Don't Turn the Page Just Yet.

What the hell, 2016? Why'd you have to go and be such a lowlife bastard?

Seriously, if years were body parts, you'd be Donald Trump's ass. If they were colored body parts, you'd be Donald Trump's grey, vein-marbled ass, and if they were textured, colored body parts, you'd be Donald Trump's saggy, grey, vein-marbled ass.

A year ago, so many giants still lived among us as we entered 2016—Prince, Harper Lee, David Bowie, Muhammad Ali—only to dissolve from our presence one by one, as we made our way through one of the most discouraging years I can remember.

Our planet was ravaged by cataclysms both natural and otherwise. Unprecedented flooding, drought and blizzards racked North America. Iraq and Syria's war-torn populaces fled for somewhere, anywhere, and were received with little more than fear and suspicion. Simultaneously, the the western world retreated to levels of xenophobia and nationalism not witnessed since the advent of the Cold War 70 years ago.

Wow, okay, I'll just stop there. Obviously I wasn't the only mortal beast left reeling from Shitstorm '16—you were, too, for Pete's sake. How about if we try and take a little of the edge off, eh? Since gratitude is a quality I've never been exactly stellar in recognizing in myself, maybe it's time I celebrated some of humanity's accomplishments over the past year rather than constantly dwelling on the worst we have to offer.

Here's just a sampling of the positive events that helped shape our year:

On May 10, an Indian fertility clinic announced that a 70-year-old woman had given birth to a baby boy. I'm not sure why this needed to happen, but how awesome is it that now we can wait until Social Security kicks in to start a family. Plus, thank God people can finally lay off elderly new parents like Steve Martin, Mick Jagger and the spry Scotsman himself, Rod Stewart:

Apparently, a few of those British are still invading.

On February 17, the oldest known case of human-Neanderthal sex (100,000 years ago) was revealed by the Max Planck Institute for Evolutionary Anthropology. Using complicated computer modeling, the humanoid's appearance has now been simulated to a reliability level of 99.9%:

It's never easy to act completely human when deep down, you know you're only half.

And finally, December of this year saw the wedding of my nephew, Andrew. Here's a shot of me with my sister and foster grandpa, obviously still thrilled about his recent murder acquittal:

While it's no secret that attending a friend or relative's nuptials accounts for some of life's most joyous events, this one packed a little extra oomph. You see, here's what Andrew looked like when he entered the scene in the autumn of 1984:

The little guy was smaller than a freaking crusty pup. He was delivered ten weeks premature, weighing two pounds, twelve-and-a half-ounces. Even now, neonatal care is a dicey proposition, and you can imagine how much more so it was thirty-two years ago.

Necessary that he remain at the hospital through his full-term date, Andrew's lungs were so underdeveloped those first weeks that his brain forgot to make them breathe a few times. Thankfully, the University Washington isn't merely one of the best football schools in the earth's history, it's also home to a world-class neonatal facility, and the amazing doctors and nurses at UW Medical Center proved adept at meeting the multitude of challenges inherent in a lad this tiny.

I'll never forget when he finally came home and eventually learned to rock any type of cable knit sweater thrown his way.

When Andrew married Jen earlier this month, I'm sure his parents had a moment, because I sure did. Here he is with his cousins:

And new bride:

He's grown into one of my favorite, 100% human beings...

... I guess 2016 wasn't such a bad year after all.

I cry at weddings...so sue me!

Are you a crier?

Not a crybaby or a whiner, but someone who can’t slap those sandbags down fast enough to stave off a flash flood of salty, frothy rapids?

As kids, most of us cried frequently. Tears were our brains’ natural reaction to pain, both emotional and physical. As six-year-olds, when we fell off our sting rays and asphalt-raked our hip and knee after attempting to ride cross-armed, we sat awkwardly beneath our bikes, our heads slowly pointed to the skies, mouths gaping into a yawning grin of agony. Eye contact with Mom meant unbridled throes of anguish, while exposure only to peers resulted in a quiet and private pain management.

And naturally, as grown-ups, we also shed a tear from time to time. Ninety-nine percent of us cry when something is triggered within us which we really can’t control. It just happens.

But that one percent, that superminority of our adult citizenry, seems to tap their emotions to manipulate like a master baker utilizes fondant.

Before every Friday night game, my high school football coach’s lip would begin quivering, his baritone cracking, by the time he’d uttered that fourth cliché comparing a bunch of sixteen-year-olds to American World War II paratroopers. After he’d likened our undersized defensive tackle to some guy who’d swum the English Channel with no arms or legs, Coach had rendered himself incapable of communicating through his spastic, mucus gurgling sobs. Some of my teammates hopped right onto his express bus to Inspirationville, while others felt he probably should have practiced his talk in the bathroom mirror one last time.

And then, there’s Speaker John Boehner of the United States House of Representatives. This guy…wow.

Boehner claims he can’t even speak to a group of school kids without losing it. Whenever he describes his humble beginnings as one of twelve offspring of a bar owner in Ohio, he barely makes it to the third line of the speech before his face twitches, his orange skin reddens and he saltily barks his desire to duck behind the stage to smoke a Pall Mall and gather himself.

What an endearing man he is, no? He’s not afraid to put himself out there, to display his vulnerable side. Oh, except when he’s discussing denying healthcare to women, kids and old people. His face stays a healthy burnt ember for that topic.

But really, the reason I brought up the subject of crying is to talk about…well...me...again.

I consider myself a member of that other ninety-nine percent…the Criers of Noble Repute.

Oh, boy, did I cry this past weekend. It was at a wedding for someone whom I’d never met, among people I didn’t know.

Even before my daughters came along, my emotions had always bubbled quickly to the surface upon watching a bride dancing with her father. Then, after my girls were born, I could barely cope when witnessing this amazing transitional moment in the lives of those two people on the dance floor.

On Saturday night, the bride’s dad wasn’t around.

He lost a battle with pancreatic cancer two years ago, but the bride made sure that his contributions to her life and her affinity for him were incorporated throughout a beautiful ceremony.

As I gazed upon the newlyweds sharing the evening’s first dance, a small lump in my throat developed, and slowly creeped in size from a Russian tea cake to an avocado pit to a tennis ball. Uh oh. Here we go again.

I was ill-prepared for what came next, as the massive obstruction in my windpipe gave way to a gusher of tears.

The  groom beckoned his mother onto the floor for the second dance, as did the bride…

with her mom, as well.