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.

The Gayest Christmas Song Ever

Let's face it - the holidays are a very gay season. Colorful and sparkly decorations hang everywhere. Every weekend there are festive parties where we dress up, drink too much and hope the best looking guy in the place finds us while we wait under the mistletoe. And from the day after Thanksgiving right up until the post-Christmas sales, it's all about shopping, shopping, shopping. Add to that every Christmas Eve we lie in our beds and hope a bearded bear of a man will quietly show up with a big package. Really, December is one big gay month.

And then, there's the holiday music. What other time of year can you think of when everyone happily joins in on a song that includes lyrics where a group of lords leap around together? We sing one song about donning our gay apparel and then we burst forth about good old Frosty, who celebrates coming to life by wearing a top hat, doing a dance and then making a bee-line for the local traffic cop, because who doesn't like a man in uniform? There's "We Three Kings" about three men who enjoy hanging out in the desert together and "Santa Baby" a favorite of drag queens everywhere.

You may think Christmas carols can't get much gayer, but you'd be wrong. Because, ladies and gentlemen, I give you the gayest Christmas song ever written..."Christmas Shoes." If you don't know this song, you are instructed to stop reading and go find it, give it a listen and then come back. Even if you have heard it, I encourage you to sit through it one more time before reading on. Go ahead, I'll wait.

Ready? Good. Let me ask you, what kind of little boy leaves his dying mother on Christmas Eve and runs to the local mall to purchase a snappy pair of pumps? And who is this fading, barefoot mother with the shoe fetish? Carrie Bradshaw? Imelda Marcos? Cinderella? I don't believe the lyrics of this song for one minute. I don't believe this little boy, desperate to give his mother one perfect gift before she expires, goes to the store, (unwashed mind you) and manages to buy those shoes while quietly reminding shoppers everywhere what Christmas is all about.

Humbug. This is no innocent child. There's never a mention of the age of this needy kid with a fondness for high heels, but I'm thinking he's about nineteen with skintight jeans, a coquettish manipulative streak and an addiction to strawberry flavored lip gloss. And I believe that "Momma" in the song is actually the boy's drag name and those coveted shoes are the perfect compliment to the outfit he'll be wearing while performing in the midnight Christmas show at the local gay bar downtown.

He's smart though, this kid. When realizing he doesn't have enough money, he immediately turns to the horny man behind him, bats his heavily mascara'd eyeleashes a few times and mentions how much he wants "Momma" to look beautiful if she meets Jesus tonight. What he doesn't say is this is not the Jesus who's birthday we celebrate every December 25th. This is Jesus as in Madonna's model boytoy who the boy swears he'd have a chance at running off with if he can just manage to get his feet into the perfect pair of shoes.

But the guy you really have to feel badly for is the poor sap who ends up paying. Here he is, handing over his American Express while thinking he's found the true meaning of Christmas by helping Momma look so great. Unfortunately the only way he'll ever truly see "Momma" is by heading downtown, paying ten bucks and agreeing to the 2-drink minimum. What Christmas is all about, indeed.

So there you have it, "Christmas Shoes" a song about a pretty boy who gets another man to buy him a pair of women's shoes so he can perform in the local gay bar drag show on Christmas Eve while dreaming about Madonna's hot boyfriend. It really is everything you'd expect from the gayest Christmas song ever.

Dear Santa

First, my apologies for having not written in the past, well, forty two years. It’s nothing personal. Once you get past the age of six, people tend to frown on the fact that you’re still sending letters to Santa. Kids point and laugh, adults wonder when it is you’re going to grow up, etc. And when you become an adult, it's very difficult to find the extra time. I can barely keep up with the things I’m supposed to be doing on a daily basis, never mind find a spare half-hour to pull out pen and paper and jot you a note. Maybe if I could email I might be able to get to it more often. Or maybe you have a Facebook page?

The reason I’m writing now is not so much that I’m hoping you bring me something, although a heating pad would be quite lovely and a really good wrinkle cream is a gift that just keeps on giving. (Can the elves whip up a wrinkle cream? If not, you might suggest they look into it. It could open up a whole new market for you.) Rather, it’s more about the state of the world. I’m not sure what it’s like up there at the North Pole, although from the sound of it you’ve been able to walk around in shorts and a t-shirt a lot more than you used to, but down around here things aren’t looking too rosy. And I’m beginning to think you might be the only one who has any answers.

Remember your naughty and nice list, Santa? I'm not sure whatever happened to that but I think its time for a comeback. I remember naughty people being told their only holiday gift would be a lump of coal in their stocking, a stern reminder that their behaviour over the previous year had been unacceptable. There was a degree of shame connected to that naughty list and a clear signal that expectations were high for the upcoming year. Naughty people weren't rewarded. But not anymore. That dreaded lump of coal has been replaced. Naughty people now look forward to a reality television show, a lucrative book deal or YouTube stardom. Naughty is everywhere. Naughty has become the new nice.

You may be wondering, Santa, what all this has to do with you. It seems to me that you've always been an advocate for children and it's the kids I worry about most. Maybe it's an age thing, so many things seem to be age-related to me, but I worry about the messages we hand our children and our children's children. What have we taught them? Bigger boobs boost your self-esteem? The size of your paycheck is what really counts? The ends justify the means and no matter what you have to do or say is fine as long as you win? Naughty is better? Is that really what we want to leave behind?

So, Santa, I guess what I'm asking here is, can you give nice back to us? Can you bring us reminders that a kind act outweighs a fat wallet? Can you somehow fit patience and tolerance and acceptance into your sack, hoist it onto your sleigh and distribute it to every child on earth? And can you bring back the message that naughty carries consequences? I'm not sure the old lump of coal is the way to go, but I trust you'll think of something.

That's it, Santa. That's what I'm hoping for this year. Just a little of that old fashioned goodwill towards men; a better message for all of us to shelve the naughty for a while and bring on the nice. That would make this one terrific Christmas. Oh, and a little of that wrinkle cream I mentioned wouldn't hurt either.

Dating Story # 8 a/k/a...

Bam! Pow! Zowie!

Have you ever wondered what the first date between Lois Lane and Superman was like? I can't imagine it went well. Picture poor Lois sitting down with this guy for the first time and he:
1. Shows up wearing blue tights and a red cape.
2. Claims to be from outer space.
3. Says one of his favorite hobbies is flying and no, he doesn't mean in a plane.

Luckily, superheroes are fictitious. No one outside of cartoonland has ever dated one. Right?

Meet Z. Two years ago, Z and I were on a date in the West Village. It was a cold, November evening and we were seated just a few feet from a roaring fireplace. Z wasn't exactly my type, but he was a nice enough guy and things were going OK. He had adopted a child a few years before and was telling me some stories about life as the single father of a six-year old. Since Halloween had only been a couple evenings earlier and, because Halloween is a pretty big deal for most children the age of Z's son, I asked if they had celebrated, prompting this exchange to take place:

Z: Sure, Halloween was a lot of fun this year. I was Batman.
Tom: (thinking I misheard him):Your son was Batman?
Z: No, my son was Darth Vader. I was Batman.
Tom: For a Halloween party?
Z: No.
Tom: You dressed up to take your son trick or treating?
Z: No.
Tom: You dressed up to pass out candy at your door?
Z: No.

Z then talks about his Batman costume. A lot. He tells me how much he liked wearing it. Apparently he decided to leave his Bruce Wayne persona behind that afternoon and slipped into his superhero alter ego until far past midnight. OK, I thought. It was Halloween. Many adults dressed up in costumes. Then:

Z: I have pictures!
Tom: Of your son?
Z: No. Of me.

Having a conversation with an adult about his Halloween costume is one thing. But sitting in a restaurant and looking at a dozen photos of your date who was apparently snapping pictures of himself standing in a room alone while dressed as Batman does not make you think you have found your one true love. When Z's phone rings a few minutes later, there's no way to not wonder if it's Commissioner Gordon on the line, desperately in need of Z's help. It was all I could do to not look out the window to see if I could spot the Bat signal lit up in the sky.

By mutual consent, there was no second date. I never did see Z again, but that's the way it goes with superheroes. They're in your life for a moment, and then they're off to fight crime and save the world from certain destruction. I do think about Z from time to time and wonder what became of him. I hope that at some point Batman found his Robin. I like to think that they're off together scouring the streets of Gotham City, fighting crime, holding hands and being happy.

Fashion Disaster

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.

6 Weeks To Go

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.

Doctor, Doctor

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.

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.

"How Was Work Today?"

On a daily basis, most of us are asked "How was work today?" It's an innocent enough question meant to do no more than begin a conversation by extracting information. Having someone ask HWWT is harmless and usually said without too much thought behind it. HWWT isn't a trick question unless asked with a suspicious tone by someone trying to trap a cheating spouse whom they suspect spent the afternoon in a downtown pay-by-the-hour motel with some cheap floozie after downing three martinis at lunch.

Answering HWWT should be easy. Usually the response is a quick "Fine" before moving on to the more pressing questions of when's dinner and what's on TV. Sometimes the response is a bit more complicated. A realtor, for instance, might recount that day's struggles of open houses and unrealistic home buyers. A registered nurse could talk about juggling the demands of needy patients and having to complete too much paperwork. And while that realtor answers HWWT with an "I spent almost all day traipsing from one house to the next..." and that nurse says "I had two patients who coded and needed the crash cart..." my answer could very well be more along the lines of "Today I read Click, Clack, Moo and made cow noises with a group of preschoolers."

It's not exactly what you expect a middle aged man to say about his workday.

I run reading programs for elementary school children. It's certainly an honorable enough way to make a living but sometimes, especially when describing it to people I've just met, it seems a little, well, odd. Imagine for a moment you're at a black-tie fundraising dinner and Mr. 30-Year-Old-Investment-Banker who just bankrolled a fifty thousand dollar bonus leans over the table and asks what you do. And now imagine saying "Well, today I really struggled with One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish. Those rhymes can be a real tongue twister!" You can bet Mr. Investment Banker will now move on and talk to someone else.

The truth is, I spend a fair amount of time at work leading presentations in the boardrooms of very large corporations, trying to find financial and volunteer support for the agency. And I can often be found in meetings with school administration, planning out new programs to reach additional students. But I'm just as likely to spend part of my day trying out different voices to be a convincing Grinch as he scowls down at the Who's of Whoville or doing research on books that have the potential to make a classroom filled with 6 year old kids giggle. And it's that part - unfortunately the more fun part - that's beginning to feel a tad undignified for a man my age, leading me to wonder if it's time to move on.

Don't get me wrong. My job has some wonderful perks. I have the opportunity to see young children become excited about reading. I get hugged on a fairly regular basis. One year as school came to a close, a first grade boy gave me a note that read "I will miss you. You are my best friend." That card means more to me than a corner office and a fat expense account. Still...

Maybe it's just my mid life crisis calling. Maybe many of us begin to question where we are and where we want to be when we hit our 40's. Maybe the next time I sit down with a group of kids and manage to reach them through Harry Potter or Clifford the Big Red Dog, I'll feel silly for questioning if I should be doing something else. And maybe, hopefully, the next time someone asks "How was work today?" I can loudly exclaim "Fantastic!" and completely mean it.

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.