On my 35th birthday I spent the day in bed watching Netflix, unable to face the world in a wallowing self-indulgent haze that I do tend to get in when I allow myself to think about things. This past Friday on my 36th birthday was nothing like that.
I’ve never been particularly overjoyed about my birthday. I remember my 16th birthday when I locked myself in my room wanting to be left alone to read and listen to music. But 36 here filled me with happiness. Not just resignation at the fact that I am unable to stave off Father Time. But there I was smiling.
Friday itself was pretty nondescript. I had to take my grandmother to her acupuncture appointment, went to Souplantation for lunch, catcalled shirtless guys and guys in tank tops screaming out, “AY! PAPI CHULO!!!!!!!!” Picked up grandmother, made dinner and watched movies. It didn’t matter that I was not in the middle of a raging orgy filled with all sorts of snortables spread in a hedonistic buffet. That I wasn’t being plugged in every orifice with oozing turgid penises ready to explode its life force into me.
I am past that now. That is to say, I am too damn lazy to plan anything like that. If I happen to fall into such a situation, I won’t turn it down by any means.
On Saturday after getting steaks at Damons, I went back to Catherine’s and Tyson’s homestead for cake. We looked around, wondered if we should go out to a bar, decided sleep was better and I was home by 11. The scary part was that I am all right with this. This is 36.