Happy birthday to me—45. There is no denying that this is middle age. If I'm lucky! Recently, a young girl guess me as "turning 30." I find that young people have terrible age-dar. Which is why they are the most fun to pursue sexually—better pay-off and compliments along the way.
Bravado aside, I'm entering my dead-center middle-forties single and unsure if I'm ready to mingle. Do I continue hooking up in increasingly shady ways? Attempt to properly date, like my ex has been doing? It's hard for me to fathom a relationship ever again. But then, it's probably better to stumble into something rather than deciding you want it and casting someone to be in it as an afterthought.
One thing I'm doing in my forty-sixth year is joining a crazy-harsh fitness program here in NYC. It's six weeks of kettlehells. I mean, -bells.
By March, I'll either be dead or svelte.
Merry Christmas to all who celebrate it, except for those who celebrate it while standing with Phil Robertson. To you, I say: HAPPY HOLIDAYS, MERRY XMAS and drop dead.
xoxoxo to you all for reading all year long