Tag: Elder Life

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Being Gay Is by Lewis

For this well-ripened and battle-hardened gay man, being gay is–

seeing the beauty and sensuality in both the male and female body;

relishing the sensibilities of both male and female;

taking care of my own body because I think it’s beautiful and deserving;

knowing the difference between my political friends and enemies;

knowing the difference my involvement can make in electing my political friends into positions of power;

believing in my bones that the form of the human body that turns one on is not a matter of choice, no matter how much others may prefer to see it as a manifestation of depravity;

knowing the difference between lust and love and when each is “of the moment”;

knowing that, while judgment of others is part of our human nature, 50% of the time it is kinder to keep those judgments to myself;

having more than a single share of empathy, for I know that the only moccasins in which I have a walked a mile are my own, and, finally;

as a member of a not-so-long-ago reviled minority, knowing that it is not enough to just “be myself”. I must also be as loving and as kind and considerate a human being as I can, for I am not only me but a representative of my own maligned and precious kind.

© 29 September 27

About the Author

I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were basically on their own and I wasn’t getting any younger. Luckily, a very attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth. Soon after, I retired and we moved to Denver, my husband’s home town. He passed away after 13 blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.

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Hitting a Milestone by Nicholas

The first thing I wanted to do on reaching 60 years of age was look back. Look back on just how I turned out to be me. As I’m writing this, Quicksilver Messenger Service—does anybody remember that ‘60s rock group? —is singing “What are you going to do about me?” Good question. What am I going to do about me? A little self obsessed, maybe, but there’s no apologizing needed for that in this day and age.

In 2006, I turned 60 years of age. This was one of those milestone “zero” birthdays, like 30, 40, 50. Only this one seemed to hit me as more of a milestone than the others ever did. I wasn’t sure if it marked another mile but I sure felt the weight of the stone.

I like to say that I faced my 60th birthday instead of that I celebrated my 60th. There was a celebration, of course, one of the best parties I’ve ever had. It was put together by my sisters and Jamie and was quite a wing-ding, with catered food, champagne, a huge cake and lots of family and friends to share it with. In fact, I extended the celebration to all that year long, not just one day. It was not just another routine birthday passed with a day off work, a bike ride in the mountains, a special dinner with Jamie, a few cards and presents and then on to the next day. No, this one meant something.

This birthday was different and needed to be marked differently. This one presented challenges. It demanded to be paid attention to. Turning 60 was truly a cusp of something, a turning point. I am now closer to my departure from this planet than am I to my arrival upon it.

I felt that I’d crossed a threshold, stepped over a line, a boundary to somewhere though I was not sure where. If the past was a burden piling up behind me, the future seemed a foggy mystery and unknown territory. I was in a new country without a map and with loads of hopes and fears but not sure what direction to take.

Suddenly, I felt a sense of being old. Now I was one of the old people, a senior citizen. I was now entitled, if I summoned the nerve, to boot some young person out of those seats at the front of the bus reserved for old folks. I’ve never done that, of course. But I was old and everybody knew it. No more anonymity, I was marked with gray hair, sagging skin, a bit slower to take stairs, and a few more bottles of pills on the shelf. Now with this birthday and every birthday hence, my age was a matter of public policy. I was officially a statistic, a “boomer,” a term I despise. This birthday and the party to commemorate it left me with an uncomfortable self-consciousness.

And some confusion. One morning I was bicycling along the South Platte River, following the familiar path when suddenly the way was blocked and I was shuffled off onto a detour around a huge construction zone. I followed the detour hesitantly, not knowing exactly where I was and fearing that it was taking me too far out of the way. But the route was well marked so I continued to follow the signs. Eventually, I got back to the river path and I knew where I was.

That’s the way I was feeling on this birthday. I don’t know where this path is leading and this one is not marked at all. Am I on another detour or is this the main path? I’m trying to work my way to a point where I can see where I’ve been and so I can figure out where I’m going. At least that’s the aim.

I have this sense of the past, my past—which has grown rather bulky—and I do not want to let go of it. I can’t let go of it. I like my history and my memories. I like what I’ve done, embarrassments and failings as well as achievements and successes.

In my first 60s—the 1960s—the world was on fire with change and excitement. There was nothing I and my generation couldn’t do to make the world a better place. Justice was on the move and so was personal freedom. The personal became the political and politics became very personal and passionate. Passion is the word I attach to the ‘60s. The music was passionate. The war and the war against the war were passionate. The drive for civil rights was passionate. The freedom was passionate.

If I hearken after any remnant of that youthful decade it is that sense of passion. If there is any bit from that era that I’d like to restore to my later years, it is that passion. Turn nostalgia around and let it lead me into the future. Grow old and find your passion. Is that wisdom speaking? Have I stumbled onto wisdom somehow?

So, yes, it was quite a party, the party of a lifetime. It was the party that marked and celebrated way more than another year on the planet. I can’t forget that party because to do so would be to forget my life, its past, present and future.

© 17 October 2013

About the Author

Nicholas grew up in Cleveland, then grew up in San Francisco, and is now growing up in Denver. He retired from work with non-profits in 2009 and now bicycles, gardens, cooks, does yoga, writes stories, and loves to go out for coffee.

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The Idiom Maniac by EyM

Caught in the storm and down in the doldrums, she thought she had it made in the shade, when like greased lightening he came like a bolt out of the blue. Surely her dry spell would end and he would be the silver lining of her clouds. On cloud nine she threw caution to the wind and began to shoot the breeze. But one look rained on her parade as he was 7 sheets to the wind and looked like the twilight zone. Her thunder was stolen. Right as rain there was a cloud on her horizon. Always chasing rainbows, she hoped this blue sky would brighten up her day. But alas this guy in a fog had a cloud of suspicion over him. So not to give him the cold shoulder, she asked for a rain check .

So much for any port in a storm. She drew a blank. This was no piece of cake. Even though she felt like a basket case, she would have to play it by ear. She hoped her goose was not cooked.

Wouldn’t you know it, just then someone started making eyes at her. She wanted to turn on a dime and head for the hills. But she crossed her fingers and listened to the bee in her bonnet. To this knight in shining armor, she said “A little birdie told me you love to cut a rug.” Her match made in heaven replied, “No comprendo English senorita.”

© October 2014

About the Author

A native of Colorado, she followed her Dad to the work bench to develop a love of using tools, building things and solving problems. Her Mother supported her talents in the arts. She sang her first solo at age 8. Childhood memories include playing cowboy with a real horse in the great outdoors. Professional involvements have included music, teaching, human services, and being a helper and handy woman. Her writing reflects her sixties identity and a noted fascination with nature, people and human causes. For Eydie, life is deep and joyous, ever challenging and so much fun.

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Music by Betsy

I do not have the words to describe how music touches my soul. So I will not try. Suffice it to say that often when I am uninspired, unmotivated, music has inspired and motivated me to get going at whatever it is that needs to be done. Or perhaps no action is needed. I simply need or want to tap into my deepest feelings. Music is the medium through which I am able to do that. To do that I have only to empty my mind and simply listen to a work that is pleasing to me. Then I can “get away from myself.” I suppose one could call it a form of meditation. Empty the mind and then you can tap into your inner being, is how it goes, I believe. Well, I’m not sure about the emptying of the mind. I suspect breathing exercises work better, but I do know that “deep” listening can be inspiring and the right music at the right time does touch my soul.

I do wish that names, places, and times would stick in my consciousness the way music does. Sometimes my head is full of music–unfortunately, not original. Since I lack the capability to create……well, maybe in my next life I will be a composer or song writer. Some music sticks in my head for days, weeks. Over a week ago I heard on the radio in the car a particular pleasing Rossini work that I like. That music is still going on in my head today as I write this–that and Too Hot to Handel, which I have been rehearsing weekly. It is not just one line. It is the whole orchestra– and all the choral parts, which makes it very enjoyable actually, but then sometimes I have to put on some other piece to get rid of something I have been “hearing” endlessly for days on end.

Better that than the alternative which is a constant, rather loud, high pitched hissing sound coming from both sides of my head around the area of the ears. Not an uncommon condition called tinitis. I understand this malady is the result of a filter in the brain not functioning as it should. The hissing is always there. It never actually goes away. I can “turn it off” only by focusing–and the key here is focusing– on something else, such as, conversation or, yes, music either real or imaginary.

Indeed, It is for many reasons that music is one of life’s greatest gifts.

© 11/24/11

About the Author

Betsy has been active in the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver women’s chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change). She has been retired from the Human Services field for about 15 years. Since her retirement, her major activities include tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with National Sports Center for the Disabled, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and enjoys spending time with her four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 25 years, Gillian Edwards.

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Trust, by EyM

Who can we trust these days? I don’t like hearing that question very much whether it’s out of someone’s mouth or in my own head. We have enormous nationwide organizations that have filled their rapid and powerful information streams with so much debris that we could fear that our trusted bridges of decency may well smash into their polluted rage.

Constant personal vigilance is vital to avoid compromising our health by eating from the once trust worthy American food industry. A slew of companies now make billions from selling products of horrible quality. Our landfills bulge with much of this unusable merchandise. The challenge of buying products that have provided American people with jobs discourages even the tenacious seeker. Is the label declaration “Made in the USA “ still true?

Labels on bottles and boxes very often give addresses on USA soil as though thousands work here to make and handle these items and pay taxes to our country. But sadly in truth these addresses have only a small mail processing team.

Well paid CEO’s often wave the flag and claim a good guy image while taking their huge pay checks in a foreign bank to avoid paying the taxes they owe the USA. On our soil customers pay taxes and keep money going into executive pockets atop their dirty swill. Yes they may hire to sell their products in retail and service markets but they continuously maneuver to keep their payrolls lower and lower. This means lower and lower pay checks. This means lower and lower standard of living. This also means extreme performance pressure amid a fearful climate were long standing, high quality workers get fired. Upper management flings well seasoned integrity and loyalty to the curb for lesser paid inexperienced beginners.

Someone has said that when money becomes the morality, there is no morality. To keep our honor, we must resist the decay of our American morals as best we can. Yet bread winners of every ilk often face a necessity to settle for these substandard employers.

Of course in this neurotic competition, ugly personalities rear their maladjusted heads. How do we manage our resentment? How do we forgive? How do we continue to serve one another?

Really, I know we each have different needs. At times or in some ways we each need more from the people who surround us. I know that I do. To compensate, I try to give a lot.

I trust that if we listen in our true hearts, we give as we are intended to. On rare moments we get to see it happen. In those moments we get to see that we do makes a difference. Those are deep beautiful, even humbling moments. I trust in this worldwide mysterious truth, because it builds, touches, heals, wider than any ONE of us could design. Having a sense of this intangible reality inspires me. What a relief to be on that worldwide, even sacred, team.

~
The Possible Healing of a Lonely Place
by Eydie McDaniel

Some times lonely places press inside, out of sight. Some generate a more observable picture.

Once in the middle of a dark night the squeal of a straining voice awakened me. The much softer voice of the neighbor lady next door attempted to reply telling him to go to the police station to ask about his stolen items. My heart ached for this shivering desperate man, alone outdoors, without his bedroll, and without his food. How harsh, how unfair! My household snuggled safe and warm. Even our animals had it better than a homeless person.

Some hearts hide in fear. Even today, some hearts feel they must hide their precious love. The heritage of old judgmental cruelty still lingers. Some seniors where I live at Windsor Gardens have struggled decades with a hidden, lonely place inside. I wonder how many people have carried the secret of their attractions all alone to their grave. I wonder how much greatness we have all missed because hiding who you are robs so much of the energy it takes to ever become your very best.

Windsor Gardens of Denver happens to be one of very few senior housing organizations noble enough to sanction a club that could help heal this pain. An ad listed as LGBT Club now appears in ‘Windsor Life’. It promotes monthly meetings right here where an unknown number of seniors with diverse intimate identities make their home. Since it formally began in February, now 9 months ago, some 55 individuals have participated with an average attendance of 28.

The abbreviation LGBT, one of the common markings, stands for Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgendered. Choices of abbreviations vary and may include: GLBT, LGBTIQ, etc. Here at WG we simply call ourselves PRIDE Windsor Gardens.”

PRIDE Windsor Gardens has no agenda to change anything or anyone. Just as in any group here, it feels good to find meaningful affinity with our neighbors. Its programs have included an array of community leaders as guest speakers. It seeks to build ongoing positive strength as a member of the Windsor Gardens community, the wider gay community of Denver, and as its own social community.

We are PRIDE Windsor Gardens, Alive and Welcome. So diverse residents of Windsor Gardens, “ALL ABOARD” Come in out of your cold dark night. All you have to lose is your loneliness.

© October 2014

About the Author


A native of Colorado, she followed her Dad to the work bench to develop a love of using tools, building things and solving problems. Her Mother supported her talents in the arts. She sang her first solo at age 8. Childhood memories include playing cowboy with a real horse in the great outdoors. Professional involvements have included music, teaching, human services, and being a helper and handy woman. Her writing reflects her sixties identity and a noted fascination with nature, people and human causes. For Eydie, life is deep and joyous, ever challenging and so much fun.

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Birth Experiences by Will Stanton

Unlike much of the rest of the world, I have no first-hand experience with this topic “Birth Experiences.” I never was married, and I never sired children, not even as a randy sailor sowing his oats in various foreign ports. I never watched a human birth, and I certainly never was a pediatric physician. So again, it looks like I’m limited to writing something just for fun, which I enjoyed doing.

Let’s assume that some people can actually remember being born. That’s a bit of a stretch, no pun intended. That was for me in 1945, a date now seeming to be in antiquity. Well, that doesn’t make much of a story. So, let’s assume that people claiming to remember previous lives is factual and legitimate. I never have put much stock in that; however, to my surprise, there are some reputable people who claim to have become converted believers.

I was reminded of the topic of reincarnation by today’s TV news interview with psychiatrist Dr. James Tucker. He states in his book “Return to Life: Extraordinary Cases of Children Who Remember Past Lives” that he has researched many convincing cases. He described one of his cases about a very young boy who kept dreaming of the exact details of being shot down in his fighter-plane and also mentioning the name of his close friend and wing-man. Dr. Tucker thoroughly researched all the details related by the boy and found that they were factual. Apparently, Dr. Tucker’s many remarkable cases have converted him to being a believer to the extent that he had the courage to announce it and to write about it.

All this reminded me of a book that I had read several years ago by the head of the psychiatric unit in a Florida hospital, Dr. Brian Weiss, who, later in his career, employed for the first time therapeutic hypnotic age-regression for one patient. He was astounded that she claimed to recall, not one, but several lives spanning over many centuries and reported them in great detail. No, she did not claim to have been the Queen of Sheba, but, rather, she recounted lives of hardship and, sometimes, of illness and death.

At the time that I was reading this book, I mentioned that fact to my friend, a psychologist, who surprised me by stating that he coincidentally was reading a similar book, “Suggestive Reincarnation,” by psychiatrist Dr. Ian Stevenson of the University of Virginia, who had been engaged in careful, scientifically conservative research ever since the 1950s.

All of this is very interesting; however, my being a “Doubting Thomas” by nature, I can not become particularly excited by it. I can, however, feel mildly curious and interested in the topic considering the fact that such reputable medical scientists have expressed such surprising findings.

So for fun, what birth years and lives can I claim to remember? How about 344 B.C.E., 1705, 1845, 1904, 1934, 1943, and 1945? There seem to be several gaps there, especially in the early years. What’s wrong with my memory? Why can’t I remember? Regardless, apparently I’m not sufficiently motivated to run right out and engage in hypnotic age-regression. My current life is more than enough to try to contend with.
© January, 2014

About the Author

I have had a life-long fascination with people and their life stories. I also realize that, although my own life has not brought me particular fame or fortune, I too have had some noteworthy experiences and, at times, unusual ones. Since I joined this Story Time group, I have derived pleasure and satisfaction participating in the group. I do put some thought and effort into my stories, and I hope that you find them interesting.

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Going Shopping by Nicholas

I don’t like shopping. I’m a buyer, not a shopper. When I venture into the world of retail, it is for something specific that I need—socks, underwear, a new shirt or slacks, groceries or some such stuff. The basics of life. I don’t see shopping as entertainment; it’s more like a chore, an odious chore, at that. If I can’t help it, I will go to the store. Shopping is boring and other shoppers are a nuisance merely blocking me from achieving my goal.

Usually I do have a purpose, a mission. I make a shopping list. I know where I need to go and what I need to get. Far from meandering aimlessly and gazing at a bewildering array of products and stuff, shopping is one of the most directed activities I engage in. Whatever I don’t want is merely a distraction and I will not be distracted.

But then, there are those moments. Of course, it does happen, though very rarely, that my tight little system breaks down and I do go shopping. I mean just plain old aimless shopping. I resort to indulging in retail therapy. It can be fun to buy new things. Maybe once a year on a spring afternoon, I will head for the shops or even the mall and just browse around looking at all the incredible things I could have. I might even buy some gadget that strikes my whimsy or perhaps stumble across something that I really could use and have wanted something like it for ages. Some trinket, some teensy little fashion statement like a shirt of a new color. Just slap the racks. Sometimes it’s fun to wallow in the midst of all the over-consumption possibilities of this American culture. I go from boredom to over stimulation and back to boredom in minutes.

I have my weaknesses, however. I can at times go shopping, I mean, really just shopping, not aiming for anything in particular, just handling the merchandise. Bookstores, for example, are for me like candy stores. I can’t walk into a bookstore without buying something before I walk out. Browsing always leads me to some title that looks really interesting, something I must read and will read—someday. Maybe I’m hoping for immortality. As long as I keep adding to the unread books on my shelf, I won’t die and it’ll be a damn long time before I get to reading all of them.

This used to be true for music back in the day when there were record and CD stores. I could always find something. I miss those stores and I fear the day when the dwindling Tattered Cover will shut its doors. I don’t know what I will do then. Give up candy?

Well, then there’s my second weakness. If I won’t be able to put anything into my mind, I will, I hope, be able to put stuff in my mouth. I mean food and wine. The other afternoon, I spent a delightful time pouring over the wine racks at Marczyk’s to select wine from Argentina, France, California and Spain. Another favorite is the Savory Spice Shop where I love to walk into and just breathe in all the aromas. And Saturday mornings in the summer will always find me wandering through the farmers market gawking at all the good food to bring home and cook up and eat. I usually buy too much but not half of what I’d like to buy.

So, I do like to go shopping after all—but I rarely admit it.
© Denver, 2014

About the Author

Nicholas grew up in Cleveland, then grew up in San Francisco, and is now growing up in Denver. He retired from work with non-profits in 2009 and now bicycles, gardens, cooks, does yoga, writes stories, and loves to go out for coffee.

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Weather or Not? It’s Too Darn Hot by Phillip Hoyle

I recall hearing the same weather adage used in different parts of the country as if it described a particular distinctive in each place. The adage: If you don’t like the weather, wait a few minutes; it will change. I first heard this saying in Kansas where the wind seemed always to blow. The constant wind seemed to be accompanied by fickle temperatures and varying precipitation, and sometimes even the wind changed by increasing, declining, or becoming a threatening vortex that threatened one’s property and life.

When as an adult I moved first to Texas, then Missouri, then New Mexico, then Colorado, and then Oklahoma, I heard the same claim. I’ve heard the adage spoken about atmospheric conditions in Ontario, Vermont, New York, California, North Dakota, and Wyoming. Surely the same is said in Wales, South Africa, Australia, and New Zealand. I suspect I’d hear it in Russia, China, and Bora Bora if I were to go to those places and understand their languages. Am I complaining about human complaining and sameness? Not really although we can get really boring.

What I am interested to say today is that I’ve learned more about myself by observing the weather in contrasting climates. For instance, while living in Mid-Missouri, a place with high humidity, wide seasonal changes in temperatures, and the same number of contrasting hot and cold fronts as the rest of the country, I would get headaches when the barometer plunged. Eventually the headaches became intense enough I would leave work, go home, take ibuprofen, and lie down to sleep. Within an hour I’d be just fine and return to work. A few years later I moved to dry, dry Albuquerque. I quit having the headaches, but eventually I noticed I’d have a change in mood when the barometer plunged. I was more fascinated than concerned. I’d never noticed any change of mood in my whole life being mostly sunny and hopeful and silly and laughing. The mood swing would last about one hour. For that I was thankful and eventually connected these events with the old headaches I’d had in Missouri. Finally I realized that in Missouri I constantly had sinus and Eustachian tube problems. The barometric change caused the headache that probably masked a mood change. In the dry air of New Mexico I liked having a simple mood change because I didn’t have to interrupt my work. I learned to take the ibuprofen anyway and within an hour or less my mood went back to generally sunny.

The new experiences did raise a question for me. I had observed my father’s increasing difficulties with depression as he aged. Was I in for the same? Thankfully, I have not yet experienced what he did, something I suppose relates to inheriting my mother’s positive outlook which surely arose from her brain chemistry. My dad’s health often challenged him; his heart attacks, the rare tic douloureux (trigeminal neuralgia) pain disease, spinal meningitis, and eventual stroke made life difficult. Depression was not surprising. Now I too have experienced depression, thankfully at a sub-clinical level. I take St. John’s Wort to good effect and when the barometer drops, sometimes double my dosage.

I have another weather query though. How does climate change affect the weather? Will global warming change the weather and one’s experience of its power? My experience suggests that one still suffers the weather wherever one lives; I say suffer because one has no real control of the weather. I also found that a change in my life from straight to gay seemed like a move to a much better climate. Overall, my life seemed enriched and often more fulfilling. My life seemed more authentically ‘me’ bringing thrills, insights, and a sense of rightness. Still the headaches, mood changes, and general challenges of life moved with me into this new authentic-feeling climate. You know what I mean; in summer it can still be too darn hot even if your baby is the same brand of gay as you!

© Denver, 2012

About the Author


Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen practicing massage, he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists and volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot


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A Few Things I Have Learned in My Old Age by Betsy

Respect your elders–even ‘though they may become fewer and fewer in number left on this earth

Take care of your body–no new models are available

Make friends with and understand your ego. When it is out of control you will need to counsel it and put it in your pocket.

Take your medicine everyday and know what it is and why you are taking it.

Exercise every day

Learn something new every day

Think, think, think—everyday

Never stop seeking adventure. Never stop dreaming

Take a nap everyday even if it’s only a two minute one.

Listen–listen to the birds, listen to the wind, listen to your children–even after they have become adults.

Measure your worth and accomplishments according to your own values–not those of others.

April 2, 2012

About the Author

Betsy has been active in the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver women’s chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change). She has been retired from the Human Services field for about 15 years. Since her retirement, her major activities include tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with National Sports Center for the Disabled, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and enjoys spending time with her four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 25 years, Gillian Edwards.

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Competition Is No Good Except Sometimes by Nicholas

Competition is something I don’t like. I have no use for it. I think it brings out some of the worst in people, not the best. It turns people against one another instead of turning humans to one another for support. If competition produces accomplishments, cooperation and mutual support can produce much more.

In the just-finished Winter Olympics, we saw what competition leads to—a lot of hoopla for very little. If anything, modern Olympics games have lowered healthy competition to the point of absurdity. Athletes strive relentlessly, work their whole lives, push their bodies and minds to their absolute limits to win by hundredths of a second. But then many people don’t watch the Olympics for the competition; they watch to see the spectacular stumbles by elegant figure skaters and crashes by downhill racers at stunning speeds.

But what do I know? All my life, I’ve had that gay boy syndrome of “I can’t do it anyway, so why bother? There are so many more fabulous things to do.” It’s a form of self-protection. You’re not going to get picked–you really don’t want to get picked–for the team, so look the other way. I spent many a recess on the school playground muttering, “Don’t pick me. Please don’t pick me.”

There are things I will definitely not compete for.

> Love: There’s plenty to go around; why would one compete for love?

> Money: I have plenty, thanks, no need to get greedy.

> Medals: They just become so much dust-collecting stuff.

> Recognition: I’m already recognized in enough places.

> Parking Spaces: Unless I am driving a Humvee or a tank with a ram on it.

> Spots in line at Trader Joe’s.

> Prizes: More stuff to dust every now and then.

On the other hand, some things are worth competing for, such as:

> A seat on the bus: fine, if you must stand at the front of the bus, but just get out of my way, please.

> A spot at yoga class: how else am I to find the peace of Buddha?

> The bathroom in the morning: you’d better get out of my way now.

> A viewing point to at least try to see a great painting at a crowded Denver Art Museum exhibit.

> My favorite table at my favorite coffeehouse (no, I’m not saying where because you’ll probably try to take it.)

> Chocolate: anytime, anywhere, anyhow.

Though I exude gay disdain for competition, I do nonetheless indulge in it from time to time and then with determination fit for a queen. Life is complicated.

March 2014

About the Author

Nicholas grew up in Cleveland, then grew up in San Francisco, and is now growing up in Denver. He retired from work with non-profits in 2009 and now bicycles, gardens, cooks, does yoga, writes stories, and loves to go out for coffee.