This morning I asked Lynn if
she could remember the name of the gay guy we’d met on a plane and subsequently
tried to befriend—because we thought such a relationship would add to our
social diversity, be fun, and make us feel cooler about ourselves. The plan
went dreadfully awry when we visited him at his Northern Virginia condo and
found him to be terrestrially uninteresting. I’m not sure what we were
expecting, but it was definitely something gayer and more exotic than what we
found. We all sat around talking about boring crap that I can’t remember
anymore. He gave us a tour of his place, which was not diverse at all, looking
like approximately 500 other condos in that particular development.
To be fair, I’m sure Lynn and
I were way more interesting on the plane, when we were garrulous and heady with
excitement at the prospect of having a gay friend, than we were in Northern Virginia,
where our disillusionment no doubt made us listless and dull conversationalists.
By the time shortly thereafter when that acquaintanceship ran its course, it
wasn’t as if Plane Guy was begging us for another shot, sobbing that he’d display
at least 50% more homosexuality the next time if only we’d give him another
chance.
To the contrary, I’m sure he
was thinking, “Am I just imagining
that those two dullards were a hoot on the plane?”
So, this morning Lynn told me
his name had been Alfred. That didn’t sound right to me. More ethnic, I seemed
to recall. “Alfredo?” she ventured. Yes! I’m pretty sure yes, anyway. And that
might have been part of the lure—that we’d have not just a gay friend, but one
whose first name suggested creamy deliciousness. Not that we personally wanted
to get creamily delicious with him, you understand.
Anyway, the reason I’d asked
Lynn his name is because something happened a few days ago that was tied to this
whole straight-people-craving-gay-mascots thing, which is awful and embarrassing
and smacks of bad sitcom plots, but which I’m owning up to it right here and
now.
There’s this woman with whom
I became acquainted through my job, because she wrote a very engaging book about
her work as a physical therapist, and I asked her to write an essay about those
experiences for the physical therapy-themed magazine for which I’m a
writer/editor. She lives in the DC area. I’m being purposely vague with these
details because of the embarrassment referenced above. While it’s unlikely she ever would read this post, and while I’m
sure that the few regular readers of this blog who know some of the story
already wouldn’t blab to her, you never know who could just happen to stumble
upon Lassitude Come Home and expose my heterosexual foolishness in some
frighteningly viral way.
The PT—that’s what physical therapists
tend to call themselves, although apparently in Delaware in the 1970s it meant “prick
tease,” per my loyal reader NY Friend—and I exchanged several friendly emails
during the essay-writing process. She did a great job on the piece, for which
she received no pay, but it did alert the 90,000-plus members of the American
Physical Therapy Association to the fact that she has a book available for sale.
Although the book touches in
only a minor way on the author’s sexuality, the fact that she’s gay does come
out, if you’ll pardon the expression. And this, of course, intrigued me. It
wasn’t the only thing that interested
me about the author—I admired her work as a PT, and her ability to write so
interestingly and often humorously about it—but there also was that gay-friend
itch of mine that longed to be scratched. (An image that perhaps sends a sexually
ambiguous message, but you know what I mean.)
Sure, the whole Alfredo thing,
all those years ago, had ended with a whimper, not a bang. But that situation had
been a three-way with a guy, while this would be one-one-one with a dyke, and …
oh my God, enough with the double entrendres! Suffice it to say, I had reasons
to think this relationship could work. Both of us write, after all. Our senses
of humor jibed well over email. She digs women. Me, too! Et cetera.
So, I proposed that we meet
in person. She was game. We met for lunch in Bethesda on one of my Fridays off.
But everything was off from the get-go. The conversation was strained from
beginning to end. I think we both were trying too hard. She wanted to impress
this editor guy who gives good email, and I wanted to impress this PT, book
author, and aficionado of same-sex-intercourse. Our jokes fell flat. Every inquiry seemed to yield a brief, inarticulate answer. Our parting “Let’s do this again”
rang hollow.
Still, we did do it again.
The next time was at a bar off the Maryland Beltway, nearer to where she lives
with her partner, who’d become her wife since that lunch meeting in Bethesda. We talked about work,
family (they have two kids), her love of swimming and her swim team, my running
and my 50-states list. I think we both assumed that alcohol would liven things
up and increase the comfort level. It didn’t work. Again, I don’t quite know
what I’d expected. Ellen DeGeneres, maybe?
Not surprisingly, there was zero
contact between us for a few months after that. But then, a few days ago, I was
driving to work, listening to the debut CD by this Australian singer-songwriter
named Courtney Barnett. The recording had made a few year’s best lists, so I’d decided
to check it out. She can really rock, and her lyrics cleverly embrace life’s
mundanities. (The CD’s title says it all: Sometimes
I Sit and Think, and Sometimes I Just Sit.) There’s one song that made me think
of the PT the very first time I heard it, because it’s set at a pool and
involves swimming.
Then I read a short feature
in Rolling Stone about Courtney
Barnett, and learned, among other things, that she’s gay. Nothing in her lyrics
had tipped me off, although, as it turned out, I’d missed something. I’m not
always quick on the uptake when it comes to song meanings, but the swimming-pool
song clearly is about how the singer has an unrequited crush on another person at the pool. Another swimmer who—I realized the next time I listened, driving
to work that morning—is also a woman! The song is about a girl-on-girl crush!
This was the revelation I had
during my morning commute—that this tune involves both swimming and lesbianism,
and that I must, as soon as I got to the office, link the PT to a YouTube video
of the song being performed, cut and paste the lyrics, and present it all in an
email that would be much funnier than I had been in either of our face-to-face
meetings.
With great excitement, I sent
the email. Less than 10 minutes later, the PT responded.
“I LOVE IT! (I just posted it on my swim team’s Face book
page.) Thanks for making me look cool and hip. And that CD title just makes me laugh.”
There was a bit more to the
message, but those were the lines that mattered.
I’d done it! I’d had a
genuine bonding moment with a Person of Gayness! I’d even come across,
improbably enough, as someone who conversant in what’s “cool and hip”!
She asked me what I’d been up
to, but she pointedly did not suggest
that we get together.
You can bet that I didn’t
bring it up, either, when I responded.
It was perfect.
