It’s been 40 years since I was born—a little blonde pine cone plopping to earth in Denver, Colorado. Let the record show. It’s been 40 years of fighting and working and feeling.
People have been saying to me kindly, you don’t look 40! Thank you? But, like: What’s wrong with looking 40? I don’t buy into the culture of youth worship. I was an idiot when I was 25. And generally speaking, I do believe people become better with age. In my pursuit of being the realest, most emphatic form of me, I can only feel, look and act exactly my age. I’m me! I go to work. I go to the skatepark. I clean my own house and pay my own mortgage. I run the stairs at Mt. Tabor. I text my mom almost everyday. I drink beer and eat pizza whenever possible. And no matter what’s happened, at a certain hour every night—I migrate toward the couch and watch TV. I used to be energetic and single and very eager to see rock shows. Now I have a house with a mini ramp in the garage and a hubs-to-be. There’s what and who have happened to me in the past life. And there’s me now. Get this—they’re the same thing. Somewhere inside, I’m still 10 freaking years old crouching behind the chokecherry bush about to shoot out the greenhouse window with a bb gun. Accidentally.
Anyway, Saturday—my birthday—was a big day. A cinnamon roll for breakfast. A driveby on a friend’s yardsale. A hike through the spooky Northwest fog. A dog with a squirrel addiction. A few beers with a few friends and a metric ton of laughs. We’re alive, guys! What a thing.