Quality Time at the DMV

This past week was not a good one. I've been grouchy, depressed, irritable and at times, just plain mean. In other words, I came very close to becoming one of those cranky old men who wears a permanent frown and kicks bunnies for fun. (Note to PETA: I have not now nor have I ever kicked a bunny. Please do not picket my house.)

When I’m in a bad mood like this, there are quite a few things that I don’t want to do. I don't want to try and pretend that everything is fine. I don't want to sing a round of Kumbaya with the local church group. I would prefer not to be told by anyone that if life hands me lemons, I should make lemonade. I do not want someone taking their fingers and prying the corners of my lips up while urging me to smile. And I do not, absolutely do not, want to have to go to the Department of Motor Vehicles.

Which is exactly where I found myself on Thursday.

I have been going to the DMV since I was 16 years old, which means I have 31 years of experience in standing in DMV lines that do not, not ever, move. In all that time nothing has changed. On my arrival, I was directed to first wait in line one. From there, I was directed to wait in line two. Then (I'm sure you've guessed this) the person at line two sent me to wait in line three.

Did line three finally lead to the helpful person behind the counter, you ask? That certainly would have seemed logical. After all, by the time I worked my way up to the front of line three, I had already been waiting around for two hours. But there is no room for logic here. This is the DMV where finding someone to actually help you is akin to the search for bin Laden. Thus, line three only leads me to now stand in line four. It was all very Waiting for Godot.

Quite a few people walked out, muttering that they didn’t have the time to continue this endless game of shuffling from place to place. Dozens grumbled "This is ridiculous" as they waited and then waited some more. You would think that I could have easily been one of the complainers, given my bad mood. But no. I had one thing no one else at the DMV had that day. I had Pedro.

Pedro was directly behind me in line. Actually, more to the point, he was directly behind me in every line. Wherever I went, so went Pedro, a 78-year old man who suddenly found himself with nothing to do but wait in line and talk to the guy ahead of him: me. Over the course of our 3 hours in line together (yes, I said 3 hours) Pedro told me all about his life. He grew up in the Philippines. Now widowed and retired. Four grown children. For thirty years, he had been employed by a company that caused him to spend 6 months at a time away from his family. I learned what each of his kids did for a living, the color of every room in his house and the total mileage on his 2005 Honda (only 13,000 because it spends half the year tucked in the garage while he spends the winter months back in Manila.)

As Pedro talked (and talked), it was impossible to not let go of my crankiness. Here was a man describing a perfectly ordinary life with anything-but-ordinary enthusiasm. Pedro was so friendly and upbeat that you couldn't help but be swept up in his description of, well, everything. He was as engaging while describing how the world was created (it involved God throwing a lot of lamps, apparently) as he was in talking about what he was going to have for lunch (a boiled egg). He never stopped smiling. At one point, he turned to the woman seated on his other side, pointed to me and told her "This is my friend." You can't stay cranky when Pedro calls you his friend.

It was a little sad to say goodbye to Pedro when were finally done and heading back to the parking lot. I hope he enjoyed our chat. I know I did. Pedro gave me something on Thursday that I hadn't been able to get for myself all the previous week. The cranky guy crawled back into whatever dark corner he had come from and I was feeling like me again. All because of Pedro. Who knew you could find quality time at the DMV?

Be Fearless

I saw the movie Julie and Julia last week. Twice. I enjoyed the stories of cooking legend Julia Child and blogger Julie Powell so much that when M suggested we see it on Friday, I didn't mention that I had already seen it on Wednesday. I think more than anything, I was enthralled by the sheer enthusiasm of Julia Child leaping off the screen. It's hard not to love someone who revels in not just a joy for cooking, but a joy for life. And watching Meryl Streep give a virtuoso performance is simply frosting on the cake.

I didn't know much about Julia Child before seeing the movie. Like most, I knew her from her cooking shows and her cookbooks. I knew her very distinctive high pitched voice that caused many people to assume she was British. I had certainly heard of the legendary "Mastering the Art of French Cooking". I had seen Dan Ackroyd lampooning her in that infamous blood-soaked Saturday Night Live skit. But I had no idea she was a role model for every person who has reached a certain point in their life, looked around and wondered "What should I do?"

Julia Child was nearly 40 years old when she first began to teach cooking. She was 49 when Mastering the Art of French Cooking was published and 51 when she first appeared on camera for her TV show "The French Chef". There doesn't seem to have been a moment when she told herself she was too old to do something or past the point of attempting something new. Instead, it seems she threw herself into new projects for the sheer joy of giving it a try. There was a quote she was known for. It was about cooking, but I think it also sums up the way she seemed to feel about life "...learn from your mistakes, be fearless and above all, have fun."

I wish, like Julia, I could learn to be fearless. Or more accurately, learn how to be as fearless as I used to be. When I was in my 20's, I announced "I'm moving to New York" and threw all of my belongings into the back of a U-Haul. I had no job, no New York friends and no plan and yet somehow everything worked out. In my 40's, it feels I'm often so busy weighing the pros and cons before trying something new, that being cautious comes dangerously close to being immobile.There has to be a happy medium in here somewhere. I don't want to be one of those people referred to as "set in their ways", yet I also don't want to be some fortysomething who tries to be twentysomething again. I'd like to be able to combine the experience of the middle aged man that I am, with the bravado of the younger man I used to be. In short, I want to be Julia Child, enthusiasm and fearlessness intact. Only with a deeper voice.

Who knows if Julia Child was really so approachable and upbeat. It's very possible that the real life Julia was different than the Meryl-Streep-as-Julia film version. I'm sure that in her day to day life Julia Child didn't always utter those high-pitched joyful "oohs" and smile at everyone she met. Like all of us, I'm sure she had cranky days and threw an occasional fit. I'm sure she even had her moments of self-doubt and worry. But Julia Child did what she advised most of us to do. She learned from her mistakes, she was fearless and there's absolutely no doubt that she was having fun.

11 Weeks To Go

My training for the Philadelphia Half-Marathon -my first ever half-marathon- has begun. I have exactly eleven weeks to get my body ready to complete a 13.1 mile run. It's hard to get my head wrapped around the thought of running 13 miles. Just a year and a half ago the most exercise I managed on a regular basis was hauling the trash to the curb twice a week and even then I often wished someone would move the curb closer to the door.Now I'm scheduling long runs, planning out cross-training and taking a closer look at fluid intake. Sometimes I kinda miss the lazy guy.

This morning I did what is, for me, a long run - 7 miles. That distance will slowly increase over the next couple months until I manage to get up to 12. I'm thinking of waiting to compIete a full 13 until November 22, the day of the half. It seems a bit more of an accomplishment if I can cross the finish line and truly say I had never run that far before.

One of the things I need to learn how to do between now and then is - eat more! I know, I know, eating more isn't exactly a hardship, but it's a whole new concept for me. For thirty years now my gay brain has been busy convincing me to eat less by shrieking that the only foolproof key to happiness is having a 29-inch waist. It's an unwritten but understood rule that gay men are not supposed to gain weight. Ever. It's a shame really. I happen to think a bit of a tummy looks damn good on many men. But every advertisement placed in every gay magazine for the past 40 years has stressed that all gay men must be lean, chiseled and gorgeous.It's true. Logo has built an entire TV channel by showing men who's waistlines are no bigger than their shoe sizes.

It may sound strange, but eating a full meal when all you ever hear is "be thin" isn't easy. Especially over the past 10 years as my metabolism slowed. That's when my food intake shrank. The majority of my meals are more like half-meals. I'll eat half a banana or half a bagel, washed down with a half glass of juice. Lunch is often half of a sandwich. It drives my boyfriend crazy. Now, however, I'm expected to understand that one of the keys to running 13 miles is turning off the message that most gay men, and most women for that matter, get on a daily basis - that eating is a bad thing. Goodbye half-meals. Hello pasta.

So, here goes. That stack of pancakes dripping in syrup with melting butter running down the sides is not part of some chef's evil plan to force me into buying pants with an elastic waist. It's fuel. That burger covered in gorgonzola is not the reason that my love handles will grow to the point that no gay man will ever look my way, it's the protein/carbohydrates/calories I'll need to make sure I can do another 7 and eventually, 13 mile runs.

Next week my long run gets kicked up to 8 miles. After it's over, I'm thinking bacon, eggs, homefries and a bagel (a whole one!) would be a good idea. And now that all these visions of food are in my head, you'll have to excuse me. I need to go eat.