Sometimes, it’s a lonely thing. And sometimes, it’s like being Jesus.

I really ought to be on top of the world, right now.  (And so, that’s why I am).

• I am 33 years old. And I’m OK with it.
• I had a great birthday, hobnobbed with artists, all my favorite people around me, and a chocolate cake that could create world peace. And,
• I didn’t do anything I had to apologize for the morning after, although there were some broken dishes in the middle of the street before the night was over. (And none of the guests were Greek, either).

It was a weekend full of good things, good, true things. And despite this lingering head cold, I actually felt great, the whole night long. Because for the first time in my life, I truly felt like a grown-up. Well, no, more than that:  I felt like a man.

And it didn’t feel tacky or gross.

It felt…right.

For years, I’ve struggled with my sexual identity, specifically where my sex was concerned: I never wanted to be a man. Or a Man.

What I think I realized this weekend, though, is that there are many kinds of men (and Men) in this world, and my problem was in trying to be everyone else’s man, instead of my own.

But, Friday night, I became my own Man. And I like him. I’m quite happy with him, actually.

I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I like who I am becoming.

And saying that, aloud, is wonderfully freeing.

Because I’m not sure that many of us like who we are, at all.

I can understand that. I think we all experience that; isn’t it mandatory in order to get through the seventh grade, or something, to hate yourself?  I’m thankful that I’m coming through to the other side of it, though, because there’s not a whole lot of good that comes out of hating yourself, or keeping so many walls up.

…except poetry, I guess. But. I’d argue that it probably isn’t really good poetry.

It takes an awful lot of energy to keep so many walls standing. I used to do it, though. I waited in fear of my coming Battle of Jericho because I’d built those walls on purpose. They had a real reason for being built: to keep everyone else out.

Until, I suppose, this past weekend, when I decided, you know, if push comes to shove, I’d much rather bring my own walls down, instead of letting someone else.

That’s a big step to come to terms with, and No, I didn’t come up with all this courage in the past three days…it’s been a process for the last two years. Since becoming single.

I didn’t bring my first wall down, alone, you know. Much as I hate admitting that.

But, I was damn sure not going to let the rest of them be taken down without permission. And that decision is what pushed me along this sudden path to manhood. A path I think I finally found good footing on this weekend, and that’s all.

That’s all I’m trying to say.

I’m not sure, I can only guess, but I think perhaps I’ve spent this first part of my life as my mother. Now, I feel like I’m changing, and that would mean, spending the next part of my life as my father. It’s a hazardous guess, I’m aware of that, but it makes some bizarre sense to me.

I know my mother believed that the unexamined life is the same as being without a man, in other words, unacceptable. My father, I would say, believes there is no such thing as an unexamined life. Which puts me somewhere in the middle of thinking that Love, and the act of it, is both life and its final exam.

Or, rather, by the time I get to the end of this second part of my life that will be my truism. At the moment, I consider Love to be that rare thing that can still exist even if you don’t believe in it.

You can have love without giving it. You can know love without believing in it. You can love without being loved back.

Sometimes, it’s a lonely thing. And sometimes, it’s like being Jesus.

I bet no less than fifteen people said this to me, last weekend: Wow, you’re 33. That’s how old Jesus was when he was crucified.

I’m not sure even Miss Manners would have an appropriate response to that.

Above all, I hope it’s not an implication re: my 33^rd year. I’m just shy of having all trees in my line of sight cut down, just in case. (I also will do my best not to befriend any one from North Africa named Simon).

I know it was meant as conversation fodder, some twisted style of joking, and I carried it off as that, up until the fifteenth time it was said to me. By then, I’d managed to work my way through half a bottle of Moscato Spumante, and the last thing on my mind was What Would Jesus Do?

I was on the very verge of trying to Noel Coward the poor young man who’d been Number 15, when I stopped. The cake had been brought out, and I was itching to get my mouth on chocolate. I’m sure whatever I had been prepared to say would have been wit-worthy.

But, though the comment has dried up and away, the residue of fifteen separate people having the urge to say the exact same thing fifteen times to me, has settled into a small corner in the back of my mind.

Jesus, whether you like him or not, or follow him or what, was still a real person, a Man, who died in a most horrible manner at the age of 33. And that shouldn’t happen to anyone. When the dust settled, the literal dust, what was left, was a life that offers us, even now in this day and age, a prime example of Love. Compassion. Mercy.

But, mostly, Love.

He left a legacy of words, which, in my book, is about the highest honor a Man can have. But, he also left a legacy of common sense, of humanity, of decency.

And that, I can relate to.

Instead of throwing myself into another’s arms, what would happen if I opened mine out for someone, this time? Rather than desperately seek for What I Think I’m Owed, would it be so bad to “pay off some of my debts, or trespasses, to others?” Why hold anger against those I don’t like, for whatever reason? Would it kill me to forgive? Is it out-of-fashion to be a decent human being in the 21^st Century? Out of vogue to have common sense?

Would it really be so bad to be like Jesus?

I don’t think so.

Of course, I’m probably going to have to hold onto that glass of Moscato, but that still leaves a hand free to break down another wall or two.

Hell, that’d be a good toast, so let’s make it one: Here’s to going one wall at a time.

And, maybe, two on Sundays.

Related Posts:

• Yes, Virginia, I am a vegetarian.
• Because hands can do everything but lie.
• I don’t have to use a walker to pump my gas.
• This raises an interesting question within my Articles of Faith [...]
• That time I almost met Harper Lee.