There are certain things gay men are supposed to know. It's common knowledge that we have the ability to walk into any room, move one piece of furniture and immediately create cocktail party space. We know how to make our best straight girl friend feel better about herself when her boyfriend doesn't return her calls. We know what it means when a house has flow. And we know, at least we're supposed to know, how to dress better than anyone else. Unfortunately, fashion is something I just don't get.
I am a fashion disaster.Really. Carrie Bradshaw would never issue an invite for me to join her for a few Cosmos and some girl talk. Anna Wintour has never called out "We're holding next month's cover until we get Tom to agree to loan us his Gap corduroys and that stretched out green sweatshirt he's so fond of." And after one look at my usual get-up, I'm sure Heidi Klum wouldn't even take the time to utter her entire goodbye. Most likely, I'd be dismissed with nothing more than "Auf."
If I was a straight man this wouldn't be a problem. But a gay man is expected to understand the intricacies and importance of fashion. Gay men are supposed to have the genetic makeup that allows us to know what belt goes with which shoes, what color your socks should be and when it's OK to mix and match patterns and when you're just asking for trouble. But I don't know these things. I once called my friend N and asked him if was OK to wear a striped shirt with a certain floral-patterned tie. I was feeling very chic when I asked, for I swore I was onto something that would be considered not only fashion-acceptable, but downright cutting edge.Then N answered with "Why would you want to do that?" which quickly ended my dreams of being a fashionista.
Not knowing what to wear, and what not to wear, is a problem. Especially when it comes to going to work. I do a fair number of corporate presentations and have learned that people will jump to conclusions about you before you even say hello. Walk into a room wearing a Prada suit, for instance, and people will sit up and take notice, believing you have something important to say. Walk into that same room dressed in a wooly jacket and mismatched socks and the scenario is suddenly much different.
Allow me to tell this story as an example:
I am about to start a presentation in the boardroom of a multi-billion dollar company. I am alone in the room until one man walks in. He's impeccably dressed in a suit that most likely costs more than my annual salary. He's also glowing, as if someone took a can of varnish and shined him up from head to toe. Everything about his appearance is perfection from the knot in his necktie to the shiny points of his three hundred dollar shoes. And while goldenboy gave off his designer glow, you know what I was wearing? An ill-fitting blazer that I've worn to almost everything in the past five years, a pair of blue pants with a piece of masking tape adhered to the inside of the right leg to hold up the unravelling hem and my scuffed black shoes with the heels that are so worn down they make me limp. And, trust me, I do not glow.
Another problem, is my boss issue. I have a boss who believes nothing is more important than appearance. She has been known to feel faint whenever brown and black are worn together. She's gone into day-long snits over nothing more than how a scarf is tied and once gave the younger staff a long lecture on the danger of flip-flops (yup, a whole lecture). One day I wore gray pants with brown shoes to the office. When she saw that particular combo, you would have thought I had just been unmasked as a serial killer. Actually scratch that, a well-dressed serial killer would have received a warmer welcome.
Next week, I have a business dinner fundraising event to attend. It's one of those nights that I dread, where appearance means more than it should. So, I will have someone help me put my clothes together. For one night, my tie and shirt will compliment my suit. I will make sure my shoes are shined and my hair is in place. I will do my best to get my 47 year old skin to glow.
Maybe someday I'll have more of a handle on this whole fashion thing, but it's unlikely. What's probably going to happen is the day after the event, I'll be back to the office wearing my usual gear. I don't know what I'll have on, but I can't promise that brown shoes and masking tape won't be involved.
I did not want to run yesterday, which was a problem considering it was a "long run" day. The Philly Half-Marathon is now in 6 weeks. As part of training to run 13.1 miles, I am supposed to do weekly long runs of ever-increasing mileage so my body is ready to go on November 22. You would think part of me would look forward to these longs runs and see them as a challenge. A man-versus-his-own-physical-limits thing. But you would think wrong.
Instead, yesterday morning I was like a whiny toddler faced with the heartbreak of giving up his favorite sippy cup. The bartering with myself began as soon as the running shoes were on. I tried my best to convince me a long run was a bad idea. I pointed out how cloudy it was outside and how a downpour was sure to start any minute. I reminded myself about having the flu the previous week and insisted my immune system needed additional time to heal. I hadn't slept enough, I said. I wasn't properly hydrated. I was unprepared and unathletic. I tempted myself with ice cream, a warm blanket and the promise that a long run could wait another day.
Except, I did it anyway. 9 miles in 90 minutes. As I pushed myself to get from mile 8 to mile 9, I wondered what all the fuss had been about before starting. Why try to talk myself out of doing something that I can clearly do? Why is it that the hard part of working out isn't the workout at all, but the push to simply get started? The biggest challenge to tackling a physical task like running a longer distance are getting over the hurdles we construct in our own heads.
I don't mean to give the impression it was all easy. My legs might tell a different story, considering they were still stiff and a little sore thirty six hours later. But I've been running now for a year and a half, so my body has had time to get conditioned to go further. My head however, and the doubts it likes to cast, are a different story.
In the next six weeks, I need to build up until I can complete 13 miles. There will be a lot of negativity coming from my naysayer self, but I know I can do this. As long as I can stay out of my own way, it's not going to be a problem. The next long run is 10 miles. Here I come.
In the past couple weeks, I've had two medical-related experiences. Both were unsuccessful, in rather odd ways.
Medical related experience #1
Because of my chronic insomnia (something I've had for a good 25 years now) I signed on to do a sleep study. On many nights, it can take a good 2 hours of lying in bed (or, more to the point, tossing, turning, kicking and swearing in bed) before I fall asleep. Once I am asleep, I will wake up repeatedly during the night, often every hour or two. It's not exactly restful. In addition, conditions have to be just right. The room needs to be as dark as possible. There can't be any distractions: no TV, no radio, no outside noises. I can't drink caffeine after 2PM. It's best if I can settle down with a book to unwind about an hour before bedtime. And when all else fails, Ambien has become my ally.
The study was supposed to help figure out the reasons I don't sleep like a normal person. Unfortunately, the way that's done is by connecting electrodes to the body. Lots of electrodes. And by lots, I mean: 3 are attached to my chin, 1 next to my left eye, 1 in the center of my forehead, 1 next to my right eye, 1 behind my left shoulder, 1 behind my right shoulder, 2 to my left leg, 2 to my right leg and 5 more attached to various points on my head. (The ones on the head are upsetting. Let's face it, you don't mess with a gay guy's hair.) In addition, there's a belt placed around my chest, another belt around my abdomen and, just for kicks, a tube placed into my nose. There are wires hanging off every part of my body. I look like a low-tech version of the Star Trek Borg, a poor trailer trash cousin that couldn't afford all the fancy gizmos. I'm welfare Borg.
I'm led to the bed and told to lie down, relax and sleep well. Yeah, right.
Four hours later, I am still awake. The somewhat hunky technician comes in and says at this point there are two options. I can continue to try and fall asleep or I can sign myself out for the night since it just doesn't look like it's going to work. He's right, it's not. Under the list of conditions that need to be just-so in order for Tom to sleep, you will not find anything about being wrapped from head to toe in wiring while oxygen is pumped into my nostrils via a plastic tube. This techie bondage does not allow me to fall asleep. And in a sleep study there is nothing to study, when there is no sleep. I sign myself out and head home.
In short, I took a sleep study. And failed.
Medical related experience #2
On Friday, September 18th, I got a flu shot. Nine days later, I got the flu. This has happened before, so I probably should have known better and turned down the offer of a vaccination. But after hearing what a terrible cold and flu season we're supposed to have this year, I figured better safe than sorry. Unfortunately, sorry is the way it turned out.
I'm not going to spend my time here saying how it would be nice for doctors to acknowledge that flu shots can indeed sometimes cause flu. I will not rail against the medical establishment and/or the pharmaceutical companies that do their best to convince us that putting the chemicals that they profit from into our bodies will keep us healthy. I will not bitch about the 4 prescriptions I was told I now needed to fight the virus that they had injected in the first place. And I refuse to whine that when I got two of those prescriptions filled (yes just 2) it cost $100 out of my pocket, even after the insurance paid their share. Apparently my flu is doing its part to help pay for someone's child's education.
Instead, let's focus on two good things I've discovered. First, when you bake a pan of brownies whilst having flu, you get to eat the whole pan yourself since no one else seems interested in tasting something that's laced with a little influenza. And secondly, since coming down with the flu, I sleep 10 - 12 hours each day, thus temporarily solving my insomnia issue. Chocolate and sleep. All in all, things turned out pretty OK.
There are certain things gay men are supposed to know. It's common knowledge that we have the ability to walk into any room, move one piece of furniture and immediately create cocktail party space. We know how to make our best straight girl friend feel better about herself when her boyfriend doesn't return her calls. We know what it means when a house has flow. And we know, at least we're supposed to know, how to dress better than anyone else. Unfortunately, fashion is something I just don't get.
