Far away, on another corner of the Internet in a foreign language, my wife the blogger is revealing to Estonians everywhere the secrets of our life. From laptops in Võrumaa and rowboats on Naissaar, Estonians can read about my latest smelly fart, my caffeine-fueled New York anxiety, the romantic perils of my older brother.
What can I say about full disclosure? If it makes interesting reading than so be it. But it doesn't help knowing it is being read by the most judgemental people in the world.
Look, who am I to judge? I'm just an overweight, lazy American. But really, I am, somewhat troubled by Estonian pigheadedness. It's what is slowing down their government with all these frivolous, symbolic resignations and political pussyfooting.
And where does my daughter fit into that mix? Torn between a nation of vehement anti-intellectuals and self-styled know-it-alls? Right now she seems to be interested in Elmo, but which side will she come down on?
One place where our cultures have been rubbing has been the topic of the future.
Last time I checked I was nearly 26 years old and had little interest in real estate. But then again, last time I checked my wife was 31 and was thinking about what color to paint her house.
Still near my sexual peak, my interests in real estate are nil. I have yet to experience the dramatic drop in testosterone levels that leaves men in their 30s pining for trips to Pottery Barn and jumping at the sight of a color wheel. "Oh Joy - A Color Wheel!"
Not me, no sir. Not yet. Why is it that when I hear the words "buy a house" it scares the living shit out of me. I imagine myself chained to the home, toiling day after day, painting and painting, sawing and sawing, doing everything and passing out at night, only to awake to a leaky roof spitting on my forehead. Not to mention my wife pointing out everything I've done wrong after I've done it. Could it be? Could it have only taken me 26 years to become my father? Doesn't it usually take like 40 years?
But that's the Estonian man's so called ideal. To build his own home. To spend all his free time hammering away, slugging down õlut and hammering away again. And, like it or not, that's the trip I signed up for.
It could be worse. I could be married to a "Keepin' Up With the Joneses" American. The type that expects an X-pensive wedding ban and desires three or four wedding showers. That would really be a nightmare.*shudder*
Whatever, all I can say is that I am a bit ambivalent about the future but a little tired with the present. Who knows. Whatever whatever and whatever, amen.