My favorite part of Halloween

True confession time … other than eating candy, I’m not really that interested in Halloween.

And since I’m trying not to eat as much candy, a lot of ours winds up in my wife’s or my office. (Plus my gym posted a chart of how many burpees you need to do to make up for each type of candy. Spoiler: a lot.)

I outgrew interest in dressing up when I was 12 or 13, and was never really into elaborate costumes, anyway. “Baseball player” was about my stride, although sometimes I’d switch it up and go “football player.”

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Baseball is over … I miss baseball

I don’t want to see the Red Sox winning the World Series, so I didn’t watch last night’s game.

I spent all day today crabby about the result, wondering why none of the stories about how the Red Sox are one of the greatest teams ever mention their payroll, when for years you couldn’t read a story about the Yankees or Dodgers without mentioning theirs. (I don’t mind that they spent the money, but God forbid the Red Sox be anything other than the gritty white hats.)

Then it hit me tonight.

Baseball season is over.

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Something new on the sports menu

Walking up the ramp at Gillette Stadium, a familiar feeling came over me.

Almost involuntarily, my legs felt like they were walking less and pulling me more, pulling me toward my seat, toward what was awaiting at the top of the ramp.

I’ve felt it countless times at countless games.

I just wasn’t sure I was going to feel it this time.

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The words of our times

Voltaire’s “If you wish to converse with me, define your terms,” or a variation thereof, has been one of my favorite sayings since my freshman history teacher in college wrote in on the board the first day of class.

I usually think of it in terms of debate — the maneuvering done to ensure it is contested on one’s own terms.

I had a pair of frustrating debates online over the weekend — although given their arguments were the same and they had other similar characteristics, I can’t guarantee it was two different people — because they refused to address the question I presented.

Instead, they wanted to converse on different terms, probably because they knew they’d lose on mine.

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Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.

I recently read an article from MIT Technology Review about how genetic research is making strides that could affect insurance, how hospitals work and palliative care, among other things.

But that’s not why I read the article.

I read it because it was called “Want to know when you’re going to die?

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An upgrade to a larger apartment meant an upgrade to a futon from the foam, fold-out couch and bed that I had bought off a neighbor’s lawn for my first studio apartment.

But when my parents and I were putting the futon together, they had to leave before we could attach the frame to the body, so I did it myself.

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This is not a crisis

My wife and I were joking about what my midlife crisis may look like.

Let’s dispense with the obvious and most-cliche sign — I’m not dumping her for a younger woman. She’s the best part of my life, and I’m not nuts.

Nor will there be a sports car or convertible in my future. They’re not practical, and every time I see a convertible now, I immediately think “midlife crisis.” I’d rather not advertise it, thanks.

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Trying to get it before it’s gone

My wife and I went to the local arboretum today.

Along with the random people like us who were just taking a walk, we saw a family having photos taken — the two small children were only mildly cooperative.

A jogger pushed her stroller faster than I could probably run unencumbered.

And there were lots and lots of dogs.

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