Beer Me

I am currently obsessed with the mid-life musical musings of Amy Rigby, the mod housewife.

I am depressed, a condition more likely to afflict women than men. And in order to heal myself, I am getting in touch with my feelings.

I’m learning French.

Yesterday I dropped my car off for service, was told it would take a couple of days, was sent to the loaner car desk, was informed that we’re so sorry, we only have two pick-up trucks left, and I said PICK-UP TRUCKS! Are you sure you don’t have any cars available? I’d really hate to drive a truck.

The only television show I hate to miss? The Gilmore Girls.

I am in the middle of reading the novels of Jane Austen. All of them. For like the fifth time.

And I was reading one of these novels the other day when the television distracted me and I asked them to turn it down and noticed that it was the Pro Bowl. I left the room.

I find my wife’s friends more interesting than their husbands. I find them more interesting than my friends. Or at least I would, if I had any.

My work acquaintances – the few people I talk to voluntarily – are all female.

My correspondence? Almost exclusively with women. The fact that I correspond at all? Feminine.

I am sexist, and irredeemably so, for nothing will ever convince me that women are equal to men. They are, of course, vastly superior. Humans 2.0. I’m a traitor to my own sex.

I’ve started to pay attention to how I look. I even worry I’m getting fat. And I permit a woman to dress me in fashionable threads.

Brokeback Mountain moved me.

Now don’t get the wrong idea, I’m still a flaming hetero. Nothing’s changed there. Or has it? Something is happening here. What it is, though, is not exactly clear. Could it be that I’ve allowed my deep and abiding fascination with women to carry me away, so far away that I’m only just beginning to discover, buried deep inside this middle-aged man but yearning to break free, a middle-aged lesbian?

I need a beer. Not that I want one. I just need one.