They Say It’s My Birthday (Blog #167)

Leave a comment

Today is my birthday. Traditionally, I love my birthday, and this one has been no exception. That being said, it started off rather rough because 1) I didn’t sleep much last night, 2) I woke up with a crick in my neck, 3) I woke up to Dad talking loud on the phone because not only does his phone suck, but he’s yet to figure out that you don’t have to shout into technology in order for it to function, and 4) My website wasn’t working when I woke up. I thought, Shit, shit, shit, tried to fix it, and failed. Skipping food, I decided I’d have to deal with it later.

Seriously, technology is bullshit. I’m sure Dad would agree.

I’m glad to say that things quickly calmed down, since the first official thing I did today was get a massage from my friend Ron. He’s awesome. A few times he actually stood on my back and worked on me with his feet. The whole time I was thinking, Damn, I have a lot of tight muscles. Normally this fact would really frustrate me, and I’d start internally shouting at myself, RELAX! But today I thought all my tightness was a reason to practice self-compassion. This is the body I live in, and it’s obviously under a lot of pressure. Be gentle, Marcus.

For lunch (or, more accurately, breakfast), my friend Bonnie took me out for Mexican food and dranks. (That’s how kids these days say “drinks,” Mom.) Our waitress was pretty funny, and she asked if Bonnie and I were married. I said, “No, she’s married, but not to me.”

“So you’re having an affair then, an adulterous affair?”

“No, we’re just friends,” I said, then thought, I’m a homosexual!

Later the waitress kept teasing and said, “You’re telling me nothing’s going on here? I mean, she’s wearing strappy shoes, and you’ve got on those nut-hugger jeans.”

Nut-hugger jeans.

I said, “Shit, I’D be wearing those strappy shoes if she’d let me.”

After Mexican food, Bonnie asked I was having cake today, and I said, “I hadn’t planned on it.” So just like that, we decided to go to another restaurant for chocolate cake and coffee. Talk about decadence. In lieu of a boyfriend for my birthday, Mexican food and chocolate cake will do just fine. (Also, they’re cheaper and don’t talk back.) Look at this thing. I’m pretty sure it’s the reason God made insulin and Levi’s made my stretchy (nut-hugger) jeans.

After all the sugar and caffeine, I went to the library for a couple hours with the intent of fixing the blog and writing today’s post. Well, best laid plans. I spent the entire time trying to fix the site, which I finally did. Rather, someone with my hosting company’s technical support team did. Seriously, the person is my hero. Apparently, the site has something called a security (SSL) certificate, which verifies me as the site owner. The certificate expired last night, so although the site was reachable with HTTP in the address bar, it wasn’t reachable with HTTPS in the address bar, which is how all the links I share are designated. The certificate was set to auto-renew, but the process hadn’t completed, so the tech guru expedited things. Within thirty seconds, the site was up and running again.

I considered it a birthday miracle–second to insulin, of course.

This evening I met my friends and former roommates, Justin and Ashley, and we all rode together to Fayetteville for dinner with my friends Ray and Jesse. I’d shown up in a t-shirt, but Justin and Ashley were looking super fly, so I changed into a button-up and jacket I’d thrown in my car just in case. Here’s a picture of the three of us together before we hit the road. Justin’s one of my oldest friends, and I can’t tell you how lovely it is to spend time with him and his sweet wife. It’s like resting in your favorite chair–comfortable, something that just gets better with time. Perhaps you have friends like these, people who stick with you through the ups and the downs and all the changes. I hope so.

Tonight the five of us ate at Vetro 1925 off the square in Fayetteville. It was the perfect thing–easy, relaxed, delicious, full of good company. Ray and Jesse gave me a leather-bound journal. Ray said he wasn’t great at gift giving, but I thought it was just right, especially since Ray loves words like I do. As I flip through all the blank pages, I see lots of potential and I wonder what ideas will be born on them. After dinner we all went back to Ray and Jesse’s house, sat on their back porch, and philosophized and told stories until my birthday was over. It was exactly what a special day should be, spent in the company of dear friends and delicious food.

Throughout the day, I’ve been overwhelmed by the number of messages and well-wishes I’ve received. I used to date a guy, and sometimes when we were out, he’d say people were looking at me, in a good way. But–really–I usually don’t notice that stuff, since I’ve spent most of my life feeling a bit invisible. So whenever someone says, “Oh hey, you’re cute,” or, “I read your blog,” part of me is always surprised, and I guess it’s the same thing with my birthday. Every year I hear from people who I would have assumed didn’t even know my name. It’s really a humbling thing, one of the times I’m glad to say, “I was wrong, and thank you.” Because I don’t think it’s a little thing for someone to take a moment out of their busy day and say, “Happy Birthday,” or, “I notice you and hope you are well.” It’s not a little thing at all.

On the ride back to Fort Smith tonight, Justin asked me what I’d done in the last year that I was proud of, and I said, “I’m proud that I closed my studio, sold most of my possessions, and started a blog where I’ve written every day for over five months.” Honestly, the answer surprised me, since I’ve spent a lot of time the last year wondering whether it’s all been worth it. I have no shortage of fears associated with this time in my life, and when I think about being back home again, “proud” isn’t the first word that springs to mind. But talking to Justin, I realized that all the changes over the last several years have taken a lot of courage and faith in both myself and something larger than myself, and that’s not a little thing either.

Whether if happens on your birthday or not, I think we all need days like the one I’ve had today, days when we’re recognized and celebrated by both others and ourselves. It seems we put so much pressure on ourselves, but the truth is that all of us are courageous simply for being here. Life–perhaps you’ve noticed–isn’t for sissies. Also, although each of us walks a different path and carries mysteries only he or she can answer, we still have each other, people to help take the pressure off, cheer us on, and remind us where we’re succeeding. People say, “Growing old sucks,” but I disagree. Sure, sometimes I wake up with a crick in my neck, but the older I get, the kinder I am to myself and others and the more gentle I become. For this and many other reasons, I’m grateful for each passing year, and I’m excited about all my blank pages.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

Love  is all around us.

"

Stuff You Can’t Touch (Blog #166)

Leave a comment

Recently I started listening to music while blogging. In the past it’s been too distracting, but since I live with my parents and people make noise, it’s been easier to choose the distraction of music over the distraction of Days of Our Lives. Currently I’m listening to Mama’s Big Ones, the greatest hits album of Mama Cass. It’s one of my favorite things in the entire world. If you ever want to get me into bed, play this record on vinyl and ask me to dance. I’ll be a sure thing. Also, it wouldn’t hurt if your name were Zac Efron.

This morning I had blood drawn as part of a routine checkup. I don’t mind being stuck by a needle, but it always fascinates me that my life force can just be drained out like that, part of me neatly divided into four little glass bottles, shipped off to a lab, and translated onto a sheet of paper. This man has high cholesterol. Once I had a mortician tell me that when someone dies, they drain the blood and pour it down a hole in the floor. There you go–down the tubes–into the sewer. It’s weird, something I can’t quite wrap my brain around.

Usually before giving blood, I try to clean my diet up during the preceding weeks, but this time I was all, fuck cholesterol–it’s just a number. But then I still did what I usually do after the blood was drawn–eat and drink like a college freshman. Granted this makes no logical sense, but it always feels like I have a free pass for a day or two, at least until the tests are completed and I have to face the facts.

This evening I taught dance at Todd and Bonnie’s house, then we sat on their porch for several hours and swapped stories. I’m writing this blog as if it were the day before my birthday, but since it’s after midnight, the big day has arrived. (Happy birthday to me.) So to kick off the celebration, Todd and Bonnie served up beer, and later Bonnie and I did shots of American Honey out of plastic food containers because their kitchen is being remodeled and sometimes you have to improvise. Honestly, it was the perfect and healthy pre-birthday dinner–you know–the kind where healthy means substituting alcohol for quinoa and chocolate chip cookies for grilled chicken.

Hey, I’m a dance instructor, not a dietician.

Tonight Todd and Bonnie and I somehow started talking about how incredible (almost unbelievable) it is to be alive. Todd’s been working on his family tree, and he said if any of his ancestors hadn’t gotten together and decided to have a kid (or–in his family–twelve), he wouldn’t be here. I said, “Yeah, if some other sperm had made it to my mom’s internal finish line first, I could easily be a totally different person. Crazy. (And I can’t believe I just said “my mom’s internal finish line.” I’m blaming the American Honey.)

Sometimes I forget that so much happened before I showed up on the planet, so much that bares a direct influence on where I was born, what my life is like, who I am. There’s a popular thought in the New Age culture that says our souls pick our parents, actually choose the circumstances we’re born into. Like, that looks like a challenge–send me in, Coach. Sometimes I think this idea is a load of crap. Other times I really like it. It helps me find meaning in both the mundane and the difficult as well as connect with that steady part of myself that’s able to weather any storm. I think, Maybe I didn’t know exactly what  I was getting into but knew I was stronger than any circumstance. I don’t have facts to back this theory up, but that last part feels especially true to me.

Regardless of how it happened, thirty-seven years ago my mom was in labor. Just before nine in the morning, I was crowning and being welcomed to the planet. When I got home tonight, I listened to Mama Cass sing “There’s a New World Coming” and danced in my driveway under the half-full moon. The air was cool, the way it always is this time of year when the seasons start to change. I love the air in fall. It always feels so light and fresh, so crisp and clean. Dancing, I thought, What a great time to be born, what a great time to be alive. I’m so glad to be here.

Now it’s four in the morning, and it’s not looking like I’ll get much sleep tonight. I have a full day planned tomorrow, and I’m sure you’ll hear all about it. With any luck, I’ll blog in the afternoon so I can celebrate in the evening without having to worry about cutting the festivities short. But it already feels like a great day, and in this moment, I’m grateful for all the days that have come before. I’ve waited my entire life to turn thirty-seven (it’s just a number), and a lot of good people had to get together in order for this new world to come. For surely each of us is an entire world, and surely all of creation celebrates when one of us is born, just as it grieves when one of us dies and is poured down a drain. Surely we are all connected in a great mystery and made of the same strong stuff, stuff you can’t touch but feels like the beginning of fall or dancing under the moon.

[I know it’s shocking, but I didn’t take a selfie today, so–all things considered–the above photo was the closest thing I could find that seemed appropriate. It was taken at a Great Gatsby fundraiser I co-hosted on my 33rd birthday, four years ago. ]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

Give yourself a break.

"

Waiting in the Green Room (Blog #164)

Leave a comment

It’s 9:30 in the evening, and it’s quite possible I won’t have to “backdate” today’s blog. I’m writing earlier than normal because I have morning appointments the next two days, and I’m tired of depending on coffee to put one foot in front of the other. Okay, that’s forty-five words in three minutes. Things are looking good. That being said, my home internet connection has been slow this weekend, and it’s been making my armpits sweat. So whereas things are looking good, they’re not exactly smelling good. But really, I’m the only who’s bothered by this. As my dad said yesterday, “It could be worse. Someone could have their nose in there.”

I should be so lucky.

This afternoon I went to the library, answered emails, and paid bills–something that lately always makes my blood pressure go up. My first thought was, Shit. I’m screwed. But then when it was over, I thought, Okay, that wasn’t so bad. I’ll live to see another day. Afterwards I went for a walk around the park, and it was nice, but nothing spectacular happened. I mean, no one put a ring on my finger. Then I went for a smoothie, and while I was waiting in the drive-thru, I noticed a bumper sticker on the car in front of me that said, “Are you THIS CLOSE to Jesus?” Currently I’m trying to decide if it was funny, passive aggressive, or both.

I’m thinking probably both.

When I got home tonight, Mom was reading last night’s blog to Dad, out loud, so I pretended to be doing other things, but I was actually listening to her read, glued to every word. This is still a weird phenomenon for me, the idea that other people–my parents even–read what I write. Of course, I love it, I just haven’t quite wrapped my head around it. I’m not sure I’m supposed to. Before I left for the library earlier, I got a birthday gift–a lovely book–in the mail from my friend Amber. The note inside said, “This reminded me of one of your blogs.” Again, people read this stuff. Wow.

So this week I turn thirty-seven, as in “years old.” This is another fact I can’t quite wrap my head around. I’m not sure I want to. People say that age is just a number, but I think that’s kind of like saying, “McDonald’s is just a burger joint,” or, “John Stamos is just another pretty face.” I mean, there’s a certain amount of bullshit in all those statements–you know it, and I know it. Maybe every society doesn’t do it, but this society praises youth and beauty. Seriously, I watched a video today about guys who have started getting Botox injected into their scrotums to make their nuts “more aesthetic.” I’m not kidding, they call it “Scrotox.” So let’s not pretend we live in a culture where growing old and having wrinkles–anywhere–is something we get excited about.

Honestly, for the longest time, getting older hasn’t been a problem for me. I mean, I still feel young, have tons of energy, and enjoy pretty good health. Granted, my metabolism occasionally goes out for a smoke break, but we all have our challenges. That being said, maybe because I still use words like, “totes,” “adorbs,” and “fo sheezy,” my sister says I’m the teeniest-booper thirty-something-year-old she knows, which I take as an “on the serious” compliment. But despite my youthful frame of mind, forty is getting closer and closer, and there’s something about that number. In the gay culture, it’s pretty close to death. This, I think, is a mentality we could improve on.

You can’t change your age, but you can change what your age means to you.

Several of my older friends say there’s a point when you become invisible, when other people stop noticing you. I’ve never said this to them, but I’m not sure that’s a bad thing. Ultimately, I think we all have to get our validation from inside, not outside, ourselves. Clearly, we’re all headed to one place. You can put Botox in your forehead or your nut sack all you want–that’s fine–but it doesn’t change the fact that all of us have a one-way ticket out of here. One of my friends, who’s well-passed retirement age but works harder than any twenty-year-old I know, says she dyes her hair not to impress others, but to avoid the constant reminder that she’s “old” or “incapable,” at least by society’s standards. This, I think, is the key. You can’t change you age, but you can change what your age means to you.

In my case, I’m choosing to look at thirty-seven as the year I was reborn, the year I started over. Earlier tonight, as part of a creativity exercise, I wrote myself a letter. I won’t get it for a couple of days, but one of the things I told myself was, “Your past is only a springboard, a jockey (small warm-up) before the real dancing starts.” If this is anywhere close to the truth, if I’m not just blowing smoke up my own ass, I have a lot to look forward to.

Look out, forty, here I come.

Some of you might not believe this, but I’ve taken more selfies since starting this blog than I ever have before. Part of me likes it and part of me hates it, but since I try to have a picture with each blog and my stuffed animals are camera-shy, it is what it is. Anyway, tonight when I took a picture in my room, I noticed that all the walls are green. I mean, I’ve noticed before–I’m not blind–but I’ve never thought of the room as “the green room.” But tonight I did think of it as “the green room,” which–I’m sure you know–is the theater term for a star’s dressing room. Better said, it’s the place you wait before you go on stage.

Sure, I don’t know that I’ll end up on stage or be “a star.” But I like thinking of this time in my life as a waiting period, a sort of rest before the curtains open to whatever’s coming next. When my dad talks about getting older, he always says, “It beats the alternative,” and I’m going to have to agree. Even if it means a few more wrinkles, I’m willing to stick around and look forward to all the coming attractions, things like starting all over, living to see another day, and maybe–just maybe–having someone’s nose in my armpits.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

"

We are surrounded by the light.

"