I am 58 today.

I am at a loss as to what to say about this last year.

A few facts:

• I got divorced.
• I got a tattoo.
• I took a day job.
• I joined a partnership to turn my book into a movie.

Each of these things is a story in and of itself.  These have been good changes, and it amuses me to see that I have listed them on a spectrum of excruciating to exhilarating. Things that hurt, like a divorce, aren’t necessarily bad, and things that are good, like embarking on a screenplay adventure, aren’t necessarily easy. I’ve been sad a lot this past year, but not depressed. I am sorry to know the difference but relieved to land on the easier side of that equation.

I started taking self-portraits on my birthday when I realized I was waking up alone on January 4th. How meta, no? You look at yourself first thing in the morning on your personal new year and do some assessment. At some point in 2020 I realized how very much I was alone and I started shooting a near weekly self-portrait. I bought a portrait lens and retaught myself photography.

A handful of people have told me I should have an exhibit. I’m all, “Who besides me wants to see all these pictures of me?”

“People who appreciate photography,” said Lisa.

“It’s documentary work of this time.” Both Andrew and Larry said that.

It’s something to document yourself getting older. I am less inclined to cover up my flaws with each picture I take, with each year that passes. That’s meta too, right?

I was recently interviewed for an NPR story on people who had their holiday plans scuttled by, well, everything. The reporter asked me how old I was.

“You know, I’m not having a birthday until we get to hit restart on our lives,” I said. “So while I’m supposed to be 58 this year, I stopped counting at 56. The last birthday I had before it fell apart.”

“Totally fair.”

I’m 58 or 56, depending on how you count the last two years. The math could go the other way, too, and some days it feels like I’ve aged ten years in the last two.

Anyway.

It’s my birthday. I’m here.