragedy. I won’t be poisoning myself or stabbing myself or killing my uncle who killed my father and then inadvertently kill myself or… My point is that I believe that Leah and I have something really special and a lot of the stories that I know and, perhaps, believe say that when you have something good it gets taken away. Like the Garden of Eden. Or Romeo and Juliet—wait a second…

Dare I say it, Leah and I are really happy together, but there is a part of me that believes that happiness just can’t last in this miserable world. On the other hand, I have hope.

I don’t believe that Leah and I are destined for tragedy, but I will admit there is a small part of me that fears it. I really hope I don’t get in trouble for this. Leah, if one of us has to go via sword, it can be me. Overall, I wonder if somewhere in my catalogue of stories that shape who I am—that tell of hope, love and faith—that I have some stories that are tragedies and I haven’t properly filed them so they are causing a ruckus in my head.

Do you believe in tragedy?

I just walked down the street on my lunch hour to steal some WiFi, on my new Nokia N800, at the local Macs. When I walked past a couple, cutely holding hands and wearing the exact same pair of glasses. I am not a fan of horror, but this is what true horror is for me.

There have been certain characteristics growing in our marriage that frighten me. Well, that frighten Leah. I enjoy being lazy. We spend a lot of nights in. It is difficult to go out late—at Leah’s age it’s hard for me to keep her up past 8:30. We watch movies. Play video games. Not a lot of socializing. When we do go out we don’t tear it up like we used to. Or she used to. I have always been a saint.

I don’t know that we are a lame couple just yet. We certainly don’t have matching jackets like my parents… and I can only imagine how nerdy Brenda and H are (sorry H, needed to include you to burn B).

I promise this to all of you—I will never wear matching clothes or glasses or anything else with Leah. I love you, Leah, but we can’t wear the same stuff. It would be too much.