THE PURGE - Part 1 - The Rise of Evita

If you have read any of my previous posts, you will undoubtedly appreciate the fact that I’m in denial about my physical age. Physical age, you ask? It’s hard to explain. If you count the rings, I’m 60. It doesn’t take a math whiz to look at my birth certificate and calculate my age. Then there is the barrage of AARP literature that arrives in my mailbox. I have memories of key historical events (Vietnam war coverage on the news and subsequent airlift, Watergate, Iran hostage crisis, Reagan getting shot, John Lennon getting shot, Challenger explosion, Fall of Berlin Wall, Fall of Soviet Union, Monica Lewinsky, 9/11, Obama elected President, Trump elected President, COVID pandemic, etc.). I remember them all vividly and am reminded of how ancient I am when my children (and even some co-workers) ask me about these events with doe-eyed wonder. I remind them that we didn’t have cellphones (gasp) social media or the internet when I was growing up. My kids would stare in wonder at my mom’s rotary dial telephone with a 50 foot cord so she could walk around the house and talk back in the day. How that cord didn’t knock over lamps, vases or accidentally decapitate one of us is a testament to my mom’s cord wielding proficiency. So all of this proves I’ve lived a long time so far, but I DON‘T FEEL OLD.

I don’t pretend that I am three decades younger in order to fit in with my younger colleagues. As a gay guy, my fashion sense is traditional and simple, but I did go through some wild periods when I pierced my ear and dyed my hair platinum blonde like. Eva Peron. I don’t wear skin tight shirts, sport tattooed biceps sticking out of said tight shirts or adorn myself with expensive Versace pants (footnote; I used to wear these things until I got tired of my kids throwing up/wiping their snot on them, so I stuck them in the back of my closet until I could wear them again.). Spoiler alert: That day will probably never come. I’m no longer the muscled eye-candy I once was, and I’ve accepted that (kinda.).

I was moved to Europe by my company in my mid-30s, so I spent the bulk of my time having fun, traveling and transforming my body to attract a potential boyfriend or mate. Another spoiler alert: It worked! During the course of the next half decade, my European bacchanalian existence evolved quite quickly. I went from single decadence to a respectable (boring) husband and father of three boys. My 40s and 50s were about everything but me. My energy and creativity went to driving a career, nurturing a family and funding the whole damned shebang.

I was lucky to work for a large multinational Fortune 500 company. Besides being relocated to Amsterdam, I was able to travel to over 50 countries around the world and get ever-increasing responsibilities as I moved up the corporate ladder. When the five of us moved back to the United States, it was like moving to a foreign country again. The Netherlands had been my home base for over a decade. It was the only hometown my kids knew. Suddenly we were back; having moved from our home in the historic canal district of Amsterdam, to one of the suburbs north of Chicago. Some of the first questions from our fellow suburbanites revolved around which church we went to and who did the cooking.

We sat together on the floor (furniture was somewhere on the Atlantic) and marveled at our cavernous home we rented. Four of our Amsterdam apartments could easily fit into our American abode. We needed 2 cars. My kids marveled at the cereal collection in our grocery store. Abundance and choice was everywhere. Clearly, our Amsterdam adventure was over.

The Putting Down Roots and Becoming Adults in America adventure began. And my career took off into the stratosphere. Part 2 coming soon.