There’s no easy way for me to say this, so I’m just going to bite the bullet and spit it out. The end of March is my birthday and (BIG DEEP BREATH) I’m turning 50! How the hell did that happen? Where did a half a freakin’ century go?
In general, our society puts a high value on youth, but a 50-year-old gay guy? Come on. A 50-year-old gay married guy with kids? Jesus, I might as well be invisible. Needless to say, I’ve been spending a lot of time staring at my fuzzy navel — and I’m not talking about the girly cocktail my mom drinks.
I’ve been trying to come up with the perfect solution to my impending midlife crisis. Here’s what I’ve considered so far: Buy a sports car! Because of the fact I’m a father, and therefore haven’t seen disposable income of my own in over a decade, that one’s kind of out of the question. Plus, not to brag or anything, but I really don’t have anything to compensate for, if ya catch my drift.
Also, get a hip young hair cut! The last time I tried something different with my hair, I did a crew cut. I was heading to Mongolia for three weeks, so it was practical. But my resemblance to my dad from about the time I was born was so astonishing I immediately started pulling on each strand to make it grow faster. Oh! There was also the time I sported one of those ridiculous quasi pony tails. We won’t go there.
Then dress like someone half my age. I basically dress the same way I have since I was a kid — slacks, button-down shirts and loafers. Once a preppy, always a preppy. Hell, my brother had been dating his current girlfriend for almost three years before she ever saw me in a pair of jeans (I own exactly one pair). I guess I could start dressing like my 20-something nephews, but then again, I am gay and have good taste.
Find myself a boy toy! Once, about five years ago, I asked Kelly if I could get myself a hot 23-year-old boyfriend. Between guffaws, he managed to sputter, “You could try.” Yeah, maybe not.
Start listening to cool hip tunes! No, that would just be a tragedy. I’ve already had to admit that I liked a song by Taylor Swift. God help me if I’m suddenly grooving out to some douche like Bieber.
Reinvent myself! I’ve been threatening my extended family with this one for years. The way I see it, I can move to some foreign country, change my name to Buck Naqed, and get a job as an international spy. But those damn Greeks would find me one way or another.
I guess my only option is to accept turning 50 and embrace it. When I think about it, I’ve earned this. I’ve had plenty of fun, I can settle down a little. I’ve made enough mistakes to deserve the salt now peppering my hair. Besides, thanks to Gus and Niko I still have a lot of living to do.
So bring on the nifty 50s. I’m ready. Actually, I’m more than ready, I deserve to be 50. After all, everyone says that 50 is the new 30. I rocked my 30s!
Happy freakin’ birthday to me!
Apparently I was already showing my age in last month’s column. For some reason, I referred to the free advice column penned by April Masini as “Ask Amy.” She provides great advice in “Ask April,” of course. Sorry about that, April.