(I forgot to click PUBLISH on this the other day!)
I was born 39 years ago today.
I don’t really remember it. I’m sure there was some crying.
Originally my name was going to be Shawn Patrick Porter. Somehow I got saddled with Kevin Shawn instead. Kevin. Not a fan.
It’s been a super chill birthday so far. Woke up semi-late at Julia’s, walked Bail back south to my place and watched Hellboy 2 then met up with Julia for a quaint little picnic in Rittenhouse park where she had packed up figs, salami and a stinky cheese, an orangina and a kombucha and a chocolate bar. Perfect little mild winter treat. She got me the most appropriate present imaginable and we sat in the park making funny stories up about people walking by, watching out for cute dogs and being all smoopy and lovey all over instagram.
Couldn’t have asked for a better birthday.
Most days lately are like that; couldn’t ask for a better one but knowing that tomorrow will be better than the day before, no matter how rad the day before was. I miss therapy some days but have been super proactive about talking about what’s going on in my life good and bad with people I trust. When I was in therapy I waited for the little revelations to happen; breakthroughs that helped drive some sort of change and help me figure out some of the baggage I carry around with me. The other night, Movie Night with Erin (Red2) I had one, out of nowhere. We were walking down 4th street, Erin, Elvis the dog and I, and I realized that everything I was telling her, my ad hoc therapist, was good stuff. I used to look forward to movie night every week so I could bitch about the previous seven days; even when things were ‘mostly good’ there were still those petty annoyances that I just fixated on, let fester and grow toxic and allowed to weigh me down.
The other night was more about how rad things are around me.
So 39. One more year till 40.
If this is what it’s like… I’ll take it.
Photo: Picnic by Julia.