Forty-one.
BAM!
There are seven plants on my windowsills, half pothoses and half cacti. In the adjoining corner, a tall fig tree stands proud—she's my clear favorite of the bunch, if I'm allowed to have favorites, because she has a personality and is picky about what she likes. She leans slightly to the side, despite my best efforts to keep her straight and steady, reaching for the light filtering in through my shades. As the days trend warmer, I like to crack open the windows for them all to have some fresh air.
There's a segment of gay men who own household plants and like to call themselves a "Plant Dad(dy)" as a result. If I really wanted to break it down, I would posit that the label comes from a couple of determinable impulses. Most obvious is the urge to categorize ourselves into neat classifications, accessorizing such labels as one might do with clothing in the pursuit of individuality. I think it must already be well-documented how the emergence of social media profile pages (adorned with tickers like "41, gay, Asian, plant dad, top, ENFJ, NYC, [reference to the boarding school house system of a certain British fantasy novel series that I refuse to name because its author is a bigot]") has led to further self-stratification, particularly in coincidence with the rise of identity politics, so I will decline to go down this particular tangent.
I proffer that another such impulse is the undercurrent of desire that flows beneath our interplay with one another. I'm not arguing that our every interaction is sexualized, but I will say that there is a normalization of sexy language between us because gay men have been socialized to experience sex in a distinct manner, which I won't assert is wholly problematic because hooking up is a very human activity. I think that the word "Dad(dy)" can take on flirtatious connotations, and employing it in the term "Plant Dad(dy)" is tongue-in-cheek and a nod to our coquettish subculture.
Finally, there's one more very uncontroversial reason, which is that a "Dad(dy)" is a literal caregiver. As plant owners, we're responsible for their health and well-being. Should a gay man advertise himself as reliable in at least this one aspect, bully for him; if I decide to call myself an accidental plant dad, it’s all in good fun.
My plants came to me via a dear friend on her way out of New York City. She had separated from her job, terminated her apartment rental lease, and planned to travel around the world with her girlfriend (soon-to-be fiancée) for a few months. When we spoke before she left, she informed me that her plants were soon to be homeless. I didn't much like the idea of them being left at a curb when she moved out, so I agreed to foster them, offering them my home until there ever comes a day wherein she returns to New York and they to her care. (She has since come back, but has not yet reclaimed them from me; I almost fear that moment because I've become attached. Of course, I could simply acquire new plants of my own, but there's something special to me about these being my foster children.)
Aries season is finally upon us, and there's a funny meme circulating social media about it being heralded by a week of diva birthdays:
March 25: Aretha Franklin
March 26: Diana Ross
March 27: Mariah Carey
March 28: Lady Gaga
March 30: Céline Dion
(All of these artists are titans in their own right, and the music they've produced—and skills they've displayed—has had an outsized impact on popular culture.)
This year, Aries season coincides with Nowruz and the start of spring. Along with the month of April, it's my favorite time of the year, not least because my own birthday approaches, too.
I never conceived of myself as the type of person to get seasonal depression, probably because I grew up in Southern California where we only really have one season, but becoming an adult in New York—with all the accompanying trappings of maturity—has caused me to notice a distinct change in my psychology. Experiencing shortened daylight and extended periods of cold cultivates the worst of my tendencies towards moroseness. So, spring brings with frost’s retreat a sense of rebirth, a rejuvenation of my ambitions and motivation. It's the one month wherein I feel I should be most empowered because I'm literally in my natural element.
However, for a couple of years after the Henry breakup, I dreaded my birthday. Part of why our fallout was so disastrous is because the events took place a month before our anniversary celebrations, on a trip I'd organized to celebrate my birthday. I've mentioned earlier how I'd complained of my ennui to Stephen one year, in advance of a prior birthday, because I felt itinerant and that my existence was aimless. I wanted to be inspired to achieve something with my life. These feelings persisted as I fell into the Henry relationship, despite even his best efforts to placate me (such as by dragging me to all sorts of networking events), and I organized mini-vacations with him because I wanted an excuse to get out and see the world.
After the Henry saga, I knew I needed to reclaim my date of birth. It was ridiculous that it might be so associated, in my head, with someone who no longer wanted to associate with me. Moreover, it seemed immature. He's just one person in a million, my brain would scream at me, so why was I letting him affect me to such a degree? Was my sense of self-worth so pathetically low that I couldn't get over some guy I dated for a year?
Twelve was written during one such attempt to move on. I've read conjectures about the past being ephemeral, which is to say that it exists only in concept, so the weightiness of history establishes precedents that are meaningful only insofar as rhetoric goes; nothing has to matter if I don't want it to matter. But, acknowledging this idea didn't change the fact that I was still unhappy. I needed to come up with a different solution.
In the end, I decided to flood my brain with new memories. One is only lost in a crowd if the crowd exists to surround it, and I was counting on the passage of time to work its magic. So, every year, I try to do something extraordinarily special for myself on my birthday. Henry once called me a narcissist for my logic, as we were separating, but I believe that life is short and should therefore be celebrated—after all, there's nothing better to do.
Moreover, I've been thinking in hindsight that our breakup didn't even happen on my exact date of birth—only near it—which means that I can relegate all my residual grief or trauma or whatever to a date of lesser importance, like April 1st. I see no point in forcing myself to continue suffering under the delusion that he would forgive me if I sufficiently atoned, and I don't even want to date him anymore, anyways.
As an Aries and just like my plants, I bend towards the Sun. I'm a creature of nature; being contrarian does me only a disservice, so I should straightforwardly go after my needs. I may be a narcissist, but I’m also a plant dad and an April Fool, too.
April Fool, girl! April Fool!
(hehe love you!)