(I Think) He's GAY?!?!

Once upon a time there was a man - we'll call him, uh . . . ADDhole. ADDhole found the woman he desired above all others. She hated ADDhole. ADDhole was relentless and after six months of tormenting the pinnacle of mortal beings, she weakend, courted, and married ADDhole. ADDhole succeeded in achieving none of the goals he and the feminine ideal purposed together except for the arrival of their children. Storms brewed, winds howled, money flew out the window and the perfect woman returned to her senses (although in a heightened state of duress) and once again hated ADDhole. Well, despised him, actually. They sought counseling. She tried to persuade mental health professionals that ADDhole was entirely unstable and to blame. Counselors and doctors were completely comfortable with agreeing with the faultless one until closer inspection revealed all sorts of flaws in her wonderfulness. It was noted that ADDhole - though not exactly anyone's candidate for Man of the Year - was nonetheless very much in touch with the realities of all circumstances and actually demonstrated a more , uh . . . rational comprehension and understanding of the dynamics at work. Her Grace was inconsolable at such foolishness and divorced ADDhole. Consequences of this action culminated in her leaving the country with the children while IRS cronies and mortgage companies picked clean the carcass of their former life.

ADDhole had presumptuously jumped through many hoops in the final months of the marriage to appease the well-hidden gentle spirit of his wife. When he arrived home to an empty house and an envelope which valued the sale of all of his earthly possessions at approximately $160.00, ADDhole needed to find a place to live and a rock to crawl under. Balling up in a fetal position would have to be delayed, indefinitely.

Unfortunately, but extremely providentially, a fellow traveler and reliable friend had experienced his own wedded dismiss roughly six months prior to mine, er . . . ADDhole's. He allowed ADDhole to move in on a temporary basis and it proved to be a cathartic sort of recovery program. I am happy to report that friend retained most of his sanity, all of his property, his career and at least regular visitation with his children. I will not say he suffered any less than ADDhole. It was evident he went through a tremendously dark season. He will soon be married and I will cheer when it happens. He is a lot more cheery because ADDhole recently moved out of this "temporary" situation. (It might have been awkward after the wedding - you know - just the three of us.) But all of that was just introduction into the gist of this posting.

While living at my friend's house we were on very different schedules through all of the various fluctuating goings-on. We did see a couple games on TV and went to get a meal or see a movie but pretty much one would be leaving and the other arriving. The awkwardness was the awareness - like the feeling you are being watched - that just what our relationship might be was under public scrutiny. A restaurant or movie theater are expressly understood to be the domain of families or . . . [gulp] couples. So, it's one thing if a couple high school age dorks or college frat boys hang out but when you're a forty-something geek - well . . .

Here's the scenario:

• Two adult men share a house and mutually look after the pets. [Yikes!?]

• These guys are seldom seen together but when they are both at home - they never come out and no one but other men go in. [Double Yikes]

• The only neighbors who have any regular contact are an older woman; on the one side of their home, and another adult, single male on the other side.

• The only more suspicious and highly interesting house in the neighborhood belongs to what appears to be multiple families, of Middle Eastern descent - who also are never seen in public and have four or five satellite dishes on their roof!
  

As a point of clarity, in deference to my friend's reputation, his (as I often like to remind him) is a full life. He was always involved in something sociable and there were real, live women at those functions. He played several league, team sports at his place of employment and began dating.

On the other hand, I had resigned myself to celibacy and a self-imposed exile from the company of women. I am certain people looked at me as if there were a sign around my neck declaring, "Freight Elevator - lots of baggage; going DOWN." This wouldn't stop the passerby from wondering if at least something about us didn't "look gay." I don't fit the standards or the dress code for the gay qualification and my friend certainly doesn't, either. But, when has that stopped anyone? It hung in the air like a . . uh, . . . like a rainbow (?!)

So, where is this all going? Well, I'm not feeling in someway threatened by the perception I might be gay. The difficulty is this is one of those arenas where if you try to correct a rumor you confirm a lie. Meanwhile, ignoring being categorized in any way only leaves you wide open to further speculation, hearsay, and prejudices whereby people judge you and relegate you to a convenient (for them) cubbyhole. I have enough difficulty finding anyone willing to evaluate me individually and honestly as it is. There is a uniform and job description for every "type" of person on earth. No one is so easily defined. But that's a rant on my soapbox for another time. My current rant is that Women like very much to gather all of their evidence and observations and define who everyone is - or should be. No topic is off limits among the sisterhood. Then, despite the affected aire that they are inclusive and hold an open invitation for you to "be yourself . . ." Oh, Please.

The fun in all of this is the non-verbal assault always being waged to measure up as a man. (I hear the chortles from the inadvertent double-entendre - but that is a part of where I'm going with this.) As the sentry, of all things holy and decent and honorable in this world, men live by a predominantly unspoken code of behavior. (Any woman reading this should resist your genetic urge to roll your eyes.) There are deliberate, tribally recognized methodologies for EVERYTHING. There are certain ways to stand, sit, lean, sleep, eat, drink and so on.

Scratching oneself in public is not a sanctioned practice - it just can't be entirely avoided.

There are no acceptable circumstances for a whole host of activities in which women enjoy trying to engage men. Any admission to participating in a whole other series of "questionable" activities is also forbidden. And, how CAN a man be expected to carry a purse - even like a football?!? Come On! Certain verbiage has no natural translation in the male brain. Men want to be the masters of efficiency and economy. Any additional language, suggestions, or attention seeking devices complicate what is supposed to be the model of simplicity. You've heard the expression,"Bang for the buck?" That's not a suggestion. So, what need is there for words like "chartreuse," "burnt umber," and other hormonal expositions such as "vermilion,' or "August sunset?" The notion of a "palette" only makes sense if it's slapped together out of wood to support the weight of stacked objects. We don't want to index the incalculable "warmth" of a color.

I would be exaggerating if it weren't for the tangible perception the above conversation mirrors -" But, GAY men are supposed to know all of those things." Really?

So where does that put someone like me who is most definitely a knuckle-dragging male but who also has a highly developed aesthetic eye? I have unusually developed language skills ("for a guy"). I can dress, not only myself, but have a portfolio of successfully dressing women AND not only can I build a house but I can decorate it. I will tell you where it puts me - nowhere. Because women say one thing and do everything contrary to whatever comes out of their mouth. They don't want a man that is a complimentary component replacement for their girlfriend. And even more revealing is that women want equality as long as it is a one-way proposition. They want to gain whatever it is that they believe they are being denied but deny and refuse to relinquish anything they imagine makes them "feminine."

A perfect example of this is wedding preparation. I love to watch the frenzy of activities where the man is handed a list of assigned tasks and must report back regularly on his progress despite never going without be monitored by the bridal posse. Because I have an artistic eye I very much wanted a say in every aspect of the plans and preparation for my own wedding. My fiance' really did her best to include me but it was noticeable that my involvement wrinkled her already worried brow. Other women were far less than subtle about their disapproval at my presence. Their was a palpable sense of hatred towards me at one of the florist shops. The words, "What's he doing here?" were actually mumbled under the clerk's breath; through grit teeth.

My mother observed that I had violated the domain of women - the planning and preparation of a wedding. She informed me that I needed to understand a groom is the Ken doll - not an action figure, like G.I. Joe. I was literally in No-Mans Land.

And, so it would seem, I still am. The danger in listening to women and actually trying to comply with the desires they voice is that the nearer you approach achieving your goal the further it repels you from them. I lost a marriage that way. I've lost a lot that way. The real truth to take away from this is that although men naturally fall into the trap to model themselves on external influences they need to build from within. No other man has the answers for him. Why, then, we implicitly trust women to know more is ridiculous. I'm not offended that a woman doesn't ask me how to be a better woman. I generally like women pretty much how they come before all the game playing and scheming starts. I'm looking for the same chance.

So, maybe I'm doomed and my reputation that I might be gay will stick whether I protest or not.

I do like the theater. I have cried for things other than acceptable male practices such as at sporting events or the death of a dog - so who knows?

I've even tapped my feet while listening to Dead or Alive tunes . . . just never while in the stalls of a public Men's room . . .