• 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.

Oh, chocolate cake, what can't you fix?

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.

This isn't going to be good.

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.

Start with yourself, first.

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.

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For whatever reason, truth be told, I prefer to shop alone.

I can become rather delusional, in my personal shopping, not knowing when to say when.  My previous attempts at shopping with others is probably a more normal cycle for a shopper:  for instance, I usually find “that” pair of pants, or “that” style of shirt, with “those” shoes, and then just convince myself to alternate ways of wearing them every single day, plus Febreze, in order to shorten the shopping-with-others-experience.  I mean, after all, what’s the point of buying items that can’t withstand some long-term wear and tear?  I could go for long periods of time not buying new clothes when shopping with others, simply because I shoot for pleasure with what I do purchase, when under the duress of “shared time”…and, also, because truthfully, I don’t really want the company. 

But when I do shop, and it’s alone, I go bananas. 

I don’t know what comes over me, or where that mood comes from, but I just go to a store and can’t stop buying, and I get drunk on the idea that I’m not with anyone else who’s constantly wristwatching. 

Of course, I come home with the most ridiculous things, which usually end up as presents.  When I remember to give gifts, that is.  I have some bizarre mental block on people’s birthdays and anniversaries, and Christmases.  It’s not that I’m entirely selfish, I like to give, you know, it’s just that I have trouble doing anything even remotely considerate sometimes.  I’m insular, like that.  I don’t actively seek to avoid or forget birthdays, and the like, it just happens. 

A couple of weeks ago, on a Sunday, I went home to eat (Sunday dinners are like Must-See-TV in my family) and lo and behold, there sat a ginormous (this is now an official word and adjective; I use it here for the sole purpose of proving my advocacy of evolving language, despite the fact that I think the word is completely stupidiculous) birthday cake.

I looked at Nana, and I said, Oh great, whose it this time?  Whose birthday am I missing today? And she said, with the saddest sound she could muster (simply to tease me), and the biggest, roundest eyes available from Merle Norman, and said, The baby’s.

The baby’s, though he’s not the baby anymore; he was just the first.  I missed my own, oldest nephew’s birthday.  I mean, how could I.

Anyway. 

Back to shopping.

So, awhile back, my Brazilian physical therapist-friend and I went away for a weekend (to a wedding, really, and personally speaking, can that just stop?  I’m a little tired of everyone I know getting married, it’s exhausting…). 

He couldn’t leave the hospital for a couple of hours and that was all the instigation I needed, the mood ever-lurking sprung again.  I went to the mall and bought, bought, bought…And why?  I have no idea.  I didn’t really need anything…for crying out loud, last Thursday I crawled back into my closet, I mean into the back of my closet, to retrieve the left shoe, as it were, and found a box in which were laying two brand new shirts that I’d forgotten I had…that kind of thing happens a lot.

I digress, so…aside from the usual fares (food court, drinks, etc.), and being accosted by a young man from Israel (he said) trying to sell me dead sea salt body scrub – and here, at this point, I will have to create a word to describe this experience, after he hassled me into a 20-minute demonstration at his kiosk I…actually, that word might just do it:  Yes. I think it will, all right World, here’s another new word, a verb denoting aggressive sales tactics and behavior, I was without a doubt kiosked – I didn’t know how to disengage, I tried to walk away but he attempted to follow me…I had no choice but to break into a sprint and throw myself at the mercy of those in Hot Topic.  Word to the wise, they are not interested in mercy at Hot Topic; they are not allowed to smile, apparently. 

…and then this happened:

When Pedro got to the mall, he needed to buy some new shoes, to go with his suit. Obviously, not in Hot Topic.

So, I accompanied him to several stores. 

I was wearing my devstating pink onesie. No, no…it was just a short sleeve, a la polo, but all the same, I did look fairly dashing in it; I look good in pink (now that’s irony). And I was holding up a pair of shoes to show him (a pair that I was in the process of making fun of), when this elderly woman pushing a stroller of twins, I think, in the aisle behind me, said, to her alleged daughter, or perhaps, daughter-in-law, who am I to judge?,  

“A man who wears pink just isn’t afraid of anything, is he?”

I turned to her, and replied, “Except of these shoes, am I right?  Am I right? Who wears loafers, anymore, huh?”

She did, apparently.

Talk about awkward.

The wedding was nice, though.  Hot, it was outside, but still…nice.

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