Broke Foot Lover

Love, soft as an easy chair… Is how the song goes. I will need to change the words. My own passionate romance pitched into a heated tryst. Or was it twist? All the same it was spontaneous, sexy and fantastic. That is until we heard the audible snap of my fifth metatarsal. Thus, I’m writing the songs, Broke foot Lover, I broke my foot in a pose of passion and Nothing says love like a broken bone.
Getting the foot broken was the fun part. Fixing it remains less sensual. Neither of us dared to think it was broken until the next day when I couldn’t walk. One X-ray later and the truth was told, broken. “How did this happen?” my doctor asked. “I was doing Pilates.” I said “With my ‘friend’.” The nurse may have guessed the truth. I’m sure I saw her giggle.
We elected to celebrate our Olympic gold metal winning escapade with a fancy lunch and champagne. After all how often do you get to break a foot and still nail the landing? We toasted our romance and my health insurance. I did not get the pain killers; I’ve opted for the red wine pain management program. Not covered by health insurance.
The specialist has me in an ‘Air boot’. For four weeks. No yoga, Pilates or dancing. He said “You can wear this or we can put a screw in the bone to secure it.” I’ll take the boot for $600 please! I’m sure this thing will be the most expensive shoe I’ll ever own. And it’s just one.
Special pairs are the stuff of legend and lore. Famous lovers have fought wars, killed families and died for love. I have no such drama as testimony to mine. I do have some one that makes breaking a foot romantic and still turns me on enough to try it again. That is love. And if history never tells it, I just did.
Love dangerously, fearlessly and endlessly with your heart. Keep your feet in steel toed work boots. Love well; carefully, but well.

Spice Fags

It does not matter how many twenty-ninth birthdays I celebrate, I am getting older. Despite my efforts not to grow up, I keep doing grown up stuff. Finding yourself home on Saturday night playing Scrabble with friends in front of the fire is lovely, but shockingly grown up.
Two weeks ago, I attended a party. Among the guests was a group of young boys we called the “Spice Fags.” Each had a well-defined haircut and style of dress to establish their character within the group. “Bangs” is in hair school and is changing the world one head of hair at a time. “Urban Mane” had his blond hair swooped over his pretty face, wore a white belt around his tiny waist, and carried an urban satchel to the party. “Sporty” was wearing the very jacket Angie and I had seen earlier that week. We loved it, but, questioned if it might be too youthful for me. Like it or not we are at that age when you are no longer Brittney Spears and not yet Madonna.
I stood with the boys and laughed, waiting to interject. I was making up names for all six in my mind. I got to number five when “Butch Barbie” asked, “Why are we all standing out here?” “This is a good place to pose, the lighting is good here,” I said before I realized it. “Ascot” looked like I sneezed bird-flu-virus on his Prada wallet. “Urban Mane” spun around on his Ferragamo shoe and said, “Let’s move,” and walked away.
None of them laughed. Tough crowd I thought. I wondered if any of them had seen ‘All about Eve’ because I suddenly felt like Margot. “So young and so fair,” I said to my friend later. It was not that long ago we were their age. I do not remember acting like that at parties. Is being friendly old fashioned? If so, color me black and white, like a timeless, classic film.
Even at the risk of showing my age I will continue being amiable at parties. It may not be vogue, but, it does make this growing up and getting older process more pleasant. So does being home on Saturday night with friends that adore me, playing Scrabble, drinking decaf, not smoking, wearing that new jacket I look fabulous in.
No pants, just the jacket.

All I want for Christmas

This has been my second holiday season while self employed. Most of my time is spent doing something I enjoy or love to do. Some weeks I’m a waiter. The truth of this was put into light when I was offered a career with a large company. The paid benefits and vacation was alluring. The cost was eleven hour days. It seemed like it would suck the fun out of the holidays.
Instead I went to Chicago for Thanksgiving. Barkley and I cooked a beautiful turkey to share with friends. Over dinner we created the word, homosexuallogical. That weekend we drove to Trevor Wisconsin. I enjoyed the long romantic drive in the snow. In my head I was singing “There is no where else on earth that I would rather be…”
We arrived at the home of Tom and Anne-Berry. Our hosts told their story like a well honed vaudeville act. It gave me a new appreciation for being in love. Once at the Colony House for dinner Tom played familiar southern songs on a banjo as everyone sang along. His repertoire closed with My Old Kentucky Home.
Once over the river and through the woods to New York we were to go. We had tickets to “The Color Purple” on Broadway. The story moves me so much that I named my dog Shug. The critics say it’s a complicated story for a musical. Anything that reminds us to see God in something as simple as a color gets a huge bravo from me.
I was at my parent’s home for Christmas. My brother and I elected to go after much controversy. My parents have four sons two straight and two gay. Fifty percent of their children are gay and yet last year they let it slip that they are not comfortable with their fag-in-laws joining us for dinner. Ouch! Once said, it sat there like a Drag Queen at South East Christian Church. My brother and I have worked too hard in therapy to bring activism to our parent’s dinner table. Life is a complicated musical, but, forgiveness makes room in your heart for happier memories. If I had taken the company job it would have made my parents proud. I can only think of the memories I would not have made while at work these past holidays. I made the right choice about the job and giving my parents tickets to see Broke back Mountain for Christmas. It all seems homosexuallogical to me.