On the eve of 35

Tomorrow is my birthday. I used to like turning ages that ended in zero or in five. Easy to count. The last zero I had was David Bowie-themed. I wore a jumpsuit and full Ziggy Stardust makeup. Less than a month later, David Bowie died. That means he’s been gone almost five years now. Wow.

The day he died, I went to get his face tattooed on my arm. It was something I’d been planning on doing for awhile, and the only thing that seemed able to soothe me that day was physical pain. Bowie had become for me, as he had for many, a kind of patron saint of fluidity, of continual reinvention. Just because I was where I was, did not mean I would be there for long. An idea that became a balm, soothing the discontent of my twenties. Tomorrow is my birthday.

There is supposed to be a blizzard, so any small, outdoor gathering of friends at has been cancelled. No biggie. This happened a lot as a kid growing up in Buffalo. More birthdays canceled than celebrated. Seven years-old, sitting alone at a table with Troll-themed plates and napkins and party hats at each seat, never to be worn. That terrible sweet sixteenth where only one person showed up, my brother’s friend Ricky who walked and talked like Frankenstein and smelled like roast beef. Twenty-eight, when I got behind the bar and played records for the local drunks.

But this year, I think I’m hopeful for the snow. A tiny bit desperate, maybe. I’d like to say, “See, there is something besides this pandemic forcing me to be alone, isolated, on my day of days.”

There has been no change, no miles logged, no adventures waged this trip around the sun. Though days have passed, it has felt nothing like movement should feel. Please do not worry. Please do not try to coach me through self-loathing, depression, anxiety, confusion, despair. Let’s chalk it up to the weather, nothing more.

Tomorrow is my birthday. And I will spend it in my underpants, facing the window. If I’m lucky, I’ll watch the snow fall. Maybe I’ll put on a Bowie record, too.