Halfway there

Since moving away from New Jersey I have come to view it less harshly and have even developed a perverse pride of my Jersey blood after witnessing people from other states struggle with some kind of Jersey Turrets Syndrome where they are powerless against asking about exits and mentioning refineries and smoke stacks. And ever since the HBO series, “the Sopranos,” portrayed it so glowingly, Jersey expatriates have been provided some kind of blanket mob cred, which I’m not too proud to roll with. Anyway, I think when I moved away there was some kind of microchip implanted in my brain that invokes the song “living on a prayer” by Bon Jovi every time someone says, “halfway there.” Ever since I passed the twenty week mark in my pregnancy someone will ask me how far along I am and say, “oh you’re halfway there” and without knowing they have pressed play on the chorus of that song that seems to be on a constant loop inside my head lately. This microchip idea is not a new theory of mine because I already hold it responsible for my steadfast delight in all things airbrushed; my firm belief that all businesses should be open 24-hours a day; and my inability to express myself verbally without using the f-word and the word “boom” when I draw a conclusion or provide driving directions.