I needed more guy friends.

One of the bummers of turning forty is that almost all of my male friends are married. This is not a bummer for them, of course. And, damn it if they didn’t all marry well. And, once someone marries well, children are soon to follow. This is accompanied by a move to the suburbs where the excitement of city life is sacrificed for a larger home with actual grass. I’ve lived in the city for sixteen years and I’m one of the last holdouts. However, there’s no good argument to be made for a single guy moving out to the suburbs until he’s forced. The upside is that I live smack in the middle of a million fun city activities. The downside is that nobody else I know still does. So, I’m lonely.

Please don’t take this as a complaint. Nobody likes a complainer, including me. In life you have to go and and get the things you want. And, at forty, I found myself thinking something I had never thought previously.

I want some dudes!

Years before I was part of an organization where a bunch of us guys would hang out every two weeks for a few hours and talk about important stuff. Work, women, kids – anything that was going on. You could classify it as a support group, but in reality it was a group of guys meeting and listening to each other. I was a member of this group for years – until I was booted out. I had stopped going because a crazy guy had been allowed in and started harshing everyone’s mellow. I came back months later and the nutty guy basically told me how I had ruined his life and the group had to decide if it was him or me. Since he had been a more consistent member I got the boot.

This brings us to the present. I find myself living in one of the best parts of one of the best cities, but pretty damned lonely. I put my brain to work on how to meet some guys. I know how to meet chicks. That’s easy. But a guy? I don’t watch sports, which is a bummer since there are seventy four sports bars within two blocks of me. Maybe I could slap on a jersey of one of the teams here and saddle up next to another jersey-wearer at a pub. Nah, it would be inauthentic. Plus, shit, I don’t drink. You can’t watch a game wearing a jersey at a sports bar without being asked to funnel a beer after they win the big game, right?

I remembered that the guys who kicked me out of their group years before were part of a larger men’s organization. Literally thousands of men have been through this program. I sent an email to the head of their member services. Told them I was looking to get more involved and I needed a new group. I didn’t mention that I was kicked out of the previous one – figured that wouldn’t help them want to place me. I pushed send on the email and hoped I wasn’t blacklisted in their database. They replied within an hour and were thrilled to hear from me. After a month of back and forth, we found a group that wanted me and that I thought was a good fit.

In this new group, I’m the young guy. Most of the men (there’s seven of us total) are fifty-five to seventy years of age. But much like girls who were abandoned by their fathers, I like older men. They’re wiser than me. They have better perspective. Plus, they don’t screw around. So, when I told them I wanted to start working out again they asked me to make a commitment. This was a good idea because without accountability I don’t get my ass to the gym. And exercising is one of those cornerstone activities that helps just about other every area of my life aside from just looking awesome in the mirror.

I wish I was wired up more for the carrot than the stick, but I ain’t. Pain is the ultimate motivator. I wake up on Saturdays with the intention of getting to the gym, but I end up watching television and scratching my nuts on the sofa. However, let’s say while I was lounging a guy broke into my apartment and pointed a revolver at my dog’s temple, telling me that if I don’t go bust out a 60 minute circuit training set right then, he’s going to paint the wall with my chihuahua’s blood. You can bet I’d find my New Balances pretty damned quick and be out the door.

I just realized that by accident, I ripped off that idea from National Lampoon Magazine whose most famous cover of all time was…

Anyway, the guys in the group asked me what it would take for me to actually commit to the workouts. I said, “Well, I need a punishment that is painful.” One man asked, “Do you support the KKK?” I told him that I did not. He said, “Perfect. How about if you don’t go to three workouts within two weeks you donate $100 to them.” Ooh – that would be painful! Great idea! However, there’s a few issues with that punishment – first, I don’t really want to help fund a hate group. I can’t imagine that would sit well with God and wouldn’t be easy to explain to St. Peter at the gates of heaven. I really hope there is a God and a gate – I like a little pizazz and showmanship in spirituality, you know? Also, if I did send the check in to the hate group, I would imagine the government might start tapping my phone. You’d have to make the donation in cash, and then use gloves, remember to not use a return address, etc. It’s a hassle.

Then, one of the other men said, “Hey, didn’t you just get ripped off by someone?” In fact I had. If you aren’t familiar with that story, you can read it here. “What if you gave the money to the woman that screwed you over?” BINGO. Red hot anger shot through me at even the thought of giving this shithead another nickel. And I even had a perfect way to get it to her. I accidentally have a pair of her pants in my closet. I had already told her that I had the pants and that I would return them. She told me to just throw them away. All I would have to do is send a letter saying, “When I threw out your pants, I found this $100 inside.” She would think the money was hers, and would keep it. It was perfect.

So, that’s what I committed to – three workouts in two weeks. Doable, but with a real punishment. You have to admit it’s a pretty good motivator.

I’m proud that I set up a fitness goal with a real consequence. I’m also proud that I now have seven new buddies. I’m also proud I’m the only one in the group without gray pubes. For now.

photo credit: xjyxjy 070805 Lidköping bm naked Flora garden art via photopin (license)

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I woke up on Sunday and tried to figure out what to do with my day. Should I break my eighteen year streak of not making church service? As a true competitor I have a record to maintain. Look, it’s true that when I get to church (read: going to somebody’s wedding) I do feel better. But you know what also makes me feel better?  Meet the Press  and an omelette.

Church was out. Also, I know nothing about sports. I mean nothing. The weekends are packed with every collegiate and professional game, and I never know what sports go on this time of year anyway. I know football’s on, but is baseball still around? Basketball isn’t, I don’t think. But then with college sports isn’t it all reversed? Instead of going to Google to sort it out, I just don’t care. I don’t follow any teams anyway. Plus I don’t drink, so hanging out at a bar yelling at a flatscreen is not terrible appealing.

The best thing about not drinking is you get to avoid bars. I spend enough time in bars playing gigs with my band. And, unless you’re into super nachos, bar food usually sucks. Also, hey ladies, throw away the oversized football jersey you wear out. I want to picture you as a woman, you know, with breasts. Nothing is less sexy that a chick with a Peyton Manning jersey drinking a Guinness. Wear a tight sweater and call it a day.

Anyway, I was digressing. Oh yeah, so I found out there was a bacon festival going on at noon.

I’d like to say that I didn’t jump out of bed naked with celebratory horse-dancing like the Korean pop-star Psy, but that would be a lie. I totally did.

Funny enough, this bacon event was taking place in a bar. It’s weird showing up to a bar, to a big food event, by yourself. Why? Because nobody else is there alone. While standing in line for the twenty different restaurants that were going to stuff me with bacon, these two girls behind me asked to take their photo. I used this as an opening to chat them up. Since we were in single-file line the whole time, in my head we were all one group. They had invited me out and they were thrilled to be spending their Sunday with such a great guy.

Then once we got our bacon dishes, ranging from appetizer to dessert, they ditched me. The fantasy in my head did not match their reality.

So I ate alone. Yes, it’s depressing to be standing up at a bar eating bacon ice cream and not being able to turn to someone and go, “Wow – they nailed that shit!” You just have to say it to yourself. Since I had nobody to talk with I probably put down three thousand calories of pork in forty-five minutes.

I said goodbye to the women as I walked by their table. Since we weren’t together or buddies they politely grunted a “bye” and then turned to each other to discuss how it was weird I was there alone. In my universe everyone talks about me once I leave.

On the way home I realized I needed groceries. It was at the deli counter when I noticed it. Waiting in line with that little ticket, I pleasantly left my body and drifted across the counter to the meat slicer. Then I looked around at the seven different potato salads from inside the glass.

I was having a bacon hallucination.

Stumbling around that grocery store high on bacon was both fun and awful. Good times were had as I rolled the cart down the aisles a little faster than socially acceptable. Plus I was smiling like a dick the whole time.  But, if you’ve never gone grocery shopping after a full day at the Chinese buffet, give it a shot. Every food item will make you want to vomit. I was even looking at the Fresca thinking, “I’m pretty sure I couldn’t hold one down right now.”

I made it home and promptly passed out for two hours. It was 1:30pm.

If I had just gone to church this post would have read – “Did some killer kneeling. Decent hymn work. Wore a great tie. Cookies after.”

Unfortunately, I found that because this organization resides is Jersey, the certificate is largely useless here in Chicago. They have little pull in the Midwest.

So, recently I needed to get my dog certified with Rainbow Dogs, which has affiliations with hospitals, schools, and retirement homes here in the city.

I trained my dog to do all the commands on the test.   It’s tricks like the standard sit, lay down and stay, but she can also give high-fives, jump through hoops and other more complex movements.   Also, they test her ability to handle people with crutches or wheelchairs or walkers.

She’s amazingly well-behaved on her own.   I don’t use a leash while walking her.   This is not typical of Chihuahuas as they can be shaky and temperamental.   Mine’s not that way.

Her official name is Lil’ Miss Meepers.   Why?   My ex-wife and I thought that name was really funny.   I usually call her Meeps.

When we adopted a cat, we named her Pantaloons, as we felt that was also funny.   I call her by her full name.

And, to my ex-wife’s credit, she has recently adopted a cat which she named Shitty Kitty. That’s funny.

My dog spent the first year of her life going to the animal hospital every day with my ex-wife.   She quickly became well-assimilated.

Through the divorce, I retained the dog and cat and Meepers and I started going to work together.

During the summer months I ride a bike to the office and she sits in a backpack. In the winter she takes the subway with me.

As I am typing this she is positioned in a bag underneath my legs on the train.   Even though I am standing most passengers don’t notice there is a dog with me.

I remember when I was going through the divorce and my wife asked who should have the dog.   We both loved her equally.

I said, “There’s no way I’m letting the two most important things in my life walk out the door.”

She thought about it a few days and ultimately agreed that it would only be right for me to keep the dog.

And so for the past year, she and I get up together, go to work together, and return home together.   It’s very nice having her around.

But I also know that a dog is not substitute for a human relationship.   My friend Bill Flynn once asked me if my relationship with the dog was fulfilling.

I had to think about it a bit, and ultimately I answered, “No, not really.”

And it was shocking to hear myself say that as I spend nearly every hour of every day with her, and I know I love her completely.   But it was true.   It wasn’t fulfilling.

“You know why?”

“No.”

“Because there’s no risk.   Dogs will love you no matter what.   And while that is comforting, it is never fulfilling.”

And he’s right.   The only type of relationship that is ultimately fulfilling is an intimate connection with another person.   But in order to create intimacy, both parties have to foster courage to share their pain.   This, of course, is risky.

My big fear is that if I tell you where I struggle, you’ll leave.   You’ll see me as pathetic and weak and take off.   And that is a risk.   Sometimes people will leave.

The irony is that the only way to build intimacy is through sharing what’s hard.   People are less likely to leave when you open your heart.

So, the trick is to continue to share my pain with people despite the chance that they may leave.

And, even though I spend literally twenty-four hours a day with my dog, who I believe loves me, and I love her, I need at least a few minutes each day with a human that loves me, too.