The Year-Dometer Is Turning Over

As the year-dometer turns over to a new decade, it seems only appropriate that we reflect on the decade past and ...

Before I go on, I want to address those of you who are upset with me because the new decade doesn't start until 2021 and I obviously don't understand basic numbers. Yes, I'm aware that there was no "year zero" and that we start counting everything with the number one. But I'm not a math fundamentalist. I think that, for example, it's symbolically more meaningful when your car odometer turns over to 100,000 miles than 100,001. So try not to get too riled up and let's get on with it.

Unfortunately, I'm at an age where the last 10 years are indistinguishable from the 10 before that. Wasn't the turn of the century just 10 years ago? Seems like only yesterday, we ate a cake that said, "Welcome 2000" and accidentally shot live fireworks into the woodpile.

Ever since 2000, I've said we are living in the future. The elders among us might remember how in the 1960s and 70s, predictions of the future always started with, "By the year 2000 ..." which seemed impossibly far away. And now? Smart phones. Self-driving cars. They still seem like science fiction to me. On the other hand, I struggle to remember how we got to our friends' homes in the suburbs without GPS. Did we really fumble around with paper maps that we could never fold back to their original state?

Some of the decade's highlights for me personally:

• I got legally married and I'm still amazed about that.
• I became Episcopalian.
• I went from middle age to upper middle age.
• I bought a house riddled with stupid problems.
• I got a Kindle reader.

Our national life has been no less eventful:

• It became legal for same sex couples to marry.
• There is a general trend towards legalizing marijuana.
• "They" as a singular, personal pronoun came into acceptance.
• There are more good programs on TV than ever before and thanks to DVRs and streaming, we can watch them at our own convenience.

On the other hand:

• The U.S. accelerated on its journey to hell with shady Republicans engineering voter suppression and other stunts. These culminated in an illiterate, immoral, psychopath in the white house and a supreme court that will halt progressive changes at every turn for years to come.
• Climate change and global warming continued to worsen while we basically continued to not do much about it.
• Corporations figured out how to gather even more reams of data on us through technology that we bring into our homes on purpose. It's so bad now that experts recommend putting a piece of low tech tape over the camera on your new television because, theoretically and technically, someone out there could be watching you..

You know, maybe it wouldn't be such a bad idea to extend the decade one more year. That would give us a little extra time to end the 10s on a more positive note and brace ourselves for the 20s.

Defying the Insurance Company Actuarial Tables

This has not been my year, medically speaking.

Of course, it could have been worse. I'm not dead yet.

It started right at the beginning in January. As I wheezed my way onto the examination table, the doctor listened to my lungs, diagnosed pneumonia, and took an extra listen to my heart. Noticing some swelling around my ankles (edema) and a somewhat alarming high blood pressure, he asked if I would mind if he did an EKG as well. In my feverish stupor, I was barely aware of what he was doing, let alone in any position to argue or question.

After a typically long recovery from pneumonia, two visits to a cardiologist (and all of the delightful related experiences dealing with insurance companies, lengthy referral processes, and lackadaisical doctors' office staff who didn't give a shit about whether my life was in danger), I ended up in the Rose Medical Center Cardiology Unit where it was discovered that my major left artery was 80% blocked.

No wonder I was always winded after climbing the stairs to my office on the second floor. I just thought I was in terrible shape. I was, of course, but anyway ...

Major heart attack and possible sudden death averted, a stent was inserted and I was prescribed several weeks of cardiac rehabilitation which turned out to be three visits to the hospital per week where nurses hook you up to an EKG machine and take your blood pressure while you exercise. Some of the nurses have extra training in torture as they push you to exercise harder and harder while criticizing your diet and general lifestyle.

By the end of the summer, however, I was able to bound up the stairs to my office without running out of breath. Yay!

Thinking that everything was under control and that perhaps I would survive my 50s after all, I woke up one night to discover that a mole on my back had decided to erupt in a bloody mess. Naturally this happened on a Friday so I had all weekend to worry about it before my doctor's office opened Monday morning. But I was on that familiar exam table by Monday afternoon and the results of the biopsy came back on Thursday - so I only needed to push away "worst case scenario" trains of thought (chemo, end of life directives, death ...) for four days.

The results were not benign, but neither were they of the terminal variety. It was basal cell carcinoma, a slow growing skin cancer that is merely annoying, not fatal. It did, however, require minor outpatient surgery, which I had on Friday. There is now a big crater in my back which because I can't reach it, Clyde has to clean and bandage twice a day. This is the part of marriage that they don't show you in the bridal magazines.

So I'm back to assuming I'll make it through my 50s, though I keep imagining the insurance company's actuarial tables which must show my ever decreasing predicted life span.

I realize that 100 years ago, and in many other parts of the world today, I wouldn't have survived long enough to even have these problems. Many men got into their 50s, had heart attacks, and died. I sometimes try to remind myself that beyond a certain point, every day is gravy and that I should be thankful for it. I have things pretty good, after all: happily married, good home, comfortable life.

I keep remembering my dad who because of a heart condition, was given six months to live around the age of 70. He was 86 when he died. I take after him in a few other ways, so maybe I can look forward to a long life in spite of some health issues.

The 50s Aint What They Used to Be

I just found out Patrick Dempsey is 50.  You might know him as Dr. McDreamy from Grey's Anatomy. He's the very definition of hot.

John Stamos and Rob Lowe are in their 50s. So is David Duchovny. Hot, hot, and hot.

Yes, there are well known sexy women in their 50s too, but I don't think about them as much. Ok, I am very close in age to Sarah Jessica Parker and when I reflect on which one of the Sex in the City characters I am, I believe myself to be a Carrie. Or possibly an Amanda.

50 doesn't look like it used to. Lew Parker, who played Marlo Thomas's father on the 1960s sit com, That Girl, was only 50 towards the end of that series. I would have put him at least at 65. Ed Asner, who played Lou Grant on the 1970s sit com, The Mary Tyler Moore Show, was only in his 40s at the time. I'd have guessed him at about 60.

I guess men didn't age as well back then. But they had to grow up faster than we did. They'd been through the Great Depression and World War II. They smoked more. They drank martinis at lunch. They didn't exercise. They wore black socks with everything.

Why is this on my mind? Because my birthday is this month. I will be 54.

I'm not saying I'm as hot as Patrick, John, or Rob, but they project good images to which one might aspire. Like, if I really tried, I COULD look as good as they do.

So am I more of a Rob Lowe or a Lew Parker?

On one hand, I show definite signs of age. I've been bald on top for quite some time. Gray hair is finally showing up around the edges. I sometimes groan when I rise from the couch. I have to hold my prescription bottles further away from my eyes in order to read them. I prefer the radio station that plays good music - from the 1980s. I listen to the radio.

On the other hand, many things that were true about me in my 20s are still true today. I wear shorts whenever I can get away with it. When I have to dress up I wear jeans. I don't own a suit. I never iron anything. I put off haircuts until I'm really shaggy. When I listen to music alone in the car (admittedly mostly 80s music), I turn the volume way up and sing along as loud as I can (when Like a Prayer comes on, I nearly drive off the road). I still don't know for sure what I want to be when I grow up.

I suppose around the mid-21st century, if the birthdays keep coming, millennial relatives who care enough to visit will find me confined to a rocking chair, blind as a bat, but still wearing shorts and listening to Madonna.

Huffington Post Adds Years

I realized things were changing recently when reading the Huffington Post. Instead of automatically clicking the Gay Voices section like I've always done, I started with the Huff/Post 50 section - you know, the one directed at old people.

This is nothing less than a seismic shift in my interests. I now relate much more to contemplating retirement than millennial celebrities getting drag queen style makeovers. Also, I'm really not interested in the different ways gay men are using dating apps. What's a dating app anyway? Is this that "Grindr" I've heard about?  In my day, you walked up to a guy in a bar and asked him to dance. What ever happened to that?

Reading about why women should date men in their 50s is much more interesting to me than James Franco's constant toying with us about his sexual orientation. Is he or isn't he? I don't care, James! Just take your shirt off and shut up.

Aging is inevitable, and it turns out, I'm kind of enjoying it.

For example, there are opportunities to save money. It hasn't happened very often yet, but occasionally a store clerk or ticket taker asks Clyde and me if we'd like to take advantage of the senior discount. Rather than standing there insulted, I calculate the savings and ask what age qualifies us. I'm usually not quite old enough (I won't speak for Clyde), but I'm looking forward to the day when I can save a dollar on museum admission.

And there is retirement to look forward to. Thanks to a couple of good investments here and there, it looks like I'll be able to do it.

The next decade and a half will probably fly by so some plans need to be made now. Like, if I want the mortgage paid off before I retire, I'd better plan ahead. How many new cars will I buy between now and age 65?

When the time comes and our fuzzy loved ones are no longer with us, should we adopt a new kitten who might tie us down 15-20 years from now when we want to travel? Ok, on that  topic, I have been informed in no uncertain terms, that yes, we will always have cats, no matter what.

In some ways, we're already plenty old. I'm a card carrying member of AARP. And Clyde and I are regular early bird diners. We like to get to Black Eyed Pea about 4:30, before it gets crowded.

Tales of the 4-Plex

With the warmer weather this time of year, and with daylight continuing past dinnertime, our windows and shades are wide open so that we may enjoy the benefits of summer. Our senses are engaged by evening breezes, the occasional smell of a rainstorm, and as we move closer to August, the sounds of crickets.  Open windows blur the lines between outside and inside, and as you fold laundry or watch TV, you can't help but notice what some of the neighbors are up to. For example, the couple on the north end has new twin babies. The guy who regularly walks his dog in the yard doesn't always pick up the poop. The little girl across the way enjoys wearing princess dresses, predominantly pink, while her father favors tight fitting bicycle lycra.

Clyde and I are most entertained by the college students who rent the middle unit. We have no idea how many live there, because there is an endless stream of young faces going in and out. We are especially intrigued by two attractive young men who regularly hold hands as they come up the sidewalk. It's great that they are comfortable enough with themselves and their housemates, not to mention the neighbors, to openly express their relationship. Times have certainly changed.

This past week, the students welcomed yet another couple of housemates.

We know because we overheard them through the open windows. One of that hand holding couple stood on the front walk and gave the tour to a couple of newcomers. He indicated their patio and grill, pointed out the hose, discussed street parking, and described a couple of neighbors by name as he pointed to the different condos. When it came time for ours to be pointed to, we very clearly heard him say, "And two older men live there."

Ouch.

He didn't say it in a mean way. He wasn't disrespectful. He just said it as if it were a fact.

Olympia Dukakis as Mrs. Madrigal

I realize we are, in fact, older than he is. I also understand that our actual ages are way beyond his youthful comprehension. Who at 23 can accurately comprehend what it is to be in your 50s?  It's not that I expected he would describe us as "two hot guys," or anything like that. I might have hoped he thought of us as the nice "gay couple next door." I may have even fantasized that I was Mrs. Madrigal in Armistead Maupin's Tales of the City books, inviting the tenants in one by one, lighting up joints, and exuding a nurturing, sage-like wisdom as I listen to their problems.

I don't suppose he would think me younger if I walked up to him, shook my finger in his face, and lectured that not long ago, I was his age. I was hot. I stayed up late. I had boyfriends. I militantly came out to my friends and relatives. I went to marches on Washington. Hell, because of me and all the generations of lesbians and gay men before, he is free to hold hands with his boyfriend outside. I wonder if he's ever even heard of Tales of the City.

Don't worry. I won't say anything. I have to face it. My bald spot is older than my neighbor. I go to bed at 8:30 when he's just on his way out. I couldn't live his life if I wanted to, and in fact, I don't really want to. I am comfortable as one of the older men next door. Now what can I do to get that guy to pick up after his dog?

Perky Coworker Reminds Me I'm Old

She sings a chipper "Good morning!" to me every day. I grunt in reply.

She literally texts her friends while she works, with no apparent distraction. I have to wear headphones so I'm not distracted by her giggling with other twenty-somethings nearby.

Either I'm too old or she's too young. She's 24. I'm 50 next week.

When she was born in 1988, I was older than she is now.

I have t-shirts that pre-date her. Most of my pots and pans were purchased before she existed, with S&H Green Stamps no less. I guarantee she doesn't know what Green Stamps are. If you don't know, Google it - it's how we used to get free stuff before credit card rewards programs.

In 1988 I was in graduate school, already jaded and cynical.

In 1988, Star Trek: The Next Generation debuted. I'm just now getting around to watching it.

I did watch a show called Thirtysomething, about some old people in their 30s.

In 1988 I also watched the Golden Girls. They were funny old ladies back then. When I watch the same episodes now, they seem much younger - how did that happen?

The youngsters I work with don't seem much bothered by our age differences. It's my hang up. They, like I, work hard and are deserving of respect.

Meanwhile, I'm thinking I should clean out my spice cupboard - some of that ground basil may remember the 1980s as well.

What Does a Single, Gay, 50 Year Old Look Like?

So Michelle Obama has turned 48. It's kind of shocking to be older than the First Lady. I mean, Barbara Bush and Nancy Reagan with their old lady hair seemed much more advanced in years. But the current occupants of the White House are practically peers. At this rate, in the next administration, I'll be complaining that the President and First Spouse are too young to have a clue about what they're doing and that in my day ...

You get the picture.

I have to admit that this last birthday rattled me. I'm now just one year away from the half-century mark. It's not that I'm afraid of death or being unattractive. I treasure each and every gray hair. It's more that I don’t know how I should act.

What does 50 look like? The image that first comes to mind is of active grandparents. But I'm not a grandparent, nor are there prospects for becoming one.

I sort through my mind's database of images for living as a nearly 50 year old single, childless, gay person: Eccentric uncle. Spinster aunt. Confirmed bachelor. Gay divorcee. Pathetic looser. Crazy cat lady. Hmm. The closest one that fits is crazy cat lady.

It's not about how I look to others, but rather how I see myself. There's a shortage of helpful role models for people of years, in general, let alone single ones. Add gay to the mix and, well, I might as well be the only one. 

The best older role model that comes to mind is Betty White. She's beloved, respected, active, funny, and she's 90. Doesn't help me much right now.

A role model for the unmarried, in my mind, is single gal Doris Day in the 1960's movie, Pillow Talk. She's strong, beautiful, busy with her career, and has a housekeeper. Of course, in spite of fiery independence, she settles down in the end with Rock Hudson. Needless to say, she's not old in the movie, and gay didn't exist on the screen then.

It's pretty gay that I use Pillow Talk as an example. It's pretty gay that I vividly remember Rock Hudson in the bathtub scene, but I digress.

I don't sit around and pine for a husband, like Sally Rogers on the Dick Van Dyke show (another fairly gay reference and dubious single role model), but neither do I commit eternally to my singleness, forever free from the bonds of husbandly attachment. I simply want to know how I'm supposed to act now that I'm approaching the AARP demographic.

This just in. Rosie O'Donnell, I'm observing as she talks to Piers Morgan, is exactly my age. She's gay. She's engaged, but single for now. She looks fabulous. Maybe I just need to look around a little more.

Nose Hair Signals That the End is Near

It's a delicate operation. One false move and it hurts. A lot. Using tweezers would be worse. I use little tiny scissors which don't take out the whole hair, root and all, but merely trim it down so I have to do it again in a few days. 

Lately, I've noticed something new. Some of the nostril hairs that I’m trimming are white. And that's just the tip of the ice berg. I have lots of white hair in other places.  Where did it all come from?  The hair in my ears is white. My beard has been white for a long time. My chest hair is turning white. The only place it's not white is on top of my head, and that's only because there really isn't much there.

It's not like I'm surprised to be getting older. True, I forget my exact age sometimes and have to subtract the year I was born from the current year. Really, objectively, I feel lucky to be getting old. By many measures, I shouldn't have survived this long. But here I am, saving for my retirement, wondering if universal health care will be a reality by the time I stop working.

I always told myself I'd age gracefully, without complaint, without regrets. Age is just a number, I always thought. I should welcome age and the wisdom it brings. Instead, I find myself continually surprised that the years are creeping up on me - and the decades are flying by.

Coming of age moments happen all the time.

For example, I occasionally go to the Village Inn near my office for breakfast. I've noticed that the same old guys are in there every morning. They talk with the servers like true pals, and say hello to each other by name. More often than not, the server doesn't even need to ask what they want to eat. She just brings it out. Kind of like how Betty knows to always bring me a coffee, no cream, and a large water. I kind of laughed at these old guys until it slowly dawned on me that I AM ONE OF THEM.

Face it: getting older is tough. Here are some of the frustrations I'm having as I age gracefully:

• Things I did to my body years ago are coming back to haunt me. I’ll spare you the details.
• I can't see.
• My memory isn’t exactly slipping, but I vividly recall a meal I had in 1987 - and I can’t remember anything about yesterday.
• I'm watching my friends age too. How can they look so much older while I still look the same?
• I'm working with people half my age who, for example, don't know the origination of the "cc" in email (if you're younger than 35, I should tell you that we used to type each letter by hand, using carbon paper to make carbon copies (hence the cc) because we couldn’t just print another document.
•  When predictions of a disastrous future are made, it is with guilty relief that I think to myself how great it is that I'll be dead before it happens.

Which brings me to the most startling thing about getting older. It is the thing that nobody talks about: the realization that you are going to die. With more than half your life behind you, time is limited. If you've always wanted to do something, now is the time to do it.

It's just a shame that I have to spend the rest of my life trimming unwanted hair from my facial orifices.

Here’s to Another Wild Weekend

Sunday Morning – I can’t move. I’ve stayed in bed long past the usual time. My head is pounding. The cats knock things over to get me up. Their breakfast is overdue. It’s 6:30 a.m.

You see, I stayed out much later last night than normal. I imbibed substances my body isn’t used to and I indulged in entertainment usually only enjoyed by a whole different strata of society.

It’s not that I did anything illegal. I was simply invited by some good friends to a fund raiser for the Rocky Mountain Arts Association.

The evening featured lots of movers and shakers, artists and patrons, Lesbians in all their finery, and gay men who probably spent hours getting that casual put-together look just so. Many were drinking wine and engaging in sparkling conversation. The highlight of the evening was a monologue delivered by Leslie Jordan, one of Hollywood’s most outspoken and notorious gay comic actors. You may remember him as Beverly Leslie on Will and Grace, or Brother Boy (channeling Tammy Wynette) on Sordid Lives. There was even a silent auction whereupon I bid, but didn’t win, a lovely hand-sculpted vase.

I made several trips to the bar and drank copious amounts – of club soda and diet coke. The worst things I consumed were scallions wrapped in bacon, runny brie baked in a flaky pastry, and little fruit tarts with the crust dipped in white chocolate (not my finest Weight Watchers hour …).

And the most shocking thing of all: I didn’t’ get home until almost 11:00.

What has happened to me?

Friday and Saturday nights used to be time out on the town. I never got home before 11:00.

In those days, it was only right to have some fun after a week of hard work. With Saturday and Sunday looming as relatively free days during which I could recover, I could stay up late and "PAR-TAY."

Most of the world seems to continue in this way. One only need venture down to LoDo, the district in Lower-Downtown Denver where every weekend, brew pubs and coffee houses are crowded to the point of overflowing. Partiers clog the sidewalks and horse-drawn carriages clop down the 16th Street Mall as taxis and pedestrians try to cross.

Or so I've heard.

I haven't been to LoDo after dark for maybe five years. And then I was only leaving Coors Field before the game ended so I could beat the traffic.

Nowadays, by the time I get home from work on Friday afternoon, I'm too tired to even think of going out. As I fold back the comforter around 8:30 p.m., I recall my youth when friends and I didn't even leave for the bars until 10:00. After last call several hours later, those of us who weren't lucky enough to hook up would head to breakfast at the White Spot, a 24-hour diner populated by drag queens which long ago disappeared under some of those fake new lofts in the Golden Triangle along Broadway.

Now, if I'm not too sleepy, I'll watch some recorded Science or History Channel documentary on my DVR until about 9:30 when I can no longer hold my eyes open. It's a good bet I'll be fast asleep by 10:00.

About 5:00 a.m., when in the old days I'd just be getting home (mine or someone else’s) to plop into bed, I now stretch, throw back the covers, and rise to feed the cats. The most thrilling part of the weekend is beating the crowds at King Soopers before the sun comes up.

I don't date much these days and I can't help but wonder if, in part, it's because I go to bed so early. If I force myself to be out at the bewitching hour of 8:30, my dinner companion observes me as I yawn widely, rub my eyes excessively, and jerk my head back suddenly as I fight off sleep. It's usually no reflection on him.

I suppose I’m just getting older. But I wouldn’t mind, say, a breakfast date every now and then.

There must be other single, middle aged gay men who engender the "early to bed, early to rise" lifestyle, but I can't figure out how to find them. They don’t hang out at King Soopers early in the morning, that’s for sure.

What I Didn’t Tell Them

Is it impressive or is it sad that I recently summed up the past 25 years of my life in two paragraphs?

It was one of those wonderful Facebook moments where you suddenly find people with whom you long ago lost contact.

Though "virtual," the reunions were wonderful. I really enjoyed reading what my friends had been up to since 1986.

Of course I was expected to provide the same information. What aspects of a person’s life do others want to hear about? Personal? Professional? Marriage and children (or lack thereof)? Mutual friends and acquaintances? Perhaps I was over thinking it, but I decided to challenge myself as a writer and convey the most important things that have happened to me in as succinct a way as possible. With a sense of satisfaction, I summed up my career, family, and health in two medium sized paragraphs.

Then I got discouraged. You mean I can say everything important about my career, family, and health in just two medium sized paragraphs? I must be the most boring person in the world.

I’m sure my friends realized that what I told them was merely an outline. Many more interesting things have happened to me than that.

So I’d like to share with you a sampling of what I did NOT include in the two paragraph nutshell about my past quarter century. Since 1986, I:

• Replaced all of my LPs with CDs
• Cohabitated briefly with an artist
• Wrecked two cars (neither was my fault)
• Lived in four different regions of the country
• Wrote for a couple of local weeklies (all defunct now, of course)
• Sold my car and did public transit for a few years
• Remodeled my kitchen
• Lived with a total of four cats
• Pledged to my local public radio station, boycotted said station, then pledged again
• Complained about the new airport
• Developed an allergy to bananas
• Remodeled my bathroom
• Got laid off from three jobs
• Joined and dropped out of a queer square dancing club
• Replaced the VCR with a DVR
• Put all of my CDs on an iPod
• Remodeled everything but the kitchen and bathroom
• Bought a hybrid car
• Visited Wyoming several times
• Said every summer, without fail, "I really should spend more time in the mountains"
• Got irritated when the local public radio announcers mispronounced "Chez Artiste," one of the local movie theatres
• Thought seriously about moving to California
• Joined a gym
• Got on Facebook 
• Made this list

Well. Hmm. Maybe I’ll just stick to those two paragraphs. They were more interesting.

The Acceleration of Time (or What do You Mean the 30th Reunion is Next Year?)

Though I long ago resolved not to be preoccupied with age in my declining years, it's happening anyway.

Out of the blue, several Facebook postings this week herald the coming of my 30th high school class reunion next summer.

When I was in high school, I never contemplated living 30 years, let alone having a 30th high school reunion.

I didn't attend the 10th or 20th. I'm not sure I'll attend the 30th, but it’s happening regardless.

Where did the time go?

I've always heard from my elders (I very much respect them, by the way – young people, take note) that the older you get, the faster time flies.

When I was a kid, I was vividly aware of the differences between 1972, 1973, 1974, and 1975. To this day, I can see a hairstyle from the 70s and tell you within about 12 months what year it was popular. My bright plaid pants with cuffs looked great in 1974, common in 1975, and silly by 1976.

Fast forward just 10 years: I lived in a different city every year or two for most of the 1980s. If I now hear a Madonna song on the radio, I can tell you whether I lived in Lincoln, New York, Omaha, or Richmond when it was popular.

But things changed in the 90s. I stopped moving around, yet the years flew by. How can I be nostalgic for Breakfast At Tiffany's by Deep Blue Something when it seems like it just came out? By the way, I really like that new artist, Sheryl Crow. I hope her career takes off.

I still wear shirts I wore in 1999. They look ok to me - maybe a little tight. Have I become an old dork? I'll never forget going out once with a slightly younger guy who guessed my age based on my shoes. Any self-confidence in my animal magnetism quickly evaporated.

The days, weeks, months are flying by. I regularly say, "Is it Friday again already? Where did the week go?" The good news is that while weekends once seemed so few and far between, they now come with increasing frequency.

I read a month or so ago (or was it a year or two?) that scientific studies point to possible physiological reasons why older people experience time in an accelerated way. It may be more than just the perspective of age.

So I have just one question. If time is speeding up, why is the last 30 minutes at the office the longest hour of the day?