A little known fact… Tomorrow, 10 July, is my birthday.

In general, I don’t share this information easily, but something about tomorrow looms larger than normal for me, and I’m afraid of spending it alone, again. You see, tomorrow I won’t be turning 29 like I tell those that ask. I’ll be turning 36. No longer will I fit into the acceptable age limits for most men’s interests. I’m no longer a hot young thing, and I’m not quite a Daddy. I’m in that “tween(c)” stage that I’ve always found uncomfortable.

On top of being in the “tween(c)” stage, I’ve gotten all introspective and I hate that shit. Checking in with my life, my once dreams, my once aspirations, I’ve found that I’ve accomplished only one on that long list. I got a dog. That’s it.

But this birthday coming up tomorrow truly vexes me for reasons I cannot completely comprehend. When I turned 35, only 364 short days ago, I was excited about finally being my own man, being an adult. But now, turning 36 fills me with dread and regrets. I don’t feel like I’ve accomplished anything in all my years. My circle of friends is extremely small and spread out over large geographic areas preventing me from spending sufficient time with them and filling my ever expanding down time with a loneliness so deep it feels as if I’ll be swallowed whole (and not in that good way). I’m single and unhappy with my career, not to mention my financial status. (I realized a few days ago, as I was walking past a fancy restaurant downtown, where the sidewalks were lined with BMW’s and Benzes, that I may have the car, but would be hard pressed to be able to eat in those establishments.)

Could I not like birthdays because I’ve often spent spent them alone without much fanfare? Could it be that I’ve been dumped (or at least realized it was coming) twice on my birthday? Could it be that when I was 10, my mother threw me a birthday party and invited all the kids on the playground that would beat me up, so instead I hid in my closet, crying, too scared to come out? Nah! That can’t be why I rarely acknowledge my birthday. It must be something else.

I suppose I could resolve myself to make a change, to march in a different direction, to pursue that which would truly make me happy. Yeah, I suppose, but the likelihood of that happening is about as possible as the shrub(tm) telling the truth.

Do I, instead, settle in for the slow march to death, accepting what the world throws at me and roll with it in utter defeat? I mean since I’m old now. Probably not what my terror-pist would recommend. I mean, the amount of inaction in my life astounds me. The level of complacency frightens me, and the level of acceptance that this is how my life is angers me. Yet, here I sit, dutifully plugging away waiting for that one day that will magically provide me with the nutrients to fill my needs and shine the light on that which will make me happy(er).

This new year, I’d like to fall in love again, and feel the intimacy I’ve feared for so long. I’d like to begin to re-discover who I was when I had dreams and hopeful thoughts towards the future. I’d like to strengthen the friendships I have and augment those with new, healthy relationships that allow me to be who I am without a mask and without attempting to conform to my perceptions of how others view me. I’d like to explore new career options that will better fit my personality while reducing my stress level to something manageable.

Ya know what, instead of all that, I’m gonna bake myself a chocolate cake from a box, slather on some pre-made frosting from a plastic tub, order a pizza and have a few beers. Tomorrow I can contemplate all of this while my hangover wears off, besides I’ve got 365 days before I need to put myself thru this again.