To See Or Not To See

I like lists. Shopping lists. To-do lists. Lists of places I’d like to go. New Year’s resolution lists. Bucket lists. Lists help keep me focused and, more importantly as I get older, help me remember the things that I need to accomplish.

A few days ago I was writing a list of things that I had been putting off, but needed to be completed. That list looked like this:
1. Call to schedule colonoscopy
2. Make appointment for blood draw to check cholesterol level
3. Call dentist
4. Call ophthalmologist

Happen to notice a theme coming through? Yep, the first four things that sprang to mind were all about making doctor’s appointments. It was like writing Santa Claus a wish list on behalf of hypochondriacs across the globe.

A trip to the ophthalmologist seemed the easiest to accomplish. Ophthalmologists don’t cause pain, just a quick couple drops in the eyes, a few line readings off the eye chart, a new prescription for glasses and I’d be on my way. Besides, lately my eyesight has been rather Mr. Magoo–esque. It’s become rather common to hear me shout out “Road Hog!” while driving to what I eventually realize are inanimate objects.

Yesterday, I had my eye exam. At its completion, I was seated all nice and comfy in my chair, waiting for the good doctor to finish scribbling out the prescription, when he suddenly stops, turns, and asks the question I should have seen coming:

“Have you had bifocals before?”

BIFOCALS?? The word echoed in my head. Apparently I now had the vision of your typical 70 year old. I was tempted to ask for a rocking chair and a warm blanket for my lap.

There are many reactions you can have after being told you now require bifocals. You can remain stoic and accept it. You can demand a second opinion. Or, if you happen to be someone who semi-regularly writes about the pitfalls of midde age, you can simply sit there and laugh, thus convincing the doctor you not only have the eyesight of a senior citizen, but are also exhibiting early signs of dementia. I swear he looked more than a little relieved when I gathered my things and left.

So, today I sit here, squinting at the computer screen while I wait for my new glasses to be ready. I have to say I’m looking forward to being able to see the world around me clearer again, even if it does mean I’ll be wearing bifocals.

In the meantime, I went back to that to-do list of doctor’s appointments, pulled out a pen and crossed the other three things off. I'm putting them all off for a while more. If the ophthalmologist found my eyes had aged to the point where I need bifocals, I don’t even want to think about what they might say after a colonoscopy.

Things Change

I live in a neighborhood where people most often keep to themselves. There will be a friendly hello offered when you go by. People will occasionally stop for a short chat if you happen to be passing each other on the sidewalk. Two weeks ago, as I was walking up the street my neighbor A stepped out from behind her car and asked how I was doing. After the usual yada yada yadas, A suddenly said “Did I tell you I lost my job?”

A and I are roughly the same age. An age where, professionally, you’d like to think you’ve been around long enough and have gathered enough know-how that you are somehow irreplaceable. But sometimes, be it through budget cuts or other reasons, you find out you were wrong. As she told me about how she didn’t survive a round of layoffs in the place she had worked for 22 years, A shook her head and said “I never thought I’d find myself here at this age. I have no idea what I’m going to do.”

The conversation with A came just as I was debating being overdue for a career change. Work in the past few months has become challenging, due to some changes that have taken place that I don’t much agree with. I’ve been feeling a combination of both restless and undervalued. And the truth is I was feeling rather sorry for myself in a “What do I do?” quandary when A suddenly stepped out from behind her car for a chat. It was a quick reminder how lucky I am that any change I may/may not make is still my decision. The continuing problems with the economy have not left the many A’s of the world quite so fortunate.

Changing course at the midpoint of your life, whether it’s your own choice or someone else’s, is scary. Leaving behind a job that’s familiar and that’s left you with a bit of security when you are fiftyish leaves you more anxious than it might someone who’s 10 or 20 years younger. You question your marketability. You worry about financial obligations: mortgage, children, retirement. You ask yourself if you can afford to take less money to be in a position that leaves you feeling more fulfilled. Or for someone in A’s position, will there be no choice but to accept something that you are overqualified to do.

Most of us choose a career path in our early 20’s and hope for the best. We don’t mind working hard as long as we’re paid fairly and treated well for our efforts. We hope to enjoy ourselves a bit, expect our good work to be recognized and look forward to those rewards and perks we’re sure will be forthcoming. And as we age, we add in the expectations of having our opinions matter and our experience valued. But it doesn’t always work that way. Things change. Sometimes we bring about that change for ourselves and other times we don’t.

As for me, well, I haven’t quite figured out what my next steps are. In many ways, it feels like I’ve overstayed my welcome in my current position, somewhat like a party guest who arrived early, had a great time and is still trying to have fun long after all the other guests have gone home. I am overdue for a change, I’m just not sure yet what it is. And as for A, I saw her again yesterday and asked how she was doing. She smiled a bit and simply said “I’m doing the best I can.”

Two Faced

Have you ever looked at a picture of yourself and screamed out “OH MY GOD!! THAT’S ME?!”

If you’re over the age of 40, then of course you have. It’s quite shocking how shocked we can sometimes become when confronted by our own image. Why the surprise? It’s not like we’re not familiar with the physical changes that take place over time. We see ourselves every day. And yet, every now and then someone shows you a just-taken picture of yourself and you can’t help but wonder how so much could go so wrong so quickly.

And somehow, you didn’t notice.

We all carry around an image of ourselves in our heads. Maybe it’s an image of how we once looked, or the way we would like to think we appear. Often that image becomes trapped in a time-warp. Your drivers’ license may clearly state that 40 has come and gone but, in many ways, your head continues to whisper a soothing “Don’t worry, you still look like you did in college.” But then that photo or video hits you square in the crows’ feet and your disillusions disappear faster than a Lindsay Lohan rehab stint.

I bring this up, because recently there was a photo of me tagged on Facebook. I’m sitting in a chair at a christening party, a friend’s little toddler sitting next to me. We’re both smiling widely for the camera and no doubt, in my head I was imagining how some stranger might come across that picture one day and say “That little girl certainly has one handsome young-looking dad.”

Not quite.

Instead, anyone looking at that photo pretty much has three options for comments:
• “Someone ought to tell grandpa to stop hitting the carbs.”
• “Isn’t that the same skin color they put on Robert Pattinson for the Twilight movies?”
• “Dude, your forehead goes all the way to the back of your head.”

It felt like someone took the image I carry in my head and exposed it to some age progression technology. A lot of it. This couldn’t be the guy who’s teeth I brush every day or whom I give a seductive wink to in the mirror on the days I think he looks particularly debonair. The guy I usually envision is still vibrant, with a thick head of hair and skin as smooth as the chest of a just-waxed Chelsea boy before heading out on a Saturday night. And the guy in the pic is, well, not.

It took a little while - and a lot of wine - before coming to the realization there is a good side to these confrontations with our own images. Even mine. They can help shake us up a little. Maybe that unflattering photo of you brings about a vow to lose a few pounds. Or maybe you finally admit that everyone was right when they told you those pants you love make your ass look like it’s sagging to your knees.

So, what do you do when confronted with yourself? Scream? Cry? Call Joan Rivers and ask for a referral? Well, maybe. But it seems to me there’s a lot to be said about learning to do something positive, although I'm not sure I have the hang of it just yet. Accept that there’s no stopping time from going by. Look at the things you can change to make things better and do them. Eat healthier, get more exercise. Work less and enjoy family and friends more. But mostly, relax a little and be happy that you've been around long enough to experience those changes as they take place.

And if that doesn’t work, we can get Joan on speed-dial.

The Doctor Will See You Now...And Later

About 2 weeks ago I was sitting in the doctor’s waiting room when an old man decided to talk to me. I don’t know why strangers often do this – apparently there's something about my face that calls out: “Please come tell me about yourself. ” From the homeless man on the subway who once told me all about his childhood to a stranger seated at the next table in a restaurant one evening who told me about her unhappy marriage to the grieving widower who bought me a beer while he talked about his loss. People I've never met before tell me things.

Anyway, the gentleman in question had been shuffling his way to the exit when he makes an abrupt turn in my direction, points to me and says out of nowhere “You know, my father gave me a piece of advice that I didn’t listen to and I should have.” He gives a long, dramatic pause worthy of a supporting daytime Emmy nod before continuing. “He said – don’t get old.”

He then proceeds to sit down and fills me in on the trials, tribulations and outright challenges of being a senior citizen. A large part of his life now, he says, involves juggling a myriad of doctor’s appointments. “I see so many doctors I don’t remember one from the next! Sometimes I look at the doctor’s name and I have to think – now what is this guy for? I got prescriptions that I don’t have time to get filled. I got x-ray appointments, cardiograms and stress tests. Stress tests! The only thing causing me stress is all these goddamn doctors!” Before he stands up and continues on his way he pats me on the back and says “Trust me. Don’t get old.”

I hate to say this to him, but he’s preaching to the choir.

In the past couple years, since I progressed from mid to late-40’s, I find I have more and more medical appointments. Especially lately. Over the past several months, I’ve developed a chronic ache in my right calf, feet that are painfully stiff first thing in the morning and high cholesterol. I have been sonogrammed, x-rayed, MRI’d and reminded I’m overdue for a colonoscopy. I’ve been warned about blood clots, sciatica, nerve damage and heart attacks. I’ve had enough blood drawn to cause a vampire feeding frenzy and been offered so many muscle relaxants it’s a surprise I can still sit upright. If my doctor and I continue to see each other at this rate, we’ll need to start choosing a china pattern.

Now, don’t get me wrong. These are not serious medical conditions. I understand how lucky I am to be in relatively good shape and am very grateful to not have the health struggles that many other people face. It’s just difficult to continue believing you can move along like you’re still 25, when standing up can sometimes make you feel like you need to sit down. Middle age can strip away many of your delusions and, quite frankly, I’d like some of mine back.

This week, I get the results from the latest test on my right calf and am hoping to find out that all the fuss has been about nothing. I’d like to hear everything is fine medically and the ache is simply one of those things that happen with time. My leg has been around for 48 years, maybe it’s simply tired, a little cranky and feels it has earned the right to ache a bit.

At some point soon, in another doctor’s waiting room perhaps, I hope to bump into the old man again; the one who passed on his father’s warning to not get old. I’d like to tell him he is right about these appointments becoming more frequent as you get older and can’t imagine how difficult it must be to juggle them into your 70’s, 80’s and beyond when they become more and more serious. But still, as everyone says, it’s far better than the alternative.

Dating Story # 9 a/k/a...

Call Me Janice

Sometimes, not often enough but sometimes, a first date goes very well. You know what I mean, a date that starts off on the right foot and hits all the right notes from beginning to end. There's a certain sparkle in his eyes when you arrive. The conversation over dinner flows easily. He laughs in all the right places.When you look over and smile at him, he meets your gaze and smiles back. There's a promise of something more to come hanging in the air. You feel charming and witty and wonderful. It's all so perfect that, as the evening draws to a close, you don't hesitate to ask about seeing him a second time. You know he's enjoyed himself as much as you and you're absolutely positively sure he'll say yes to another date.

Except he doesn't.

Meet V. In many ways, V is your typical New York gay urban professional. He's attractive, well spoken and doing very well for himself at his corporate gig. He's also rather atypical in many ways: proud of his small-town roots and very upfront about his desire to one day settle down into a long-term relationship and adopt children.

The conversation during our dinner isn't just breezy, it soars. Topics range from family to books to Sunday's New York Times to Desperate Housewives to favorite landmark buildings to vacation stories and everything in between. He's funny, observant and seems as interested as he is interesting. It doesn't seem possible that almost two hours has gone by when the waiter presents the check and we prepare to part ways. It's then that I ask to see him again and am caught off-guard by his hesitation. "Well," he says. "The thing is...I'm moving."

Huh? Moving had not been mentioned at all during dinner. I didn't recall him saying anything to even hint that he was planning a move. So I ask, "Where?" And he answers "California." So I ask "When?" And he answers...

"Tomorrow."

I'm not sure how to feel at this quick turn of events. Men are apparently fleeing cross-country for the sole reason of not dating me. I feel somewhat victimized and join in solidarity with others who have been blindsided by the men in their lives. Suddenly, I am Senator Larry Craig's wife whenever he mentions needing to use the restroom. I am Dina Matos McGreevey standing in front of the cameras as the world learns she went and married a gay guy. I am Hillary Clinton every time someone points and says "You have a stain on your dress." I am Meg Ryan as she hears "Really, that's enough" from her beloved plastic surgeon.

It takes a few moments but eventually confusion turns to wonder. Who does this? Who goes out on a date when he's moving across the country the next day? And why does this scenario sound vaguely familiar? Wait, I thought, wasn't this an episode of Friends? Didn't Chandler once, to avoid having a relationship, pretend he was moving to Yemen the next day? And now, if you replace Chandler with V and replace Yemen with California then, in this scenario that would make me...Oh. My. God.

I am not Mrs.Larry Craig after all. I am not Dina Matos McGreevey or Meg Ryan's pumped up lips. I'm Janice. She of the leopard print spandex and nasally high pitched cackle. I am the character that Chandler dumped over and over again, season after season, only now in a gay man's body. I have to wonder how many other men in their desperation to avoid me, may have fled not only to the Pacific, but possibly leapt into it. It doesn't do a lot for the ego, trust me.

In truth, V wasn't actually moving the following day. He was headed to California in the morning for what could've turned out to be a temporary stay or developed into a permanent one. Either way he was due back in New York in about 3 weeks, either to stay put after all or to pack his things. He wasn't actually sure at the time so, for whatever his reasons, he hadn't mentioned it.

I have no idea if V is still in New York or if he did up and move to California. I never heard from him again after our one date. About 3 months later I met my partner who, I'm very glad to say, has yet to run off to the airport and book a flight for the west coast. And there haven't been any more moments of being Dina or Meg or even Janice. Now I get to simply be Tom, which suits me just fine.

Happy Whatever

I'd like to wish everyone a very happy new year but, unfortunately, that will not be possible. By issuing that statement, I am bound to offend someone and open myself up to a lawsuit. What sounds like a simple "Happy New Year" to me, may be an entirely different message to someone else. Perhaps the person who's reading this doesn't wish to be happy and would feel as if I am forcing happiness upon them. I don't need that kind of pressure.

Offering a holiday greeting wasn't always fraught with worry. Remember when you could call out a hearty "Merry Christmas!" without fear? People would joyfully put up nativity scenes and decorate their houses with bright multi-colored lights. Schools would put up Christmas trees and pass out cookies in the shape of Santa Claus's face. Then people started taking offense and putting their lawyers on speed dial so now those same decorated trees are referred to as "holiday" trees and those Santa cookies have been replaced by non-denominational snowmen. Apparently, no one objects to a snowman. Not yet anyway.

The phrase "Merry Christmas", with its religious undertone gave way to the more all-encompassing, religion-neutral "Happy Holidays". That doesn't quite work though if most of the people you know are clinically depressed or simply pathologically sad, so it may be better to usher the non-joyful, non-emotive feel-however-you-want phrase "Season's Greetings". However, since it's only a matter of time before people object to being greeted in just one season of the year and then sue on behalf of spring summer and fall, I've been trying out new phrases for my December, 2010 holiday cards. So far it looks like I'll be going with the following: "Happy Hanukkah! Contemplative Pearl Harbor Remembrance Day! Playful First Day of Winter! Merry Christmas! Joyous Kwanzaa! Enjoyable Pagan Rituals! And/or I support your right to not celebrate anything at all!" I am a bit concerend that the use of exclamation points might get someone upset, so I'm thinking of including a disclaimer, just to be safe.

But right now, it's today, New Year's Day, that has me puzzled. How do I go about wishing everyone all the best for the new year without putting myself in harm's way? Just using the word "new" could be a a problem. People could assume I'm suggesting something new is better than something old and that could possibly bring a truckload of litigious senior citizens out of the woodwork. And it wouldn't be surprising to see them led by Sarah Palin, shouting I've brought about death panels for old years. And trust me, Sarah Palin is the last thing I want to see in 2010.

It's probably best this New Year's Day to stick with something generic. Something safe. A greeting that no one, absoluetly no one could be offended by. So...

It's January 1st, 2010. I wish you all whatever you want, whatever that may be, whenever you'd like it to happen...or not.