Wumbo Wednesday With Weaselo: And So It Goes

Another year down. Good riddance. I’ll be honest, there wasn’t a lot of good from this year for me. I think of what was almost lost.

Padre Weaselo had a heart attack back in March, as we know. He had to return to the hospital last week because his heart meds were doing too good of a job of slowing his heart down. Yeah, that’s a thing too.

Madre Weaselo was in the hospital for a couple of days in the fall for a bad case of pneumonia where her heart was also rapid. Not as serious as a heart attack, but obviously still scary.

I think about what was lost. Like any remaining hopes for a bare minimum standard of decency in government, or even a functioning one at the federal level. Or affordable health insurance, but I guess that’s technically for 2026, so don’t almost die, me. If you’re gonna almost die, better go whole hog and complete it so the medical bankruptcy doesn’t hit ya! (Yay…)

Or, I guess more immediate to me, last week’s post which admittedly mars any good feelings I would have had for the year. I start again apparently, with hard lessons of what I hoped I wouldn’t have to learn for someone new. Or, of course, the realization of having to find that person. The ex-Senorita Weaselo kind of—I don’t want to say fell into my lap, but it was a time where I felt like romantically it was a time to sit back. I wasn’t fruitlessly chasing anyone, and then I met her and she took a shine to me. She chased me at first, she started it. And, then, eventually ended it. Maybe I can get back in that place and fall for someone not because I chase them and pedestal them to the point that I choke any of my own goodwill out (I… did a little bit of that too over the years) but because it just makes obvious sense. And no “leave in a better place.” As per my last words, may the Next Ones never have to leave.

I felt at times, over the last few years, but especially this one, I lost myself. To the grind, which you may have spotted when some articles, back to back, seemed a bit Carpenter-ish (because they were). To Padre Weaselo living at Apartment Weaselo the last 8 months. To things others questioned as obligations, not choices, that I was going through the motions because I was so far in that it became ritual. Ritual yes, but obligatory no. By the end, I started attempting to reclaim myself. Prove that the biggest choice I was making every day, until I wasn’t able or allowed to make it any longer, was indeed a choice, not an obligation. Not for me. Still all-in, to the bitter end. It’s a thing that means a lot to me, loving with my entire being, whatever it may be that day. I wouldn’t be able to accept giving my partner any less. Not because of what they deserve, although if I feel that connection in them I would’ve already made the decision. But because, why wouldn’t I?

I know there are things I have to work on, if it’s considered a Resolution. Keeping my nerve. Not waiting until the last possible second to show I still have it, still have a backbone, still can and will push back when it truly means something to me, but that hesitation has already caused microfractures. Call it a “gifted” child’s ability to procrastinate and get it done, which works on tests and essays and deadlines and work, but not for humans and not the heart. I feel comfortable at work. Work is easy. Playing violin is easy. People are hard.

Self growth. Gods, Helix Fossil, protectors, whatever—how I wish she were reading this and realize that the growth has always been there, bottled up. Although, that would make her more confident in her decision to let me go, to save my light, to not be greedy of me anymore. This week, with days off, with loss of my favorite holiday ritual over the last years, has been hard. Pleasant in its solitude and the feeling that I can decompress, but hard. But I’m alive. And I’m still here. And I’m still me. Every me that that entails.

I can still be the musician who enjoys the challenges, even if work these days can oftentimes be formulaic, and when it isn’t it can devolve into chaotic miscommunication. Last week we played “Death and the Maiden” for cocktail hour. Read it cold. That’s not a quartet you read in front of people. I can still be the professor and theory whiz, Professor Weaselo able to come up with novel ways to teach how to learn a major scale. I can still be any and every title and emblem bestowed upon me—by friends, by family, by lovers—that I choose to keep with me.

Thank you for being here, for reading my ramblings, for being my friends, even if I’ve only officially met a handful of you. I’m not the young man I was when we got here, so thank you for watching me grow up, as we all have over the decade. May we all have things to smile about next year. God knows we could use it.

(I guess the big thing tonight sports-wise is the Blimp Cotton Owl at JERRALWORLD between teams that consistently like using “The” in their names. (The U vs. The… … … ……… ……… ……… Ohio State University.)

(Also, shoutout to the MetroCard, ending its run tonight. I understand the OMNY but also I hate it, and now that Capital One switched over to Discover my card doesn’t work as well.)