It was my birthday yesterday. I turned 40.
Those of you paying attention will know that this is not for the first time.

In 2007, I celebrated my first 40th with a friend in Aruba followed by a big party at my house. That was the "F word party", aka "Oh Fuck, I am Forty".
The following year, a couple dozen of us had dinner at a local restaurant - that was the F word remix party. This year was the club mix (although it was very low key, unlike my usual birthday style). Next year, maybe it will be the 12" version. Here's hoping.

I see no reason to move past this particular age. I like 40. It suits me.

Ten years up or down seems to make sense to me as a parameter for age - as mentioned before - but to be honest, 52 seems ancient to me.
Celebrity men age well. Real men really don't. Very often, the big four o happens to a woman and she steps up her game. Or at least learns to wear clothing that flatters her softened waist and increasingly jowly neck. The average man, having paid minimal attention to his appearance, continues to pay minimal attention and winds up looking like something the cat dragged in. And something the cat dragged in is not something I want to have sex with.

Aging hipsters don't do it for me. There's a point where we have to leave things to the younger generation, but you can be stylish until death parts you from your well cut clothes. I look at profiles of "older" men and they just look like schlubs.

On Saturday, my kids school had a fundraiser and we were of course obliged to attend. It was a basketball game with ex NBA players and, at half time or intermission or whatever the fuck you call it when they stop playing ball, the kids got to run around the court. I watched my kids dad as he played with the children. He has an incredible body - broad shoulders, enormous biceps, six pack, tiny waist, an arse that you could rest a tea tray on... but I know from bitter experience that having the body of a Greek God doesn't necessarily bring me happiness. 

I try to keep that in mind when I look at the schlubby pictures.

Unfortunately it ain't working. Maybe 42 will allow me to silence the gay man living in my brain and bring me the maturity to accept a happy medium. 

 

Here are some I made earlier:
Slim, petite or average?
Losing Momentum
How do you get ready for a date?
I need you
Heartache or just another real estate opportunity?
From Russia with love
Nipples
Too hot to internet date?

 

Here's my little-gay-man-trapped-in-my-brain's fantasy man: