The Valentine's Day Lush

I have become the designated fill-in employee at my restaurant.  Trained and available for every position, on-call to accommodate any and all staffing needs; today, on this crisp February evening, I was a host and I was dressed to impress.

Now, between moving-in back home, my philosophical fitness plan and all these blogging reflections to boot, my focus of late has been admittedly a little self-centric.  However, after five-hours of "Table for two? Table for two? Table for two?" as a party of one I found myself having some reservations of my own.  Work is over yet here I am, another year single, sitting on the couch I slept on last night, watching The Bachelor with my mother.

Why yes, mom, I think I will have that glass of wine.  No, no...  Leave the bottle.

Part of my job tonight was to make sure every woman received a rose with their table's check.  The idea was that this tiny floral token of appreciation would give our female guests a taste of chivalry while simultaneously helping their male counterparts bring on the romance.  It was a kitschy little gimmick on behalf of the management, but a nice gesture nonetheless, and for 99% of the patrons in this small conservative town these roses went off without a hitch.  Girls giggled, boys paid the bill and servers' tips went up exponentially.  There was one couple, however, that threw us a curveball.

Table 51, no reservation, both late 30s, early 40s.  He wore a leather jacket; his partner, a black sweater.  The main dining room was too frilly.  They wanted to be put in the bar so they could watch the game.  There they were, just two regular guys out to a casual candlelit dinner, celebrating their relationship on a Valentine night.

...So who gets the rose?

Their server wasn't sure and neither was our manager.  Some suggestions from the staff included: "What does a dude want with a flower," "Split it down the middle," and, "Go over and ask which one's the bottom" (That last one came from our manager who is, coincidentally, an open homosexual himself).  We ended up giving them both roses in the holiday spirit and they smiled upon receipt.  They were either totally unaware of the amusement taken at their expense or possibly they knew exactly what was being said behind their backs and smiled anyway.  I never did ask and I never will know, but I wish I did.

The unfortunate acceptability of it all hits hard.  Their date night was as normal to me as the idea of falling in love, but in the question of sex and sexuality it's sadly not that simple. I am a gay man.  There goes the band aid.  Was anybody on the fence about that?

This hasn't come up yet and I'm sorry for it.  Until now, I'd never seen it as relevant to the subject at hand and, frankly, I didn't want my writing to be judged based on my sexual preference.  Also, I've never really been "out" in the home town I'm blogging to you from and regrettably my instinct here is to sound a retreat back into the closet.  So here's the story:

I've known what I was since my first wet dream.  Eleven years old, it was a man, I woke up in a sticky sweat and something didn't compute.  I cried all night and spent the next three years trying to fix it.

By high school I knew what I was but an all-boys preparatory school was hardly an ideal environment to be what I was.  There was exactly one out kid in my entire school and he was tormented to the point where I actually couldn't look anymore.  I am not Chris Colfer, I am not Neil Patrick Harris, I am the coward who stayed in the closet until graduation.

I came out my freshmen year of college to everyone who was important to me and have been out ever since.  That is, my family knows and my closest friends know, but other than that I pride myself in my ability to "blend."  I don't wear tight jeans or make-up, I hate Glee and the phrase "lol," my wrists are firm, my voice is deep, my gait is wide and my interests are varied.  Whenever a girl has a crush on me or someone swears, "they had no idea!" I take it as the highest compliment.  I don't feel gay in the way most gays are regarded, which is to say I don't feel like less of a man for liking men.  However, in my experience as a gay man, once people know you're a gay it becomes decidedly more difficult to just be a guy.

Your friends stop wanting to be around you and your teammates feel uncomfortable getting undressed in front of you.  They think you want to fuck 'em.  They unintentionally un-include you from any conversations regarding sex or women because they think you'd have nothing to say.  You find yourself separated; you find yourself emasculated; and so you become "one of the girls."

At a fundamental level, "the closet" is a term about emotional maintenance.  When you find yourself in an unfriendly environment (like conservative middle America, an all-boys, Catholic high school or a homophobic restaurant) feeling sad, or angry, or attracted to the same sex, it becomes unsafe to express your emotions.  Any sign of difference is punishable by marginalization; and so we shove our feelings into the darkest corner of our minds, portraying the illusion of tidiness while holding back an avalanche of mess right behind the door.  We want to burst but instead we smile quietly.

I'm in the closet at work, I've been in the closet on this blog, both have been absolutely excruciating and I can't believe it took a lonely Valentine's Day to finally make it relevant.  Regardless, it's out there now; I'm out there now and you can do with it what you will.  I don't actually care as it doesn't matter in the long run.  I'll still be back tomorrow and I'll do the best I can.

I'm drunk.  Do you blame me?

Mondays have become shoulder/light chest day.  Tomorrow's Legs and Core.

Day 16.  Thanks for reading.  See you tomorrow.