When my mom and dad turned forty, it seemed like they were Officially Old or maybe at least Old-er. It’s been many years since then, but I still mentally peg them at forty-ish in my head. Because they can’t possibly be older. Because then that would mean that I am older.

‘Older’ seems like something that other people are.

I am as old as Jaws. As old as Wheel of Fortune or the fall of Saigon or the Volkswagen Golf.

Ron and I standing in Russian River in Guerneville, California. Hoping to get this image to show up in Facebook instead of my huge massive face.

Feeling It, Looking It

Strategic selfie.

I feel my age in the morning when I get up. Right ankle feels weaker. Right shoulder rolling forward. The gash above my eyebrow that dad asked “What is that cut?” and it is really just a worry line. The puffy eyelids from a lifetime of allergies. Constant sinus grossness making me terrified I’ll end up as one of those old fogies that talks with phlegm on their vocal cords 24–7 (my one reservation about Sanders running in the primaries). That zit on my nose from two months ago next to that huge pore from high school has left a scar that looks like it’s now going to be a dent in my face for the rest of my life.

I never wake up refreshed like they do in commercials (I still think most people don’t). The grey in the beard grows out a little more. A little more on my head too.

Ron is aging much slower than I am, the gift of his Filipino heritage. He barely has wrinkles on his forehead and his smile eliminates all fatigue from his face. When we are eighty, I will look like a pedophile when I stand next to him.

He’s young at heart.

Ron’s latest development in towel origami.

But I know I’m being too critical of myself and reminds myself I am bathed in a mainstream culture (media) and minority culture (gay) and local culture (San Francisco) that worships appearances, youth, and hedonism.

But then I feel better getting a random compliment like:

I guess I’ve still got it.

Those are all from the same person. For different photos.

I get up and take decongestants and antihistamines and antidepressants and chug some caffeine to assemble myself chemically before going to the gym. My teenage self would be shocked to know I became a gym rat in later life.

Protein shakes and KIND bars under my desk.

I weigh myself and I’m hovering at 176 or so (this is after pushing right up against 200 back in 2010) and I feel like I should be 168 or so but can’t really articulate why or what happens when I reach that magic weight. It’s not like I’m going to get some sort of kewpie doll or gymbunny rewards points. Under my desk at work are boxes of protein shakes and in the file cabinet KIND grain bars (not those bars, these bars I’m sure have their own problems). That doesn’t mean I don’t fall down into a triple taco plate at Iron Cactus though.

I try to resist pouring social media and political news into my brain while I’m at the gym but usually give in and start checking all the usual channels and feeds and email and our Slack channel for work to see if any of the companies I’ve worked at have been bought at a discount or have pivoted so many times they did a 360.

Maybe one day I can be an internet dozen-naire.

I Always Feel Behind

I always get moody as my birthday approaches. I think of all the things I said I would do a year ago that I haven’t done: started a podcast, written another book, put my plays on Kindle, blogged more, completely cleared my credit report, lost more weight, gained more muscle, taken a tap dance class, played piano again, done any yoga or rolfing, slept more, visited Chicago… this whole stack of things that I wished I had done but somehow didn’t make the time to do.

I usually feel about five years behind in my life.

So I’m writing this to also remind myself what I did get done in the last year and what happened — both the good and the bad:

Ron and I Got Engaged

I really can’t tell you why we got engaged when we did. I think that our lives and jobs seemed relatively non-insane for a while, so we might as well get things rolling. I had held out for a long time and insisted that we can’t say we are engaged until we had a wedding date nailed down. I think for two guys that have been together for 14 years and lived together for 7 it is ridiculous to say you are engaged without a wedding date. Otherwise you’re just trolling for Facebook likes.

Ron and I at a street fair last year (left) and in Chicago 2002 or so (right).

We had bought the rings already but weren’t sure when to announce but figured might as well do it during the holidays like everybody else. So one night while we were waiting to go out for a holiday party we decided to go right ahead. I guess we didn’t really propose officially. We setup our Facebook status updates and — like a nuclear missile launch — turned our keys at the same time.

So we’re getting married in September. It’ll be a relatively small wedding. My main goal is just have several of the smartest and funniest people I know all in one room, drinking, eating, and having a good time.

Here’s the invitations we made:

Our wedding invites. Photo from Ginevra. She added the glasses so it’s like a Kinfolk magazine shot. I removed the location so no basic bitches show up uninvited.

I am slightly terrified about a day with everyone focused on us for the entire day and am worried about having panic attacks the entire time.

The Apartment Squeeze

We did get rid of one of our biggest stressors by moving apartments (yet again).

You always feel this constant squeeze trying to find an apartment in San Francisco as the rents keep going up and the housing policies get worse and worse. You know you’re going to pay an obscene amount of rent and you try and justify it by adding up the cost of a car or parking spot or the time spent going back and forth to work. We had tried to make it work in a junior one bedroom on Post & Jones the year before which ended up being a glorified studio. We couldn’t do separate things in the apartment and felt like we were living on top of eachother. Bickering over stupid stuff. We bit the bullet and moved again and we’re staying where we are for at least two years.

We are lucky to have jobs that allow us to remain in the city for now in a mostly safe area (except for the suitcase of bodyparts). I did have a guy call me a faggot as I walked to work the other day but I take comfort knowing he probably called everybody else that passed him a faggot as well. If we do the kids/adoption route (gotta make that decision soon!) we definitely have to leave the city. Oakland sounds nice but it’d be better for us to be between the city where I work and SFO for Ron’s job. But as I tell Ron, most everybody commutes in every day or drives in for the weekend, there’s no reason we can’t do it too.

Saying Goodbye to Downy

Downy was a super-fluffy, super-affectionate cat. Part Maine Coon with that ‘boxy’ frame and long bushy tail. He loved a tummy rub or a vigorous brushing:

He had lived with Ron’s mom for a while in Milwaukee and then I took him while were still in Chicago and he came with us to San Francisco when we moved here (and moved in together). He had to be at least 20 years old.

He had a kidney function scare the year before and we were able to bring him back with meds and hydrating him with a saline drip and injection. This time around we took him to the vet and it was more of the same. The uric acid was building up and he couldn’t hydrate himself enough. He was just an old kitty. We kept him going as long as we could and he’d patiently sit in a chair while we put a needle in the scruff of his neck and give him a saline drip with electrolytes. Eventually, he stopped being peppy and was not eating much and stopped grooming. He would sleep in the back corner of the closet on Ron’s luggage and just sit and stare all day. He stopped being social and couldn’t walk with all the uric acid build up in his joints. He stopped purring when we’d pet him or groom him.

Eventually we knew that it was time to say goodbye . The best description I read of the process of putting a pet to sleep was from a feline vet:

“The choice to break our own hearts to save another from suffering is true compassion.”

The day before we put Downy to sleep we took him downstairs to the courtyard and let him play in the flowers and get some fresh air and sun. He was so frail.