'Hey hun! Need a menu, or the usual?'

The Rhode Island accent, somewhere between New York and Boston both geographically and linguistically, cuts through the chatter as I take a seat at the long counter at the West Side Diner. Before I can even take my phone out of my pocket, a cup of coffee is placed in front of me.

'I’ll go with the usual, thanks!'

Hitting middle age, I’ve realized some of my goals surfaced without ever consciously defining them as 'goals.' There are, of course, the typical objectives like becoming an executive, hitting quotas, or finding someone who makes you smile everyday, all fine and good. But I always wanted to be a regular somewhere. In my mid-20s, I was a regular at a bar in Cleveland Heights, Ohio, called Nighttown. Known for its dark corners, live jazz, and cast of characters. It’s now long gone, turned into a decidedly more upscale restaurant that I recently visited for my mother’s birthday around Christmas time. Walking past my old bar seat, and not recognizing a single face, pulled on my nostalgic heartstrings. However, being a regular at a bar requires much more drinking than I am willing to partake in today.