“Sexy Senior” (photo by Morgan Rider)

So this is weird. I’m born, I crawl, then I walk (that’s an exciting day). I learn to speak (my first sentence was purportedly “Give me the damn book”). I go to school, all sorts of schools. In middle school, I pronounce Yosemite “YO-suh-mite” in front of a class of peers who then laugh for a solid five minutes (this clearly wasn’t a formative memory at all). I listen to Christian Rock a lot, and there is a gap in my 80’s pop music history where I don’t really recognize “secular” music from that time.

I fumble awkwardly in high school. I’m the kid who hangs out with the Dungeons and Dragons crowd in the library. This is when my obsession with Star Trek starts. I die of dysentery numerous times on the Oregon Trail on Albuquerque High School’s solitary student computer. My favorite outfit is stonewashed denim jeans, a dark denim jacket, and a red and white striped shirt that made me look like a candy striper (Google it, kids). My vast Swatch collection was rivaled only by my collection of cassingles from Janet Jackson’s Rhythm Nation 1814 (fucking GOOGLE IT). I have an intense crush on a boy who plays cello, ruddy-cheeked Andrew, who barely acknowledges my existence, which makes me want him even more (this is clearly not formative at all either).

At some point I’m forced to choose between drama and music, and I choose drama because I always choose drama. I start studying it in college, then burn out on it after a couple years, happen to fall in love and move to Chicago for the guy. At some point in all of this, I sheepishly buy Neutrogena Acne Wash and think the thought, “oh, I’ll only have to buy this for a couple more months.”

Fast forward. That was 20 years ago, and I recalled this as I bought the same thing at the grocery store last night. And then another thought: Holy shit. I’m going to be 40 next week. On November 27th, I will need a hug. Hell, I’ll need to be spooned all night. Uh, wait. I’m still single (in case you haven’t heard). Okay, Plan B: I’m going to build myself a Temple Grandin hugging machine. When did this happen? How the fuck am I turning 40‽

I thought this a few weeks ago when I went up to Seattle for Halloween. I was going to go out to a club, then thought better of it when a friend suggested dinner and a movie. Oh man, I thought, surprised, that’s totally what I’m feeling like tonight. The company of my friend and a low-key night. And besides…that’s more age appropriate.

It wasn’t until a few days later that this phrase surfaced again in my brain, like a chicken bone in a throat. “Age-appropriate?” What does that even mean, anyway? I was never worried about growing old when I hit thirty. No, in fact I relished it. But now? Where did this new anxiety come from? Hmm, maybe a recent accumulation of events.

Like a month ago, when I hit a parked car. I woke up and got ready for work, and it was a crisp, foggy morning in Southwest Portland. I got into my car, turned it on, and the windows clouded up immediately. But on this Saturday morning, instead of staying put and letting them de-fog, I decided to start driving through the narrow streets of my neighborhood with cloudy windows BECAUSE I HAVE AMAZING JUDGEMENT. The wiper blades parted the mist, and I shrieked.  Revealed was a huge black Ford F150’s back end, meeting the front fender of my car and then neatly shearing my passenger-side mirror off.

I pulled over, and of course the thunderclap of the two cars’ impact brought the owners out of the house. But this is when it got weird: because instead of yelling and gesturing, the family looked concerned about me from their front stoop. The wife and kid went back into the house, and the husband came out and then shook my hand and introduced himself.

“Uh, hi, I’m Mike.”

“Hey, I’m Richard. Are you okay?”

“Sorry, this is totally my fault. I should have waited until my windows were clearer. I was in a hurry to get to work.”

“Hey, but are you okay?”

“Um. I just hit your parked car.”

We inspected the damage, and mysteriously there wasn’t a scratch on his truck, but my front fender was crumpled to the point of the passenger door no longer opening (Pro Tip: this is a great way to impress dates who you pick up in your car).

At this point in the Very Portland Car Crash, the wife came out with a cup of coffee (which was her own, but I fully expected her to hand it to me), and she too asked if I was okay.

“Thanks. I just hit your parked car.” What is wrong with these people? Are they addled? Why are they not yelling at me, gesticulating wildly? Am I being punked? I looked around for the camera. No dice.

So naturally, the husband then said, “You should get to work, you wouldn’t want to be late,” and then, in unison, they both bent down and started scooping up the broken glass of my side mirror off the street with their bare hands. I made my stunned way to work and got there on time. “Where the fuck am I,” I thought. “Is this heaven?” No, it’s Portland. Heaven with beards and plaid and friendly people (a word of sagely Portland advice, though. When being approached by a possibly indigent person for a cigarette, the wrong thing to say is “Haha, does anyone even smoke anymore?” I learned this the hard way).

Another thing that reminded me of my mortality happened my last day in New York during a recent trip. I fell from only two step’s height, but it’s an injury that I can still feel in my foot. I wish I could say it was while I was doing something heroic, like diving for my friend Jessie’s kid as she dropped him, or that one of the steps on the aging train platform gave way under my doughy but noble weight, but no. I fell for no damn reason at all (haha, MUCH LIKE MY DATING LIFE, AMIRITE FELLAS?). Lying on the ground, I collected my thoughts, looking at the concrete of the train platform near my face and realizing it could have been a lot worse.

It seriously crossed my mind: maybe if I close my eyes I can pretend it was a low blood sugar moment, that I passed out, I could save face? Then I realized that everyone (EVERYONE) on the train platform could clearly see that my eyes were open. Their expressions ranged from mild interest to passive disgust at the Old Man Who Had Fallen Down, Probably For Attention. I got up to one knee, then to my feet. Well, my foot. Jessie was almost beside herself with concern, but I shrugged it off, until I put weight on my foot and casually shrieked from the pain.

“Everything’s fine!” I insisted through gritted teeth, smiling through my tears. I limped onto the train, dragging my dignity on the ground behind me.

No, it does feel a lot better now, weeks later. The swelling has finally gone down and I can finally wear my cute winter boots without taking a handful of Advil. No, I never went to the doctor, because everything is fine. I’m definitely my father’s son. We’re German and stubborn to the point of pigheaded really smart and efficient.

So then what is age-appropriate, besides falling down for no apparent reason and hitting parked cars? Oh, I forgot, I’m dating much younger guys. This is going really great (it’s not), but the good news is that I just unlocked the “Dying Alone” sticker on DatingSucks. There is a cavern in my chest where my heart used to be, and every evening bats fly out of it. Nah, it’s just that this is a brave new world of dating, and some younger guys are into some really crazy stuff in bed. Like, what the hell is “Baby Birding” and “Muppeting”? Never mind, I don’t think I want to know (update: I made those up for this piece and then was told they’re actual things. Jesus). Sometimes when a guy suggests something really crazy in bed I wish I could be like the lizards in New Mexico: I wish my penis would just detach like a decoy reptile tail, and I could make my escape while it twitched and distracted the now-confused guy I was with.

I think with dating, I need to chill out a little bit, maybe take things slower, get to really know someone. I tend to project outcome a bit too much, and maybe I’ve shut things down prematurely rather than giving them a chance to fall to ugly, bitter pieces in an organic fashion. Some people see ghosts; I see husbands where none exist.

So yeah, maybe the secret is that there is no such thing as age-appropriate. After all, no one else is telling me to grow up, or not go out to bars, or not use the phrase “cute winter boots” in my writing, or not drink myself to sleep every night with a box of Franzia on my nightstand. Wait, who wrote that last part?

It’s all on me. I’m the one who has been telling myself that I’m having “too much fun” turning 40. I am my own worst enemy, apparently. So I’ll cut it out. I’ll be damned if I’m going to slow down just because I think that’s what’s supposed to happen at this age. I’ll die before I ever change just because of some weird idea that everyone around me is judging me. They’re not.

This is not the beginning of the end, it’s the beginning of the beginning. Happy Birthday to me, damnit.

If you liked this, you’ll love my essay on cats and my ode to my laundry. Kidding. Those are my Valentine’s Day and December Soundtrack posts, respectively.