Two friends of mine have just been asked to write a singles column for one of the Charlotte newspapers. She is providing the straight woman perspective, and he is providing the gay male perspective. Along with a gay woman and a straight man they will pen a weekly column on the dating scene. Hearing my two friends discuss potential topics has gotten me thinking about my own romantic life.
In my roughly 25 years since puberty, I really haven’t dated much. Comparing myself to my friends, both straight and gay, I don’t seem to have as strong of a sex drive. My brain is my primary sex organ, and usually it’s working against me. Physical contact for me, be it a massage or sexual contact or whatever, becomes this kind of “Eyes of Laura Mars” experience. I’m suddenly seeing myself through the other person’s eyes and imagining what they must be thinking--”Can’t he do something about those love handles?” “I’ve never seen such hairy toes”. “Nice teeth, though!”
As I was taking my pre-med classes I learned about other ways of reproducing found in nature. Personally I liked the idea of spores. Why did we need to evolve past that system? Gay men could reproduce by giving off Glitter Spores, which would eventually hatch and form boy-bands. Works for me!
The times I have ventured into the dating scene it usually hasn’t gone very well. I’m not sure if it was Venus or Eros, but I’ve definitely angered one of the dating gods. I’ve been stood up on Valentine’s Day and dishonorably discharged by military boyfriends who were afraid of being outed under the “don’t ask, don’t tell” policies. Match.com even returned my own profile to me as a potential suitor with the qualifier that we were only an 85% match!
Luckily I’m fabulously self-sufficient. I have a great group of friends who allow me to live vicariously through their dating lives. It works a little like A.A. Meetings for me. They tell me their dating woes, and it steels my resolve to stay single!
As I’m going through this career change, however, I’m thinking about a complete re-invention of myself. I do realize there must be some benefits to relationships, or else nobody would put themselves through the trouble of dating. So as I seek a more rewarding career, I am also seeking a more rewarding life. I hope dating will be a part of that. Therefore, I am officially putting myself back in the game. Let’s hope Eros and Venus are kinder to me this time around.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Contempt & Envy
One of my favorite things to do now that I have my days free is crawl out of bed and head straight to the gym. Because I will just get all sweaty, I usually don’t shower beforehand. It seems wasteful to do so, and I quite enjoy the shock value of walking downtown in a disheveled state. The gym where I work out is a few blocks from my condo, so I usually grab my gym bag and stroll over. Immediately I noticed the stares. Not direct eye contact, but a sidelong glance that is a mixture of contempt and envy. Who is this unshaven man with the obvious bed-head and razor stubble? HaHaHa, I think to myself, I am Liberated Man. Of course you envy me! You beleaguered whores in your corporate costumes off to slave away in a cubicle jungle. I’ve broken free of such drudgeries (at least for the moment). It’s a rather exhilarating feeling, I must say.
As an un-showered man at the gym, I fall into the first of two groups. The first group are the people who are there to exercise. The second group are the posers. You know who I mean--the women in their tight t-shirts reading Cosmo and jiggling seductively on the elliptical machine with perfect hair and makeup; the men in their tank tops doing biceps curls in front of the mirrors. These people are sweatin’ each other, but none of this sweat has to do with actual exercise. Most of the posers are in their 20’s and don’t need to exercise to look good anyway. Once you hit 30--it takes a little effort.
I have a friend who is in a relationship with a surgeon who was just telling me this weekend, “I don’t think my man appreciates how much work I’m doing to maintain my status as his trophy husband”. It’s so true. After 30, you better spend some time looking ugly at the gym (ie. Sweaty, red-faced and hyperventilating) so you can look presentable anywhere else. It just a sad fact of life.
Walking home from the gym, looking even worse after my work out--I’ve started noticing something else. There are several cafés downtown, and most of them have outside seating. These are where the power lunches happen. The same worker bees who were looking down their noses at me now turn their eyes to menus promising interesting sandwiches, exotic soups, and colorful salads. My accountant has me on a tight budget during my mini-retirement, so trendy café food is off limits. I’m currently living on home-made turkey sandwiches and kettle chips. As I walk past these immaculately dressed men & women dining on linen tablecloths and chatting on their iPhones, with nothing but squeeze-bottle horseradish to enliven my own lunch--I’m finding myself staring at them with a mixture of contempt and envy. Kind of the same way I look at the posers!
As an un-showered man at the gym, I fall into the first of two groups. The first group are the people who are there to exercise. The second group are the posers. You know who I mean--the women in their tight t-shirts reading Cosmo and jiggling seductively on the elliptical machine with perfect hair and makeup; the men in their tank tops doing biceps curls in front of the mirrors. These people are sweatin’ each other, but none of this sweat has to do with actual exercise. Most of the posers are in their 20’s and don’t need to exercise to look good anyway. Once you hit 30--it takes a little effort.
I have a friend who is in a relationship with a surgeon who was just telling me this weekend, “I don’t think my man appreciates how much work I’m doing to maintain my status as his trophy husband”. It’s so true. After 30, you better spend some time looking ugly at the gym (ie. Sweaty, red-faced and hyperventilating) so you can look presentable anywhere else. It just a sad fact of life.
Walking home from the gym, looking even worse after my work out--I’ve started noticing something else. There are several cafés downtown, and most of them have outside seating. These are where the power lunches happen. The same worker bees who were looking down their noses at me now turn their eyes to menus promising interesting sandwiches, exotic soups, and colorful salads. My accountant has me on a tight budget during my mini-retirement, so trendy café food is off limits. I’m currently living on home-made turkey sandwiches and kettle chips. As I walk past these immaculately dressed men & women dining on linen tablecloths and chatting on their iPhones, with nothing but squeeze-bottle horseradish to enliven my own lunch--I’m finding myself staring at them with a mixture of contempt and envy. Kind of the same way I look at the posers!
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Myrtle Beach Daze
I celebrated my unemployment and coincidentally my 41st birthday with a trip to Myrtle Beach, SC. Admittedly this was a step down from last year’s birthday. To toast my 40th birthday I had gone to Paris, France with some friends and sipped champagne on a yacht as we drifted down the Seine. I knew Myrtle Beach wouldn’t quite compare, but I was loathe to spend a lot of money with no new job prospects on the horizon.
We found ourselves at an ocean front bar called Ocean Annie’s, and I realized that Myrtle Beach is where hot chicks from the ‘80’s come to die. My friends and I were awash in a sea of forty-something women with big hair, eyeliner, and high heeled espadrilles. They were grouped in clusters around the circular oak tables nursing cigarettes and warm beer. Many of them were still attractive, but the years of smoking and tanning had taken a toll. Their expressions were as wooden as the bar stools they were sitting upon, and nearly as weather-beaten. Not that the men were any better. Draped in Big Johnson muscle T’s and crowned with their regal mullets, they sounded their barbaric yawps (actually more like “Woo Hoo’s”) over the sound system--which was serenading us with a medley of bands named after geographic hotspots (Boston, Asia, Kansas, etc.) .
Once we had settled in, however, I found myself having a good time. The view of the ocean was gorgeous, and the beers were cold. The late afternoon sun felt great, and the familiarity of the music was comforting. I’ll take classic rock over some angry rapper screaming at me any day. Maybe these people were on to something--you don’t have to spend a lot of money to “get away from it all”. It’s just a matter of finding the beauty in what is offered to you. As if to confirm my revelation, suddenly “Obsession” by Animotion came over the speakers. This was a huge hit from my high school days that I hadn’t heard in years. My friends were equally excited to hear it, and our table let out a collective yawp of our own in approval.
At that moment, my eyes locked with one of the big haired babes at a table across from where I was sitting. Through the haze of cigarette smoke obscuring her stony features, I suddenly had a flash of clairvoyance and knew exactly what she was thinking: “This must be where hot gay guys from the ‘80’s come to die.”
We found ourselves at an ocean front bar called Ocean Annie’s, and I realized that Myrtle Beach is where hot chicks from the ‘80’s come to die. My friends and I were awash in a sea of forty-something women with big hair, eyeliner, and high heeled espadrilles. They were grouped in clusters around the circular oak tables nursing cigarettes and warm beer. Many of them were still attractive, but the years of smoking and tanning had taken a toll. Their expressions were as wooden as the bar stools they were sitting upon, and nearly as weather-beaten. Not that the men were any better. Draped in Big Johnson muscle T’s and crowned with their regal mullets, they sounded their barbaric yawps (actually more like “Woo Hoo’s”) over the sound system--which was serenading us with a medley of bands named after geographic hotspots (Boston, Asia, Kansas, etc.) .
Once we had settled in, however, I found myself having a good time. The view of the ocean was gorgeous, and the beers were cold. The late afternoon sun felt great, and the familiarity of the music was comforting. I’ll take classic rock over some angry rapper screaming at me any day. Maybe these people were on to something--you don’t have to spend a lot of money to “get away from it all”. It’s just a matter of finding the beauty in what is offered to you. As if to confirm my revelation, suddenly “Obsession” by Animotion came over the speakers. This was a huge hit from my high school days that I hadn’t heard in years. My friends were equally excited to hear it, and our table let out a collective yawp of our own in approval.
At that moment, my eyes locked with one of the big haired babes at a table across from where I was sitting. Through the haze of cigarette smoke obscuring her stony features, I suddenly had a flash of clairvoyance and knew exactly what she was thinking: “This must be where hot gay guys from the ‘80’s come to die.”
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Leaving Dentistry
So I just quit my job. The sensationalist in me would love to attach this decision to some massive event, either catastrophic (read: arms amputated in freak dental drill accident) or miraculous (read: Leona Helmsley’s dog dies and leaves me the fortune), but it really wasn’t that dramatic.
For the past twelve years I’ve been working as a dentist. I don’t think dentistry and I were ever a great match. Sure, there were some things I enjoyed about it--there’s definitely some instant gratification. Someone walks in with a big black hole in their tooth, you fill it, and they leave with a beautiful white filling (or if they have bad insurance they leave with a shiny silver filling). That part is nice. I just never enjoyed doing it.
Now, when people hear that I quit my job, they say how courageous of me to walk away. I don’t really see it that way. The image that comes to mind for me is that of a cow that has been hooked up to a milking machine and then abandoned. The machine continues to tug on the udders, but all the milk has long since been drained. That is how I felt about dentistry. I had something initially to offer, and things were good for a while. But after twelve years I was tapped out. I really felt like I had nothing left to give to my patients. So in a situation like that is it courageous for the cow to walk away? Or is the cow just acknowledging the reality of the situation and saving everybody (mainly the cow) some pain and grief? Those milking machines have got to hurt after a while, and with no more milk to give there is no point in staying hooked up. So the cow walks away.
I’m not sure what the future will hold for me. I’d love to say that I’ve accumulated enough in my twelve years of working to be able to retire permanently, but that is sadly not the case. I do still need to work, and I want to work. I want to make a contribution to society. I just need to do it outside of a dental office. There’s a wonderful world out there and I’m ready to take a bite out of it (and I’ve got just the teeth to do so)!
As I decide what my next career will be, I will look towards the future with a sense of cautious optimism, and know that leaving dentistry was the right decision for me. Life is too short to go through it with sore udders.
For the past twelve years I’ve been working as a dentist. I don’t think dentistry and I were ever a great match. Sure, there were some things I enjoyed about it--there’s definitely some instant gratification. Someone walks in with a big black hole in their tooth, you fill it, and they leave with a beautiful white filling (or if they have bad insurance they leave with a shiny silver filling). That part is nice. I just never enjoyed doing it.
Now, when people hear that I quit my job, they say how courageous of me to walk away. I don’t really see it that way. The image that comes to mind for me is that of a cow that has been hooked up to a milking machine and then abandoned. The machine continues to tug on the udders, but all the milk has long since been drained. That is how I felt about dentistry. I had something initially to offer, and things were good for a while. But after twelve years I was tapped out. I really felt like I had nothing left to give to my patients. So in a situation like that is it courageous for the cow to walk away? Or is the cow just acknowledging the reality of the situation and saving everybody (mainly the cow) some pain and grief? Those milking machines have got to hurt after a while, and with no more milk to give there is no point in staying hooked up. So the cow walks away.
I’m not sure what the future will hold for me. I’d love to say that I’ve accumulated enough in my twelve years of working to be able to retire permanently, but that is sadly not the case. I do still need to work, and I want to work. I want to make a contribution to society. I just need to do it outside of a dental office. There’s a wonderful world out there and I’m ready to take a bite out of it (and I’ve got just the teeth to do so)!
As I decide what my next career will be, I will look towards the future with a sense of cautious optimism, and know that leaving dentistry was the right decision for me. Life is too short to go through it with sore udders.
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