Wednesday, May 28, 2008

One Week Later


Do you remember singing or dancing along to one-hit wonders like "Whip It" by Devo and "Funkytown" by Lipps, Inc?

One-hit wonders are not new to the music industry. There have always been those bands/musicians that find one song that strikes a chord with the public and puts them center stage for a period of time. And that period of time turns out to be rather short since they never hit it big again. But oh, that one moment in the sun was special. For a little while, they were music gods.

I think I may know how they felt.

Last week, as I wrote about being in the Wall Street Run, I put these words into my blog: "Crossing the finish line is a joyous sense of accomplishment." And it was true. I ran that 3 mile race, crossed the finish line and, probably much like the Starland Vocal Band after they finished crooning "Afternoon Delight" and shot to one-hit wonder superstardom, I thought, damn, I rock!

Cut to one week later.

As you can see from the picture above, my left leg has been largely encased in ice wraparounds for a week now. After just one 3 mile race, running is an impossibility, even one week later. I can't even walk without a slight limp. I have straggled into many different places over the last few days and have been greeted much too frequently by the words : "WHAT HAPPENED?" as if I'm a car accident victim lying on a gurney and barely clinging to life. If ever I needed a reminder that I'm not 21, or even 41, I found it.

However, I'll get back to running soon. There's a 5-mile Pride Run on June 28th and I will not miss it. The feeling of crossing the finish line is something that I have every intention of experiencing again. Being a one-hit wonder is simply not acceptable. In the meantime, there are ice packs, vodka and chocolate donuts. The Starland Vocal Band had their version of afternoon delight. Until my leg loosens up, I have mine.

Saturday, May 24, 2008

The Wall Street Run

Four days ago, I ran my first (ever) race. The running group that I joined has now been meeting for about 7 weeks. S, one of my running mates, suggested we try a 3-mile race to see how we would do. So on Tuesday night, three of us, S and S and me are standing among thousands of runners and walkers waiting to begin. Our coach had advised us to come up with three goals for ourselves, one that's easy to attain, one that's slightly more difficult and one that would be a real challenge. With this in mind, my goals are:
1. Don't die.
2. Try to continuously run for the first mile and a half, then walk for one minute before running again. And don't die.
3. Continuously run for 2 miles, take a 30 second walk and then run again until reaching the finish line. And don't die.

About a minute before the race starts, S says "I think once we do this, we are runners." The crowd starts to inch forward and the race begins. The running route will take us from the World Financial Center, down past the World Trade Center site, then east through the Financial District before looping around Battery Park and back up the west side to the finish line.

When I hit the starting point and start to run, I get swept up along with the crowd and become enthralled with the sights of downtown Manhattan. There are small pockets of people standing in various places on the sidewalks. Most are cheering and encouraging the runners. Others are just trying to go home after a day's work, annoyed at being delayed by these extra 17,000 people who are suddenly blocking their path. Some, most likely tourists, hold up cameras and snap pictures. The WTC is on my right for a few seconds and then it's behind me. Wall Street comes and goes in a moment's blur. I am not thinking about my legs or my breathing. I am simply moving ahead and enjoying every moment.

In what seems an amazingly short period of time, I come up on the one mile mark. I'm not tired. I don't feel the need to slow down so I just watch my pace and keep going. Luckily, I have something helping with my pacing. There's a good looking guy in a body hugging pair of shorts that's moved in just ahead of me. He has one of those really nice round asses that make you believe God was feeling a little randy when he designed the human posterior. It's a perfectly sculpted behind, moving along at a pace I can sustain. I wonder for a moment if this is how the greyhounds feel as they run around a track chasing that fake rabbit that's sent out ahead of them. When you're following something that looks so good, it doesn't occur to you to even think about slowing down.

About another half mile and Coach J is there, shouting out some encouragement. My feet keep moving, and just as Battery Park is coming into view, Mr. Perfect Ass picks up his pace and disappears and I hit the 2 mile mark. I'm still running, still feeling fine. For the first time it occurs to me that I might, just might, be able to run the whole 3 miles. My legs don't feel like the 46 year old limbs that occasionally suffer from early morning stiffness. Instead, they're moving along, carrying me around the park, towards the Hudson River and up the west side. Crossing the finish line is a joyous sense of accomplishment.

I made it. S made it. The other S made it. We all finished our first race. S was right on target when she said that finishing meant we were runners. That's exactly how I felt.

Tuesday, May 20, 2008

What's Pins Got to Do With It?

My mood over the past few days has been rather glum. The latter part of May is sometimes a bit rocky for me. There are anniversaries for a couple of very difficult events that occurred around Memorial Day weekends in the past and they pop up and cause me to feel a bit sluggish and slow. I’ve grown accustomed to my annual moody disposition as summer inches forward, but I also have enough life experience to know that the bad mood won’t last. It never does. Sometimes, it might hang on for two or three days, but rarely does it last longer than a week. Eventually, whether it’s a few hours or a few days, it will pass on its own and things will be fine again. And other times, like this year, something will happen to give me a little kick and make me smile.

Yesterday, despite the unseasonably cold weather, the threat of dark storm clouds during the afternoon and the fact that I had a dental appointment, was a good day. At the corner of East 89th Street and Madison Avenue, I found a safety pin lying on the sidewalk. It was slightly bent, probably from being stepped on. And if you look closely enough, there’s a hint of rust around one of the curved edges. Most people walked by and never noticed it. Others, if they had noticed, probably didn’t consider stopping for it. After all, who wants an old, dirty safety pin? I stopped, as I always do when coming across a lost pin, smiled, and put it in my pocket. It's a ritual I repeat often.

I had a partner who died a number of years ago. Dan was not a superstitious person, except for two things he believed. When he turned the radio on in the morning, if the first thing he heard was a Bruce Springsteen song, it meant he was going to experience a really good day. I never understood exactly why Springsteen=Good Day, but it made Dan happy when he’d turn on the radio and there was Bruce. The other superstition came from an old nursery rhyme: "See a pin, pick it up and all the day you'll have good luck."

Dan was always finding pins, picking them up and pinning them into the front of his shirts and jackets. There'd be times he'd be wearing a new shirt for the first time, and he'd stick in some found pin, poking holes through the shirt pocket because it was “lucky” although it didn’t seem too lucky for the shirt. When doing the laundry, Dan’s shirts always had to be checked first to avoid a pin coming loose in the washing machine by ripping a small hole in the fabric. These found pins eventually made it into the top drawer of his dresser. In the seven years we had together, it was amazing how many pins he placed there.


In the 10 years since Dan died, I can't even begin to remember how many times I've found pins. I’ve found them on streets, on the floor inside closets, on windowsills and once, somehow, in my kitchen sink. And there are times, like yesterday, when they don't feel like just pins, they feel more like messages. Now, maybe interpreting them as messages is just a way of making myself feel better when I need a boost, but the timing of these pin sightings sometimes feels a bit too coincidental. I have found pins lying on the street on my and Dan's anniversary. A couple years ago, I found a pin on the passenger seat in my car on my birthday and I swear it had not been there the day before. I have found pins at times when I was doubting myself and I've found pins when something unexpectedly great happens. And sometimes, often, I find pins on perfectly ordinary days as I'm walking along.

A few years ago, about two weeks after buying the house I live in now, I was taking the dog for a walk and questioning how wise it had been to purchase the property. Doubts kept popping up into my head. Could I afford it? Would the aging roof cave in on me one night in my sleep? What if the pipes burst? Had I made a mistake? As I walked and worried, I saw a glint of silver and came upon a pile of forty to fifty safety pins lying there on the sidewalk. Coincidence? Maybe. But I like to think not. I preferred to think of it as a message that everything was going to be fine.

Yesterday, as I picked up the safety pin from the sidewalk and dropped it into my pocket, I got another reminder of just how lucky I am. And because of one dented safety pin and all the good memories it brought along with it, my annual glum mood has officially ended for May, 2008.

Thursday, May 15, 2008

Are You Ready, Golden Men?

I've recently been reading two books on being a gay man reaching middle-age. One is called "Golden Men: The Power of Gay Midlife" by Harold Kooden and Charles Flowers. Don't you love the title? Golden Men. I'm assuming it's supposed to conjure up an image of the TV show "The Golden Girls". Perhaps we're supposed to think about what Golden Girl we are, much like the game every gay man has played (come on, you know you've done it) where you have to choose what Sex and the City character you are. (I'm Miranda.) The other book is "Are You Ready? The Gay Man's Guide to Thriving at Midlife" by Rik Isensee.Am I ready? Hell, no. Do I have a choice? Hell no, again.

Both books explore different issues on reaching mid-life: relationships, physical health, mortality, self-esteem, personal values, career. The authors encourage you to explore where you are now that mid-life has arrived and ask how the reality of your middle years is different from what a younger you had pictured. There are pages of questions: What are some of the challenges you have faced at midlife? How has your sexual functioning changed over time? In what ways do you feel more or less succesful than other gay men your age? And my personal favorite: What have you noticed in terms of your own closure with a youthful identity? Don't you love that wording? Much like the mom-and-pop corner ice cream shops of long ago, my youthful identity is "closed."

But both books suggest that, no matter where you are in life, you should celebrate. Everything you have done to reach the point where you now find yourself, is an accomplishment.

The irony here is that, while reading this, the balance in my checking account is a whopping $12.74. I've been looking at the jar of change that sits on my kitchen windowsill and wondering if there's enough in there to help me get through the next four days until payday arrives. And since there is no money right now to make a trip to the supermarket unless I withdraw from my savings account or use a credit card, I've been wondering if the dog would mind if I dove into her kibble. How bad can kibble taste? It has to be better than tofu.

There are also chapters on body image and the physical changes that happen at midlife: the metabolism slows down and the middle age spread begins to, well, spread. The books suggest you acknowledge these changes, noting the things you like about your body and the things you don't and to make an honest effort to address what you can/cannot do about them. Dr. Kooden reminds his readers that body image is not just how you think about your body, but also the kind of relationship you and your body have.

My body and I are very similar to Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton in "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?" We're like two people who have been married far too long and should probably get divorced. We don't talk, we battle and bark snide comments at each other. While settling down for the night, my body is likely to snap "You're eating ice cream before bed, AGAIN?" And when spying my body getting dressed, I'm likely to shout out "You do know you're not fooling anyone in those shorts, don't you?" I'm pretty sure this is not what Dr. Kooden had in mind.

Still, there is much to like about both books and I admit that I'm enjoying reading them and, as was suggested, have even managed one or two little celebrations on getting to this point in life. I've never actually had to partake of that kibble, for instance. And over the past few months, since I've been eating better and getting more exercise, my body and I have called a bit of a truce. (I wouldn't call it a second honeymoon, but still...)

As the authors suggest, there really is a lot to be said about getting to life's mid-point, looking around and taking a few moments to congratulate yourself. All in all, the view from here isn't half bad.

Tuesday, May 13, 2008

Dating Story #2 a/k/a...

Are You Wearing French Cuffs or the White Hood?
I'm on a dinner date with O, a guy I met at a dating event held at the Gay and Lesbian Center. O is beyond gorgeous. He is someone the word gorgeous would have been created for since no other word would describe just how gorgeous this gorgeous man is. Have I said gorgeous enough? Trust me, no matter how many times it's repeated, it doesn't do him justice.

And if the face wasn't enough, when he smiles, the entire room lights up. Really, it does. He flashes these perfect white teeth and you feel like you're in the middle of Times Square with the neon all ablaze. Your mood is suddenly lighter than it's been in years and all you want to do is kiss puppies, paint rainbows and ask everyone to join you in a dance.

When I finally manage to elbow my way through the crowd that's surged towards him at the Center event, I make a comment about his smile, which opens the door to where I am now: in this restaurant with O, about one week later. And, beyond my expectations, it is becoming one of THOSE first dates. The conversation, helped somewhat by a little wine, is flowing without effort. There are no awkward pauses. I'm feeling relaxed and enjoying myself to the point that I'm not focusing on how our waitress is paying far more attention to O than she is to anyone else.

About three quarters of the way through, and after his second glass of wine, O says "My dog recently vanished." There's no way to know this yet, but the entire night is about to take one huge nosedive. O regales me with the story of his dog, who got off her leash one day and ran away. O looked everywhere, but the dog was nowhere to be found. He asked everyone he met if they had seen her, but no one had. Eventually, he posted flyers with her picture and description, and that's when he got the call. Someone had found her and they'd be happy to bring her back...for $500.

O says "I wasn't about to give $500 to a dognapper." Um, did he just say dognapper? Outside of Saturday morning cartoons and Disney films, I don't think I've ever heard anyone utter that word before.

I am flabbergasted at this tale. The borough of Manhattan is housing a modern day Cruella DeVille and she's grabbing innocent puppies who belong to very attractive people and holding them for ransom. I can see this woman cruising the streets with her henchmen, hungrily circling dog parks across the city, waiting for her chance to swoop in cackling "Got another one!". And poor Fifi, this innocent poodle, just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Can you picture it? Fifi is strapped down in some dirty, dank basement, duct tape wrapped around her snout to keep her from calling for help. Her four legs are tied down to some cheap dog bed. Not the good, expensive couch-shaped dog beds that you find in Upper East Side pet stores and occasionally in the LL Bean catalogue, but a flimsy, badly made dog bed that stinks of all the other canine hostages that have been forced to come here over the years.

Fifi's probably making all kinds of promises in her duct-taped head. If only the Great Dane in heaven will help her out of this mess, she swears she'll be a good dog. She won't chase the Goldsteins' cat anymore. She'll stop peeing in her secret spot, the back of the closet of the spare bedroom. She just wants to go home, away from Cruella and back to her comfy life, wrapped in O's beautiful arms with her favorite pink bow neatly tucked in her hair. She'll even learn that roll-over trick O has been trying to teach her.


OK, now before you think I'm cruel for making fun of the seriousness of this dog-napping tale, the truth is I was feeling quite badly for O. It's a terrible thing to lose your dog. And while this story seemed a tad preposterous, I couldn't imagine someone calling to shake you down for money this way. But before I could feel too badly for him, a look of disgust came over his face and he spat out two words: "Black people." Mr. Beautiful suddenly became very, very ugly.

I'm not going to repeat the horrible comments that he said next. I will say dinner that night became a reminder of an old saying we have all heard many times. Because while the cover of this book was dazzling, what was lying inside was offensive. I called for the check, threw my money on the table and headed out.

As I was going home, I thought about Fifi again and wondered if we had something in common. Maybe she had taken a look around on the day she ran off and noticed that while it all looked very pretty, there was a whole lot of ugly going on. And maybe, like me, she simply decided "I'm outta here."

I hope she's found that comfy couch-shaped bed somewhere.

Friday, May 9, 2008

The Mom Lottery

If you think about it, being born is a lot like playing the lottery.When born, some babies appear to be instant prize-winners with lives filled with fancy homes or unique talents or model-caliber looks. Others win a smaller prize, a good life of getting by without the extra frills or pizzazz, but a good life all the same. And many, too many, are born with lottery tickets that only win them lives filled with struggle or unhappiness. Or worse.

Now, imagine that when you were born there really was a lottery. Only instead of a million dollar cash prize or a reward of a new car or a fancy all-expenses paid vacation, the prize for this lottery was the world’s greatest mother. You didn't have to do anything to enter. There were no tickets to buy, no correct series of numbers to be guessed. To enter, you simply had to be born and hopefully, you would win.

Think about what a prize that would be. To win this woman who instinctively knew exactly what you needed. A mother to give you comfort, provide you with sustenance and offer so much more. This person to teach you laughter through a simple game of peek-a-boo or by patiently answering "who's there?" every time you said "knock-knock." A woman to introduce you to a life-long love of reading by sitting you down with her in a quiet, warm place to enjoy a story as she reads it aloud.

As you grew, this prize-mother would show you by example how to be respectful of yourself and of other people. She would teach you that laughter was a necessity; that family and friends must always come first and that, whenever possible, life was to be savored. She would teach you to not pass up the opportunity to have an adventure. She would be supportive of the decisions you made for yourself, even when she didn’t always understand them. She would show you how to weather the bad times and would make sure you understood that eventually things would get better again. And when they inevitably did, she'd be there to congratulate you for getting through it and to encourage you to remember to grab for all the happiness you could.

She might not be the world’s best cook, but she’d make sure you always got to lick a spoon dripping in cake batter. She might not always have the money to give you whatever you wanted, but she’d always make sure you had everything you needed. She’d put band-aids on your cuts and kiss them to make them better. She'd make magic happen with a bucket and some brillo pads so you could win a "crazy hat" contest. She would fill holidays and family get-togethers with so much joy, that your chest would ache from laughing so hard. She’d be encouraging, without being intrusive. She'd know to stand back and allow you to make your own mistakes, even when she could see them coming. And she’d let you be you, and would let you know that she was proud of the child you were and of the adult that you are.

And mostly, this woman, this lottery prize, would offer you a life where you would understand that for every single second you were loved, absolutely and unconditionally.

Sit back for a minute and try to picture what this world’s best mother would look like. Try to see her face and the expression on it. And once you have her image in your head, imagine reaching out your hand and introducing yourself.

OK, have you done it? Can you see the face of this first place prize? Have you said hello? You have? Good.

You have just met my mother.

Tuesday, May 6, 2008

What's the Rush? Part 2

I am in a crowded club at Eighth Avenue and 14th Street for my first try at speed-dating. I'm sitting in a chair, facing another single man, both of us holding paper and a pencil. We have numbers pinned to the front of our shirts.(I'm #19). In a minute, a whistle will blow, starting off a series of 3-minute mini-dates with 30 different men. Every 3 minutes it will blow again, the signal to stop one conversation and begin the next one. If you like the man you just spoke with, write down his number, keeping a list to turn in at the end of the night. If you picked someone who also picked you, you'll both be notified of the potential match.

Sounds easy enough.

The whistle blows and date # 1 begins. There are introductions and then the usual chatter that you can fit into 180 seconds. Names, occupations, short list of interests. The first conversation is fine, as is the second. By the third, I am beginning to wonder if it was the man I’m presently speaking with that belongs to a gay bowling team, or was that the guy before this one? Confusion begins to settle in and before I can sort out exactly who said what…

…gay men of all ages, sizes, shapes and colors are passing by me in a quick-moving blur, of 3 minute snippets. I am barely picking up portions of conversations and, after about the fifth or sixth "mini-date" they are all melding together into one long nervous sentence: "Hi, I'm a doctor/lawyer/chef/accountant/personal assistant/aspiring actor/cater waiter/musician/cab driver/pilot and I like movies/dinners/vacations/hanging with friends/family outings/walking/working out/dancing/clubbing/reading/television and most of all I'm really looking for a long-term relationship/casual friendship/hot times/monogamy/friends/lovers/an affordable apartment and oh, by the way, what gym do you belong to?"

I am talking to blond haired muscleboys, middle-aged professionals, recent college graduates and the entire male student body of the Stella Adler Acting school. And every 3 minutes, the whistle blows again and I move to another chair and begin what seems to be the same conversation over and over and over and over again. I can't recall what anyone said. I don't know which one is the corporate executive with a posh townhouse and a foot fetish and which one is the assistant district attorney who managed to tell me how much he hated his life before the whistle blew and I moved to the next chair. This could be the fifteenth date or the twenty-fifth. I have absolutely no idea.

The only thing I do realize, is that I haven't written down one number of someone I'd like to get to know better. I'm so disoriented that I've forgotten about the paper in my hand. And at this point, there's no way I'm going to recall even one number of someone I liked, because I can't remember one man from the next. I'm exhausted.

Then, the whistle blows, I move to another chair and I find myself face to face with him. Warm smile, cute dimpled chin, beautiful brown eyes and an appropriate age. He smiles and asks me how I'm enjoying speed-dating and I find myself telling him how confused I feel and how I haven't written down even one number, even though we're near the end of the night. He shows me his own empty pad and we both chuckle. We talk for another minute or two, but I'm barely processing what he's saying since I'm concentrating on making sure I get his number written down. There's no way I'm passing up those brown eyes.

The whistle blows again. We say our goodbyes, and it's not until the evening is over and I'm handing in the paper with Brown Eyes' number on it that something he said suddenly registers. When I asked what he did for a living he answered "Oh, I’m not working right now." I'm in a room filled with the eligible doctor/lawyer/chef/accountant/personal assistant/aspiring actor/cater waiter/musician/cab driver/pilot and I picked the unemployed guy. I have just handed in a paper which essentially says that I would like to date someone who won't be able to pay for anything, ever. And it seems a small consolation that I could be sitting across a restaurant table staring into those beautiful brown eyes while he's on his side telling the waiter to just slide the check on over to me EVERY time we eat out.

The next day an email arrives and I’m told I had no matches. I have been rejected by a man with no source of income. But, take heart, the email reads, there’s another speed-dating event coming up in just 2 weeks to give me the opportunity to try again. Just the thought of it makes me dizzy.

Saturday, May 3, 2008

Man's Best Friend

My dog Nora, often wakes me up. Sometimes she'll jump on the bed and head-butt me out of my sleep. Other times she lies her 70-lb body across my chest, which makes it hard to continue to sleep. Or breathe. Last Sunday morning she devised a whole new way of waking me. At exactly 7:01 AM, she threw up on my bed. If I'm tired enough, I can sometimes sleep through loud thunderstorms and have worried in the past that if someone broke into my house, I might sleep right through it. But this woke me. It's hard to sleep with a vomiting dog just a few inches away from your head.

I've had Nora for four years now. I picked her out at an animal shelter shortly after I bought my house. She was terrified of me at first. The people from the shelter put us in a room together and she sat as far away from me as she possibly could. I sat cross-legged on the floor and just waited with my hand extended, until she oh-so-slowly got curious and began to creep across the room. For the first few weeks, whenever I came home she'd stand one room away for a while before coming over to give me a very cautious wag of her tail.

Eventually, I won her over, which will happen when given enough love, attention and milk bones. She began to understand I wasn't going to hurt her and we became pals. She even progressed to the point that when I get home from work, she's there at the door, dancing. Yup, Nora dances. She goes up on her hind legs and does this half-jump, half-twirl dance. She dances when it's time to go out for her walk and whenever I walk in the front door. Sometimes, actually often, we dance together.

About two months ago she stopped dancing and started limping, so we headed off to the vet, Dr. K who said "Nora's developed back problems." He hands me a bottle of steroids. Steroids? Great. Now even the dog will have a better body than I do. Once the steroids start getting into her system, there's no telling what she may begin to do.

I can practically see her in the free weights section of the gym screaming at people around her;"You're working out with only 50 lbs. of weight! What are you a bunch of sissies?" She'll become addicted to the stairmaster and the treadmill, running as fast as Steve Austin in the 'Six Million Dollar Man' before settling into the juice bar to flex her muscles for everyone to see. Or she'll start doing interviews for Dog Lover magazine, her muscled physique gracing the cover, while inside she'll swear that it's just good genes and a healthy diet.

And from there, it's a slippery slope. After a few months she may demand I take her to Splash so she can be ogled by the boys. You can practically hear them saying "I don't know who the old man is, but that dog's hot!" She'll be calling me at work, telling me to not rush home 'cause she's got a couple guys coming over and she'll need the house for a while. And I can only imagine the hook-up ads she'll be posting on craigslist, all of them starting with the words "Muscle Bitch Seeks..."

All kidding aside, the back problem is pretty serious and at some point there are going to be decisions that need to be made. The steroids are only a short-term solution, but for now, they're doing their job. Nora's back to walking a little faster. And although she's not dancing quite as much as she used to, when the pills are working and she gets really excited, she can still twirl with the best of them.