THAT DAY

Let's see. All you need to know is, I was miserable that day. Well, all month. I'd been nastily rejected by someone I'd stupidly loved. Stupidly: she clearly needed a friend and therapist, NOT a lover.

I was glum, sick, still obsessed with her, either mad at or scared of anyone ELSE attractive, and assumed I was repulsive. She'd said so, after all, and she was still God.

I didn't go out much.

Then I got TWO invitations to parties, unfortunately for the same night. One from Aurora, who I work with. It'd be big, raucous, with a lot of strangers, not necessarily the brightest bunch but a fair number of women I didn't know. The other, from my friend Mark, with a smaller group, smart and fun and supportive--but probably no potential dates for me to agonize over. I said to myself "You were crying this morning. Baby steps!" I went to Mark's. It was okay.

One baby step without falling.

THAT NIGHT

I've been nominated for an famous pageant or ritual. I'm assigned my swimsuit, high heels, fishnet stockings and... tea whisks? Yes, it's the Miss World Tea-Ceremony Swimsuit Pageant!

I feel honored--I was the only man chosen. The first. Another blow for gender equality!

So I dress in drag and try to carry all the ritual tea thingies on stage... and can't handle them. Just too many, in my wobbly heels. Well... maybe I could carry them all, but I'd look awkward, and elegance IS the point, darling!

What to do? Teeter for a moment, then... oh hell, I give up, drop all my things, and let myself go--fall loosely, rather than fight it and hit hard.

And then I cry. Cry and cry. Tears stripe my pancake face, spoil my new long lashes!

And you know what? They reward my fall! Those gorgeous girls--babes every one--all huddle round me, pick me up, stroke me, and coo "Poor baby! Those fucking heels are hard, aren't they!"

Rewarding me for crying?

For incompetence?

Worse. For giving up BEFORE I'd even tried.

And then I wake--feeling all warm and smug and cozy, from all the strokes and coos and kisses I got from those sweeties, those beauty queens with hearts of gold.

So why do I feel funny?

It's subtle. I can't quite put my finger on it, but I have this completely irrational feeling that something, some detail about my coping strategy in life, might just be less than healthy...

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