11:12

A few superstitions have stuck with me since my childhood. I still avoid cracks in the sidewalk. I still say the alphabet as I twist the stem off of an apple (typically, hoping for a particular letter). I still hold my breath when driving through a tunnel. And, I still like to make a wish when the time reads 11:11.

Pretty much from mid-November to mid-December, it seemed that every time I checked the clock on my phone, it was 11:11. Whether it was in the midst of my mid-morning work routine or later at night when I was determining how many programs on my DVR I could watch before bed, somehow I always seemed to be checking the clock on my computer, phone, microwave, alarm, oven, or TV at 11:11 on the dot.

It may have seemed to always be 11:11 because it was during that same time that I had something (or someone) on my mind and my heart. I had a reason and motivation to wish. It’s like when I decided to buy a Jeep. The next day, it seemed everywhere I went, there were hundreds of Jeeps.
During this month when it seemed it was perpetually 11:11, my heart’s attention was focused on a particularly special person at the time. For sake of this entry, let’s just say that I pulled the apple stem unusually hard on the letter “B” (and, no, that is not a veiled reference to masturbating). But, whenever I looked at a clock and it read 11:11, I would immediately think, “If I could make one wish in this minute, what would it be?” Without question, my wishes in that minute would center on B.

“I wish to hear from B today.”

“I wish B likes me as much as I like him.”

“I wish B is making a wish about me.”

“I wish B is the one.” (another hope from my childhood that I still hold on to… that there actually is a “one.”)

As every moment does, the minute of wishing passes and it becomes 11:12. The wish has been said either aloud or to myself (depending on where I was at the time). It’s been released to become reality or remain a dream. But, the release of a wish provides hope, so you can go into 11:12 knowing what happened the minute before and hoping that maybe as soon as 11:13, the wish comes true.

The 11:11 wishes were all coming to mind about B because of a planned trip to visit him in New York City in mid-December. With Christmas around the corner, the only way it could me more romantic was if Norah Ephron wrote every word we said. The most amazing city in the world at the most wonderful time of year with, who in my perspective, was with the most amazing guy.

B has charm and charisma in never ending supply. We met over Memorial Day when I was there visiting other friends. After a very memorable evening and day together, he followed the number one rule of entertainment: Always leave them wanting more. And, for a month after Memorial Day, I wanted more. I could think of little else but B, simply from the spell he cast on me in the time we hung out. He didn’t bother with follow up text or emails or calls. They were unnecessary, and he seemed to know it.

It was more than a feeling of being drunk on a person or feeling high from an emotion. It was almost as if I was a volunteer for a hypnotist. But, instead of establishing a trigger word that would have me clucking like a chicken, I was set off by a mere word or email from B; it would have me running. So, after a text that suggested I pay him a visit, I purchased a plane ticket to NYC within 30 minutes. It’s amazing how simply a person can release his pride. I can hold on to a grudge for years; I can release my pride in nanoseconds.

After the two weeks of waiting passed in what felt like dog years, I boarded the plane for New York with anticipation, excitement and the cutest clothes I could find safely packed in my suitcase. The cab ride to his apartment seemed to take forever. I was certain all of New York created a conspiracy to jam the roadways to slow the process of my arrival. When finally the cab pulled to the curb in front of his building and I had my bag out of the trunk, I could feel my heart in my throat.

When I knocked and he opened the door, would there be some sort of instrumental, orchestra swell? Would a Norah Jones song start to play? Perhaps, Etta James “At Last?” There was no good way to know until it happened, so with a shaking hand, I tapped my knuckles against his door. The knob turned relatively quickly, and there he was… the boy I had met over Memorial Day and relived old and created new moments in my mind with since. He gave me a quick hug, welcomed me in, and then…

He quickly introduced me to his friend, Sam.

The next 2 hours were spent with the three of us in his living room; they, on their computers, me, flipping through magazines and contemplating what Sam’s presence meant. Clearly a guest from the night before, I attempted to place his visit in context. Was he there merely benefitting from B’s generosity… providing a needy college student lodging in the city… but then again, can a college student be considered ‘needy’ if they go to Yale? Or, did his presence indicate more than the need for a hostel? Was he actually a trick from the night before? Surely not. Surely, no one in their right mind would have the person he slept with the night before still around when the person that he planned on sharing the bed with that night arrives. Surely, no one is that uncouth. Surely.

The test would come on Sam’s departure and the nature of the send off. A short hug. A briefly, friendly kiss. It seemed harmless. There was nothing to be concerned about. So what if B was getting his sheets out of the washing machine and putting them in the dryer? Just meant he’d like fresh sheets tonight, as would I. It was all good. Besides, the activities that occurred after Sam left assured me that there was nothing but good things to look forward to that weekend.

And I was right. The weekend brought an incredible gourmet dinner, a Broadway show, a crowded Christmas party, time in a hot tub in freezing temperatures, deep conversations, cuddling on the couch watching TV, and another high class Christmas party. And, if I edit out the parts at that last Christmas party when he left me alone for extended periods of time and when I saw him having a couple of extended ‘friendly’ kisses with someone, it was a really great weekend.

The last morning of my visit, as we lay in bed, he asked me what time it was. With my phone nearby, I leaned over the side of the bed, hit the button to bring up the screen and saw it there: 11:11. I told him the time with a chuckle, and then got quiet as I made my wish. The last wish.

We went on to brunch where he seemed melancholy and quiet. We returned to his apartment to wait for my cab, during which he bustled around his apartment arranging things. A friend of his suddenly arrived about 30 minutes before my departure time. The goodbye I had anticipated, dreaded and at the same time, hoped for, was at that moment undone. With every minute possibly available for the trip spent, it was time for me to catch a cab back to the airport. B walked me to the door of his building; with his doorman as a witness, he gave me a short hug. A briefly, friendly kiss. It seemed harmless.

And, almost identical to his send off of Sam.

In the back of the cab, I silenced the program on the TV and shed a tear or two. Not over the fact that I would miss B. Not over the fact that the weekend was over. Not over the fact that the cab driver had horrible body odor. I briefly cried because I realized all the thoughts and hopes and dreams I had invested in this weekend were mine alone. He hadn’t been doing the same thing. He had probably forgotten me before the door to the cab closed. So many 11:11s came and went for him; and if by any chance, he made a wish in any those minutes, none of them were about me.

Wasted minutes. Wasted kisses. Wasted wishes.

Now, when I look at the time and see that it’s 11:11, I search for something to wish for. I find nothing. The minute passes before I really think of anything worth wishing for. And, to be honest, I’m hesitant even to spend one minute wishing for anything. Lately, it seems my time can be spent so much more productively if I stop wishing. When I do spend the time wishing, all I find is that the clock turns to 11:12 and nothing changes. 11:13. Things stayed the same. 11:14, nothing. 11:15, nothing. 11:16, nothing. Each minute passes. Nothing happens. I realize the wish at 11:11 stays there. In that minute. The seed of a flower that won’t bloom.

What I really would like is to remember in the next 11:11 minute to wish to stop wishing. My goal is not to be jaded or hard-hearted; with the way I’m wired, I think that’s virtually impossible. But, at the same time, I have to go through a period when I stop wishing, stop dreaming. I have to step on a few sidewalk cracks every now and then and bite into an apple, stem included. Otherwise, I live in a world with my heart exposed… and when that happens, I get hurt. “Self-preservation, you understand.”

So, now, I’m living as if the clock is perpetually 11:12. The minute after the wish doesn’t come true. Like the day after Christmas, it’s a long road to the next wish.

I know that won’t last long, though. As every minute on the clock comes back around through the course of a full day, my superstitions, my dreams, my hopes and my wishes will return in one form or another. The names may be different, but ultimately, my wishes stay the same.

It will take some time to get to another 11:11, but each second that passes brings me closer to that minute, to another reason to wish and to the actual minute when that wish comes true.

Watched pots

I hate New Year’s Resolutions. My association of the term equals broken promises that you make to yourself. I have met enough people in my life that have not kept their word that I certainly don’t need to break a promise to myself. There have been enough people that have done a good job on that without my help.

I’m certain that there are people that have made major life changes through New Year’s Resolutions, but in my own experiences and the examples I’ve witnessed in others, they die off before Valentine’s Day. For this reason, I’ve been hesitant to set resolutions for myself.
Last year, I broke this approach to the New Year, and I set two resolutions for myself: in 2009, I was to write an encouraging note to one friend a week and write a blog entry once a week. Simple as they were, I successfully broke them both. Clearly, as my last entry was back in July, that resolution was suffocated by apathy. And with 52 notes that were to be written throughout last year, zero were ever composed.

Whether a self-fulfilled prophecy or not, I broke the resolutions I made to myself, deepened my belief that they are dangerous goals to establish, and found another method to disappoint myself.
Yet, with that said, at the start of this New Year, this new decade, I look ahead and wonder what I can change—about myself and the world I live in. I’d be lying if I didn’t have some ideas and some hope about the future. Sure, that “encouraging note” idea might make a come back for 2010… and the writing thing is always something I want to do more of, but, like most men I know, I’m hesitant to make an actual commitment again.

Instead, this year, there’s only one thing I really aim towards. It may be impossible and in all truthfulness, it goes against how I’m wired, but I think after three and a half decades, I’m ready to venture in a slightly different direction. The time has come for me to stop watching pots because the saying is true: they never boil.

I’ve spent so much of my life waiting. And, for a person as impatient as I am, that’s a surprising revelation, but I’ve come realize how true it is. I waited to drink alcohol until I was 27 when I realized that there is nothing wrong with a cosmo or two. I waited to do theatre until I was 28 when I realized I was cutting off a major passion and joy in my life without it. I waited for God to heal me of my homosexuality until I realized that is not something to be fixed. I waited to come out and accept the man God created me to be until I realized that I was living a ghost-like life, unable to truly move or feel anything.

In all that, I’m positive there is a plan involved. For whatever reasons there may be, some clear now and others not, I have been a perpetual late bloomer by design.

But, with such a long resume in waiting, I’ve allowed myself to continue that in other ways today—with a specialization in waiting for guys. Waiting for them to call. Waiting for them to email. Waiting for them to come over and say hello. They just become more pots I watch—and as hot as they may be, they never boil. They don’t call. They don’t email. They don’t come over and say hello. And, if they do, before long, they stop. So, I’m done waiting for things that won’t happen.

In 2010, I want that to change, and through some sort of slow breakthrough, I can see that I can make that change.

I’m not sure why it is *this* year that I can see this strength I have. Maybe it’s because the ‘00s didn’t seem futuristic enough. Maybe now saying ‘twenty-ten’ sets some sort of tone that flying cars and housemaid robots are around the corner, and it puts into perspective that the man I want to be has some catching up to do. Maybe just enough time and experience have come and gone that I’m a bit wiser.

“They” say: it happens when you aren’t looking. To that, I respond: Gee, thanks-- If I want advice that helpful, I’ll watch Dr. Phil. If I’m not looking, I’m doing it on purpose so that it *will* happen, so for all intensive purposes, I’m still looking. And, with my life-long desire for something more, I can’t very well see the capability within myself to act nonchalant about love. I don’t mind going on record by saying that I’ve not only wanted love my whole life, but I have full confidence in my ability to be amazing when finally in it.

“They” (was it “mama”?) also say: You can’t hurry love; you just have to wait. In this case, “they” (or “mama”) is right. There’s nothing we can do. We *do* just have to wait… and that’s part of the beauty of it, I suppose. The way it can sneak up on you. The way it can surprise you. They way it can change your world in a day. It adds to the magic.

It’s just now, this year, and hopefully in those that follow, I’m not going to watch the ‘love’ pot anymore; it doesn’t boil that way. I’ll still wait and hope (fish gotta swim and birds gotta fly), but I’m not going to be waiting, hoping and watching anymore. For me to remember not to watch it, I might need some distractions (perhaps in the form of encouraging notes or blog entries); but in 2010, the watch ends.

The pot can boil or not. Either way, life goes on. Not because you want it to, but because it just has to.