Some day when you are unbelievably bored with your 100 toys, games, tv shows, and sports activities, you will take it upon yourselves to rummage through the attic. Please, let me advise you against this.
The reasoning is this: behind the Christmas decorations and the camping gear we swear we’ll use again, you will find an ordinary-looking box. I recommend at this point that you walk away and find something else to do (I’ll tell you where Daddy hides the roman candles).
But, I know that won’t work. I know you’ll open the box. I know you’ll pull out one of the many binders in there and realize with peaked interest that they are photo albums. You’ll greedily open the first one and realize with glee -the kind that comes from thinking you’ve really got something here – that these are Mom’s photo albums from college. You’re thinking, perhaps, that you will find something embarrassing which you can use to make me blush. You won’t.
What you will find, my darlings, is evidence that I am not a stick-in-the-mud, proof that I did honor to my good Irish stock, foundations upon which most of my best and current friendships were based, and reasons why I can’t run for president. I am not embarrassed by them.
You, however, may find you want to wash your eyeballs.