Where's Yogi When I Need Him?

I came to a fork in the road yesterday and I'm not sure if I should take it or not.

Having nothing of particular consequence to share lately, I've had little reason to leave anything for you to read. I hadn't intended to share my New Year's Eve goings-on since, again, nothing of real significance happened. But for the record, I played golf that morning (shooting a respectable 89 on a course I've never played before after a Bruce Lietzke-like sabbatical). I ushered in 2006 in bed reading a book. That's about it.

Then in a quasi-epiphinous moment yesterday, I started to recount part of that story but only succeeded in emotionally vomiting all over the place.

I had a flashback of when I was a teenager and I spent New Years Eve by myself in my bedroom reading a book all night long. I guess some things never change.

Throughout my life, I've generally been able to spend time alone without feeling particularly lonely. But when loneliness does attack, it's still rather manageable and temporary. But the wave of loneliness that has hit me the past several days has lingered longer than I expected. I got to thinking, and writing, that the list of real friends I've had over my lifetime can pretty much be counted on my thumbs.

And when I say "real friend", I don't mean the people whose e-mail address or phone number I have stored for quick, but rarely used, reference. I'm talking the person I'd call if I had a mangled body to bury and needed help.

Suffice it to say, I am not one to air out all of my problems. I don't think the events going on in my life are all that different from any stranger I might meet on the street. Had a long day at work? Take a number. Wish you had more money? The line starts around the corner. So more often than not, I just choose not to share.

But as my vomit began to pour over, I realized I was sharing more than I was willing to make public at this point. Who knows, maybe in a moment of extreme vulnerability, I'll share. But then, I'm just as likely to delete and pretend it never existed. I haven't made up my mind yet.

I know I shouldn't be afraid or ashamed of my feelings or my shortcomings. I think my story will be similar to most others. But since it's my story, it feels all the bit more heavy and daunting.

But over the last few days, I've tried to be more attentive to some of the other stories I've heard concerning other's problems. Attempted suicide. Prison terms. Death in the family. Believe me, my problems are not anywhere near that level. But I am a mix of shocked and inspired that people chose to share these problems with near strangers; that's not typically my style but I'm glad it helps others.

So, don't expect many closet-skeleton-cleaning confessions here. But should you get a call telling you to bring a shovel, consider yourself lucky.