Lost and found
Yesterday, for Labor Day, since the nanny was here, we took the day off and went with our out-of-town friends to tour the 9th Ward and then over to the Country Club in the Bywater. The Country Club is where I held my 50th birthday party, which was a blast and just so happens these same friends had come in for that occasion as well.
Since this was Southern Decadence weekend and the Country Club is a gay, clothing optional resort complete with restaurant and sauna and pool, the place was packed – every lounge chair taken and an overwhelming smell of Coppertone and body heat wafted through the air.
One of the issues about being in a same sex relationship as a woman is dealing with the ever spiraling up and down of emotions whether emotional baggage, emotional dissonance, emota-speak, emotional this and that. There really is no pause that occurs as between a man and a woman, where the woman’s ever increasing need for emotional connectedness and communication gets stymied by man’s ever increasing need to distract himself from weighty emotional matters.
However, the curiousness of men who are with men is that you rarely broach emotions at all, almost as if the entire discourse is hell bent on skirting any hint of emotional innuendo. Or maybe so it seems. In a 72-hour period, I am no closer to learning the emotional state of any of the six male friends I have been around than I would be with the fish in the bayou. Had these been six women, forgetaboutit, I wouldn’t have even needed six minutes to know how everyone was feeling and why.
The narrative of the weekend could have gone like this:
LOST AND FOUND: Time passes, we age. W, 22, woke feeling on top of his game. D, 47, woke thinking otherwise. The sun came out in the morning and disappeared behind greyness. A pricey pair of sunglasses were lost and reappeared. Blekica went missing. No one panicked. She was found.
