It is done.
I am thirty (30). Trente. Halfway to sixty, third of the way to ninety.
The pic above is from the stroke of midnight last night at Boulder’s venerable Sundown Saloon. Also known as the "Scumdown", the "Downer" and probably a host of other cute nicknames as well (I can think of "Sunkdown" and "Spundown." What can you think of?), it is the veritable picture of a dive and thus the very best sort of place to celebrate an agonizing-ish life transition.
But you know… as I stood there, leaning against the Foosball table, chugging the penultimate swallow of my Long Island iced tea ($3 special, bay-bay!), I thought to myself… So everyone says this is the decade of self-acceptance. When it finally stops mattering quite so much what everyone thinks of you, and more what you think of yourself. Huh. I kinda like that. Maybe my little round tummy and my big round butt and my long skinny feet aren’t that bad after all. And if someone thinks they are… ahhhh, fuck ’em.
And no, I did not hook up with random fellows in some dreadful half-assed attempt at recapturing my fleeting youth. The guy I’m holding onto is my beloved cousin Geoffrey. The skinny guy on my left is my darling brother Benjamin (I have some graphic photos of the aftermath of his drinking session, but I’m not sharing). The guy on his left is his roommate Matt. Sweetie Jim took the photo, and Matt and Ben’s buddy Ryan was standing next to him out of camera’s reach. So yes, I was hanging around in a bar with five men, four of whom are unmarried, but it was utterly innocent and even a bit sweet. The only person I made goo-goo eyes at all evening, with the exception of my Dearly Beloved, was this cute little butch gal in a wifebeater and some black leather pants that I wanted dreadfully. (The pants, not the butch gal.) And that was just for the humorous effect anyway.
A final note on the Sundown: It has the most interesting funk to it. Funk in the old sense, meaning "stink." It smells most peculiarly of B.O. and cigarettes. And probably stale vomit, some of which may belong to a member of my family… or not…
Here’s to my fourth decade of life. May it bring insight, intelligence and inspiration. But not insects. Or incubi. Or inhumanity to man.