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.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Saturday, June 21, 2008
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...
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.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
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."
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."
Sunday, June 15, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Dating Story #3 a/k/a...
Would You Care for Some Childhood Trauma to Go With Those Eggs?
Many people consider brunch a welcome first date. Brunch is safe. When you're scheduled to meet someone on a weekend when the sun is still up and no one has had the chance to go through all of Sunday's New York Times, there are no expectations for anything other than the meal. Brunch translates into "Sure, I'll meet you but it's not likely to go far beyond that. If you're a serial killer, it's not really a problem, because as soon as the last morsel is off my plate, I'm probably headed to the afternoon beer bust and will most likely never see you again."
The only type of date with less pressure than brunch is the "Let's meet for coffee" date. Brunch, while usually being easy enough to get out of, still leaves the door open in case you like each other. In gayspeak, "Let's have coffee" usually translates into "I'm still closeted and terrified of you." or "I have a hot hook-up in that neighborhood anyway, so an extra twenty minutes at Starbucks before I hit the sheets works for me."
Now, it's a winter Sunday, early afternoon and I'm on a first date at the East of Eighth restaurant on West 23rd Street. Q, a man of about fifty or so, is sitting across the table. We've just ordered, the mimosa I asked for has yet to arrive. At first the conversation is pleasant. There are the typical first date topics: work/ interests/hobbies and, like most conversations with someone you don't know, it's taking some effort on both our parts. There are gaps here and there. The topic then turns to family. I tell him about my family back in New England and a little about growing up in a small town before asking about his family. Little do I know that all gaps in our conversation are about to completely disappear. Luckily, just as he's about to open his mouth, my mimosa appears on the table.
The first drops of the champagne and orange juice touch my tongue just as the first sentence about family slips out of his mouth. He says, quite matter of factly, "I hated my father." When I hear that, I take a much larger sip than usual. What follows are things that really should only be said to someone who has the ability to charge your health insurance company. Q 's troubles with his Dad started at about the age of six and Q is now recounting every indignity he suffered chronologically. We go through early childhood, cry our way through puberty and head into the struggle that was the teenage years.
The food arrives and, as he eats, Q continues to recount his past. When he reaches the age of about fourteen, I pick up my champagne glass and never put it back down. Instead, I just keep taking sips, somewhat like a shipwreck survivor clinging onto a floating piece of wood. The one-sided conversation is proceeding like this: "...he used to look me straight in the eye and say things like..." Sip. " ...just didn't like playing sports but he didn't want..." Sip. "...the pressure to find some girl who..." Sip. "...I could hear the names he would call me through..." Sip. The baggage was piling up around our table faster than it ever had at the lost and found at JFK.
I'd like to say this date ended well. That I was understanding and polite and managed to go on my way without hurting anyone's feelings. But, that just wasn't the case. After we paid the check and exited the restaurant, Q said "This was nice, would you like to go somewhere for a cup of coffee?" and, thoughtlessly, I blurted out "I don't think so." I clearly remember the look that crossed his face as I rather rudely said goodbye and walked away from him.
What I learned, is that scheduling a brunch date may not be so safe after all. A whole lot of hurt feelings can come along with that early afternoon meal. And if this should happen again, I hope I have a better and kinder reaction. As for Q, when he suggested having coffee, I hope it meant he had one of those previously scheduled hook-ups in the neighborhood and was trying to kill some time until it happened. I'd like to picture him standing on the sidewalk, giving me the finger as I walked off and then heading for a romp with someone who managed to offer him a much more pleasant memory.
The only type of date with less pressure than brunch is the "Let's meet for coffee" date. Brunch, while usually being easy enough to get out of, still leaves the door open in case you like each other. In gayspeak, "Let's have coffee" usually translates into "I'm still closeted and terrified of you." or "I have a hot hook-up in that neighborhood anyway, so an extra twenty minutes at Starbucks before I hit the sheets works for me."
Now, it's a winter Sunday, early afternoon and I'm on a first date at the East of Eighth restaurant on West 23rd Street. Q, a man of about fifty or so, is sitting across the table. We've just ordered, the mimosa I asked for has yet to arrive. At first the conversation is pleasant. There are the typical first date topics: work/ interests/hobbies and, like most conversations with someone you don't know, it's taking some effort on both our parts. There are gaps here and there. The topic then turns to family. I tell him about my family back in New England and a little about growing up in a small town before asking about his family. Little do I know that all gaps in our conversation are about to completely disappear. Luckily, just as he's about to open his mouth, my mimosa appears on the table.
The first drops of the champagne and orange juice touch my tongue just as the first sentence about family slips out of his mouth. He says, quite matter of factly, "I hated my father." When I hear that, I take a much larger sip than usual. What follows are things that really should only be said to someone who has the ability to charge your health insurance company. Q 's troubles with his Dad started at about the age of six and Q is now recounting every indignity he suffered chronologically. We go through early childhood, cry our way through puberty and head into the struggle that was the teenage years.
The food arrives and, as he eats, Q continues to recount his past. When he reaches the age of about fourteen, I pick up my champagne glass and never put it back down. Instead, I just keep taking sips, somewhat like a shipwreck survivor clinging onto a floating piece of wood. The one-sided conversation is proceeding like this: "...he used to look me straight in the eye and say things like..." Sip. " ...just didn't like playing sports but he didn't want..." Sip. "...the pressure to find some girl who..." Sip. "...I could hear the names he would call me through..." Sip. The baggage was piling up around our table faster than it ever had at the lost and found at JFK.
I'd like to say this date ended well. That I was understanding and polite and managed to go on my way without hurting anyone's feelings. But, that just wasn't the case. After we paid the check and exited the restaurant, Q said "This was nice, would you like to go somewhere for a cup of coffee?" and, thoughtlessly, I blurted out "I don't think so." I clearly remember the look that crossed his face as I rather rudely said goodbye and walked away from him.
What I learned, is that scheduling a brunch date may not be so safe after all. A whole lot of hurt feelings can come along with that early afternoon meal. And if this should happen again, I hope I have a better and kinder reaction. As for Q, when he suggested having coffee, I hope it meant he had one of those previously scheduled hook-ups in the neighborhood and was trying to kill some time until it happened. I'd like to picture him standing on the sidewalk, giving me the finger as I walked off and then heading for a romp with someone who managed to offer him a much more pleasant memory.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
A Gray Hair Where No Gray Hair Should Be
There's no way to dress up this next sentence. Yesterday morning, there was a gray hair sticking out of my left nostril. Unfortunately, I didn't see it right away. I went through my usual routine of getting ready for work, heading out the door, commuting in and beginning my day. It wasn't until about 3 hours into the morning when I got a glimpse of myself in the men's room mirror that I noticed it. A little reminder of my advancing years just sticking out for the world to see.
You wouldn't think one gray hair would be a big deal. After all, it's not like I don't have other grays. My head has a few scattered throughout my hair and there are some gray chest hairs among the brown ones. But this one was COMING OUT OF MY NOSE. That's very upsetting. It makes you wonder just how many more might be in there, hidden and waiting for their chance to make the journey down my nostrils and out into the open air.
What do you do about a gray nose hair? There's no hair-dye for them. The makers of Just for Men have yet to create Just For Nostril Hair. And Heather Locklear or Sarah Jessica Parker never suggested buying Preference by L'Oreal because your nose is worth it.
Of course, common sense says pluck out the one offensive hair. Right? That's not so simple. There are problems with plucking. There's the understanding that, once a hair is plucked, it grows back thicker and stronger. I'm not sure I want a thicker, stronger gray hair in my nose. And what if the non-plucked hairs decide to get revenge for their elderly friend who's been pulled out and tossed away? What is nose hair capable of when really pissed off? And how ridiculous is it that these are the questions going through my head while I'm standing in a men's room staring up into my nostrils?
I blame Sister A for this nose hair quandary. Sister A was my sixth-grade teacher in Catholic elementary school. She was one of those strangely angry nuns that seemed to resent spending her life around children, so she did everything possible to make her students hate her. For example, when Sister M's sixth-grade class across the hall was going on a trip to an amusement park, Sister A informed us that our trip was going to be a tour of the local library down the block. At holiday time Sister A, apparently a frustrated playwright, made us perform "Christmas Joy" a play that she had written herself. My part of this "play" was called Recipe for a Happy Christmas. My 11-year old, beginning puberty self had to stand behind a desk that was covered in bowls, mixing spoons and measuring cups while reciting lines like "You take 1 cup of God's love and mix it with 2 cups of winter joy..." I really disliked Sister A.
Anyway, Sister A enjoyed giving angry lectures. Lots of them. She'd rant about the length of girls' skirts, shout that lipstick was for 'bad girls' and scream that the boys should stay away from the girls and only play with the other boys. (OK, I thought that one was a good rule.) Often, she'd suddenly slam her books down on the desk and start berating R, the shyest girl in the class. I have no memory of R ever doing a thing out of line, other than being an easy target for a hostile nun. It still makes me wince when I remember how many times R was reduced to tears in that classroom. Well, one day, Sister A flew into a rage over nostril hair. (See? We're back on topic.) Apparently, she had witnessed someone plucking out a nose hair and became deeply offended. "God put those hairs there for a reason!" She bellowed. "He doesn't approve of us pulling them out!" Sister A really needed to be locked up somewhere. That woman had issues.
It all comes down to this. In the men's room yesterday, I wasn't just looking at a gray nose hair. I was looking at a gray nose hair coated in Catholic-guilt placed into my head by an angry, unbalanced woman thirty five years ago. And that brings up one of the good things about getting older. You can take these remembrances from the past, evaluate them, keep what you need and throw the rest away. My 11-year old self might have had to endure the rantings of a crazy woman, but my 46-year old self has choices.
So, while remembering Sister A, a woman who should never have been allowed into a classroom, I pulled that little gray sucker out. Completely guilt-free.
You wouldn't think one gray hair would be a big deal. After all, it's not like I don't have other grays. My head has a few scattered throughout my hair and there are some gray chest hairs among the brown ones. But this one was COMING OUT OF MY NOSE. That's very upsetting. It makes you wonder just how many more might be in there, hidden and waiting for their chance to make the journey down my nostrils and out into the open air.
What do you do about a gray nose hair? There's no hair-dye for them. The makers of Just for Men have yet to create Just For Nostril Hair. And Heather Locklear or Sarah Jessica Parker never suggested buying Preference by L'Oreal because your nose is worth it.
Of course, common sense says pluck out the one offensive hair. Right? That's not so simple. There are problems with plucking. There's the understanding that, once a hair is plucked, it grows back thicker and stronger. I'm not sure I want a thicker, stronger gray hair in my nose. And what if the non-plucked hairs decide to get revenge for their elderly friend who's been pulled out and tossed away? What is nose hair capable of when really pissed off? And how ridiculous is it that these are the questions going through my head while I'm standing in a men's room staring up into my nostrils?
I blame Sister A for this nose hair quandary. Sister A was my sixth-grade teacher in Catholic elementary school. She was one of those strangely angry nuns that seemed to resent spending her life around children, so she did everything possible to make her students hate her. For example, when Sister M's sixth-grade class across the hall was going on a trip to an amusement park, Sister A informed us that our trip was going to be a tour of the local library down the block. At holiday time Sister A, apparently a frustrated playwright, made us perform "Christmas Joy" a play that she had written herself. My part of this "play" was called Recipe for a Happy Christmas. My 11-year old, beginning puberty self had to stand behind a desk that was covered in bowls, mixing spoons and measuring cups while reciting lines like "You take 1 cup of God's love and mix it with 2 cups of winter joy..." I really disliked Sister A.
Anyway, Sister A enjoyed giving angry lectures. Lots of them. She'd rant about the length of girls' skirts, shout that lipstick was for 'bad girls' and scream that the boys should stay away from the girls and only play with the other boys. (OK, I thought that one was a good rule.) Often, she'd suddenly slam her books down on the desk and start berating R, the shyest girl in the class. I have no memory of R ever doing a thing out of line, other than being an easy target for a hostile nun. It still makes me wince when I remember how many times R was reduced to tears in that classroom. Well, one day, Sister A flew into a rage over nostril hair. (See? We're back on topic.) Apparently, she had witnessed someone plucking out a nose hair and became deeply offended. "God put those hairs there for a reason!" She bellowed. "He doesn't approve of us pulling them out!" Sister A really needed to be locked up somewhere. That woman had issues.
It all comes down to this. In the men's room yesterday, I wasn't just looking at a gray nose hair. I was looking at a gray nose hair coated in Catholic-guilt placed into my head by an angry, unbalanced woman thirty five years ago. And that brings up one of the good things about getting older. You can take these remembrances from the past, evaluate them, keep what you need and throw the rest away. My 11-year old self might have had to endure the rantings of a crazy woman, but my 46-year old self has choices.
So, while remembering Sister A, a woman who should never have been allowed into a classroom, I pulled that little gray sucker out. Completely guilt-free.
Monday, June 2, 2008
Welcome to the Hive
On my daily commutes, I am joined by businessmen/women, children, tourists and, increasingly, the Borg. The drones from the collective that Star Trek introduced are out in full-force. We've all seen them, looking part-human and part-machine: white IPod wires dangling from their heads or a blinking light going on and off from the phone clipped over an ear while fingers furiously click away on a Blackberry.
Last week, as I stood on a crowded train, I counted the number of people I could see from my vantage point and looked at how many were connected to a machine in some way. I could see a total of twenty-one people. Seventeen had been, in Borg language, assimilated. I'm not a big fan of all these technogadgets and, at the risk of sounding like an aging curmudgeon, I resent the way they've crept into our lives.
Technology was suuposed to make life easier: cell phones, voicemail systems, email, Blackberries, etc. but it doesn't feel that way. Life simply feels more disconnected. Face to face conversations have been replaced by techno-conversations: instant messaging, texting, emailing. People purposely call other people when they know they'll get a voicemail. And many walk down the street oblivious to the world going on around them because they're listening to their downloaded music.
In a few years, someone will probably discover a way to place a small chip into our brains and actually make us part machine. And I won't be surprised if in the not-too-distant future, people will have a small computer/television screen that's worn directly in front of one eye.
Personally, I'd prefer something else.
About a year ago, I was on the train in Chicago. As usual, everyone was sitting and looking straight ahead, only paying attention to either their Ipods and cell phones or to nothing at all. At one stop, a young man got on carrying an armload of newspapers. He sat down, pulled out a sheet of newspaper, folded it into a hat and placed it on his head. No one dared look at him. We all thought he was crazy. So, people either turned up their IPod or played with their cell phones. The man pulled out another sheet of newspaper, folded it into another hat and then held it out for the woman seated across from him. She didn't move and she certainly wouldn't take it. Instead, she turned her body away and pretended not to notice the hat he was offering her. Undaunted, he continued to hold it out until she snatched it from him so he would leave her alone. She didn't wear it, she held it in her lap.
Then, he made another hat and held it out to someone else. This person, possibly fearing some type of retribution from the hat-man, took it and placed it on his head. The man made another hat and held it out. Another passenger took it and wore it. Another hat, another head. Another hat, another head again. And again and again and again until about a dozen or so were wearing his hats. Even the first woman took her hat from her lap and put it on. You could actually feel the shift in mood on that train. People were relaxing and smiling. Many were now reaching out their hands and asking for a hat. When he got to me, I took the hat, thanked him and gladly placed it on my head. Soon, more than half the people on that train were wearing paper hats. And when the hat-man got up at his stop to leave the train, we all broke into applause.
I know it won't happen, but I would really love to see something different tomorrow morning when I head to work. It would be great to get on that train and not see seventeen people attached to machines. Instead, I'd like to be greeted by a sea of paper hats, all proudly worn by a smiling group of strangers that have turned their machines off and let their guard down. It would be one way of knowing that resistance isn't futile at all.
Last week, as I stood on a crowded train, I counted the number of people I could see from my vantage point and looked at how many were connected to a machine in some way. I could see a total of twenty-one people. Seventeen had been, in Borg language, assimilated. I'm not a big fan of all these technogadgets and, at the risk of sounding like an aging curmudgeon, I resent the way they've crept into our lives.
Technology was suuposed to make life easier: cell phones, voicemail systems, email, Blackberries, etc. but it doesn't feel that way. Life simply feels more disconnected. Face to face conversations have been replaced by techno-conversations: instant messaging, texting, emailing. People purposely call other people when they know they'll get a voicemail. And many walk down the street oblivious to the world going on around them because they're listening to their downloaded music.
In a few years, someone will probably discover a way to place a small chip into our brains and actually make us part machine. And I won't be surprised if in the not-too-distant future, people will have a small computer/television screen that's worn directly in front of one eye.
Personally, I'd prefer something else.
About a year ago, I was on the train in Chicago. As usual, everyone was sitting and looking straight ahead, only paying attention to either their Ipods and cell phones or to nothing at all. At one stop, a young man got on carrying an armload of newspapers. He sat down, pulled out a sheet of newspaper, folded it into a hat and placed it on his head. No one dared look at him. We all thought he was crazy. So, people either turned up their IPod or played with their cell phones. The man pulled out another sheet of newspaper, folded it into another hat and then held it out for the woman seated across from him. She didn't move and she certainly wouldn't take it. Instead, she turned her body away and pretended not to notice the hat he was offering her. Undaunted, he continued to hold it out until she snatched it from him so he would leave her alone. She didn't wear it, she held it in her lap.
Then, he made another hat and held it out to someone else. This person, possibly fearing some type of retribution from the hat-man, took it and placed it on his head. The man made another hat and held it out. Another passenger took it and wore it. Another hat, another head. Another hat, another head again. And again and again and again until about a dozen or so were wearing his hats. Even the first woman took her hat from her lap and put it on. You could actually feel the shift in mood on that train. People were relaxing and smiling. Many were now reaching out their hands and asking for a hat. When he got to me, I took the hat, thanked him and gladly placed it on my head. Soon, more than half the people on that train were wearing paper hats. And when the hat-man got up at his stop to leave the train, we all broke into applause.
I know it won't happen, but I would really love to see something different tomorrow morning when I head to work. It would be great to get on that train and not see seventeen people attached to machines. Instead, I'd like to be greeted by a sea of paper hats, all proudly worn by a smiling group of strangers that have turned their machines off and let their guard down. It would be one way of knowing that resistance isn't futile at all.
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