Body in Motion

I've joined a running group. My 46-year-old, likes-to-lie-on-the-couch, doesn’t-want-to-get-out-of-bed, life-is-better-when-horizontal body is now running. My legs are not happy about it.

Back in February, there was a listing for a beginner’s running group in the newsletter put out by the New York GLBT Center. The group was being scheduled to meet twice each week, Tuesday evenings and Saturday mornings, beginning in April. It was going to continue for twelve weeks, culminating in a 5-mile race in Central Park on Saturday, June 28. The race, it read quite clearly, was optional.

Doing something healthy for my body was part of a rather long list of resolutions I had sworn to stick to for 2008. And this seemed to fit very well into the plan.

Friends weren’t so sure, especially my friend M. It wasn’t the actual running that concerned M, as much as the time of day on Saturdays. M is a late-sleeper on weekends and considers anything before noon the middle of the night. M is known for becoming both puzzled and suspicious when she hears that things can actually occur in the morning. “What time on Saturdays?” She asked. “We start at 9:30.” I answered. M’s face went white and I think I saw her hands shaking a bit. “IN THE MORNING?” She looked a little dizzy, like she might faint and had to steady herself by getting a firmer grip on her martini glass.

When class # 1 rolled around on Tuesday evening three weeks ago, I met my running mates. All of us were seemingly feeling the same combination of eagerness and dread. What were we all doing here? Surely there were comfy armchairs complete with a few beers and bags of chips out there and you could practically hear them calling to us to stop this madness and return to where we rightfully belonged.

But our coach was friendly and encouraging and managed to get us onto the streets and off to the running path that runs along the West Side Highway. The plan was to start with a combination of both walking and running, and then slowly build up the running time. It was easy that first night and I found myself actually contemplating that 5 mile race at the end. Could I actually manage that? Would my "isn't it enough exercise to walk all the way to the bathroom?" self learn to embrace a healthier lifestyle? Suddenly, I was absolutely positive that this would all be a breeze. Besides, it was just Tuesdays and Saturdays. Who couldn't handle twice a week?

At the end of the first class, Coach J asked how we felt, told us we had all done a good job and that he’d see us on Saturday morning. He then said “Oh and I’ll email you the schedule for the runs you’ll be doing on the days we don’t meet. There’ll be one day a week off, so I’ll send a schedule for the other six days each week when you’ll be running.” Um, six?

I could hear that comfy armchair, the beer and those chips again. I swear they were laughing.

Dating Story #1 a/k/a...

The 12 Minute Date

I want you to look at a clock. Any clock. Get one from your kitchen, look at your watch or just use the one on your computer screen. Look at the clock and note the time. And now, wait for 12 minutes to go by. You got it, 12 minutes. No more, no less.

It's not important that you do anything. You can, if you like. You can go play with your dog, or not. Talk back to your radio, or not. Or you can simply wait for 12 minutes to pass. What is important is that you notice how long 12 minutes lasts, and it's not very long. You can't watch a sitcom in 12 minutes, even with the commercials omitted. You can't make a run to the store and be back in 12 minutes. You probably can't read one chapter of a book or the evening newspaper that quickly.

OK, is 12 minutes up? Have you noticed how fast it went by and how little you can accomplish in that short time? You did? Good. Now, do one more thing. Take a guess what I managed to do in 12 minutes just 2 weeks ago. Go ahead, guess.

I had a date. A 12-minute date.

It went like this: After messaging/emailing through a website, R suggested we meet up late on a Sunday morning for coffee. He said there was a place across the street from his apartment where we could get a caffeine fix and chat. So on that Sunday morning, I skipped my usual second cup of coffee and arrived at R's apartment building, hit the buzzer and headed upstairs. R was just as adorable as the picture he sent. He seemed sweet and engaging and I gladly took a seat on the couch next to him.

After talking for a couple minutes, R said "I live with my brother; he's gone out right now to do some errands.” "Um, OK", I said and continued chatting. After about another 2 minutes, R said "I live with my brother, he's gone out right now to do some errands." Hadn't he just said that? Was I suddenly going senile? Was this some type of dating deja- vu or perhaps a flash-forward like in Lost? "Um, OK", I said again.

R frowned for a second. "What would you like to do today?" I reminded him that he had suggested coffee. There was no way he could know this, but I really need my second cup. I don't function well without it and if I was going to be at all coherent in a conversation, that second cup of coffee was a necessity. R didn't say anything for a few seconds. "So, coffee?" I asked.

R was not pleased and let me know it by muttering a very flat "Oh." At this point, even my sometimes slow mid-40's caffeine-deprived brain was beginning to catch on. "What would you like to do R?" I asked. He was louder this time "I live with my brother; he's gone out right now to do some errands." R then gets to his feet and murmurs "Follow me." He walks into his bedroom, lies down on his bed and pats the empty space next to him. Needless to say, I don't see even a hint of a coffeepot.

I stood for a minute and wondered if maybe I was at fault for taking things too literally. Perhaps saying we could have coffee was a euphemism for some sexual shenanigans that I didn’t know about. Maybe "having coffee" meant twisting into a mug-shaped position and then shaking your body like you were over-caffeinated in the hopes of pleasing your partner. Or perhaps you were both supposed to pretend you hadn't had any coffee yet so your sexual moves were all very slow. Or maybe I was overcomplicating, and it simply meant you should call your local Starbucks and ask if they could send over a hunky barista and invite him to crawl onto the bed between the two of you.

Now, I have absolutely no judgments whatsoever when it comes to hook-ups and clearly that's what R was looking for. And if this had been another time or place, I might have very well not only jumped into that empty space, but also started imagining all kinds of things that might happen when his brother finally finished those errands. But I was forty six, badly in need of my second cup of joe and, most importantly, this wasn't what I wanted.

I explained as best I could that I was looking for something else, asked again if he'd like to get that coffee with me and, when he didn't answer and didn't move, I told him I'd be leaving. So I got my jacket, wished him well and went out the door. Looking at my watch, I realized I had been inside for just 12 minutes. It had been my quickest date on record. So far, at least.

What's the Rush? Part 1

I have not been in a relationship for 8 years.

Take a few moments. Breathe deeply and please stop shaking your head while wondering “How horrible is he?” I know that right now you are forming an image in your mind of what my face looks like and it’s not pretty. You’re picturing a gay Quasimodo with an uncontrollable drooling problem, yet wearing tasteful shoes. Or an unkempt, socially-awkward geek in a powder blue leisure suit with bad hair and no teeth.

Actually, for a number of those 8 years I wasn’t much interested in starting a relationship. I had other things going on that were much more important. The dirty dishes in the sink needed attention. The plants looked thirsty. I needed my Sundays to iron work clothes and prepare for the week ahead. And then “Lost” came on television and I was so consumed by Jack, Kate and the survivors, not to mention all those unanswered questions (a judgemental smoke monster?), that I couldn’t possibly find the time to take on a boyfriend, too. But as my mid-40’s rolled around, it seemed time to try the dating thing again.

Now, when you’re in your 20’s and want to meet someone, you get a group of friends together and head to a bar or club where you drink, dance, then drink some more so that in the morning you can roll over, look at the naked stranger next to you and say “Hi, I don’t remember your name but would you like to have coffee sometime?” This is still a possibility in your 40’s, but I really didn’t want someone I just met seeing my early morning, pre-coffee face. Certainly not if I hoped they’d ever come back again.

So, I explored my options. Being single has become huge business. There are dating sites and matchmakers. There are singles’ nights, dating parties and that old stand-by, having your friends hook you up. There are dating events where people bring someone they rejected, but think a friend might like. (“I couldn’t stomach David because of his horrible odor problem, but I think he’s perfect for you!”) There are personal ads, online profiles and business networking get-togethers which, for single gay men, is just an excuse to cruise the room. So, out of all the options available, what did I choose first?

Speed dating. At speed dating you are told that in a timeframe of 90 minutes, you will be having a series of “mini-dates” with 30 eligible men. Each of these date-lites will last for 3 minutes which gives you the opportunity to decide if you’d be interested in getting to know someone better.

It sounded perfect. I could go out, meet 30 guys and still be home for an early bedtime. And so on the evening I picked for my re-entry into the dating world, I gussied myself up a bit and headed over to Eighth Avenue. While pushing open the door there was just enough time to wonder what the hell I was doing before walking inside.

Speed dating, here I come.

Being Blossom

I'm involved with an agency that operates reading programs for kids. Once each week, I head to a public elementary school and spend two hours reading with 2 children. My first hour is with J, a fifth-grade boy who's not overly fond of reading, but he politely indulges my weekly intrusions. My second hour is spent with S, a second-grade girl who smiles sweetly while telling me EXACTLY what we'll be reading, who will be reading and how long they will be reading. S doesn't much care for leaving things to chance.

This past Tuesday, while S and I were reading about her favorite girl superheroes, the subject of birthdays came up. "When is your birthday?" I asked. "December 20th." She replied. And then she asks, "When is yours?" I answer, "Mine happens to be the day before yours, December 19th." And then of course, since S is such a logical child, she asks a logical question. "How old are you?"

And we're off.

I know that S is 7 years old. So I try to get away with saying "Oh, I'm seven." This does not fly with S who knows nonsense when she hears it. She doesn't say a word. She doesn't have to. It's all in her eyes which she has fixed on me with a don't-mess-with-me-just-because-I'm-a-child stare. And since I can't pull the wool over those glaring brown pupils, I answer truthfully. "I'm forty six."

Her mouth drops open in what can only be described as utter horror. She has clearly never been near anything as ancient as the man sitting with her here in this school library. She's wide-eyed and fascinated, but not in a good way. You can tell by her face that she's wondering how this human relic managed to survive the ice age that killed the dinosaurs. And I'm convinced that she's forming an exit plan in her head, figuring out the quickest route to escape since my aging heart is probably going to give out at any second. She signed on for a reading program, not for being caretaker to this horribly old piece of flesh that apparently refuses to pass on even though he's well past his prime and, at this point, is just taking up space.

And then, as kids do, she quietly accepted the fact that I had reached a totally unimaginable age and moved on. She smiled, showing the gap where her front teeth used to be and said. "That's OK, you can still be a Powerpuff girl. Do you want to be Blossom?"

Absolutely, I did.

It's Just A Jump to the Left

I know it's only my third posting, but I'm going off topic. We will get back to musings on midlife another time. For today I have to address something of importance. Think of it as my own Public Service Announcement.

Every weekday I travel to work via PATH train from Jersey City into the World Trade Center site, exiting up the escalators to West Broadway. I have grown accustomed to the people who need a moment before stepping onto the escalator. (I don't understand the hesitation, but I'm used to it.) I'm sure we've all seen them. They get to the bottom and then stop suddenly, eyes tightly focused on the moving stairs for a few seconds before they feel confident enough to step forward.

This morning as I approached the escalator, I saw one of the escalator-challenged. Only this time, instead of just hesitating, she was doing a mini-dance/shuffle at the bottom of the escalator. Her left foot would move left, then her right foot would follow, then both would move to the right and then left again. One part of my brain just figured "One of the hesitators, she'll only be a second" and so I kept walking towards her. The other part of my brain figured she:

-was possibly an autistic-genius, doing mathematical equations in her head, well on her way to figuring out how to create a super-powered escalator of the future, or

-was so rattled with OCD that maybe she could only climb onto steps divisible by 21, or

-was a choreographer and, once she saw the escalator, she was inspired to create a dance ("Of course, the dancers will all dance UP, it's genuis!") for a new Broadway musical

Whatever she was doing, I was convinced she would step forward and so I proceeded, until finally I had to stop short to avoid bumping into her. And that's when it happened. I was part of a collision. An escalator collision. Because the woman behind me didn't stop and collided into me, causing me to collide into the math genius/OCD rattled/choreographer. The MGOCDC got pushed onto the escalator (where she landed on a step just fine), I got pushed onto the step just behind her and the woman from behind me stepped onto hers. It was all very dramatic considering we were just getting on an escalator.

I have 2 things to say about this: First, in our world filled with overly busy schedules, cell phones, Blackberries, etc, it's often a good idea to slow down a bit and notice the things going on around you. And secondly, to all those who might have been looking forward to the quick ride of that super escalator or sitting down to the joys of the Broadway-bound "Escalator: The Musical!", they've been temporarily slowed down in their creation. But please don't blame me. The woman behind me was totally at fault.

Page 155

The thing about planning is, you have to know where to start.

And since I'm gay, it seemed to make the most sense to start with my body. I thought about those weight-loss articles that tell you to strip down, stand in front of a mirror and do an honest assessment of how you look. Those articles are obviously written by mean, vindictive, very hungry people who have a huge axe to grind. They are apparently starving themselves on a daily diet of one lettuce leaf and 8 glasses of water so the rest of us feel bad about ourselves. I will not give in to their tyranny by standing naked in front of a mirror. Besides, being a homosexual, I don't have to do that in order to feel bad about my body.

I simply have to head to Chelsea and do, as my friend N calls it "the walk". Right up Eighth Avenue among the boys. And what you learn when you do this, is no one in Chelsea says hello anymore. Greetings used to be friendly as you walked by: "Hi, how are you?" or "It's good to see you." The accepted greeting now is "What gym do you belong to?" If you don't have an answer, you are ordered to vacate the neighborhood because you are single-handedly causing property values to decline. I am often terrified of walking in Chelsea. What if I'm stopped and caught not carrying a gym membership? What if someone asks to measure my biceps and the tape measure can actually go all the way around? What if someone notices my pecs don't arrive at the restaurant a full 20 minutes before the rest of me?

Yup, the body first. Truth be told, it's not too terrible, but there are changes that begin to happen as you get a bit older. There's a little more middle to my middle and sometimes things just, well, move. Other times, even after I've stopped moving, parts of my body continue to move and that's simply not good.

So, I went to the bookshelf to go through some workout books. And there it was: "Working Out" by Charles Hix, published in 1983. It was like re-discovering a jilted lover who shows up 20 years later looking all hot and gorgeous and wanting to do all kinds of nasty things with you again. (Note to my mother if she's reading this: by "nasty things" I mean go to church or perhaps do some volunteer work at the local soup kitchen). I used to love this book. It's filled with pictures of male models in full 1980's appearance. You know that look: blow-dried hair and too much make-up combined with hyper-masculine attitude like Jeff Stryker or Joan Collins.The guys in the pictures are lying in seductive poses with their hands caressing their swollen pecs, all of them wearing nothing more than skimpy shorts and a seductive smirk. While flipping pages I was transported back in time. And then, there he was....page 155.

Page 155 and I were in love at one time. I have no idea what any of the words on the page next to him said, but I could describe in detail his pouty lower lip, the white sweater carefully thrown over the shoulders of his shirtless torso, his carefully groomed chest hair and that perfect nose. Ours was a deep and meaningful relationship. And as I sat there and remembered the good times with Page 155, I decided I could think about my body another day. Today I was going to concentrate on his.

The Microwave Popcorn Epiphany

At exactly what age does someone reach the beginning of "middle age"? Some say middle age begins at 40. Others insist it doesn't happen until you reach 50. For me, the realization that mid-life had arrived started sometime last year, at the age of 45. I was sitting quietly on the couch, watching TV. Dinner, on the night it occurred to me I was middle- aged, was a bag of microwave popcorn and Diet Coke straight from the bottle. And suddenly I got a glimpse of myself and thought "Shouldn't I be further along in my life than this? After all, I'm 45 years old."

45. Mid-life had crept up on me. As I sat and chewed I began listing the things I had been quietly collecting over the past few months for a battle with age that I hadn't even noticed I had started to fight:.
- L'Oreal Moisturizer for the wrinkles around my eyes
- the heating pad for my sometimes sore lower back
- Metamucil for, well, you know.
OK, purchasing 3 "old age" items didn't seem so bad. Then I remembered:
-Neutrogena Eye Reviver for the bags that appeared every morning
-teeth whitening strips to battle the years of caffeine and red wine
- hair thickener for the top of my head where the scalp was beginning to peek through
OK, six things. And then:
-liquid vitamin E for when the skin moisturizer didn't seem enough
-foot massager for the days when my feet hurt.

I set the popcorn and soda aside and took a quick walk though my house. What I found wasn't reassuring:
-All of my old pants with the 29-inch waist were put away and gathering dust. The 30-inch waist pants that had replaced them were now replaced with the 31's.
-The weight bench and weights that I had used on a fairly routine basis just a few years ago, were so covered in thrown-off clothes that it looked like a huge pile of wrinkled cloth.
-I had three pairs of eyeglasses: one for home, one for work and one in the car because not only could I not see clearly, I could never remember to bring my glasses with me when I went out.
-Someone I knew mentioned wanting a Wii and I had no clue what she meant.
-Social Security had sent a rundown on how much I would get when I retired.

I'm sure that being 45, married and straight is no picnic. But being 45, gay and single is a potential nightmare waiting to pounce. Mid-Life was going to take a little thought. So I popped another bag of popcorn into the microwave and opened another bottle of Diet Coke (Caffeine-free, can't have caffeine after 6:00 PM)

Mid-life needed a plan.