At the gym I peruse men, sizing up their potential while wondering if they would be all that I imagine them to be. From experience I have learned the fantasy is usually better than the reality. At one of my favorite restaurants in New Haven is a beautiful waiter, Juno. I long to exchange phone numbers and conversation with him and ensure when making a reservation he is working that evening. In the grocery store as I pass a man I wonder, “Is he gay? Would he have an interest in me?” Even at work some of the men who enter the door appear to have potential. But you know the old saying, “Don’t shit where you eat.”
“Bachelor One, if you could have one night with Keith what would you do?”
“Bachelor Two, what would it take to ask Keith out on a date and how would you go about doing it?”
“Bachelor Three, if you could change one thing on your body to entice Keith, what would it be?”
Somehow, and I’m not sure why, the answers never seem to arrive in the proper form. In my solitude there have been many lessons learned but one thing shouts from the highest peak-- I am a man and have needs. It’s no secret that Keith, and Tiger Woods, share a common denominator. Seriously, it would have been nice to get comfortable with someone and begin a relationship. Well intentioned friends have set me up on a few dates but none proved to be what I’d hoped for. Having not dated in fourteen years the prospect did not enthrall me.
I remember one night that I was feeling particularly good about my looks. After a great workout at the gym, and a luscious shave and shower, it was time to rally my courage and have a night out on the town. Slipping into my jeans and a tight little tee I felt confident. I adorned my wrist with a touch of leather and was ready to head out to the heart of New Haven to see what may be on the horizon.
With the window of my car open the summer breeze billowed through my hair. Luckily it had been cropped short enough so the wind did no damage. The warm sensation of the evening combined with the touch of coolness of the air was an aphrodisiac. Madonna’s voice, in a sultry tone, guided the car along the streets as I lost myself in her lyrics. I approached the neighborhood which twenty years ago had once been my domain.
The scores of cars parked curbside indicated the town and the bars were hopping. Searching for a parking space, I was pleased to find a spot equidistant between two “hot spots”. Suddenly the music from “The Dating Game” seemed to overtake Madonna with it’s trumpet like tones. Opening the door of the car I became crippled. A quick glance in the mirror was needed for validation. Was this indeed the right thing to do? Staring back was a frightened deer in the headlights. Within a moment I was behind the wheel heading for home realizing I was not ready to take the plunge.
Though the soft breeze was still enveloping me my needs had changed. I was looking for something that would not be found in the bars. I was looking for friendship on a higher level than a night in the bedroom. I was looking for healing from the end of my relationship and realized that until such a healing occurs there is nothing I want from the bar scene.
As I lay in bed I berate myself. You fool. Have you no backbone? Am I simply a forty something year old loser who is afraid of his own shadow? In the morning, as the sun rose and peered affectionately through my bedroom window a new understanding was in my view. No, I am not a fool. I had begun the process of divorcing myself from my former relationship and needed every fiber of my being to come to terms with that revelation.
Shortly thereafter I had the distinct honor of dating someone I’d known for years-- myself. I was not actually on a date with myself but with someone who I had been introduced to on a blind date. As we sat across from one another I listened as he spewed a stream of neuroses. I was looking across the table at my own reflection and what I saw was not enticing.
The image was one of a hypochondriac tinged with desperation in his voice. He had a plethora of excuses for why his life was not as he’d hoped. He blamed his mother for making him anxiety riddled. “She made me this way.” Though ridiculously wealthy and successful he blamed his ex- wife for his current financial status. “My wife is being a bitch, she’s killing me financially.” And he blamed the salad he had just ordered because it was going to ruin our date. “This salad is going to run right through me”. I wanted to get up and run. If I could have shed my skin I would have run from myself as well.
It takes time. My time would come and eventually I'd change my perspective. At least that was the plan. If I could have looked into the future I’d have seen that I could meet someone new, perhaps by chance or through a friend. Isn't the prospect exciting? The key is to be certain that it is the person I want to share my life with. I don’t need wealth nor do I need complete and all encompassing companionship. I simply need someone who will understand me and I them.
Growing together need not be asphyxiating. In my years of solitude I discovered that it is wonderful to come home and reflect on Keith. The real Keith. The deep and intricate and yes, sometimes neurotic Keith. The "ball breaking Keith. Some of my best writing has occurred because of that solitude. Timing is everything and I can rise to the occasion. The the all too familiar music from “The Dating Game” may have played on as I interviewed bachelors one, two and three. For the time being l simply date the bachelor best suited to someone in my position-- “Bachelor Me”.
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