It’s Corona Days on Planet Earth right now, and everyone with a birthday in the last two weeks or upcoming twelve months is lamenting how they won’t get to celebrate their big bash. Normally, I wouldn’t add my name to the list of complainers, but it’s not every day that you turn 40 years old. Today’s 4F4 is from my private celebration of making it to middle age. I remember…
The year is 2020. I’m 40 years old.
I feel bad for people who are spending their birthdays alone this year. I’m fortunate enough to be sheltered-in-place with Dom, Matador, and our two pups, so my “official” birthday will still have people in attendance. Dom’s going to make me dinner and a cake, and I’ll spend most of the day hanging out with Matador, learning the intricacies of potty dynamics.
I have nothing to complain about, so I won’t.
Because honestly, what was I going to do? Throw a huge clothing-optional rave at an abandoned warehouse on the east side and dance and drink until the sun comes up and I have to explain to Dom why I have Natalie Portman’s personal cell number in my phone? I think not.
I’m more than happy to celebrate at home.
And this year, I’m actually celebrating the night before. I’ve got a glass full of Kraken and Coke, a handful of fresh-baked cookies, and Doom Eternal. I won’t patronize you with an explanation of why those things are superior to a night out on the town. If you don’t know, you don’t know.
Why the night before?
I was born in the early hours of an auspicious day in Naples, Italy. Italy, as you know, is seven hours ahead of Texas. That means, technically, when I came into this world, it was still the day before back here in the States. My birthday, much like my claim of scoring a 1560 on the SAT, is a total lie.
It’s something I’ve learned to live with. I just don’t have the heart to tell my birthday twins, Stephanie and Jessica, that I’m technically one day older than them. (Happy Birthday, Steph and Jess!)
So here we are. Forty.
Forty and fortunate. Just so goddamn lucky to be where I am. Even though the world is falling apart and toilet paper is scarce for some reason, I feel good. And despite what FaceApp can do to my photos, I don’t feel too old. I guess that’s the one mercy of growing older; you don’t feel it until you do.
Forty down. Forty to go. Then I become a robot. In the meantime, I’ll keep my head high and enjoy the backside of life as I slide slowly into dementia and decriputed. If anything, it will be nice to sit down for a while.
Thank you for checking out my 30 For 30 series. I’ll stop with the daily updates now. Besides, I’ll be too busy putting a weight bench in the garage and trying to get in touch with Mena Suvari.
That’s what middle aged men do, right?