Greetings from Palm Springs, where The Manly Fireplug and I have spent the last few days celebrating my 40th birthday. Two nights ago we stopped by my gay dads’ condo for a little party that featured three gay male couples in their fifties and sixties in tropical shirts who winter here and who have, after a few decades together, grown to resemble each other. This happens no matter what your chosen demographic (as in, really, how many more gay dudes with muscles, buzz cuts, and tattoos could the Fireplug and I possibly know), but it’s usually easier to spot in a different demographic.
When I was a bit younger I used to be cynical about rainbows, but now I just appreciate the fact that someone got me a cake.
My 40th came and went without a lot of anxiety on my part. This partly comes from watching a few others panic at their 40th with less than perfect grace (and not wanting to do the same), but really I think it has more to do with the fact that I’ve been 40 since I was nine years old.
In other news I’ve been working pretty hard at two jobs, one of which sometimes involves washing attorneys’ dishes, and the other of which involves the title “manager.” Somewhere in between I work on my book.
My wrist has been healing up nicely, and though I have yet to be *officially* cleared by the surgeon, I jumped into my first softball game last weekend, and while I have yet to regain the confidence I was edging towards when I broke the damn thing, I didn’t completely disgrace myself. So there’s that.