Birthday Bitch

I am now 40. 

Officially old. Feeling it. Looking it. 

There’s a ton that’s happened since March: I got a full time job at an animal shelter. I started taking medication for my anxiety and depression. 

In April, I finally caught up on my taxes (I was three years behind) and a couple weeks later, aborted an unwanted pregnancy. In May, my partner moved from rural Texas to our property in the high desert of northern New Mexico. In June, for his birthday, we bought a school bus that had already been converted with a king size bed. I live there part time and hubby lives there full time with four large, unruly dogs. 

In July, my dad’s house – a house that was completed only a few days before I was born – was destroyed in the South Fork fire. You might’ve seen Neil Patrick Harris, one of our most famous former residents, tweet #RuidosoStrong. Dad is now living between relatives, campgrounds, and a complementary room at his favorite casino a couple nights a month.

Yesterday, my sweet corgi of twelve years passed over the rainbow bridge. I am not overwhelmed with grief because she had a great life and was loved deeply until her last breath, dying peacefully in her sleep. Plus, I’ve assisted with euthanizations at the shelter, which have sucked immensely, so I guess by comparison her death didn’t hurt so much. I am missing my sweet little friend, though, and it’s going to hurt more before it hurts less.

Today, for my fortieth birthday, I bought a gym membership. 

We are now caught up on the outline, but I will go into more detail about those events in future posts. I have to write about my life because… I just have to. I know intellectually I’m not the only one who thinks and behaves and suffers the way I do, but that doesn’t mean much unless I share it. I will be as transparent and vulnerable as possible and I will definitely overshare, thanks to encouragement from comedy idol Maria Bamford in her outstanding book, Sure, I’ll Join Your Cult: A Memoir of Mental Illness and the Quest to Belong Anywhere. 

As I’m sure I’ve said before, I aim to run through lightning with my tits out. 

During this wild ride I’ve been enjoying some great media and even quality time with real people.

Rachel Maddow’s podcast, Ultra, was exceptional. My partner and I read to each other from Stephen King’s latest short story collection, You Like It Darker. The King’s still got it, so much so that I’m writing now because of the energy his work inspires. 

The Daily Show and Last Week Tonight are must-sees every week. During the RNC, a love for Stephen Colbert was rekindled with an even deeper appreciation for his intelligence and humor. The callback to Chris Farley’s Matt Foley persona was an ecstatic moment. 

I read Madeleine Miller’s Circe and was blown away. Deadpool and Wolverine did not disappoint and now I need to catch up on all the media related to it. I started my honey on Hulu’s Future Man and we also started watching an excellent Vice series called The Dark Side of Comedy.

After watching the season one episode on Greg Giraldo, I told him I, too, want to become a road warrior. I think that lifestyle would be more appropriate for a couple of Fallout LARPing dropouts than it was for the Harvard educated family man. Though, he was definitely more appropriate for stand-up than either of us might be. 

I wrote in my journal today for the first time in months. It was weird, generating a feeling somewhere between meeting an old friend and reclaiming a lost part of my identity. Like I’ve been spinning through the events of my life half-blind, half-numb, with nothing sticking. I can sense expansion but I’ve lost sight of shore. Where is Self? 

Oh: here, in the writing.

That’s why I have to do it. If you go on this ride with me, so much the better.