I am an outgoing person and able to put myself out there. With moving so much in the past few years, I have learned to take leaps of faith and try to meet new people.
Speaking of faith, I recently joined a great traditional faith community here in San Diego that also happens to have an LGBT group. Their next involvement was a potluck, so I signed up.
So, there I was. Walking up to host's apartment door with my slightly burnt Paleo Coconut Chicken, nervous and excited. My goal was to at least make some friends with the same desire to go out and party, affinity for fitness and being a beach stud, and of course attraction to men, all the while sharing the same moral code and faith. Did a part of me hope to meet my future husband, having a storybook wedding in the church we meet through? Of course.
Scene: Me. 26 years old. Holding my chicken. In a group of 25 other people. Next youngest person... easily in their 50's. No exaggeration.
It was my first time having a conversation with two gay men involving their recent hip replacements and how long the recovery process takes. I couldn't tell if they should be my friend or father figures.
Did I meet my future husband? No.
Did I figure out finally what causes older people to have that smell? No.
Did I meet some nice people though and accept the potluck for what it was? Yes.
I guess its back to the Grind(r).....
Monday, February 27, 2012
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
You're So Hot You Make Me Sweat
An office crush. We all have the them. Mine is this studly 6ft dark-haired early 30's man that sits in the office across from me. I always make a note to look into his office as I walk by. It's creepy, but it what I do. I have to entertain myself here somehow.
Its been two months and I have never talked to him, minus our one time head nodd to each other in the hall. (Yes, I lived for that moment.) I share an office so my desk faces the wall and my back to the door. I was working on a presentation this morning when I heard a knock on the doorframe. I turn around expecting one of my teammates.... and There. He. Is.
Now, clearly me being me, I immdiately go into panic mode. My guest of honor started talking to me and my office mate about how we seem so bored and monotone everytime he passes by. Conversation commenced, and I started laughing like a school girl at things that weren't even that funny. Then I made comments that really didn't fit the conversation. Then out of the blue my body goes into a hot flash. Its happening. The finale: my sweat attack. I can't help it, I sweat like a catholic priest in a kindergarten class everytime I get nervous. Now I am trying to dab the piling sweat off my forehead before I shined out like a damn lighthouse. It kept getting worse. I even did the whole "I'm scratching my head but dabbing the sweat" move. Of course this made my comments and laugher even more abnormal, in some form of a physical reaction to uncomfortableness. After about 10 minutes of conversation (which felt like an hour), he went back across the hall to his desk, leaving me feeling like I jumped in a pool.
All I can wonder now is if he will think of me of that sweaty guy that is awkward that sits across the hall. Not my best first impression.
Its been two months and I have never talked to him, minus our one time head nodd to each other in the hall. (Yes, I lived for that moment.) I share an office so my desk faces the wall and my back to the door. I was working on a presentation this morning when I heard a knock on the doorframe. I turn around expecting one of my teammates.... and There. He. Is.
Now, clearly me being me, I immdiately go into panic mode. My guest of honor started talking to me and my office mate about how we seem so bored and monotone everytime he passes by. Conversation commenced, and I started laughing like a school girl at things that weren't even that funny. Then I made comments that really didn't fit the conversation. Then out of the blue my body goes into a hot flash. Its happening. The finale: my sweat attack. I can't help it, I sweat like a catholic priest in a kindergarten class everytime I get nervous. Now I am trying to dab the piling sweat off my forehead before I shined out like a damn lighthouse. It kept getting worse. I even did the whole "I'm scratching my head but dabbing the sweat" move. Of course this made my comments and laugher even more abnormal, in some form of a physical reaction to uncomfortableness. After about 10 minutes of conversation (which felt like an hour), he went back across the hall to his desk, leaving me feeling like I jumped in a pool.
All I can wonder now is if he will think of me of that sweaty guy that is awkward that sits across the hall. Not my best first impression.
ER: Pronouced "Errrrrrrr this is scary."
Around 8:00 pm on a Sunday night a couple weeks ago, my roommate Amy took me to the ER for a bleeding issue. Nothing serious, but I needed an antibiotic and didn't have a PCP here yet.
It was my first time to the Scripps Hospital, but I had heard only good things. We were led down a hallway past all the normal curtained beds and into a walled off, door-locking room with only two beds. I tried not to think anything of it even though I felt quarantined. As we entered the room though Amy said, "It smells like a bird cage in here!", and I reply, "It reminds me of the zoo and the sick nastiness that lingers there."
There are only two beds in this room, and the one closest to the door was occupied, so they put me in the other behind a cloth curtain. We settle in, and we hear a doctor come in to talk to the other patient we passed when we walked into the room. There was a lot said, but the important lines from the other patient were, "Yeah, I am homeless. I have thoughts of suicide. I feel like I am going to hurt someone. I think the tobacco companies are after me. They are following me. All I need right now is a cigarette. I want a cigarette."
Awesome. Now, both Amy and I have realized we are locked up in a room with Crazypants and should he lose it while were were in there we would have to go through him to get to the door. As well, he definitely heard our "odor" comments, which we now had realized the smell was coming from him. Was I worried that I had offended Jack Crackpipe and that he would try to do a double murder suicide after our remarks? Damn straight! As the doctor left the room, I texted Amy that if we stood still and didn't make a noise hopefully he would forget we were on the other side of the curtain.
After fifteen minutes of pulling an Anne Frank by sitting in silence and fear, we were taken to another room to do some testing. We thought we were out of the woods, but we thought wrong. Outside my new room laying in a bed in the hall was a woman who started to take out all her IVs and scream at people and go on a rampage. Amy quickly looked at me saying, "I looked around the whole room, we have nothing in here to defend ourselves!" At that moment, it became clear no matter what room we was in, we were not safe while in that hospital ER. Luckily the Madhatter didn't come in our room, but she did ran away... where to no one was really sure.
We made it out alive about 20 minutes later. The lesson learned: sometimes you are safer NOT going to the ER than if you do go...
It was my first time to the Scripps Hospital, but I had heard only good things. We were led down a hallway past all the normal curtained beds and into a walled off, door-locking room with only two beds. I tried not to think anything of it even though I felt quarantined. As we entered the room though Amy said, "It smells like a bird cage in here!", and I reply, "It reminds me of the zoo and the sick nastiness that lingers there."
There are only two beds in this room, and the one closest to the door was occupied, so they put me in the other behind a cloth curtain. We settle in, and we hear a doctor come in to talk to the other patient we passed when we walked into the room. There was a lot said, but the important lines from the other patient were, "Yeah, I am homeless. I have thoughts of suicide. I feel like I am going to hurt someone. I think the tobacco companies are after me. They are following me. All I need right now is a cigarette. I want a cigarette."
Awesome. Now, both Amy and I have realized we are locked up in a room with Crazypants and should he lose it while were were in there we would have to go through him to get to the door. As well, he definitely heard our "odor" comments, which we now had realized the smell was coming from him. Was I worried that I had offended Jack Crackpipe and that he would try to do a double murder suicide after our remarks? Damn straight! As the doctor left the room, I texted Amy that if we stood still and didn't make a noise hopefully he would forget we were on the other side of the curtain.
After fifteen minutes of pulling an Anne Frank by sitting in silence and fear, we were taken to another room to do some testing. We thought we were out of the woods, but we thought wrong. Outside my new room laying in a bed in the hall was a woman who started to take out all her IVs and scream at people and go on a rampage. Amy quickly looked at me saying, "I looked around the whole room, we have nothing in here to defend ourselves!" At that moment, it became clear no matter what room we was in, we were not safe while in that hospital ER. Luckily the Madhatter didn't come in our room, but she did ran away... where to no one was really sure.
We made it out alive about 20 minutes later. The lesson learned: sometimes you are safer NOT going to the ER than if you do go...
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Row, Row, Row Your Erg
I enjoy my Crossfit morning workouts. Some classes though I do better than others...
The other morning our workout was rowing based. I did college rowing for a short stint, so I felt confident on this one. Before the actual workout though the coaches wanted to go over the mechanics of the rowing movement, so they had us sit on the ergs and asked us not to strap our feet in so we could feel the full movement.
We worked step by step and then combined all the technical movements needed for one stroke. To check our form, they ended the training portion by asking us each to do 10 full rowing strokes.
I had just completed my fourth stroke and was feeling like a champ from knowing the technique beforehand... and then as I did my 5th stroke, full leg explosion, my hands slipped off the handle. Now all of a sudden I am full force sliding backwards on the seat, hands flailing in the air. Seeing as my feet weren't strapped in, I keep flying backwards with my momentum. The seats gets all the way to the end of the rail and then launches me a solid 2-3 feet behind my erg like I was a cannon out of a rocket.
Luckily I was fine, only a bruised ego.
The other morning our workout was rowing based. I did college rowing for a short stint, so I felt confident on this one. Before the actual workout though the coaches wanted to go over the mechanics of the rowing movement, so they had us sit on the ergs and asked us not to strap our feet in so we could feel the full movement.
We worked step by step and then combined all the technical movements needed for one stroke. To check our form, they ended the training portion by asking us each to do 10 full rowing strokes.
I had just completed my fourth stroke and was feeling like a champ from knowing the technique beforehand... and then as I did my 5th stroke, full leg explosion, my hands slipped off the handle. Now all of a sudden I am full force sliding backwards on the seat, hands flailing in the air. Seeing as my feet weren't strapped in, I keep flying backwards with my momentum. The seats gets all the way to the end of the rail and then launches me a solid 2-3 feet behind my erg like I was a cannon out of a rocket.
Luckily I was fine, only a bruised ego.
Sunday Funday?
Sunday Funday = not so fun.
Two reasons:
1. Morning Recreational Kickball:
Yes, I am a gay dude that joined a straight kickball league. But there is drinking events before and after the games, so it can't be that serious, right? Wrong. It was my first game, and the team captain went from Captain Morgan at the bar to Captain Hook on the field. My horrible failed catches of two fly balls in the outfield didn't help me knock down the stereotype that gays are only good at the catching position. (Think about it.) I left the field defeated and realizing that mayyyybe I am coordination challenged.
2. Gay Holiday
The morning clearly sucked. Solution: have an awesome night to balance it all out. No luck with the straights, might as well join the gays for their President's Day Eve celebrations. Little did I know that I would be forced to do X Box Connect Dance Dance Revolution in front of everyone at the house party. I wanted a Pitbull song, my challenger demanded Born This Way; He got his way. Long story short: All the designated moves I had to perform could have been part of a Drag Queen Performance Manual. I looked like a short bus kid trying to do the Jitter Bug. The final score was 320 to 135. And in case you have doubt about which score was mine, yes, I lost.
In both situations, I was forced to perform an activity with a group of peers stereotypically known to do well at it. In stead of beating the odds, I just got beat.
I didn't realize Sunday Fundays could be so stressful!
Two reasons:
1. Morning Recreational Kickball:
Yes, I am a gay dude that joined a straight kickball league. But there is drinking events before and after the games, so it can't be that serious, right? Wrong. It was my first game, and the team captain went from Captain Morgan at the bar to Captain Hook on the field. My horrible failed catches of two fly balls in the outfield didn't help me knock down the stereotype that gays are only good at the catching position. (Think about it.) I left the field defeated and realizing that mayyyybe I am coordination challenged.
2. Gay Holiday
The morning clearly sucked. Solution: have an awesome night to balance it all out. No luck with the straights, might as well join the gays for their President's Day Eve celebrations. Little did I know that I would be forced to do X Box Connect Dance Dance Revolution in front of everyone at the house party. I wanted a Pitbull song, my challenger demanded Born This Way; He got his way. Long story short: All the designated moves I had to perform could have been part of a Drag Queen Performance Manual. I looked like a short bus kid trying to do the Jitter Bug. The final score was 320 to 135. And in case you have doubt about which score was mine, yes, I lost.
In both situations, I was forced to perform an activity with a group of peers stereotypically known to do well at it. In stead of beating the odds, I just got beat.
I didn't realize Sunday Fundays could be so stressful!
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