“Your steps are too short. Boys take long strides,” she said. “Like this.” She demonstrated, exaggerating a swagger across her front lawn that looked like John Wayne with hemorrhoids.

I tried it, stretching my legs long with each step. It felt unnatural, and I was embarrassed as my twin sister, my grandmother and all the cars driving by looked on. It had never occurred to me that boys walked one way and girls walked another. It reminded of the recent time when my father looked at me and my Cabbage Patch Doll with disappointment.

“Boys don’t play with dolls like that,” he said.

But I did.

And apparently I walked like a girl, too.

“Not quite that long,” my grandmother said. My legs tired from reaching so far, but I wanted to get it right. Walk like a boy. Not a girl. Walk like a boy. Not a girl. Walk like a boy. You are a boy. Not a girl.

Twenty-three years later, this lesson remains. I reflexively watch my reflection in storefront windows as I walk down the street or through a Minneapolis skyway. Sometimes my steps are short, and I am instantly five years old again, hurt and embarrassed: Walk like a boy. Not a girl.

Other times I satisfy myself by appearing quite naturally masculine.

And still other times I think, Up yours, Grandma. This is just how I walk… And then I put a little swish in it.

I tried a few combinations, but I couldn't get the tie right. Then I tried not thinking about it and just letting muscle memory take over. That didn't work, either. After several years of wearing a tie almost daily, how did I forget? Next I would forget to wipe, and then I would forget to even go to the bathroom before urinating, and then I would be thrown into a nursing home, wetting my pants and drooling onto my shirt.

Finally, I resorted to the Internet to save me from myself. Thankfully, BrooksBrothers.com has tutorials on how to tie a tie. I followed their examples and finally got myself ready for work... and managed to get off the bus at the right stop.

"Let's do it," I said.

Good thing, too. Thirty miles from my parents' house, a firetruck blocked the highway, lights flashing, protecting a scene of towtrucks and ambulances that were buzzing around a vehicle upside down in the ditch. They gave no instructions on how to get around the barrier, so I picked the closest road and ended up on unplowed dirt roads overhung with heavy tree branches and flanked by white fields. I've never seen so much white. It was beautiful, falling from the sky, covering the road, the fields, the trees, the igloo houses with their smoking chimneys. The ditch threatened to pull me into its cold embrace, but I laughed at it and drove on.

Three feet of snow covered the ground. "I want to go cross country skiing," I told my parents on Christmas Day. They said it was too deep and would be impossible to ski in that. I said, "Sounds like a challenge," and took off with my dad's black lab puppy, Trooper, and my sister's German Shepherd, Shiloh. At the bottom of the hill that stretches out to the buried corn field, I biffed it and landed face first in the snow. Getting back upright was an epic struggle, with Trooper bouncing on my face and solid land out of reach. Shiloh, who doesn't like me but was nonetheless happy to trail along, looked off into the distance and pretended I didn't exist.

Finally, I made it back onto my feet with only a little snow down the crack of my ass, and set off on the 2-mile trek around the perimeter of the field. Trooper heels quite well, especially for a puppy. Unfortunately, this also meant that he walked on the back of my skis the entire way, which only added to the difficulty of plowing through all that snow. He had a look of unfiltered glee, though, so I let him continue. Shiloh continued her snub from 10 feet behind me.

By the time I made it back to my parent's house, Trooper was still trotting along with an air of excited discovery, Shiloh was dragging ass and maybe a little sorry that she went along, and my legs were sore.

That was my Christmas. Hope yours was merry and bright.

For weeks, hopes and polls traveled in opposite directions. What happens to a dream deferred? No one wanted to find out, so millions of people -- myself included -- willfully ignored Obama's rising stance in the polls and braced ourselves for the worst.

What happens to a dream deferred? Thankfully, we don't need to know.

Hope has turned into progress.

Obama feels like my president. Last night, as I watched the reactions of the crowd in Grant Park, I suddenly realized that everyone present felt like Obama is their president. It's why, when I walked in to my neighbor's apartment to watch the results he said, "We're winning."

For the first time in a long time, millions of people feel like someone powerful cares, and it's an intensely personal feeling.

I had, in fact, forgotten the supreme racial barriers that were being broken. It seemed like such a non-issue (and indeed it purposely was downplayed)... until I saw the many black faces in the crowd at Grant Park, wet with tears. I can only imagine the pride and relief African Americans must feel. Obama is their president, just as he is mine.

Though I've witnessed relatively few presidential campaigns, I have to believe that the differences between these two candidates were more pronounced than in previous elections. Not just differences in their personal traits, but in their campaigns, their organizations, their messages. In his acceptance speech at the Republican National Convention, McCain used the word "we" 55 times... Compared to 75 times for Obama's nomination acceptance speech. Even more telling is that while McCain used the word "I" 114 times in that speech, Obama uttered it only 65 times.

Obama's campaign, from start to finish, was never about him. It was about us. We the people. He spoke to the deep and the best in us, the rooted human desire for goodness and peace and prosperity, the truth of hard times and sacrifice for the good of all, the things that tie us together.

It is this consistent message of inclusion that brought so many of us, "young and old, rich and poor, Democrat and Republican, black, white, Hispanic, Asian, Native American, gay, straight, disabled and not disabled," to believe in Obama so intensely, but also to again believe in the United States of America, in our fellow citizens, and in ourselves. It is a message that he must have uttered hundreds of times in campaign speeches, but analyze the election results and you'll see that it also is the truth. Obama is president for people from all walks of life, not just for me.

Today, I actually believe in that thing... That myth.... That awful cliche.... The American dream.

"Good luck with your presentation this afternoon!" she said. "You'll be great, and you're looking good, too."

"Thank you, Ginny," I replied. "You're looking good, too. It looks like you got a haircut?"

"I'm leading a missions trip to Africa next week, so I had it all shorn off."

"A missions trip, huh? You'll have to watch your mouth while you're there!"

Ginny's salty tongue made surprising appearances, often in meetings. It was only after you learned of her former career as a USO singer that you realized it wasn't so surprising after all.

"Oh, I never use the Lord's name in vain," she said. "I just drop F-bombs."

On Saturday Ginny was killed. A truck hit her while she was riding her bike along St. Paul's beautiful, tree-lined avenues. This morning I'm attending her funeral.

We call things like this an "accident." But they me think that every day we survive unscathed is an accident in itself. We hang on to our brains and breaths by a thread and rarely even realize it. We desensitive ourselves to danger. We careen around in automobiles that weigh several tons, we fly in planes thousands of feet above the ground, we put our trust in people and machines and constructions that are all just temporary. It is all just temporary.

What do we do about it, though? Holing up in our homes is one option. Fear is always an option; sometimes a tempting one.

I'd rather live, though. I'd rather desensitive myself to all the dangers and allow myself to experience life, but not desensitive myself so much that I don't appreciate the hours or minutes that I do have. Equally important is appreciating the hours and minutes that my loved ones have, too. As my boss said when relaying the news of Ginny's death, "Give your loved ones a hug today."

We are but chaff in the wind, but while we're briefly here, we should make the most of it.

This morning one gave me the stink eye as I walked to the garage; I think it was contemplating how many calories my calves could add to its diet. We stared each other down. After I passed, I turned around to see it following me.

"Try it and die," I said. I wasn't kidding, and my voice had only a slight tremor.

Can we talk? Can we fix some things?

1) I'm spying an increase in negative advertising. This disappoints me because it means that you believe your positive messages aren't strong enough to overcome negative ones from the grand ol' party. Instead of advancing what we've come to believe in -- hope, change, free Big Macs for all -- you're bombarding us with slander and soap operas. E-mail subject lines like "Hit him where it hurts" and constant expressions of SHOCK and OUTRAGE over these PHONY LIES (does that mean it's true?) are demeaning.

2) Can we maybe combine some organizations and causes and extend just one hand that asks for money? And maybe not every day? You're breaking me.

3) Is it too late to replace Biden with Michelle? Biden is fine, though a little too "used car salesman" with his hand gestures and winks and slicked-back gray hair (is that for real?). Michelle.... she's hot.

Thank you.

Aaron

This is the official and requisite "First Day of School" portrait. For the next TWO YEARS my Tuesday and Thursday evenings are shot. The University of Minnesota and its Strategic Communications MA program is the culprit. Hopefully it doesn't suck.

This is me executing a perfect 10 dive through three child-size inner tubes. All for the pleasure of my co-workers. When I'm called to the podium and accept the gold medal around my neck, I will be sure to share the glory with my countrymen.

"That's because I haven't had a reason to," I replied. My thighs ached from gripping his waist like a nutcracker. Bile rose in my throat.

A word of advice: Never ride on a waverunner with someone who also drives stock cars. Especially when this particular waverunner is more powerful than many cars.

Adrian laughed maniacally as we raced across the water at 55 miles per hour. He, of course, had the advantage of knowing what he would do next, which way he would jacknife, which wave he would pound into head-on. The poor powerless sap on the back, I had no idea what was coming next.

And so I wrapped my arms around his chest and wished for it to be over. I was legitimately scared.

We made it once around the lake without falling off. As we neared the sandbar where our friends were parked, though, I knew it wasn't going to be pretty. I could sense his evil plans.

"Don't do it," I pleaded.

Adrian laughed, hit the gas, and cranked the handlebars to the left.

My legs strained to keep balance as we whipped around, my arms pulled Adrian tight, but it wasn't enough. The momentum threw us off the back and we landed with a graceless splash. I felt my sunglasses brush against my toes on their way toward the bottom of the lake. Adrian dove under and at the last moment saved his from the same fate.

"There goes $200," I said.

"I'm sorry," Adrian replied. "Do you want to go back in?"

I sighed. We bobbed in the water.

"No, let's see what's on the other side of the lake.... But maybe at a more leisurely pace this time?"

Adrian just laughed.

I need help naming my new friend. Suggestions welcome. I think it's a boy.

One of the reasons I keep this little site around is so that I can look back and be reminded. The first "real" entry on Helloaaron.com was this one. Reading it immediately brings me back to that Fourth of July weekend and reminds me of other times since that have been similar. For example, this time in Canada (which not incidentally contains two of the same cast members -- Justin and Adam).

The more things change, the more they stay the same, right?

While things have slowed since I first started this site -- and slowed in the blogosphere in general -- I know there are still lots of loyal readers out there. On this, its fourth anniversary, Helloaaron.com would love to see a comment from you. I know it's scary, but I promise it's easy. (Unless the site isn't working properly -- I haven't been great at maintenance.)

Thanks for making it four years with me.

Aaron

I've been neglecting to tell you that I've posted more photos from Canada here. Those are all I've got.

There was a lot of beauty in the 11 days of this Canadian vacation, from the Parc du Saguenay a few hours north of Quebec City, to the architecture of Quebec City itself, to the hours of driving with mountains flanking one side and wide-open water on the other.

Looking back, though, the thing I most enjoyed was simply spending uninterrupted time with good friends. Those memories are what will carry me through the coming weeks and months of work and school.

To be honest, I was nervous about seeing Jose. Three years ago, I almost moved to Canada to be with him. Since then, I've had a nagging feeling that I should have done it. It's really rare, right, that you meet someone with whom you truly click? Especially in my world, I feel like this is true. There have only been about two people who I feel I could spend my life with. Jose is one of them... But now he has a boyfriend... And we were going to spend a week together... Without the boyfriend.

I was nervous that I would be an emotional wreck, because I can do that sometimes (even if no one else notices). The evening we arrived, though, and met Jose and his boyfriend, Matan, for dinner, I knew it would be OK. Jose was visibly happier and more comfortable than I've seen him in the seven years we've known each other. Part of that happiness was clearly due to Matan.

At the end of the week, the night before we were to fly back to Minneapolis, Jose and I sat close together, our arms around each other's shoulders, and talked about this at length. I confessed that I had been apprehensive about seeing him.

"And how do you feel now?" he said.

"I feel happy for you," I responded. "When I go home, I'll think of you often. And when I do, I'll now be able to picture you in your apartment, with your wonderful boyfriend, or with your great friends, and I'll know that you're content and that life is treating you well. And, in turn, I'll be happy with you."

The thing is, it's true. I felt like a phase ended, like there was resolution, and in a good way. What better thing is there than being able to think of someone you love and know that they are at that moment with people who they love, and who love them in return? I can't think of much more that's better than that.

Adam, our guide, Adrian and Justin.

The previous night's rains skipped down the Quebec mountain by a thousand different paths. Tumbling over rocks, between trees, upon the steps on which we walked, the water laughed as it went down and we struggled up. We met frequently along the way -- the water and us five travelers -- the water running over the rock steps like a slinky toy, cleansing the hard-earned mud off our feet as it passed through.

Up, up, up. I don't remember ever climbing so high. Up, up, up through the Parc national du Saguenay, splashing and sweating and joking. Three kilometers felt like seven, but in a good way. We climbed to meet the saint.

It might be a secret that I've had a lot on my mind as of late. Family changes, relationship issues (with friendships and otherwise), decisions about grad schools, and complicated work have weighed me down. I don't always know how to deal with stress or sadness or disappointment, so I file them away, tucking them in crevices of my mind and body and away from view. I used to write about these things, but old age has made me cautious, less willing to reveal my inner mechanisms.

Up, up, up, though. Clarifying! One foot in front of the other, looking for a dry patch to stand firm, pausing only to dip your feet in cold water. Simple! With a known destination in mind and within reach and promising of beauty. Satisfying! As the mud caked on my feet and the altitude climbed, my mind decompressed, became calm.

At the top, she waited: the Notre Dame du Saguenay. We reached her after an hour of climbing, but when we arrived she looked not down upon us, but out upon the water, her hands clasped in calm and leaden permanence. A guide standing at her feet told us the story -- in French -- of how this saint saved a 19th century man from drowning in the fjord upon which we gazed, and how, in return, he built this statue in her honor.

There, we rested, taking off our muddy flip flops and looking out upon the mix of gray, green and blue. Water, rocks, trees and sky. The sun was warm but the breeze was cool. I looked at my friends, and looked inside. The stresses didn't seem so overwhelming, the disappointments in better perspective. It was a perfect moment, made more perfect by the realization that soon we would have to descend again, through the mud, the water, the rocky terrain and land once again upon the world which we inhabit.

At the Montreal Botanical Gardens today, somewhere between the Japanese gardens and the arboretum, I nodded and said bonjour to some strangers passing by.

Adam looked at me and said, "Bonjour. The r is more throaty, back here." He touched his tonsils. "Bon joughh. Can you do that?"

"Bon joughh," I said with a little phlegm at the end.

"Bon joughh," Adam said again.

"Bon joughh," I repeated. "Bon joughh. Bon jougGhGh. Bon joughhghGHGHG." I practically hacked up a lung with a deep, guttural sound. Ducks swimming in the pond flew away in fright. Clearly I was taking it seriously.

Adam looked at me with a look of infinite patience and wisdom, the look of a teacher with a well-meaning student who just isn't getting it.

"It takes time to learn," he said.

--

We each have different ways of dealing with the language barrier. I mentally plan my sentences, editing them down to as few words as possible. "Chicken." "Number 97." "One ticket."

Adrian gives blank stares.

Justin spews verbal stew that confuses even his English-speaking friends. This is especially effective when ordering complicated cocktails that they've never heard of in Montreal.

"I'll have a dirty martini with top-shelf vodka, do you have top-shelf vodka, tanqueray or grey goose?"

The server, who is really a bar-back filling in on a busier-than-expected night, looks at him with a confused look. "Ehhh... Dirty martini?" She asks.

"A dirty martini is easy to make two olives a little olive juice a splash of vermouth and the rest is top-shelf vodka do you have top-shelf vodka?"

Justin's quick-moving words are made even more complicated by his constant, well-meaning hand movements and head shaking. He smiles the whole time to show that he's explaining out of friendliness.

The server leaves to fetch a different server who hopefully understands English a little better.

"Justin," we say. "For god's sake! Slow. Down. And. Use. Fewer. Words."

This happens at every restaurant.

On Thursday Adam and I flew into Toronto, where Adrian and Justin were waiting in their Dodge Caravan to pick us up after their long drive from Minneapolis. We headed from there to Jose's apartment, and the next day (after a fun time at Madonnarama -- all Madonna all night!), the five of us hit the road for Montreal.

It's been two years since my last visit to Canada. The last time I was dating Greg, Jose was single, and we were here for a quick weekend softball tournament. Now I'm single and Jose has a boyfriend, Matan. Unfortunately, Matan is smart, sweet and good to Jose -- so I can only be happy for them, rather than burn with righteous jealousy, which would have been fun.

We're quickly learning that it takes a long, long time for five gay men to get ready to leave for the day. There are showers and shaves and outfit selections -- and two hours later we're finally ready to go.

This afternoon we walked a few miles to Saint Joseph's Oratory, high on a hill overlooking Montreal. From the base of the hill, some people crawl on their knees all the way up the steps to the church, praying all the way. Today several people were taking that long, painful route, making me wonder what they thought of on that long journey.

As a lapsed Protestant, I had never seen something like Saint Joseph's votive chapel, with hundreds of candles kept burning by pilgrims who come to pray. It was surprisingly moving, each candle representing the wishes of one person, an intercession for someone living or dead, a thought for someone they missed or wished well.

Tonight, we dine. Monday, we head six hours northeast of here for two days of camping among the mountains and fjords.

At least it's color-coded nicely, don't you think? It's the color palette of my life. Blue are meetings I've setup, yellow are recurring meetings, white are random meetings, and I really don't know what green means. But I do like green.

This weekend my friend Matt and I drove up to Lake Superior's North Shore -- about three hours out of the city -- for a few days of camping. We backpacked half a mile to our campsite, and it was well worth every straining muscle. The clear waters of Lake Superior surrounded our cliff on three sides. We built a fire and the sound of the crackling wood mixed beautifully with the waves hitting the rocks below us.

During the day we intermingled hiking with napping wherever we found a spot with a good view. Today, when the sun was bright and warm, I took advantage of our secluded site and stripped to my skivvies for some sun-bathing. My white skin hadn't seen the sun in months. It's white no longer.

Lake Superior on June 1 is one cold mother. But if you're lucky the sun-baked rocks will quickly warm you after one too many dares prompts you to dive in, common sense be damned.