Reynaldo's 60th

Happy Birthday, Reynaldo!

Birthdays are a good time to reflect on a good life well lived. Today is Ron's 60th birthday. I looked at him carefully this morning, and he doesn't look like he's 60. In fact, he doesn't even look like he's 59! He's aged well and gracefully, probably because of his gym workouts and the prunes that he eats (cherry essence, I'm not kidding).

Ron is so health conscious that he scheduled a doctor's appointment on his birthday! And now, he's on his way to the gym. I believe his secret is moderation and vegetables in all things.

I first met Ron at a potluck. This is pretty typical behavior for both of us, because we both have lesbionic instincts. He had a dish of haroset (veggies!), and I had spinach enchiladas. I think he wanted to date me because I would be a reform project. All night long I pretty much chain-smoked cigarettes, and we still ended up going dancing together. Or maybe we were both desperate. We were both crazy dancers.

Ron, Happy Birthday, and thank you for being such a blessing in my life. I didn't buy you anything, so I'll have to be your birthday present this year.... I love you.

It's Been One of Those Days

I've been meaning to get to the latest Economist since 7 a.m. It doesn't seem to be in the cards. This retired state puzzles me, because I always run out of time. Happily, supper is in the oven, and it's been a wonderful, if another lost day.

The official business started with going to the gym with Michael. He and I had our usual square dancing discussion. It's useful to me to hear how somebody else thinks about square dancing, the club, dance etiquette, level snobbery, etc. I usually keep these thoughts to myself, so it's nice to have a sounding board to hear something new, and to try out ideas.

Gym. I want a gym-toned bod with the emphasis on toned, but alas, I'm really very blobby. Oh, I know. Body image. Blah, blah, blah. I don't hear you! I think I'm losing the battle with gravity, but I'm doing pretty well back at the gym. I just wish I could see some instant results. About the only consistent result is that I'm hungry all the time. Hmmmm.

Back on the home front, I saw those two excellent tomatoes wanting to be eaten. I suggested to my better half that he and I go shopping for parsley. $65 later at Safeway, we were home making a tuna stuffed tomato. It was delicious. These local farm grown tomatoes make me think I'm going to be at the farmers' market this weekend, too. The tomatoes have this celestial (or maybe platonic) tomato taste. Ummmmm.

Ron gave me a back rub. We took a walk. I'm cooking some stuffed poblano peppers for dinner. Life is good.

What I Do in Retirement

Retirement is not a destination: it's a very expensive journey that lasts a long time. I do not sit on my front porch, because I don't have a front porch, although I do have a rocking chair. I waste a lot of time on my computer, just because I can. I think that's okay. I used to waste a lot of time on my computer at work, too, just because I had too. Old habits are hard to break.

I took up the gym when I retired. I hate the gym, but it allows me to eat just about whatever I want to stick in my mouth, and I've actually trimmed some pounds off, although my bad posture (from sitting in a chair in front of my computer) certainly doesn't show an incredible result. I figure, I'm ahead just going to the gym, burning my 600 calories, then clearing out. But now, I have time to hate the gym. That's cool.

Last night, I had a square dance emergency. For those of you snickering out there, such emergencies really do occur, and on a fairly regular basis, too. I originally had dinner plans, but the workshop I dance with only had six dancers, so I scrapped my dinner plans, picked up my friend Michael, and we narrowly averted the dance disaster. Square dance is just that important.

You might guess that retirement affords more opportunities for gentlemen callers. Your surmise is correct. In spades. I'm not particularly proud of that, I'm just noting another element of my retired life. It's one of the less retiring aspects of retirement. It requires a calendar, advanced scheduling techniques, a modicum of wit, and adeptness with java browser technologies.

What's Up?

I ran into an old flame of sorts today in the gym. He's a guy that I was seeing a couple of years ago. We sometimes run into each other, and today was one of those times. He's 29, and worried about turning 30. I told him that it only goes down hill from here. I enjoyed seeing him, and talking with him. I always enjoy running into my past.

This afternoon, I went over to Tim's for a romp. He played a DVD to keep me company while he prepped himself. It was almost too much excitement, or maybe it's that the older I get, the less it takes to impress. I'm not sure. I'm certainly of a certain age these days, and it becomes more apparent every day. I think I'm still in recovery from visiting my Mom....

And it's so good to be back on my turf. I went square dancing last night. I was the resident dunce, but it didn't seem to matter, and I'm very good at following directions. The routine of the gym (and the "online" experiences) remind me that I'm home doing the things I love to do. The perfect poached egg this morning fortified those sentiments. When you are retired, the little things aren't nearly so little anymore.

Ron and I are headed out to a Mug Muck restaurant social in a few minutes. We're going to Crisfield's, a top-rated local seafood restaurant that remains legendary. Having dinner with Ron at the end of the day is just the right thing to do.

Gentleman Caller

He called it a date. I would have used a different term of art. In any case, he arrived on my doorstep this afternoon, and I have to say, he looked good, and he performed a good deed.

Most of the men on Manhunt (and you know who you are), are looking for immediate relief. Don't get me wrong, I sincerely understand, and periodically need relief myself, I just can't offer immediate attention to your felt needs.

So I was pleasantly surprised when a gentleman with whom I had exchanged messages on Manhunt weeks ago, sent me an email on Saturday suggesting that we get together this week. Emails like this fill me with anxiety, because my schedule is very constrained with square dancing, lunch invitations, dinner invitations, as well as the other very important things that I do with my life. My fear is that when I tell the guy, "Well, how about 2 p.m. on Wednesday, or 4:30 p.m. on Tuesday, week after next," that he will think I'm playing "mind games" and will drop me from his social set.

I told the gentleman either Tuesday late afternoon or Thursday noon. Remarkably, he was good with that. We exchanged a few other email pleasantries, and he ended up on my doorstep.

I'm grateful for technology that facilitates me having sex with other guys. Admittedly, we don't know or find out a huge amount about each other, but I wouldn't be doing this if it meant I had to go to a bar. Forty seven minutes after he arrived, he was heading out to the gym. He was smiling, and I was, too.

Busy, Busy

I'm not equating busyness with productivity, but I felt a little like the Energizer Bunny^®. I got up, made myself some breakfast, read the paper, then got a wild idea to mop the kitchen floor. At this point, I started my laundry. I mean, if you're going to mop the floor, you might as well run a couple of loads of laundry. After that it was off to the gym. When I got home I wrote my brother a birthday card, then Ron and I walked to the Post Office, after which we walked to Safeway and did a little food shopping. About this time, I really needed a drink (I'm so grateful for cocktail shakers!), then I steamed some broccoli for a salad. I answered some emails, purchased an airline ticket, reserved a rental car, and made a hotel reservation for trip to Idaho in November. I finished making the rest of the salad - chopping celery, slicing tomatoes, sauteing garlic, grating carrots, the usual, (I made another cocktail) then I cooked the ravioli, warmed up the pasta sauce, and set the table for dinner. After dinner, I watered all the pachysandra, which meant repeatedly filling a bucket full of water, and traipsing down the path to the thirsty little plants. (I just about killed them, but I think I'm nursing most of them back from the brink.) Now, I'm writing in here, then I'll read the Economist before going to bed. This is what I mean about retirement - I have a lot to do, but not an awful lot to show for it.

August in Wheaton

Most years, August in Wheaton is pretty beastly. The weather is hot and humid, only more so. But this year, we've been having some remarkably wonderful weather. Right now, it's 74º and the humidity is 44%, which for the dog days of summer is perfect.

Yesterday, at George's memorial service, we had similar weather. A thunderstorm threatened, but nothing came of it. The service was really nice. I liked hearing people's stories about George. He will be missed by the garden club, by his partner, by his special friend, by his brother, by his lesbian and gay brunch group, by his neighbors, by his potluck social club, by the nude campers, and by his sex playmates. He was a real character, and certainly woven tightly into the fabric of Takoma Park.

George lived frugally, and simply. He was a packrat with a purpose. He reused everything. He had the best compost and garden for miles around. He would deliver the garden club and the brunch club newsletters on his bike because it saved on postage, and probably because he loved riding his bike. He loved flea markets. In some circles he was shy. In others he wasn't. He loved being naked.

I only knew a small slice of George's life. I knew the men's potluck, nudist, sexual, gay, square dance part of his life. And his life was a whole lot more than that. Every person has a story just waiting to be told. In hindsight, it seems a little sad that we really find out about others only when they die, but at least we heard George's story.

After George's service, I sent Ron back to Wheaton, then I went downtown to see Eldritch. He's moving out of his condo apartment in Dupont Circle, and he was having a party last night to say goodbye to the place. A lot of bears, faeries, and hangers on were present.

I've known Eldritch for a very long time. We inhabit parallel, mostly compatible worlds. He had had a very bad week. He came down with appendicitis on Tuesday, was operated on Wednesday, and discharged from the hospital on Thursday. Considering all that, I thought he was pretty brave to host the party, and Eldritch really does host. The vat of mojito (how convenient!) was very good. I would have eaten more, but I had a date with Ron and Perry in Wheaton.

So I came home and the three of us ended up at Ruby Tuesday's. Go ahead and sniff your nose at me! It may be a family dining experience, a chain restaurant, and "American" cooking, but it does what it does very well, and we had a very nice meal. I had two turkey sliders, some fries, and the salad bar (and a beer). Now that's a downhome experience. And it was also very tasty. I enjoyed the company of my two boys, and I enjoyed the food. It was a great way to finish out a weekend.

And August continues to unfold. This week is go see the doctor week. I got my teeth cleaned early this morning. Dr. Perkins really knows how to scrape plaque. Tomorrow is Dr. Ford, who will survey my flesh; she's the dermatologist, and finally, Dr. Bonecrusher will finish me off on Friday. Sounds like a whole lotta fun, doesn't it?

After today's jaunt to the dentist, I headed off to the gym. I didn't surpass my previous calorie total of 710, but turned in a respectable 709. After the cross-trainer, I went up to the studio to do my cool-off. It borders on a religious experience, not unlike sex, probably because my body at that point is one big endorphin molecule. I'm literally soaking wet, laying on the floor, in a state of semi-bliss, thinking, "This makes the workout okay." I hate going to the gym, but I love being blissed out. What I'll do for a cheap thrill.

This is another mostly square dance week. Tonight, I'm dancing at Ett's (C-1). Tomorrow, Tim and I dance at Billy Harrison's club (C-1), and on Thursday, it's club night (Plus and Advanced). I need to review my calls before dancing.

Mixed Mind about Exercise

Today I accomplished a milestone of sorts for me. I burned up 710 calories on the cross-trainer at the gym. When I started working out in January, I was doing about 580 calories, so I'm seeing an improvement, although I'm not sure that I can do much more than 700 calories during one of my workout sessions.

The gym is my friend inasmuch as it allows me to eat more and not gain weight. In fact, I've lost about 18 pounds since January, too, and I've been able to keep it off, but I'm not losing additional weight (another six pounds?). Unfortunately, working out has also significantly increased my appetite, so I'm still at war with myself. But now when I pig out, I'm a little more prudent about it because I know how much I hate exercising.

The gym is also a benefit because a couple of times a month, Michael (who works out about the same time I do) and I have lunch after workout. This is something to look forward to, and the workout is much less dear than the lunch afterwards.

I think that the working out is slowly having an affect on my blood pressure. It's a little too early to tell, but if it does lower it five or ten points, that would be a very good thing, indeed.

Finally, I like weighing less. I look better, and I'm vain enough to think and believe that. So vanity is a spur to working out. For the life of me, I can't get rid of my little tummy. Ron thinks it's cute. I don't. No exercise short of liposuction is going to change that. Well, maybe if I didn't eat anything for the next forty-five days.

The downside is I hate going to the gym. While I'm working out, I don't enjoy it, but I get enough feedback from the machine's display to think that I'm accomplishing something, and feel vaguely superior for doing the right thing. At the end, it's a delicious feeling to be completely soaked and to feel so wiltingly tired. I like that.

When I'm done with the cross-trainer, I go up to the studio, and strike a couple of poses. It isn't really stretching, but I do a few movements during which I can completely ignore the noise and the people around me. I feel serene and empty. If I can't do my wind down because the studio has a class or activity going on, I'm disappointed, because I really look forward to the time I spend inside myself in the studio. It's meditation. It's my spiritual destination.

So I'll keep going to the gym. I'll keep being annoyed about having to get there. I'll keep using all the wrong reasons to sustain my enthusiasm. But what really keeps me coming back are those quiet moments at the very end when I'm not really exercising at all. I'm just doing my stuff. Soaking wet. Blissfully exhausted. Mentally empty. Smelling... like a rose!

Navel Gazing

I trimmed the hair around my navel. Do straight men clip hair in their hidden places, places that get covered up by shirts, pants, and other apparel? I figure I keep the hair on the top of my head and on my chin trimmed, so it doesn't seem too odd that I would trim other hairy parts.

I hadn't done a thorough trim job in several weeks, so today seemed like a good time to do it, and I actually enjoy shaving off the hair. After the week with a couple of hundred gay men, I know how unruly a long tangled thicket of crotch hair looks, not tasteful at all! The hair on my chest was beginning to get in the way, too, this from a guy who had no hair on his chest until he was nearly forty. Well, the hair is growing, and spreading, too. Eyebrows, don't forget the eyebrows. I used a comb and some barber scissors to trim them back; no Andy Rooney look here.

It never seems to end. Hairiness is a continuing maintenance issue. Understand that I don't mind hairy men at all; in fact the furry touch can be very comforting. I think it was my breeding - I'm striving for just the right amount of hair for me: not too much on my head, enough on my chest so that I don't look like I was born yesterday, some swirls across my stomach, because I really enjoy furry stomachs, and a well-trimmed bush because I don't want my penis to get overheated when I go out in the summer sun.

All of these observations bring me back to my original question about straight men and hair grooming. Some guys at the gym are pretty unkempt, but I've seen some very fastidious guys there, too, and I'm pretty sure that these guys are not on my team. I suspect lady friends in their lives influence their hair choices. I'm guessing that straight guys probably don't trim their pubic or chest hair, unless they are extremely hairy. They are probably even less inclined to shave their scrotums or places south. I don't shave there for looks, I just like the feel of it. I don't talk to straight men about these things, but I'm very curious.

I've Been Bustling Around

I'm off to Colorado this evening to visit Steve and Lesley, but I have lots to do before I go. I've already run two loads of wash, and I'm packing (lightly - a duffel and a backpack). The weather is not too promising right now; I'm hoping that I have no flight cancellations or delays. I'm getting into Denver very late, as it is.

The weather has been nasty. A ManHunt buddy was supposed to come over for play last night, but the stormy weather scared him off. I gave him a raincheck. That's the other thing about these trips out of town, I miss the boys at home. I'm sure the men of Boulder have their own charms, but I like the warmth of familiar arms.

I'm missing Ett's C1 club tonight and John Marshall's Advanced club tomorrow (and a Harvest Festival Hoedown committee meeting on Thursday (pity)). I'm taking my computer, and I'll be on the TAMinations web site reviewing C1 calls. I promise.

I'm looking for Ron to make his morning appearance, shortly. Then, we're off to Dr. Bonecrusher. Originally, I had a 9 a.m. appointment, and Ron at an 11 a.m. appointment, but I think they both got changed to 11 a.m., at least that's what the receptionist said as I left the office last Monday. I may try to get in a gym workout, too, but that's not looking too good. I haven't decided how to get to the airport, probably by Metro if I can cajole Ron into taking me to the Wheaton station. I hate getting places by plane, but it's better than walking.

This May Sting a Little When You Urinate

With those parting words, my urologist, cum surgeon, walked out of the pre-op waiting room at Suburban Hospital. He also told me no heavy lifting (fat chance) or working out for the next two weeks. "I want you to be a couch potato." He also gave me a prescription for Pyridium, which will turn my pee bright orange.

So today was the biopsy. I salute Doris and the other pre-op nurse who were really kind and very conscientious. The could say the phrase, "prostate lesion," without giggling, and were very sympathetic. Each had a twinkle in her eye. Doris was a little pained to see my pierced nipple and navel (we had to tape them down - note to self, shave the hair next time). She asked me if they hurt. I said I guess so, but that happened fifteen years ago.

They got me an extra-long hospital gown. As the pre-op nurse said, "You don't want to look mini." I thought that was quite considerate, considering the circumstances. After doffing my clothes and donning my gown, she got me comfortable in the bed and started an IV drip. At this point, Ron left the room hurriedly. Doris looked at me and said, "Needles." I nodded, figuring that she didn't need to revive him if he fainted.

This initial drama lasted about 45 minutes, at the end of which, I took my drip and pole and trundled off to the bathroom. You'd be surprised how complicated it is to hit the bowl while you are holding the tube that is dripping saline into your arm. I practiced a few square dance calls, too.

After Doris finished prepping me, my doctor came in for a chat, telling me about the stinging sensation after each urination for the next three weeks. He was going to perform a cystoscopy first, and then the biopsy, if it was necessary (it was).

As soon as the doc gave me his parting advice, the anesthesiologist came in, started a prophylactic antibiotic, then told me his drill - Versed, and two general anesthetics. He called in Shirley, the surgical nurse, who finished prepping me for the trip to the operating room. Each of the people involved, the two pre-op nurses, my doctor, the anesthesiologist, and the surgical nurse, all asked me my name and my date of birth. Some of them asked me where I lived. They all compared my patient number on my wrist with a plastic card, and my patient history. The surgical nurse actually asked me what my procedure was going to be. I thought about saying, "heart transplant," but then thought better of it.

The anesthesiologist started the Versed, and we were off to the operating room. I have to tell you, the operating room looked like an industrial cleaning closet (I used to be a janitor). I mean, I'm sure the place is clean, but it appeared cluttered with equipment, and stuff. I never saw the doctor again. I woke up in recovery. (I'm told that for the biopsy, he threaded a weed wacker up my penis, and just turned it on. My dick is about two inches shorter :-)

Christy was the recovery nurse. She was one busy person, and always smiling and energetic. She covered me with an extra blanket, which I really appreciated. I had three diet colas and some graham crackers. After resting for a half hour or so, Christy wanted me to take a pee. She said it might sting, and it did. She pulled the curtain, Ron came in, and I got dressed. I signed some releases, they plopped me in a wheel chair, and delivered me to the McKinley Street entrance to the hospital. I'd been there for about five hours.

The doctor had talked to Ron in the waiting room. The growth on my prostate appears to be benign, and I'll have results in about two weeks. Ron looked relieved to see me, and I was certainly happy to see him. We headed off to Silver Diner so that I could get some food in my stomach.

I had to go pee at the Silver Diner. I apologize to any who followed me, because although I did try to clean everything up, it did kind of look like an ax murder had taken place. I bled all over the front of my jeans, but that's what washing machines are for. I'm glad to be home, typing this.

Saturday

This is going to be a very busy day. I've been up since 6:30 this morning, just getting going. I had to make some updates on the square dance web site pages, I took care of some email with assorted friends, and I'm gettng ready to go to a square dance workshop with Tim. Well, it keeps me busy, and reasonably out of trouble. This evening, the boys are taking me out to dinner at Old Europe for my birthday, and I know I'm going to enjoy that. Heavy German food - ummm!

My brother, Steve, sent me a touching, humor-filled email. I'm truly grateful that I was able to visit Steve and Lesley, and I'll be returning soon. I'm also happy to be back home in Wheaton, with my friends and my routine. I haven't made it back to the gym, yet, but maybe I can work it into today's schedule. Well, here's hoping.

Working Out

I drag my sorry ass to the gym three or four times a week. Today was one of those days. No, I don't lift 358 lbs or anything like that. I use the cross-trainer for 35 minutes, then stretch for another 15 minutes or so. Then I come home.

Going to the gym is not my favorite activity, not even close, but I go there to burn calories. The more I burn, the more I can eat, at least that's the bargain I've made with myself. In that half hour on the cross trainer, I can burn more than 500 calories, which is slightly less than one Big Mac®. I'm not necessarily doing this so that I can eat Big Macs, but that particular sandwich is very easy to visualize as I pedal away.

During the stretching afterwards, I go to a room that's used for classes. It doesn't have any equipment, and usually other people are stretching or doing other kinds of workouts, there. Today, a woman who is carrying perhaps an extra 30 (or 40) lbs was doing some rather vigorous belly dancing. I had a very difficult time not watching her simply out of fascinated horror. On the other hand, she's dancing her way to a smaller self. I could not bring myself to dance in front of a mirror that extends from floor to ceiling for the length of the whole wall. I do lack chutzpah from time to time, regardless of what my friends think.

Also present in the room were two very cute Hispanic or Asian guys. What caught my eye (other than the cuteness factor) is that they were sharing the same mat. The mats are not large, and these guys had placed the mat sideways, and were doing crunches or stretching, whatever, and you could not have slipped a butter knife between them. Nobody wanted to share my mat with me.

The stretching area is also interesting because it's full of ritual. That is, people are exercising to their own inner personal trainer. Some people look exotic, some look exhausted, and some look like exorcists. They're often zoned out, and not at all self-conscious about what they look like or what they are doing. This is the zen room at the gym.

Of course, it all ends up in the locker room. I'm wearing a jockstrap again, not for any support, I just like the feel of it; consider it Happy's little secret fetish. Some guys are very careful not to show anyone else anything while undressing or dressing. Others strut boldly (and perhaps shouldn't) birthday-suited throughout the environs. I try to strike a middle position. I quickly undress, then wrap myself in my towel to go for a shower. The ones I haven't figured out yet are the guys who take showers with their clothes on. Many guys will wear their shorts to the showers to undress, but I've actually seen more than one guy soaping himself underneath his waistband, or even soaping the short, itself. I'm amazed.

What Do Retired People Do?

I'm still trying to figure this out. I'm puzzled, I usually don't feel that I've accomplished that much by the end of the day, but I certainly have been busy! I wonder how I managed to hold down a job for 30 years and still get things done. I'm not sure how I did it.

I'm easing into a nice schedule. I get up and read for an hour or so. I love the luxury of reading! Sometimes it's the paper. Other days, I read the Economist or some other magazine. Sometimes, I just pick up a pulpy novel and dive in. What a wonder.

I try to write in one of my blogs each day. That's been a challenge, but I've really enjoyed that, too. I also spend time talking with friends on the phone, writing emails, and sometimes, doing nothing at all. That's also a new luxury. Of course, I'm back at the gym (want to know more about Ballys' customer relations?), cooking more and enjoying it more, and trying to get back to those two software programs that I want to write, sometime before I expire....

Another slice of my time is spent with my friends. I delight in their company, and they always bring a warm smile to my lips, even on these cold winter days. Whether it's cooking dinner, square dancing, walking in the neighborhood, politics, interior decorating, breakfast out, or sex, these guys bring an incredible joy to my life. I love them dearly. Ron, Perry, Tim you boys make me whole.

Chiropracty

So now, I'm going to a chiropractor. My first visit was yesterday, and I have another appointment tomorrow. I have never had adjustments, or maybe the chiropractor I went to in the past didn't believe in physicality.

My chiropractor's middle initial is probably "B" for bonecrusher. I've never heard so many popping noises before in my life. My body has never been bent, then crushed that way before, not that I'm complaining, or anything.

I woke up this morning with some new aches and pains, but went to the gym for a regular workout. I think I'm ready for the next "adjustment." The adjustment feels weird, but if it gets results, that's what I'm going for. Here's hoping.

Gym as Spiritual Experience

Today at the gym, I was stretching in the room where exercise classes are held. Nobody was in there except me, until a guy came in talking on his cell phone. It really irked me. I like stretching after my (so-called) workout. I like getting into my head, closing off everything else, and just being there, and this guy is talking loudly on his phone, and I'm really letting it bother me.

Should I go over and tell him to shut up? Should I ask him to leave? Should I start talking crazily loud and just a little bit threatening? Should I go over and seize his cell phone and heave it across the room with all of my gym-enhanced strength?

I did none of these things. I'm amazed and a little troubled what my mind can devise when I'm irritated. I hope it's just a defense mechanism that defuses my aggression and nothing more. I don't even know this guy, and maybe he really has to make a phone call, although I wish he'd do it somewhere else where it wasn't interrupting my concentration.

His one-sided conversation was distracting. The more I consciously tried to ignore it, the louder and clearer his words became. I'm sitting, twisting, stretching, lifting, stewing, seething. I must have been a very pretty sight.