For Rowie

Much to my surprise and after ten years on my own, I find myself in love. The funny thing is, it's happened in just the way people say it's supposed to: unexpectedly, suddenly and just as I stopped looking. No speed dating, online dating sites or fix-ups involved. I simply turned a corner one night last July and there he was.

So, indulge me. This one's for him.

You are the most beautiful man I have ever known. Beautiful on the outside and even more beautiful on the inside. You are genuine and kind with a smile that never seems to leave your face. When I spend time with you, I feel like I'm seeing the world in a way I'd forgotten. There are possibilities again. There's a calm that I haven't felt in a long time. There's silliness and laughter and ice cream. There are comfortable long stretches of time where we do nothing but lie there and talk. There's trust and there's hope and there are plans for the future.

I'm not the only one who thinks you're special. One of your friends refers to you as the bravest man he knows. Your other friends have told me how much they love you, rely on you and enjoy being around you. My own family has given their stamp of approval to the point that they will most likely take your side in any arguments we might have. My nephew already thinks of you as his buddy. And you're just one gingerbread man costume away from winning my brother over, which is no small feat.

You've reminded me of how love is meant to feel. Easy. Uncomplicated. Simple. Certain. If I seem unfazed by periods of time apart, it's simply because I have absolutely no doubt that all those periods are temporary. I believe you're always with me and I promise I'm always with you.

It took 10 years to fall in love again. But you were absolutely worth every minute of the wait.

I love you.

Fuzzy Wuzzy Was A Bear

For the past week or two, the carols have been playing on the radio, holiday decorations are hanging up everywhere you look and life in general has mostly become about shopping. With December 25th fast approaching, most of us are darting in and out of malls during our free time and surfing the internet looking for bargains during our work time.

Every year, while going through the “I have 3 more people I have to buy for” madness, I’m reminded that holiday shopping is not for the faint of heart. We all put a lot of pressure on ourselves to come up with that idea for the perfect gift. The one amazing thing that will make our loved ones scream out "It's the best gift EVER!" while tears of joy stream down their blissful faces. But let's think for a moment. Tell me, how many gifts that you either gave or received over the years can you actually remember? Other than the big stuff like maybe an engagement ring or a puppy, I'm guessing most of us draw a blank when it comes to remembering the majority of our gifts.

Except, of course, for the bad ones.

For example, my sister still talks about the year when, as children, we snuck into our parents' bedroom and opened the hidden gifts pre-Christmas. While rifling through the boxes and bags in our parents’ closet, she came across a pocketbook. A red and blue pocketbook with fringe on the bottom and a strap made of plastic links. It was hideous. Without hesitation, she said "I hope this is going to Dottie" (Our other sister.) It wasn’t. Then there was the year I gave my sister a "surprise package" I had ordered from a catalogue. Even I hadn't seen the contents of the box before she unwrapped it. Waiting inside, there were little brown candles which looked exactly like someone had pooped. Poop candles for Christmas. Now that’s hard to forget.

And then, as my family is all-too-familiar with, there's my earliest holiday disappointment: Fuzzy Wuzzy bath soap.

It was Christmas, 1965. I had just turned 4 years old and all I remember wanting Santa to bring me was Fuzzy Wuzzy bath soap. Fuzzy Wuzzy was like the holiest of holy grails. It was animal shaped soap that claimed to “grow fur”. What 4 year old wouldn’t want furry soap? But Fuzzy Wuzzy was so much more. The soap came in a circus cage shaped box, complete with wheels. And, much like crackerjack, there was a toy surprise hidden inside. To my 4-year old self, this was soap nirvana.

I remember sitting on Santa’s lap that year and asking for that soap. I don’t remember asking for anything else. Who had time for a slinky or play dough when the Big Guy might not see me as Fuzzy Wuzzy soap worthy? Since elves mostly made toys and not soap, I was worried there might be a Fuzzy Wuzzy shortage and I wouldn’t be on the list to get one. With what had to be hundreds of thousands of kids all asking for the soap, how could I make sure that my name was on one of those boxes? I’m sure on Christmas Eve when I went to bed, I prayed and prayed hard. “Dear God, if you love me, you’ll make sure I get that soap.”

Cut to Christmas Day. The only gift I remember getting? Yup, bear shaped Fuzzy Wuzzy soap. I ripped that box open and went running to the bathroom sink. Who had time for stockings or toys when there was soap fur and a prize in my not too distant future? Over the next few days I spent more time in the water than a born-again Christian with a baptism addiction. I washed and re-washed so many times with the soap that I’m sure I looked to the world like a preschooler with serious OCD issues.

Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. Soap wears down far too slowly and I needed to see the prize that awaited me inside my blue bear. So I grasped that bear in my two small hands and snapped it in two. My “prize” was a tiny plastic red telephone, about the size of the fingernail on my pinkie. I don’t know what I expected would be in there, but I felt robbed.

It’s been 43 years since my Fuzzy Wuzzy soap Christmas and though I might have been disappointed, I’ve had 43 years of telling this story. So remember, this year if you end up giving someone a gift that’s not exactly what they hoped for, it’s OK. For all you know, you’re giving them a story that could last a lifetime.

Today is World AIDS Day

The World Health Organization established World AIDS Day in 1988 and is observed every year on December 1st.. World AIDS Day provides governments, national AIDS programs, faith organizations, community organizations, and individuals an opportunity to raise awareness and focus attention on the global AIDS epidemic.

There are many ways you can participate:

• get tested for HIV
• play safely
• don't engage in high risk behaviors
• talk about HIV prevention with family, friends, and colleagues
• provide support to people living with HIV/AIDS
• get involved with or host an event for World AIDS Day in your community

With today's medications, it's easy to forget that millions of people still struggle and die from AIDS. In 2007, the estimated number of persons living with HIV worldwide was 33.2 million and there were 2.7 million people newly infected.

Let's not forget those we've lost and those we love.

Big

The clothes in my closet come in various sizes. There's the I-used-to-be-able-to-wear-these-and-I'm holding-onto-them-because-I-swear-one-day-I'll-get-into-them-again clothes. The if-I-suck-in-my-gut-I-can-still-button-them clothes. The vertical-stripes-supposedly-make-you-look-slimmer clothes. The as-long-as-I-don’t-take-off-my-jacket-this-will-be-OK clothes. The baggy-look-is-still-in-isn't-it? clothes. The one-size-fits-all clothes.

And then there's the fat clothes. Fat clothes are the ones we all think of as temporary, the ones we resent from the moment we've tried them on in the store. Before we’ve even had the chance to finish purchasing them, we’re already taking a vow to get rid of them as soon as we possibly can. No one ever cries out "I just love this!" about fat clothes. Usually we murmur something like "At least it covers my huge ass" and then shake our heads and dream about the day we'll toss them aside and easily slip back into our beloved skinny jeans. Fat clothes are the step-children of the clothing world. We might resign ourselves to bringing them home and caring for them, but we never love them as much as we love our real clothing.

I assume that a great number of people have fat clothes. These are the pants with the elastic waist or that pair of shorts that can be worn unbuttoned when paired with an untucked shirt. For women, maybe it's that shapeless sweatshirt that really belongs to your husband or the maternity pants you still wear even though “the baby” is now studying for his PhD. Fat clothes tend to be rather plain and usually darker in color. Fancy designs or overly bright colors would draw too much attention, something fat clothes are absolutely not supposed to do. Fat clothes often come in various shades of gray. No one buys hot pink fat clothes.

It’s funny, you would think we would actually love our fat clothes. Even as children, we’re told that bigger is better. Toddlers are enticed away from diapers by the promise of wearing “big boy pants”. Children are told to eat their vegetables so they can grow up “big and strong.” First graders want to grow up into being second graders, short kids want to be taller and teenagers want to grow into adulthood.

As adults, especially over the past few years, we are told more is better. For example, if you order one donut at Dunkin’ Donuts, you’ll likely be told it’s actually cheaper to order two. At the local movie house it’s often suggested that we buy a large sized popcorn which comes with not just an enormous price tag but also in a container the size of a bathtub. We have Biggie Fries and Supersize. We have breast implants, SUV’s, collagen-enhanced lips, large print books and extra-wide trailers. There’s big hair, the Big Gulp, the big picture, the Big Kahuna, the big man on campus, Big Brother, Big Love, the big bang, big ideas, the big cheese, Big Bird, the Big Chill and Clifford, the Big Red Dog. We’re told what we all really want is to park our enormous Hummer in the driveway of our 12,000 square foot McMansion and then go inside to our cinema-sized TV. We’re supposed to want everything big, big, big. In America, bigger is best. Except, apparently, when it comes to our clothes.

It’s unfortunate, really. Those skinny clothes that we hold in such reverence don’t care much for us. Skinny clothes are like the head cheerleader in school, lightning quick with a roll of the eye and a snarky comment. You gain a couple pounds, maybe add a half-inch to your middle and those skinny clothes are looking at you and thinking “You’re going to try and put ME on? I don’t think so.” But fat clothes are more like that really reliable friend we know we can call when we need a shoulder to lean on. They don’t judge us on how we look. They’re OK if you add a little to your middle. So this Thanksgiving go ahead and add a little more gravy to those potatoes. Your fat clothes love you no matter what.

Be Heard

Proposition 8 protests are taking place all over the country on Saturday, November 15, including one in NYC at 1:30 PM. We all have a chance to stand up and demand that gay/lesbian couples be given the same rights as straight couples. Come out and be heard!
To find a Prop 8 protest in your area, please visit jointheimpact.wetpaint.com.

How About A Little Pie?

Yesterday was a perfect day. It was one of those days that happen from time to time, where you feel as if you can do no wrong. I bounded out of bed at 7AM full of energy and ready to tackle, well, if not the world, at least all the things on my "to do" list. I'm a big believer in lists. They keep me focused. And for someone who's been known to look for any excuse to not complete something ("Oh look, my toenails need clipping. Maybe I should just go back to bed.") being more focused is a good thing.

Picking up the leaves that had fallen outside was on the list as priority #1. It wasn't so much that the leaves scattered along the ground bothered me. It's more the fact that one of my neighbors has taken to coming over to my house and cleaning them up himself. Anywhere else and this would be considered a kind gesture, but I think it's more an act of hostility. I've begun to suspect my neighbors get together on a semi-regular basis to compare their individual lists all titled: "Why Tom is an Incompetent Homeowner." Trust me, it's not paranoia. Once, when I was up on a ladder cleaning out my gutters, a neighbor walked by and said "So, you FINALLY got to those, did you?"

My neighbors have too much time on their hands.

Anyway, within one hour of my getting out of bed, the leaves were off the ground and in their paper recycling bags. I tossed in a load of laundry (#2 on the list), ate breakfast and started my grocery list (trip to the supermarket was #3). By 11AM, I had crossed off the picking up of leaves, 2 loads of laundry, the grocery shopping, gone for a 4-mile run and had thrown in phone calls to my mother and sister along with checking my emails.

Four hours later, my dog Nora had been bathed, the house had been cleaned, the rented movies had been returned, the checkbook was balanced and a pan of perfectly baked brownies was coming out of the oven. Maybe all this didn't exactly make me Superman, but I was feeling good enough about myself to at least identify with that singing woman from the old TV commercials who could both bring home the bacon AND fry it up in the pan. I felt very accomplished.

In fact, I was feeling so accomplished, I thought I deserved a nap. Could there be a better environment to take a nap in than the one I had created? The bed linens were clean and soft and the taste of a warm homemade double-chocolate brownie still tickled my palate. The desire to close my eyes felt as if I had earned it. A one hour's nap was little reward for all I had managed to do. Right? So, I patted Nora on the head and headed upstairs to bed.

Flash forward to one hour later. Let's face it, there are times in all our lives where the understanding that God has a sense of humor likes to prove itself. Despite what the Reverend (and I use that term oh-so-loosely) Fred Phelps would like people to believe, God doesn't hate. If anything, God likes a good chuckle now and again. There's a line from the old Lynn Redgrave movie, Georgy Girl: "God always has another custard pie up His sleeve." And little did I know that while I slept, God had pulled out the celestial apron and started baking.

The first thing I wondered as I groggily came down the stairs was: What is that smell? Pre-nap, the scent in the air would have made Martha Stewart proud. A heady mix of Murphy's Oil Soap, warm chocolate and Lemon Pledge. But this smell was alarmingly different: the smell of sick dog.

Now, you should know that whenever Nora gets sick, something in her head seems to scream out to her: "RUN TO THE LIVING ROOM!" As much as I'd like her to realize that getting sick on the kitchen floor or the tiled bathroom floor would be an easier clean up for me, that's never the case. Even the hardwood floors would be OK, if that was where she had an accident. But, that's just not quite custard pie-ish enough. Instead, when Nora falls ill and feels something about to suddenly come out, no matter which end that something is about to come out of, she feels the need to run straight to the living room rug. And while I was asleep, this is exactly what she had been doing...a lot.

I won't go into a detailed description. Let's just say that dog diarrhea, for the uninitiated, is not a pretty sight. And the fact that my living room rug was being marinated in it wasn't exactly what anyone would have wanted to wake up to. But, the custard pie had been thrown and there wasn't much to do except have a chuckle, check on Nora, open up the windows and haul out the cleaning supplies again. After all (my apologies for this obvious ending)... shit happens.

Bite Me

Last week, my friend A was a dancing zombie in the New York City Halloween parade. Every year a large group of people, all dressed in their zombie finest, re-create the famous monster dance from Michael Jackson’s "Thriller" video. (You can find the dance recreation on YouTube if you’d like to see it.) My friend A loved every minute of performing during the parade and said to me "If you’re free for next year’s parade, you should sign up to do it. It was great!" Hmmmmm. Let’s see: me surrounded by 100 people all dressed up as zombies. I‘ll (shudder) pass.

For almost 30 years, I have had a totally irrational, unexplainable, keep the lights on, hide-under-the-covers fear of zombies. Really, I do.

It started on Martha’s Vineyard in the summer of 1979 when a group of my friends and I went to see the movie "Dawn of the Dead". The audience in the theater was hooting and cheering, clearly loving every moment of the undead chowing down on the living. But while everyone around me called out for some rotting creature to take yet another bite of warm flesh flavored goodness, my seventeen year old self cowered in my seat, praying for the end credits to roll so I could escape outside to the safety of a blissful zombie-free world.

In the 29 years since that summer, my fear of zombies has stayed intact. I cringe at television commercials advertising any soon to be released zombie films and I have multiple issues with overly-realistic looking zombie costumes at Halloween. At times, I feel somewhat like Oz’s Cowardly Lion, repeating over and over again "I do believe in spooks, I do believe in spooks." Substitute the word "zombies" and that would be me standing there, tail in hand.

Don't ask me why it's zombies that have this effect. I have no idea. I have watched many horror films and not been scared at all. Jason can slash his way through as many horny teenagers he likes each Halloween and that dead girl from "The Ring" can crawl across as many floors as she pleases and I won't bat an eyelash. But bring out one slow-moving, ashen faced zombie with a serious flesh craving and I'm more terrified than a thirtysomething pre-liposuctioned Hollywood starlet facing the paparazzi during bikini season. It may be irrational but zombies, in plain language, scare the crap out of me.

Which brings me to this past Tuesday, Election Day.

While so much of the country was celebrating the victory of now President-Elect Obama, (yours truly included) the news coming out of California was not so jubilant. By a majority vote, gay marriage in that state (and 2 others) has now been banned. It seems unbelievable that in the same year Americans elect our first African-American President, in 3 states they also managed to cast enough votes to deny other Americans the right to marry. America may have finally reached a point where race doesn't matter to the majority of us anymore, but apparently a whole lotta people are still terrified of what some of us do with our genitals.

Exactly what is it about 2 people of the same sex taking a vow to love and cherish that scares so many? Do the supporters of Proposition 8 view a gay couple the same way the characters in that Dawn of the Dead movie viewed the slowly advancing members of the undead? Are we so horrifying for them to behold that just the sight of us in twos make them want to flee faster than Bristol Palin's boyfriend digging his escape tunnel? Is gay marriage the new zombie?

I wish I had some answers here, but there aren't any reasonable explanations when you're talking about irrational fears. The misguided supporters of Proposition 8 seem to believe they are somehow "protecting" marriage, much like people used to believe that they were "protecting" their neighborhoods by trying to keep people of color out. But luckily, times and attitudes change. Sometimes, change doesn't happen as quickly as we would like, but it does happen. The Prop 8 supporters can lock their doors and hide inside, but it's not going to stop progress from banging on that door until it gets to come in.

In January, an African-American will be sworn in as President of the United States. And someday, same sex marriage will be legal everywhere. It's slowly coming our way, one faltering footstep after another. And there's absolutely no reason to be afraid.

Dating Story #6 a/k/a...

The Push/Pull Hug

Up. Down. Left. Right. Over. Under. Good. Bad.

Opposites. According to the dictionary, the definition of opposite is: contrary or radically different in some respect common to both, as in nature, qualities, direction, result, or significance; opposed: opposite sides in a controversy; opposite directions.

Try and imagine two opposite things going on in your mind at the same time. For example, feeling compelled to walk in two different directions simultaneously, like Steve Martin in the movie "All of Me". Your arms and legs would be flailing, you’d be confused and unsure of what direction you were supposed to go while trying your best to appear you had at least some idea of what you were doing. Sarah Palin sitting down for an interview comes to mind, if you need a visual.

Or, think about wanting to both eat and yet not eat, much like a bulimic supermodel sitting at a table eating and then running off to the bathroom to purge. Back and forth, eat, purge, eat, purge. Even if the end result is that you can fit into that bathing suit you last wore when you were 18, I would think it’s all rather exhausting.

OK, now that you have bulimics and Sarah Palin in your head, let’s get to the dating story.

I met H on the 4th floor of the Center. I had just left another unsuccessful speed dating event and literally bumped into him. He was in his early to mid 40’s and cute. Very cute. "Hello" he said awkwardly and I answered, just as awkwardly, "Hello." We chatted as we walked downstairs and continued chatting outside, where H asked if I’d like to have dinner with him sometime. "Sure" I answered. "I’d love to." Unfortunately, no sooner had I answered yes, when H responded with red flag #1. "I wasn’t sure if you were interested." H said. "I really don’t understand this gay stuff."

Note to gay newbies: "I don’t understand this gay stuff" is not something you want to hear from a potential date. It’s akin to being asked over for dinner by a cannibal or having a blind man offer to drive you somewhere. H, as I would learn over a handful of dates as more red flags leapt from his mouth, was the ultimate in opposites: a homophobic homosexual. Yet, ignoring the alarm bells in my head and the quizzical looks from friends, I would end up saying yes to 4 nights out with H.

Apparently, H was working very hard to become more comfortable with his sexuality, but still disapproved of his own life. Being with him was like watching a young child first misbehave and then punish himself by sitting in the corner. If I tried to hold his hand, he’d move a good three feet away. Asking for a kiss was out of the question. I’m sure he would have preferred to have his lips surgically removed before he’d allow them to touch mine.

Ironically, H’s one attempt at a display of affection was what caused me to tell him I wasn’t interested in pursuing anything further. At the end of our last evening, H reached out to give me a hug. "See," he said, "I’m getting better at this." Better, in this case, was a relative term. H’s hug was like no other. He had one hand on my shoulder, lightly pulling me toward him. Meanwhile, his other hand, on my waist, was firmly pushing me away so that no parts of our bodies could actually touch. There are studio apartments with far less space than what we had between us during that embrace.

I didn’t see H again after that awkward hug. H struggled with being gay, even though he had already reached middle age while I often feel I popped out of the womb waving a rainbow flag. And while opposites may indeed attract, sometimes they’re better off simply going in different directions.

Quaker Oats and Broken Hearts

I was out walking the other day when a teenage boy passed by, headed in the opposite direction. Normally, I would probably barely register someone just walking by me, but there was something unusual this time. It wasn't the way the boy looked or the way he dressed. He didn't have any unusual markings. His face wasn't pierced and he didn't have a strange way of walking. He was just a normal looking teenage boy, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt. However, he was carrying an oatmeal box tucked into the bent crook of his arm.

Now, carrying an oatmeal box isn't terribly strange, you might think. Certainly if the boy was coming out of a supermarket or convenience store or at least walking somewhere in the vicinty of one, then I probably wouldn't have become curious about it. But we were walking in a strictly residential neighborhood filled with nothing but single family or two-family houses. No stores anywhere nearby. And yet here he was, with an oatmeal box.

I couldn't help but be curious. Where was he going with an oatmeal box? It seemed unlikely someone had invited him over for breakfast. Usually someone doesn't call up with an invitation along the lines of "Gee, I'd love to have you over for breakfast tomorrow morning. But, one thing, will you bring the oatmeal?" Maybe he was part of some oatmeal taste test and was on his way to prove once and for all that Quaker Oats makes one damn good oatmeal. Or maybe the oatmeal inside the box had been replaced by some hidden treasure that he wanted to make sure stayed protected.

To add to the mystery, just a few hundred feet after the boy and I passed each other putting me into this oatmeal box quandary, I passed a teenage girl. She was sitting on the front steps of a house, looking towards the teenage boy as he walked away. She was crying, and crying hard. Clearly heartbroken, although I wasn't sure if the great love she had just lost was for the boy or for the oatmeal.

For several blocks I wondered exactly what role the oatmeal had played in this. Had the girl, suffering from some apparently deluded idea that the boy deeply and truly loved her, demanded he choose once and for all between her and the oatmeal and then, well, she lost? Or had the boy, in a desperate attempt to make the girl face up to a shattering oatmeal addiction staged an intervention and then whisked the offending oatmeal away where she could no longer indulge? Or maybe the boy, deeply wounded by the girl having found someone else, decided the one way to make her hurt as much as he did, was to take away her cherished breakfast food of choice.

Whatever the reason for this oatmeal box incident, it was difficult to not stop and say something to the girl who was clearly hurting. But how do you explain to a teenager that getting your heart broken from time to time is the way it's supposed to go? Every time a relationship goes wrong you learn what you want and what you don't. Every relationship's end, every broken heart leads you, eventually, to someplace better. Sometimes, that "better" is a relationship that works. Sometimes, it's gaining the understanding that you can stand on your own two feet, just fine. And sometimes, you find that on your own two feet is a better place to be.

There's a whole world out there, I would have liked to have said. And it's filled with other boys, other relationships and lots of other breakfast foods.

Over the past few days, when the curious oatmeal box incident pops into my head, I wonder what happened to that girl. My hope is shortly after I walked by, she got up, got the keys to the car and went to buy herself the biggest box of oatmeal she could find. And I hope she's enjoying every bite.

The Schizophrenia Tango

"Do you feel that ache in your right leg? That can't be good."

It often feels like I have another person who lives inside my head. It's not fun to have a different person in there. It's annoying. She (yes, she) is a naysayer, someone who sees nothing but doom around every approaching corner. Whenever I start to think that I might enjoy trying something new, that other person in my head immediately comes up with a long list of reasons as to why I shouldn't do it. Inevitably, this causes an argument between us as to who's right. Having 2 personalities is exhausting.

I don't know how soap opera characters do it. I was first introduced to the existence of this multiple personality thing back in the 70's from One Life to Live when Kathy Craig, believing herself to be Kitty Mainwaring, a character from a book she had written, kidnapped a baby. On that same soap, the character of Viki has battled for years with her alter-ego, Niki. And then there's Jess, Viki's daughter. In what is probably the first and only case of inherited multiple personality disorder, Jess has another personality known as Tess.

My "other self" is vastly different from the ones on the soaps. On TV, the other personality is usually portrayed as evil. They're kidnappers, alcoholics and on drugs. They often have guns and hold people hostage. And for some reason, they are usually portrayed as wildly promiscuous which, when you add it all up, means the alternate personalities are having much more fun than their goody-goody counterparts. Watching them on the soaps, you start to think that maybe it would be a pretty cool disorder to have. Like doing a wild dance with an out of control partner who keeps you guessing at every step. Mine, however, is different. She's like an overly protective, world-weary grandmother who's seen too many things in life go wrong. She spends most of the day sitting in her rocking chair, looking out the window and disapproving of what she sees. I call her Greta.

Lately, Greta has been much more in evidence when I go out for my runs. For the past couple weeks, running has been a struggle with tired, sore legs and a general fatigue. Putting on my running shoes and heading out the door, not to mention just putting one foot in front of the other, has been more challenging than usual and Greta has been seizing every opportunity to offer ongoing commentary. Greta doesn't trust this whole running thing. She'd much prefer me to stay home in my bed, preferably while surrounded by padded baby bumpers and wearing a helmet.

As I head out to run, Greta dispenses her helpful warnings. "You know, that ache going down your legs should be looked into. I don't want to alarm you or anything, but a friend of mine's daughter had aches like that. She thought it was nothing and then boom! Dead." Greta seems to know a lot of people that fall into the category of healthy-but-dead. Like I said, she's seen too many things.

Ignoring Greta doesn't do much good. I've tried. But as I continue running and then hit mile 1, she chimes in again. "A mile's enough for today. Let's not overdo. Did you see that piece in the paper the other day? The man who had a heart attack while jogging? He was in perfect physical shape, jogging along like he did every day and then suddenly boom! Dead." She goes quiet for a few seconds, convinced I'll stop. When I ignore her and keep going she shakes her head and adds "OK. When you can't walk tomorow morning don't blame me." She clucks her tongue once for emphasis because she knows it irritates me and then falls silent for awhile, plotting her next move.

At mile 2 "Look out for that dog up ahead.You'll want to slow down before you get anywhere near him. I think it may be one of those pit bull types that'll rip your leg right off." and at mile 3 "Did I ever tell you about my Uncle Bernie? He used to run, too. Then one day he got this pain in his left ankle, like the one you're getting right now. He tried to ignore it, like you're doing, too. Just kept on running and running thinking it would go away on it's own. Well, eventually it was so bad he fell. Unfortunately, for him, he fell right in front of a garbage truck and boom! Dead. But you just do what you want. Don't mind me. Is that a bus I hear coming?"

Greta goes quiet again, sulking because I've continued to ignore her. I can see her sitting there, arms crossed, tapping her foot, eyes narrowed as she stares in my direction and tries to think of some way to make me come to my senses and head back home where it's safe and warm. But I'm used to Greta. I can listen to all of her negativity and continue to keep my pace while ignoring both her and the small aches that I know will disappear when I've completed today's run. I will NOT let her win.

"Do you really think this is a good idea at your age? I mean let's face it. A couple months and you'll be 47."

Maybe letting her win just this once is OK.

When I Grow Up

Have you noticed how unhappy everyone looks in the morning on their way to work? The next time you're among people during their daily commute, take a look around. You won't be surrounded by a sea of smiling faces. Nobody will be leading a group sing-a-long. And nobody, I guarantee not one person, will be standing there, arms outstretched declaring to all "Yes! It's a beautiful day! I get to go to work!"

Instead, you'll be surrounded by people who are half-asleep, unhappy about being dragged out from under the covers and forced to go through their morning getting-ready-for-work routines. You' re very likely to hear at least a couple people murmur "I wish I was back in bed." If you're on a train or bus, some people around you will have their eyes closed. Some people, despite the early morning hour, will smell of alcohol, as if a little gin was the only way for them to get out the door. Others simply look like they want to kill someone. Hopefully that someone isn't you.

How did this happen?

Remember when you were little and some adult would come along and ask "What do you want to be when you grow up?" You'd proudly puff out your chest and declare "I want to be a fireman" or "I'm going to be a teacher". You were so sure that your profession of choice was going to be fast-paced and exciting. You looked forward to being an adult and reaching the age when you'd be driving that fire truck, sirens wailing, rushing off to save some lives. Or you'd be standing at the front of the class bringing the joys of the alphabet to a room filled with eager minds and happy faces.

So, what would have happened if back then, someone told you the truth?

"Well, Johnny, it's cute and all that you want to be a fireman, but let's face it, that's not going to happen. You cry when you trip over your own feet and fall down, so the likelihood you'll be running into a burning building is pretty much nil. Your adult life will really be something closer to office drone. You'll sit at a desk and crunch numbers that you don't understand on a daily basis. You'll write a lot of reports that no one will read. Someone younger but better educated will be promoted to be your boss. The brightest spot of your day will be the mid-afternoon trip to the candy machine in the cafeteria which will add about twenty pounds to your middle and cause your cholesterol to soar. And just as you begin to reach the age of retirement and you think you'll finally have some time to enjoy your life, the company will go belly up and you'll find yourself broke and unemployable."

Just how do we change from those young, bright-eyed children, so anxious to face the future and pursue our dreams into the tired, cranky adults who simply want to sleep in on a Monday morning?

Something, choice or circumstance, led us all to where we are and to what we do. Maybe you're a janitor who wanted to be an astronaut. Or a dental assistant that wanted to be a dancer. Or a nurse that wanted to be an entertainer. And maybe the jobs you had aren't the jobs of your dreams but they still manage to give us something: the ability to provide for familes, a little extra money to enjoy an annual vacation or to take that cooking class.

Maybe, just maybe, during that morning commute, instead of focusing on what you're giving up in order to go to work ("If only I didn't have to go to work I could have slept for a couple more hours.") you can focus on what you're getting instead. Think about the good stuff whenever possible. Try and remember that trudging into work does lead to that upcoming Mexican vacation or the afternoon at the amusement park or simply to keeping that roof over your head and food in your belly.

And also, remember that child who once dreamed of being something that you might not have become. That kid is still there, somewhere. That child didn't focus on what he/she'd be paid or on how their feet might hurt after too much standing. They didn't think about office politics or getting promotions or feeling unappreciated. They picked a profession based solely on the thought of how much they'd love doing it. And there's no reason to not indulge them whenever possible.

If you're that janitor-but-really-an-astronaut, keep looking at the stars and dreaming what it would be like to be among them. Get a telescope and take a closer look. Devour every news story of voyages into space and enjoy the photos being taken of planets we have never visited before. If you're that dental assistant-but-really-a-dancer, take a class in the samba or ballroom dancing. Go out at night and enjoy the sounds of the band or the DJ and hit the dance floor whenever possible. And if you're that nurse-but-really-an-entertainer, take any opportunity to pull out that karaoke machine with your friends, stand up there with the microphone in hand and sing as loudly as you please.

Lucky

I am a lucky man.

When I look at my life so far, it would be difficult to call it anything other than a good one. From the outside, my life probably looks rather ordinary. Childhood in a small town. An adulthood spent as one among the millions in and around New York City. Periods of sadness and long periods of simple, ordinary life. Repetitive days leading to repetitive weeks. People have died and others have been born. Friendships have begun, some have continued, others have ended.

I'm not sure if it's age or circumstance or what, but lately I've preferred to take a step back and give it all a good look. And I have to say, I've been blessed with a definite "half-full" existence.

I grew up in a small Massachusetts town and headed to New York at the age of 25. New York back then, was thrilling and amazing. And it still is. I love standing in the middle of Times Square at night, the neon all ablaze, people running in every direction and my body feeling every pulse of the city. I love the diversity. I love the fact that I interact every day with people of every color and every nationality. I love walking down the street and hearing different languages spoken. I love the fact I know how to easily navigate the streets of New York without hesitation. And, although technically I now live just outside the city in Jersey, I am first and foremost a New Yorker. Not bad for a small town New England boy. I am a lucky man.

In my lifetime, I have survived Catholic school, coming to terms with being gay, the AIDS nightmare, unemployment, widowerhood, loneliness, grief and more than a few gray hairs. Death has been too familiar at times. I have lost friends, a sibling, a parent and a partner. Like so many others, I was in downtown Manhattan on 9/11 and will never forget the events of that horrible day. In times when I thought I didn't know what to do next, something, and often someone, came along and helped me get back on my feet. I am a lucky man.

I haven't always known what it was I wanted to do to make a living. But somehow, I always seem to manage to make one. I have been on stage and on television. I have been interviewed for news programs around the world. I have met celebrities. I have done work where the outcome, hopefully, helps someone. I have done work that makes children smile. And, unbelievably, someone pays me for it. I am a lucky man.

In my 46 years I have learned to blow my own horn. I can hem a pair of pants and sew a button on a shirt. I can cook a halfway decent meal. I bake some damn good cookies. I manage to pay the bills, take care of the house and get the dog to the vet for her shots on a regular basis. I can paint a wall, hammer a nail and iron a shirt. I am a lucky man.

I am surrounded by amazing family and friends. When I need someone, someone is there. And I can only hope I manage to offer even half as much as I'm given. I have my health, I have my sense of humor and I still have all my teeth. I am a lucky man.

And, most astoundingly, I have been in love and been loved in return.

I am a lucky man.

Those People

I'm hardly what anyone would call an athlete, armchair or otherwise. If pressed, I can probably come up with only about a half dozen names of professional sports teams. I can't catch a baseball. A few years ago, during a "subway series" of the Mets vs. the Yankees, someone said to me "It must be a very exciting time in New York" to which I could only reply, "Why is that?" I don't know how to dribble a basketball or hit a tennis ball. I don't know an A-Rod from a fishing rod. And other than 'don't let the very large men pile up on top of you', I don't understand the rules of football.

In high school (why does so much of life somehow bring us back to high school?) I went all four years without attending even one gym class. Not once. Every week when I was supposed to be down in the gym, throwing a ball or participating in some sport that I had no idea how to play, I'd quietly head to the school library, pick out a book and hope no one would notice. It was much safer among the bookshelves than heading down to the dangerous territory of the gymnasium, where the much feared competitve sports would be followed by the much more feared being the gay boy in the group showers.

So, since I've never considered myself an athlete, it comes as an enormous surpise that at the age of 46, I find I've somewhat joined their ranks. Last Tuesday at 5:45 AM, I was heading out the door with my running shoes on and bottle of water in my hand to do a 4-mile run. I got a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I passed and it occurred to me. I've become one of, as I call them "those people".

You've seen "those people". You're driving along through a rainstorm when over there, along the side of the road you see a lone person determinedly running, apparently oblivious to the fact that they're getting soaked. Or, you head out one morning before the sun has had the chance to come up and as you wipe the sleep from your eyes and curse the fates for forcing you out of your warm bed when you hear the slap-slap-slapping sound of two sneakers as they hit the ground, attached to the feet of a runner getting in their early morning jog. And when that happens you probably do what I do, shake your head and mutter to yourself "What's wrong with those people?"

You may have even exchanged greetings with one of them. Usually they're overly upbeat and fast in calling out a cheery "Good morning" in between quick intakes of breath as they run on, giving a little wave. They most likely add something along the lines of "It's a beautiful day, isn't it?" And before you've had the chance to even grunt a reply, or purposely trip them, they've disappeared down the street and around the corner, radiating good health and good fortune. Trust me, I know how you feel. I don't trust "those people". I've often believed they exist for the sole purpose of making me feel fat. I like to curse at them while cradling a couple dozen chocolate chip cookies and a few bags of chips.

I was very comfortable with my dislike of "those people". Which is exactly what makes it so hard to admit that I have somehow evolved into one. It started innocently. I signed up for a running class back in the spring, to do something healthy for myself. It was supposed to be easy and temporary. I certainly never expected it to last very long, especially since it would be going up against my great love of lying on the couch and doing absolutely nothing.

But the class led to a 3-mile race back in May and that race led to a gradual ability to run for 2 miles straight. Soon, 2 miles became 3 miles became 4 miles and soon will become 5 miles. Four times a week you will find this middle aged man on the side of the road, no matter what the weather, running. And hard as it is to admit, I find myself enjoying it. I have moments when I even allow myself to think that maybe "those people" have been on to something all along.

Difficult as it is, I've had to stop sneering and muttering at them.You can't exactly make snide comments about a group of people once you've realized that you're one of them. But luckily, a few days ago, a friend of mine came along and innocently mentioned his love of camping. "It's great," he said. "Sleeping under the stars and the quiet of the woods."

Campers, sheesh. Sleeping bags, tents, campfires and wildlife. Something's definitely wrong with those people.

What's the Rush? The Sequel

As I wrote before, my one attempt at speed-dating had not gone particularly well. I stumbled out of that event confused, disoriented and, as I would discover the next day via email, dateless. For a few days afterwards, friends, mostly single friends both gay and straight, asked how it had gone. I said the same thing to each one: "I will NEVER do that again."

Six months later, I am at the Gay and Lesbian Center, doing it again.This time, it's speed-dating limited to men who are 40+. This, it seems, is a good idea. The men will be more mature and certainly know what it is they want. Surely, at this age, many if not most will have had previous realtionships. They'll be more grounded, I tell myself. Plus, this time, the "mini-dates" will be six-minutes long, double the length of the dates in my prior experience, allowing more time to get a feel for the other person. And since I know what to expect, I feel more prepared and assume I'm in a much better position to come out with at least one interesting prospect. So, with my best Pollyannna-everything-is-possible attitude in place, I climb the stairs, hand over my $20 and sit in a room on the Center's third floor, waiting to begin. How could it possibly fail?

Probably because it's only about three weeks after New Year's and I'm sure everyone has made a resolution to get out more, the room is packed. There are so many unattached men coming in, that the organizers set up an "overflow" room to accomodate everyone. The organizers describe how it's going to work. Once we're ready to begin, those of us in chairs that are not against the wall are asked to stand up, turn the chair around and begin our first conversation with the man who is currently sitting behind us.

And we begin...

The first man I speak with is clearly unimpressed with me and not at all shy about letting me know. He sneers, rolls his eyes and then cruises the room to get a look at who might be more to his liking and, hopefully, coming up soon. When the whistle sounds he says the only two words he's spoken to me "See ya" and I move one seat to my right.I realize pretty quickly that longer mini-dates are not necessarily better mini-dates. As a gay man, this is confusing. Apparently, bigger is not better after all.

Date number six or seven, to be honest, scares me. A very thin, very pale man dressed in black from head to toe leans so far forward that he's too close for comfort. He speaks in a half-whisper, leaning in so close I can't see his face. His mouth is up against my right ear. I can feel his hot breath on my neck every time he exhales. I find myself wishing I had paid a lot more attention to Buffy the Vampire Slayer when it was on the air, because clearly I'm going to need a few of her moves very soon. He says softly "I'm looking for someone to have some fun with." Undoubtedly, before he needs to retire back to his coffin at sunrise. Six minutes with Dracula lasts a long, long time.

A few more men come and go before I'm face to face with a deeply tanned, good-looking man of about fifty or so. In our short talk, his sole goal seems to be communicating to everyone that he has an "all-over tan", which he says complete with Snidely Whiplash eyebrows being lasciviously raised.and lowered.And so it goes, on and on until we're done. Once again, just like last time, I have no matches.

Leaving the room and heading towards the stairs I have no choice but to think that maybe, just maybe, the problem is me. Maybe all these attempts at trying to find someone special just means that I need to take some time and figure out what I really want. Maybe it's time to stop. Besides, wouldn't it be nice to meet someone just by chance instead of through all these attempts? Wouldn't it be great to just be out somewhere and just bump into someone, leading to an awkward hello? I get to the door of the stairway at the same time as some guy who comes out of the "overflow" room. We literally bump into each other. He's cute, very cute. "Hello" he says awkwardly and I answer, just as awkwardly, "Hello." What do you know, I think, maybe meeting someone nice by chance actually does work.

So, does it? I'll put it this way, you can read all about "Mr. Bumped into by Chance" soon.

Look for him as "Dating Story #6."

Dating Story # 5 a/k/a...

Those 3 Little Words

When it comes to relationships, there's a lot of speculation and discussion over what many people refer to as "those three little words". I don't think it matters if a couple or potential couple is gay or straight, there is still the same focus on what gets said and when. You hear this referred to all the time. "Oh" someone might gush, "if only he'd say those three little words." Or maybe "Oh, last night was awful. She said those three little words."

It's hard to save a relationship when someone has waited too long to hear those three little words (TTLW). But just as hard when when they're spoken too early. Too-early TTLW will almost always bring things to a dead stop. You know how it goes: you've held on seeing someone month after month, or year after year, convinced that someday you'll hear TTLW that just never, ever come. Or, maybe you're only on date #3 and out of nowhere, BAM! one person says those three little words way too soon and the other person begins to ready up the "It's not you, it's me" speech.

Three little words way too soon is what happened C, a very handsome man in his mid-30's that I met at a networking event held in an uptown museum. I first saw C from across the room, all dressed up in a light gray suit complete with power tie. After making eye contact a few times he began making his way over to introduce himself. We talked for a few minutes, exchanged info and promised to be in touch. It was nice to have that feeling of heading home with the phone number of someone I actually liked tucked away in my pocket.

But, a little while later, over dinner with my friend N, it happened. N pulls out his hand-held device and begins hitting some buttons. And then, before the first date even happens, those three little words are spoken: "Let's Google him."

Googling C proves to be far too easy. After just a couple of clicks, N frowns, looks up from the screen and hesitantly says "Um, how secure are you feeling?" The Google search brings up C's resume. Considering the universities he attended, it's a surprise there isn't ivy sprouting from between the keys and trailing up N's arm. Words every parent longs to hear are leaping out at me. Harvard. Stamford. PhD. Published Articles. Keynote Speaker, etc., etc. A few more clicks and N discovers that C lives in a registered historic landmark house that, of course, he owns. Educated, handsome and apparently, wealthy. We're doomed.

One week later, I am sitting with C over a casual dinner. We’re chatting away about the usual things you say over a dinner with someone new. He’s talking about his job and I find myself saying "So how is your…" and then stop. I was about to say "…first year of teaching?" when I suddenly couldn’t recall if I know he's new to teaching because he told me, or because Google did. For that matter, did he ever say Harvard, or was that from Google, too? Who said his house was a landmark building? Him? Google? PhD. Him? Stamford. Google? His last name. Him, I think, definitely that was him. Or maybe not.

I look up from my confusion and find that C is staring at me, looking perplexed because after having said "So how is your…" I simply stopped talking. From his point of view, I’ve been sitting there with my mouth open, saying nothing for about a minute or so. "…dinner?" I add. He looks a tad confused. "Oh, fine." I try to continue as if there's no raging debate in my head over what I know but am not supposed to know. But, in just a few seconds, I do it again.

On New York.Me: "So how do you like living…" Stop. Can’t say "New York", not supposed to know he’s a recent transplant.

On education.Me: "It must have opened a lot of doors, having a…" Stop. Can’t say "Harvard education."

On his age.Me: "I’d hardly call you old at…" Stop. Not supposed to know he’s 36.

By the end of dinner C is shifting around in his seat, looking rather uncomfortable. During dinner, there have been at least six instances when I suddenly stopped talking mid-sentence, while asking myself the "Him or Google?" question. I’m fairly certain C’s convinced I’m either having a series of small seizures or simply incapable of finishing a sentence. Whatever he thinks, it’s obvious he’s hoping the waiter soon appears with the check.

On the way out of the restaurant, since things are going nowhere, I decide to have some fun. "So, " I say "would you like to…:" and purposely don't finish the sentence. I just stop talking, shake his hand and walk off.I'm not exactly sure why, but in my mind I hope that C told a friend that night about his date's rather odd disability. I like to imagine that friend agreeing the condition sounded strange and then suggesting "Let's Google it." If C and I ever run into each other again, he can be the one to worry about saying something he's not supposed to know.

Coming Back

I gave myself a month off to figure out some computer issues and take a little break. Everything's now good as new, I've had my summer break and it's time to get back to my blog. And what better way to return than with another dating story?

So, coming very soon, Dating Story #5!

Necessities?

I had my television disconnected last September. I don't mean this in a "Television? Oh, I never watch anything on television unless it's on PBS" kind of way. It's more accurate to say I really love television, pretty much the same way a caffeine addict just loves that daily Dunkin Donuts visit. If I have a day with no place to be I could easily lie on the couch, staring at the TV from the time I rolled out of bed until late into the night. I would start with the early morning talk shows, hang around through mid-day news, move on to an afternoon lineup of All My Children-One Life to Live-General Hospital, then catch a little Judge Judy before heading into evening news, game shows, sitcoms, crime dramas and midnight re-runs of Friends or Will & Grace.

But, last year I had satellite television service. No need to mention the company I was using, we'll just say they bring TV in a direct kind of way. The service was beyond awful. Sometimes I'd only get a handful of channels. Other times, I'd get a different handful of channels. And often, there would be no channels whatsoever. When I called to complain, their customer service consisted of an operator assuring me I could repair the problem if I just climbed up onto my roof and adjusted the satellite dish myself. I wasn't to worry about this, she assured me, because as long as I cradled the phone to my ear the whole time while climbing and adjusting, she'd talk me through the entire process. My refusal brought out their repair man, who stood on the sidewalk, shrugged his shoulders and said "What do you want me to do about it?"

The original plan was to have the service disconnected and then to call the local cable company. Instead, once the TV was off, I found myself wondering why it was needed at all. Other than the series "Lost", there wasn't much television I couldn't live without. I was a little sick of the Desperate Housewives. As much as I enjoyed the cooking shows, I wasn't ever moved to get up and make something. And while the room makeover shows were fun, none of my neighbors seemed too keen on the idea of allowing me to come over and cover their dining room walls in organic wheat grass.

The thing that's interesting is people's reactions. I've learned that saying "I don't have television" often brings about the same shocked reaction as saying "I just requested my food supply be shut off." People stare wide-eyed and declare "But you NEED television!" If you go back through time, you realize this isn't anything new. Years ago, you "needed" an antenna on your roof for better reception, then it was cable TV before moving onto satellite. Surround sound then became a must-have, followed by Hi-Def, plasma, etc., etc., etc. Soon people will most likely be declaring that you absolutely "need" to hire Hugh Laurie personally to drop-in and re-enact the last episode of House live, while you lie on the couch eating day-old Chinese takeout and wondering what TV actors might be performing over at your neighbors house.

As an experiment, I tried taking the sentence "I don't have television" and substituting other words to see what people would say. For example, I discovered that when saying "I don't have a kidney" I was treated like a selfless hero who had obviously given a vital organ to a dying relative. I thought it was interesting that everyone assumed I had given my kidney away. Not once did anyone assume that I was in need of a kidney, and not once did anyone offer me one of theirs as a replacement. "I don't have indoor plumbing" simply caused people to back away from me, assuming I either hadn't had the chance to bathe in a long time or was in danger of exploding after having been constipated for weeks on-end because I couldn't bring myself to travel all the way to the outhouse.

In retrospect, trying out the sentence "I don't have Viagra" at 2AM while in a club may have been a mistake. After that particular declaration, I was greeted by dozens of outstretched hands, all holding little blue pills while promising the problem could be solved at just $20 a pop.

It seems we've forgotten the things that really are necessities. We need air, food, water and sleep. While SUV's, plasma TV's, spray-on tans and $500 shoes may all be lovely, they aren't requirements to get from one day to the next. I've yet to read an obituary claiming the cause of someone's death was lack of HBO.

On my way to and from work most days, I pass a homeless man who holds a sign that reads "I don't have food". That's right, food, which I think everyone, other than Hollywood starlets, can agree really IS a necessity. Unfortunately, this seems to bring him nothing more than either blind indifference from passers-by or angry shouts of "Get a job!" from people who assume he is simply too lazy to fend for himself. I'm often tempted to suggest he change the wording to "I don't have a cell phone." I'm sure that within minutes, dozens of people would be sitting on the sidewalk next to him, discussing the futility of trying to survive without purchasing a cellular plan.

Eventually, I will call the cable company. But in the meantime, I've discovered enjoyment in a house without the blaring sound of television advertisements. There's a lot to be said for nights out with friends, or for simply sitting quietly in a chair with a good book and some chocolate chip cookies. Now those are life's necessities.

Dating Story # 4 a/k/a...

Something New

F is a handsome, fifty-something man, the type of guy the word robust was created to describe. He practically glows good health with his trim, muscled physique, golden tan, gleaming white teeth and outgoing demeanor. He's the type of man you can easily imagine on the tennis courts in the Hamptons, lobbing a few with his good friends the Schwarzeneggers before retiring poolside with a gin and tonic for some witty repartee. He's Cary Grant charm mixed with Noel Coward wit and topped off with the smile of Mario Lopez. In other words, F is exactly the type of man who, without doing anything other than breathing, can cause me to feel totally inferior as a human being.

F and I, after meeting at yet another dating event I attended, are having dinner. He recommended this Italian restaurant in the West Village. It's the perfect location for a first date. It's just pricey enough to let you know they take their food seriously, without being extravagant. It's tastefully decorated with the lights dimmed to the perfect setting, suggesting possibilities to every hopeless romantic who crosses the threshold. The tables are placed just far enough apart to offer diners their privacy, yet close enough to allow you to get a mouth-watering glimpse of the warm chocolate souffle being served to the table in the corner.

When the waiter takes our orders for cocktails F, of course, orders a martini. Not a vodka martini like so many of the masses might order, and certainly not one of the overly-sweet flavored martinis like Lemon Drop or something doused in sixteen flavors of chocolate. F doesn't have a thirst for these over-the-top-come-to-the-carnival-its-all-in-the-presentation types of cocktails. His is the classic martini: gin, vermouth and an olive. Sitting on my side of the table, I wouldn't have been at all surprised to hear him voice his preference for having it 'shaken, not stirred" in his best Sean Connery as James Bond voice. F is so perfect, it makes you want to either toss a drink in his face or drag him off to a Las Vegas wedding chapel after convincing him there is absolutely no need for anyone to be mentioning a pre-nup.

F is a New England transplant, having moved to Manhattan in just the past few months. He apparently had sold off a fairly substantial amount of real estate, invested a chunk of money and realized he had more than enough to retire to New York. He recently purchased an apartment overlooking Central Park and had hired a contractor to do a complete floor to ceiling renovation. Coincidentally, my own recently purchased house is also in need of renovation. I don't mention it though, because while F is reviewing blueprints with his contractor and discussing the advantages of a sub-zero stainless steel refrigerator as he, no doubt, dresses in a tailor-made suit to head out the door to a tony Upper East Side cocktail party, I was at home with the rain pouring through my leaky bedroom ceiling, wondering if there was such a thing as a house-sized umbrella, while sleeping underneath a blue waterproof tarp and praying for mercy.

I don't remember saying very much during dinner. I was too intimidated. He was the let's-fly-to-the-Riviera-for-lunch-type and I'm more of a lets-get-some-more-of-those-dollar-ninety-nine-Swedish-meatballs-at-the-Ikea-cafeteria kind. He was retired with a Central Park view and I was wondering if anyone would notice if I stuffed the bread from the table into my jacket pockets so I wouldn't have to pay for lunch the next day. E-Harmony would never have mistaken us for a match.

The conversation eventually turned to men we had dated in the past. He told me that for the majority of the previous twenty five years, he had only been involved with men in their 20's. He couldn't recall even one date with a man over the age of 30, until tonight. "But" he said, "I thought is was time to try something new." You can't ask for more irony that that. Here I was, something new because, in actuality, I was something old. Looking down at my blue shirt, I realized that if one of us leaned over to the next table and asked to borrow their salt shaker, we'd be just one minister shy of starting a wedding ceremony.

F went on to talk about the challenges of dating young men. How they, while being pretty to look at, could be difficult to talk to. He said it was hard to be sure with someone so much younger, if they were more interested in him or his wrap-around terrace. F was tired of all that. He longed for something deeper and more meaningful with someone who had the same ideals and goals. It was all very touching. It would have been easier to believe however, if he hadn't cried out "Hot damn, would you look at that!" at the bubble butt belonging to the 20-something Cuban busboy as he passed our table.

I realized that I wasn't the only one feeling inferior. While I obviously had my issues with F's financial success or, more accurately, my lack of it, F had struggles of his own. Instead of simply trusting his own charm, he seemed to use his acquisitons to help attract the younger men he desired. It was too bad for both of us. F was a very nice man. But we were both too locked into our roles with neither of us knowing how to change course. I didn't know how to be Park Avenue. He didn't know how not to be.

F and I ended up having dinner a second time, but it was clear it wasn't going further than that. Other than both hoping to find a good relationship we didn't have anything in common. Well, except one thing. Because when F called out 'look at that!"about the busboy's butt, the truth was, I already had. And F was right. Hot damn, indeed.

A View from the Finish Line

Yesterday morning, the Pride Run took place in Central Park. Because of the injury to my leg (which is coming along nicely), I couldn't run along with my friends from the running group. But, even though I couldn't do the race, I wanted to be there to show support for the group who had all worked so hard to be ready for this 5-mile run. So early yesterday morning, I headed to Central Park to meet up with everyone. It was great to see S, E, S and E, along with Coach J, all decked out in their red shirts and ready to go.

As 9:00 approached, the group headed to take their places and I settled myself near the finish line so I could applaud each of them as they crossed. It was hard to not think about how this was not where I wanted to be. I would have much preferred to be in that crowd of runners, a member of the group, waiting to begin. Instead, I sat on the grass, listened to the announcements, cursed my leg a few times and waited.

As the race started, I thought about the gay and lesbian runners who were out on that course and wondered how many had spent too much of their lives feeling like outsiders. How many had grown up, trying to hide who they are, afraid of being found out? How many as teenagers went to high school dances and proms they had no interest in, just because they were concerned about not looking like everybody else? How many out on that track had been like me as a teenager, confused, awkward and sports-deficient? How many were running today as a way to continue putting all of that behind them, an attempt to simply declare this is who I am, so deal with it. There was no way to not root for all of them to reach the finish line.

It didn't take very long for the first runners to complete the five miles. Somewhere around 23 minutes after the start, the winner crossed the finish line. I expected jubilance. I expected celebration. I expected tears and laughter and unbridled euphoria. Instead, as he crossed over the line, he calmly looked at his watch, slowed down and walked over to someone with a clipboard to give his name. The second place runner did exactly the same thing. As did the third, the fourth and the fifth. I assumed it would be different for the first woman who crossed, but I was wrong. Just like the men before her, she completed her run, calmly looked at her watch, slowed down and walked over to the clipboard holder.

It was pretty obvious these were the professionals; the men and women who toured the country, and probably the world, running marathons. Most likely they were here to make sure they completed one more race to qualify for the New York marathon. For them, five miles was most likely more of a warm-up. But, this was the Pride Run and my gaydar (which I like to think of as a finely-tuned machine) wasn't indicating that any of the people who crossed first were gay. They had won fair and square, but it felt wrong somehow. I hoped that I was mistaken, that at least one of the first to finish was here because of what the race represented.

But then, more runners, clearly the gay men and lesbians who had come specifically because it was the Pride Run, their run, were crossing the finish line. You could feel exhilaration coming off them in waves. There were fists pumped into the air, smiles a mile wide and shout-outs of "Yes!" as people finished. Runners embraced friends and relatives. People hugged, danced or quietly smiled to themselves that they had done it. It came as no surprise to me that my friends, all of them, managed to complete the race and cross the finish line. I think I was as proud of all of them as they were of themselves. They worked hard to get there, and they all deserved that moment of feeling like champions.

Before we walked away, I saw a man and woman cross the finish line together. They stopped near where I was standing and clasped hands. The man was clearly exhausted. Between gasps of air, I heard him say to her "I could never have done that without you. Thank you." The woman smiled and they hugged. I assumed they were friends, but after that short exchange, they parted ways. They were strangers who had met along the route when he was struggling, and somehow, she helped him get to the finish line. It was a moment I'll remember for a long time.

After that, I didn't think about who won the race and if they were gay or not gay anymore. None of it mattered. If these men and women had once been awkward outsiders, there was no way of telling it now. Instead, in the time it took to run five miles, they had joined together to show the world exactly who they were and what they were capable of doing. And that's a hell of a lot to be proud of.

No-Shows Will Be Billed

As everyone that reads this blog (a/k/a both of you) knows, last month, I pulled the quad muscle in my left leg, thus sidelining my assured later-in-life career as the world's first middle aged, novice triathlete. I had completed my first ever race, felt the joy of crossing the finish line and then, perfect physical specimen that I am, ended up limping my way through the next couple weeks calling out for painkillers and ice packs. After 2 weeks of ongoing soreness, it seemed time for a trip to the Doctor.

Dr. G has been my doctor for about 15 years. He never seems particularly pleased to see me, and I suspect it's because I usually comment on something, and he finds it irritating. When he had a waterfall installed in his waiting room for instance, I questioned how wise a move it was considering the effect the falling water sound would have on patients with bladder problems. He wasn't amused. This time, there was a note attached to the inside of the door in the exam room that read "Patients Who Do Not Show for Appointments Will be Billed for the Full Visit." I kept looking at it as I sat on the examination table, waiting. When the doctor walked in, the conversation went like this:

Dr. G: Thomas, it's been a long time.
Me: Hello, Dr. G. Can I ask you about that sign?
Dr. G: (sighs) What sign?
Me: That one about billing people who don't show up. It's posted on the inside of the exam room, which seems an odd place. The only way to see it, is if you're already here.
Other than a stone-cold silence, there is no response from Dr. G.

Anyway, after examining my leg, Dr. G says there will be no running for one month. He gives a very long description of the quad muscle and exactly why it takes much longer to heal than other muscles. Still, a month long hiatus seems a tad excessive, so I say "A month long hiatus seems a tad excessive." This is when he decides to get even for the no-show patient sign comment. He tells me about professional athletes and how when they injure the quad muscle, they are often out for six to eight weeks. "These are people in top physical shape" he says "and that's not you." Ouch. He then decides to nail the coffin shut by adding "Besides, you ARE 46 years old." I swear I saw the slightest of smiles as he savored the taste of revenge.

Having to drop out of the Pride Run scheduled for June 28th was difficult. I had really been looking forward to running it. Having to drop out of my running group, and knowing they continue to get together on Tuesdays and Saturdays without me, was more difficult. I've become very fond of the people in that group and miss seeing how they all progress from week to week. But, just as I was feeling a little lonely...

Please see posting marked "You'll Never Walk Alone"

You'll Never Walk Alone

This is my dog, Nora. The cast was just put on yesterday because she has fractured the knee on her back right leg from a fall. I'm sure its just coincidence, but I like to think Nora, dedicated pet that she is, decided this was a sign of solidarity. If I was going to have a leg injury, she was going to have a leg injury. Unfortunately, her injury is much worse than mine.

But I have to say, if you're going to walk a bit slower for a while, it's nice to have a buddy limping along beside you.

Act Your Age

I was walking through the supermarket recently, picking through the fresh vegetables. (OK, I was buying ice cream. And cake.) I heard a woman snap at the pre-teen that was with her. "Will you act your age?" Act your age. Do you even remember the last time you heard someone use that phrase? But, it did bring up a question for me. How does 46 act?

To a toddler, 46 is simply another playmate, just taller. 46 likes to play ball, enjoys eating cupcakes and talks back to Dora the Explorer and Diego. 46 doesn't like to take afternoon naps, but takes them anyway. 46 likes crayons and coloring books and can actually stay within the lines. And 46 knows lots of useful things, like how to read, how to drive and how to buy toys.

To a 10-year old, 46 is a frail, white-haired senior citizen sitting quietly on a park bench, feeding the pigeons and waiting for death. Most likely, 46 breaks pretty easily. To move around, he would need a cane. Or better still, a wheelchair. And if 46 is lucky, he still has at least some of his teeth. But probably not too many.

To a teenager, 46 is the clueless adult who doesn't understand anything. 46 is the person who needs someone much younger to explain how things work, such as the camera on a cell phone or the car's GPS. 46 was clearly never in love, which is why he is clueless when it comes to understanding the real, deep, angst-filled love that teenagers experience on an hourly basis. But, since 46 comes equipped with a wallet and car keys, it's best to at least try and keep one around. Just don't tell him too much.

To an adult, 46 is a graying at the temples kind of guy. He's married, most likely for the second time. His daily routine consists of heading to a job he's become numb to and then going back home to his second wife and young child. He has 2 kids from a previous marriage, one that's about to enter his/her first year of college and one that's now a sophomore in high school. His ex-wife barely speaks to him, unless it's about money. He barbeques on weekends in the summer and he's tired a lot of the time.

Clearly, toddlers are smarter than everyone else.

I'm 46. I keep a rubber rat on a bookshelf in my office. I sometimes dance in places not known for dancing, such as the aisles of my local Stop & Shop. I own the DVD of "Wallace & Gromit, the Curse of the Were-Rabbit" and enjoy reciting some of the lines along with the Plasticene characters.("I'm just crackers about cheese.") I have named the small stone gargoyle in my living room, Fidel. I own three "Cat in the Hat" style hats, all in different colors. I also own property, pay my taxes, make a living and can manage to paint a room. I vote, I cook, I clean. I like a good afternoon nap.

So, if anyone ever says "Act your age", I have my response. Because no matter what I'm doing, from coloring to cooking, the answer is a very simple "I am."

Who's Your Daddy?

Last Christmas I was at my mother's house in Massachusetts. At one point I looked out the front window to the house across the street and saw a woman with three children coming out the front door. "Who's that?" I asked. My mom replied "That's K with her three kids." I was overwhelmed by the need to sit down. K-across-the-street was someone I babysat when I was a teenager. I still remembered her as a quiet, freckle-faced seven-year old who played a mean game of Operation. And now she had three kids of her own, one of whom looked like a teenager. That freckle-faced child had given birth and was raising three human beings. And here I was, about to act younger than any of her 3 children by crawling underneath the Christmas tree and shaking a few wrapped gifts to see if I could figure out what Santa had brought me.

It seems everyone is having children. Single women are deciding to have babies on their own. Gay couples are adopting. Celebrities are travelling the globe in search of children who are attractive enough to be pursued by the paparazzi. Kids are everywhere you look. I'm sometimes suspicious that all these people are having children for the sole purpose of making me feel like an old man. Trust me, it's working. For example, my siblings have five children. Since I'm the youngest in my family, having five nieces and nephews isn't a big deal. I've had years with them around. The problem is that in the past few years, my nieces and nephews have started to have children of their own. I now have three great-nephews. Great-nephews! Just writing it causes me to feel every wrinkle in my face as they deepen.

The K-across-the-street at Christmas incident darkened much of my winter. I felt forced to admit that I was old enough to be someone's father. And although it had certainly occurred to me in the past that people my age had children, seeing K walk out the door with those kids was much like having the proverbial ice cold water thrown in my face. I tried to picture myself with children, assembling new bicycles on birthdays, making weekend trips to the zoo and hiring babysitters. Then, remembering my age, I attempted to adjust that vision into attending high-school graduations and teaching my kids to drive. It all made me slightly queasy.

Father. Dad. Daddy. Does anyone really aspire to be called these things? I admit there's some appeal to the thought of having someone call out "Daddy" under the right set of circumstances. Say you head to some gay establishment, meet someone and head back to his place to eventually hear "Oooh, Daddy" or "Oh yeah, Daddy" gasped out between loud moans while tangled in sweaty sheets and surrounded by condoms and lubricant. Under those conditions, it doesn't sound bad at all. Maybe, there's a lot to be said for reaching this age of Daddy-hood.

But then, on February 26th, a man I never met threw a monkey wrench into everything. A newspaper headline that morning read "Grandparents Win $270M Lottery Prize." It explained that Robert and Tonya Harris, a couple from Georgia, had played the birthdates of five of their six grandchildren and won the lottery. It all sounded very sweet. I pictured this retired, gray-haired couple, most likely living Social Security check to Social Security check. And now, surrounded by their six loving grandchildren, they were celebrating their enormous multi-million dollar win together. It was like a Norman Rockwell painting come to life, until I got to the next line of the story. "Mr. Robert Harris, 47..."

Grandpa was only 47 years old.

I didn't take this news well. The Harris clan may have been celebrating down in Georgia, but I was tempted to throw an enormous hissy fit up here in New Jersey. It had taken all winter to ease myself into the realization that I was old enough for another person, another adult even, to refer to me as their parent. But in one shout out of "Gee, Grandma, we won the lottery" coming from Georgia, I was now faced with the idea that I was old enough to be someone's grandfather. Let's face it, hearing "Oh yeah, do that again Grandaddy" is not exactly the stuff from which fantasies are made.

I hope the Harris clan is happy. And I hope that K-across-the-street enjoys every moment of motherhood. And while there's no getting around the fact that there are people my age who are parents and grandparents, there's also no getting around the fact that without children, I can choose to act any age I wish. K-across-the-street has to teach her kids by example how to be good and productive people. And the Harrises now have the job of teaching their grandchildren that, despite the windfall, there are still rules to be followed and chores to do. And while they attend to those tasks, this 46-year old man without children or grandchildren can still crawl under that Christmas tree and happily shake all the presents he wants.