Let's just get this over with. I'll be 60 on Sunday.
There. I said it. 60.
Here's a recent photo:
This is how they count to 60 on Fire Island and in Provincetown and Rehoboth:
"57, 58, 59, ten-thousand..."
Gay people aren't supposed to live to be 60. If we're truly fabulous (and drunken sluts) we should die, fabulously, by the time we're 40 ... or 45 if you really stretch it.
So here are my weekend plans (and if you want to make God laugh, just tell her your plans):
7:00 a.m. drop off cleaning and dry-cleaning. pick up same from last week.
7:15 a.m. sit down with the Saturday NYTimes, a couple of trail-mix bars and a steaming cup of soon-to-be-a-thing-of-the-past coffee.
9:00 a.m. freshen up a great deal.
10:00 a.m. attend a 12-Step meeting (with my sponsor) in Princeton
11:30 a.m. haircut in Princeton at "La Jolie" or, as I call it, "La Faggy."
12:15 p.m. pick up a new air conditioner for the living room at the Home Depot on Route 1.
(maybe a movie somewhere in here)
4:00 p.m. arrive at my sponsor's house so he, his wife and mother-in-law can take me out for a sober evening of turning 60. As opposed to how I'd LIKE to spend the evening.
10:00 p.m. bed
All day Death Watch in bed; blinds closed; phone unplugged; giant bags of Ruffles potato chips and cases of flavored water from Tarjay, strewn about the room.
I feel better already.