For as long as I can remember, I have anticipated my birthday with a mixture of anxiety, stress, and dread. On the one hand, it's a wonderful feeling to be recognized and appreciated. On the other, it comes with unnatural, forced attention, a glaring spotlight, and the kind of exposure that makes me want to hide until it’s over. Being published in
The New York Times feels like all of my birthdays combined.
I am a fan of nude beaches, particularly clothing-optional gay beaches like Fire Island, where I can relax knowing all sorts of bodies are celebrated. My essay makes me feel like I’m going to a crowded beach full of swimsuit-wearing supermodels and I’ve decided to get naked.
Clearly, at this point, all I can do is resort to analogies. Let the disassociating-- familiar from birthday parties past-- begin.
