Middle Man

I ran the Father’s Day 5-mile race in Central Park this past Sunday. While the weather was cool, the humidity level was 97%, so we were one sweaty pack of runners coming across the finish line. By the time I was done running, I was sweat-soaked, breathing heavy and my legs hurt. But all the effort paid off. I came in 2,250th place.

In case you’re wondering, there are no trophies for that.

I’m strictly a middle-of-the-pack type runner. You don’t see much about us, although I suspect we’re the largest group of runners in the majority of races. Mostly, you hear reports about elite runners, those streamlined professionals who run 4-minute miles and often look like they’d be very grateful if someone would offer them a bite from a cookie. Elite runners are the ones who balance themselves on the fine line between profession and obsession. Sometimes they teeter over that line. I remember reading an interview with one elite runner who talked about the altitude machine she has in her house that pumps less-oxygenated air into her bedroom. That seems a tad extreme, not to mention terribly impractical. I can’t find enough room in the cabinets to put my useless junk, never mind having to clear space for a machine to make me feel I'm living in the Swiss Alps.

I’m happy with my place in the middle. I like it there. I have no worries about trying to win a race because to be honest there’s no way I ever will There are races when I try and challenge myself by going just a bit faster and races when I relax and enjoy the surroundings and the company. Some races, like Sunday’s, are a combination of both. I feel a terrific sense of accomplishment even when I finish at number 2, 250.

The middle-of-the-pack where I run is filled with wonderful diversity. This is the place you’ll find the harried parent who runs to de-stress or two friends who run side by side while they catch up on each other’s lives. In the middle, you’ll come across that person who’s trying gamely to lose a few pounds and that dreamer who is slowly working her way forward, determined to make it to the front of the pack one day.

On Sunday, I spent some time running near a couple, both clearly giving it their all; huffing and puffing while offering each other small bits of encouragement ("We can do this! We’re halfway there!") They were inspiring to be near. And I owe a nod to the handsome, muscled, shirtless runner with the tight running shorts and the angel wings tattooed on his back .I spent some quality time running directly behind you, which I thank you for. You made getting from mile 3 to mile 4 very enjoyable.

When the race was over, I collected my bag and was heading out of the park when I found myself next to the running course at about the 4 and a half mile point. The last few runners left in the race were going by with as much determination as those who had finished well over an hour ago. One was a teenage boy with one leg. Using his crutches for balance he propelled himself forward towards the finish line. The mile-wide smile on his face was proof you didn’t need to be anywhere near the front of the pack to celebrate. Everyone in it, no matter when they finished, won that race.

Thank You for Visiting Denial - Come Back Soon

We all spend a fair amount of time living in denial. There’s nothing wrong with that. In fact, denial can be an enjoyable trip, a place where reality has been swept away and hidden from sight. In denial, everything around you is comic book cute, cleaned up and overly upbeat like at Disneyland or when you flip TV channels and find yourself coming face to face with the screechings of Rachael Ray.

Unfortunately, our occasional trips to denial can come to a very abrupt end. That wonderful sea-side vacation for which you paid top dollar can quickly erode into a chorus of crying children, cranky spouses and hurt feelings. And that helpful woman at the make-up counter who promises a complete transformation sometimes delivers more Bozo than beautiful.

Last Wednesday morning, I found myself happily living in denial. I had a short list of things that that needed to be done, nothing earth shattering or life-changing, just a few simple errands: pick up new Metrocard, get cash from ATM, buy coffee. OK, no denial there. However, since an upcoming trip with R necessitates my passport be renewed, I decided to add one more thing to the list - have new passport photo taken. Just one quick stop at the photo place up the street, a quick pose and 5 minutes later I’d go merrily on my way. No big deal.

Ah, denial. You tricky devil you. If only you had stopped me from actually looking at my picture.

Why is it that even though we look in a mirror at least a couple times each day, we rarely see the changes time brings to our faces? It’s fairly common to not notice the small lines forming around our eyes or the wrinkles running across our forehead. As we age, most of us still have the ability (some might say delusion) to see ourselves as that adorable young man-child (or woman-child) who could still get a few free drinks from the hot bartender with just a few bats of our eyelashes. At least we do until some guy with a camera drops a 2 x 2 passport photo in our hands and reality smacks us between the eyes.

My first thought when glancing at the image in my new passport photo was “Who’s that old guy and why is he wearing my clothes?” This was certainly not the wrinkle-free-smooth-as-a- baby’s-butt-don’t-look-a-day-over-20 face I winked at every morning in the mirror. This was the image of some middle aged man who had clearly seen better days. This was, gulp, my father! Suddenly a new item appeared on that harmless list of errands: Buy Botox – in bulk!

But denial was not to be out-done by something so mundane as reality. Moving quickly to put some space between me and the photo, my mind flashed back to something that had happened the previous month. While out one night with my sister I had been asked for my ID upon ordering a drink. True, I hadn’t been carded in years and yes, it was a very dark bar and well OK, the policy of the place was that they asked absolutely everyone for their ID. But as long as I had that memory of being asked I could easily push all thoughts of the passport photo out of my head and think “See? You still look the same as you used to.” And as the new photos dropped into my pocket and out of sight I swear there was a small voice whispering

“Welcome back to denial. We missed you.”

Dating Story #7 a/k/a...

Let's Take Things Slowly

As we get older, time speeds up. It often feels like a New Year has just begun when before you know it the summer months come and go and suddenly boom, the holiday season arrives and we're getting ready for another round of Auld Lang Syne. I mentioned this to my mother a few years ago, who responded: "Just wait. The older you get, the faster it goes." As this occurs, how many times have you wanted to slow things down? You know what I mean, that feeling when you need a little breather and wish time would come to a dead stop for a few minutes so you can relax and enjoy things. But life doesn't work that way. It keeps charging ahead while picking up speed.

Unless you happen to be on a date with a gentleman I'll call Y.

Y was someone I "met" online. He was a fiftysomething Southerner who had recently ended a very long-distance relationship with a man living in Paris. When we began exchanging emails, Y had only lived in New York for about a month, having come here after a job offer that was too tempting to pass up. He had been a New Yorker for such a short time that he needed very precise directions to the Upper West Side restaurant where I suggested we meet. I didn't it know then, but it was here I made a critical mistake that you, dear readers, can learn from: always, always, always have the minimum of a phone conversation before meeting face to face. Someone who seems genuinely warm, charming and normal in emails can turn out to be, well, like this...

I had been waiting for more than half an hour past our arranged meeting time when Y strolled into the restaurant. I was concerned that maybe he had gotten lost since he was still unfamiliar with finding his way around Manhattan. He had my cell phone number in case there had been a problem, but no call had come. So when we finally came face to face I asked "Did you have trouble getting here?" There was a bit of a pause before he simply said "No."

No. That was it. Nothing else. Just, no.

We were led to a table, presented with menus and left alone. I recall my first comment to Y: "It's nice to meet the person behind the emails." Y looks at my face for a split second and then turns his head a bit and looks over my left shoulder. He is seemingly staring at something taking place behind me and, whatever it is, it's so fascinating that it has rendered him speechless. He doesn't say anything. He just continues to stare over my shoulder. The silence and the staring go on so long that I start to count inside my head. One...two...three...four...five...six... seven...eight...nine... and suddenly, Y looks back at my face and says "Yes."

Yes. Just, yes.

Obviously, I need to ask a question that requires a multiple word answer. I know that he's a professor of something or other at an Ivy League university, so I try this: "Can you remind me again what you do?" The pattern is repeated. He looks at me, turns his head and stares off over my shoulder. I am tempted to turn around, figuring whatever is behind me must look pretty damn good. Maybe a shirtless Brad Pitt has slipped into a table in the back corner and his perky nipples are sending Y signals that he thinks they're meant to be together. I don't turn around. Instead, I count again. One...two...three...four...five...six...and Y says "Teach."

The waiter doesn't fare any better than I do. It feels like a lifetime passes while waiting for Y to order his first course "Salad" and his entree "Lasagna." Sitting at the table is excruciating even though it's only been about 15 minutes since we sat down. No matter what is asked, Y only answers with a one, or when he's feeling verbose, two word reply. And even then it's only after he's taken a good long gaze at the not-actually-there perky nipples of Brad Pitt. He never asks me anything about myself which I assume is simple intimidation because asking a question would require he string three or more words together. When the salads arrive, I figure I can eat quickly and get the hell out of there. I figure wrong.

It turns out that Y's speech moves at a pace akin to Nascar when compared to the way he eats. He begins his meal by oh-so-slowly cutting the salad into smaller pieces. Once every lettuce leaf, tomato, cucumber, etc has been cut, he proceeds to cut them into even smaller pieces. Two cuts become three cuts become four. When everything has finally been reduced to the size of grains of rice, he takes a mouthful and chews. And chews. And chews. And chews. And chews. This slow, steady pulverization of his salad goes on for, wait for it, an HOUR AND A HALF. I am finished with my dinner by the time he makes his first cut into his lasagna. By now, I have given up all hope of having a conversation. Instead, I sit quietly and pray for lightning to strike and kill me.

Sitting there, I couldn't help but think "I am too old for this." Dating when you have reached your mid-forties can often be tiresome and dinner with Y was one bad date too many. I signaled to the waiter "Please do me a favor and bring the check...now" and explained to Y that I needed to go. There was a moment's hesitation about bringing things to such an abrupt end, but any feeling of guilt quickly passed when I looked across the table and watched Y's obsessive cutting and chewing. Y looked confused, which I assume had to do with the fact that he didn't know how to deal with the speed at which things were suddenly moving. He sat there staring at the imagined Pitt-nipples again, his fork hanging in mid-air holding a miniscule bite of lasagna. After a few seconds pause, he predictably turned back to look me in the face and said "Oh."

Y would end up being my last bad date (although there are still earlier bad date stories to tell). Within a month of that silent, overly long dinner, I would meet my boyfriend. As for Y, I don't know where he is now but I do sometimes think of him, usually when I see a photo of Brad Pitt surrounded by Angelina and all their kids. Sometimes in those photos, Brad looks like he could really use a nice quiet dinner. I know exactly who he should call.

Gay Bar Guardian Angel

Life is constantly in flux. People come into our lives, some stay a short time, others stick around. Things change: addresses, weight, roommates, hairlines. The clothes we looked spectacular in just a few years ago are now the clothes we wouldn't be caught dead in. Many of those "until death do we part" unions only worked well until something better came along.

It's rare when something comes into our life and stays. That best friend you met in grammar school who you still love to catch up with; the relationship that continues to improve year after year, a favorite childhood toy you keep stowed away in a closet, a few photo albums of family pictures. And a really nice memory:

The other day I realized that 2009 will mark the 30th anniversary of the first time I ever walked into a gay bar. 30 years! It was 1979, the same year I graduated from high school. I was two weeks shy of my 18th birthday (not exactly legal drinking age) and have absolutely no idea what I thought I was doing. Someone I knew had mentioned the name of the bar (Chaps) to me and its location in Boston. So, armed with just that little info,a map of the city of Boston that I couldn't read and very little common sense, I became a gay teenager with one mission: FIND THAT BAR!

Looking back, I don't know how I managed to find it or how I thought they would let some 17-year old kid inside. I don't know that I even gave it a second thought. All I knew was that I was going, no second thoughts. I remember driving into Boston in my first car: a pea-green oil-burning 1972 Ford LTD who's radio only worked when it rained. I remember parking in an illegal spot a few blocks away from the bar and praying the car wouldn't get towed. Then, without pausing or thinking, I headed inside Chaps. For some reason, the person at the door didn't ask for my ID. He just waved me in and I found myself walking inside, terrified out of mind and completely, totally thrilled.

I tried my best to look cool and relaxed as I walked around. In reality, my mouth was probably hanging open as I stared wide-eyed at all the men packed in around me. I remember the bartender asking me what I wanted to drink and, having never ordered a drink before, I didn't know what to say. I remember the mad rush to the dance floor when the song "Enough is Enough" was played. I remember thinking "I'm walking around in a gay bar! I'm having a drink in a gay bar!" But mostly I remember standing off to the side having no clue as to what I was supposed to do.

I got lucky that night (not like that). A guy who apparently took pity on the scared kid in the corner came over and started a conversation by asking point blank what I was doing there. He walked me around the bar, introduced me to a couple of his friends and very gently issued a few warnings on someone my age being here alone. He told me a bit about what life as a gay man was like, told me that coming out to my parents would make things a lot easier, gave me a very soft kiss ("I'm getting kissed in a gay bar!") and walked me back to my car to make sure I was OK. I've never forgotten how kind he was and I've never forgotten his name: Nolan Jeffries.

Over the past 30 years, I've been in a lot of gay bars but the memory of my short time in Chaps with Nolan back in 1979 remains very clear in my head. Apparently, it's another thing that can stay with us for many, many years: an unexpected act of kindness.