Todays is D’s birthday. He turns 49, but doesn’t feel older than 30.
D disappears into the bathroom mid-morning for about half an hour, to return sporting a tidy beard that has clearly just received that special ‘Just For Men’ touch.
We have a couch day, at D’s request. I read a bit, write a bit, and do some Duolingo.
Momma and Poppa call from Spain. They are well and tell us how they are allowed out for two allocated hours per day (11am to 12pm, and 7pm to 8pm) Momma made D a card from photos of him as a child. She appears to have made her choice of photos based on the theme of fantastic haircuts. One of D at nursery school looks like he cut his own fringe. Another at primary school he has a mop, by high school – a mullet. By the time he has his first job he has a ponytail that makes him look older than he is today. Momma cut all the photos out and stuck them onto a handmade card with a big ‘49’ written in the middle. The collection of fantastic bad haircuts orbit around it. She emailed the card to the wrong address, so now all our managers from work have seen the photos too. No one said anything, but some polite Happy birthday text messages trickle in shortly after the email.
We walk the dog. Her boyfriend Rogue sees her, and gallops over, tail riding high. There is much whining and excitement between boy and girl. Our dog is significantly older than her young male suitor, her muzzle is greying, her bounce less buoyant. But today she throws caution to the wind, and chases Rogue, back and forth, as if she is a young pup.
“A new lease of life” I say.
“Yes, but it won’t last long, just watch” says D. And he’s right. As soon as the mad dash is over, the young Rogue is keen to keep playing. Our old girl however is finished. She can barely walk. And that’s the problem with trying to keep up with a younger man, it’s all fun and games until you’re done, and can’t keep up.
After a very, very slow walk home, D and I have a drink in the hot tub. We relax and he tells me a joke about a man stranded on a desert island with Angelina Jolie, but all the man wishes for is another guy to be there, so he can tell a bloke he’s shagging Angelina Jolie. The dog has collapsed, exhausted from her earlier antics. I smile at my greying muzzled man, and am grateful we play at the same pace.
D’s Dodgy Colombian and Portuguese mates call to deliver birthday greetings. Our managers call D too. Then A calls. And B texts a long conversation about tonight’s upcoming UFC fight. I can see D is touched that so many people care. He always pretends he doesn’t care about his birthday. It’s like watching a hooker pretend she’s just out for a walk when cops drive by. It doesn’t fool anyone.
I cook dinner and we watch the UFC. This is the first live sporting event to be held since the covid lockdowns. It was wierd, no crowds, no cheering, the stadium seats all blacked out, just the ring lit up with everyone wearing masks except the two fighters. I wonder if the fighters miss the energy other humans bring to the match, or if they prefer this solitude. Unlike before, now you can hear every foot move, every strategy call from the corner, every kick, punch and groan. D and I drink ice cold corona beer with lime, watch the fights, and pretend it’s all fine.
I make our bed so we have clean sheets to sleep in to start Ds fiftieth year off right.
Good night.
