June 25, 2006

Turns out I don’t like Gay Pride Weekend very much. But not for the reasons you are probably thinking. This is the second year in a row I’ve had a crappy Weekend, so I’m not looking forward to next year. Admittedly, I haven’t been wearing a T-shirt that says, “Taste My Rainbow” or “Give Mama Some Ass Candy,” like two of the people who seemed to be having a crapload of fun at the parade today. And I am having a boring evening, which according to another T-shirt I saw, is NOT preferable to an awkward morning.

GPW sucked last year because I got dumped. The dumper and I had only been dating for about 3 months, and he was right to end things, but it’s still never fun to be given the underlying message that you are insufficient. Even by someone about whom you have come to pretty much the same conclusion. And he waited until after we had spent the entire day together to tell me; afterward I kept thinking about how else I could have spent that day—I think I had other offers to do fun stuff and was irritated that I decided to spend the day with someone who, it turns out, didn’t actually want to spend the day with me. And in retrospect, there were signs I should have seen: he didn’t bring a change of clothes like he usually did when we got together (he preferred staying at my place); and when we happened to pass by the scene of his first date with his ex-girlfriend, he spent about 10 minutes waxing rhapsodic about how great that day was, one of the best in his life, shortly thereafter they fell in love, she was the bees’ knees. And then the dead giveaway was when he dumped me.

It’s okay now; he and I are friendly again after some radio silence on my part—in fact, we got together for dinner last Wed to say goodbye since I’m leaving on my trip, and he was nice enough to treat. But that dumpage will always be entwined in my memory with hardbodies in assless chaps, rainbow wigs, C + C Music Factory, and mulleted butch lesbians “accidentally” rubbing against me, and then “accidentally” doing it again.

This year, the crappiness of GPW is self-imposed: I’m leaving on my trip in less than a week, and at various points during the weekend, I freaked out. I know I vowed to enjoy the ride in light of what’s going on with some of the people I love, but that’s easier said than done. See, right now, the ride is like when Alec Baldwin’s character in The Hunt for Red October has to get to the submarine by flying in a stripped down chopper that shakes and bumps up and down enough to give him serious motion sickness, and then when they can’t get him close enough and decide to turn around, he cuts his line and falls a loooooong way into the freezing cold water. Then Scott Glenn (who trains BJJ, by the way) is really really pissed at him because his men have to save him.

My mother keeps saying I will be in much better shape once I actually leave Chicago. She is right; it’s just that the next couple days are going to be the suck, as this girl I know says. Sitting around waiting for something to start has never been my strong suit. Neither has packing. And that’s all I really have to do for the next couple days, unless you count running errands that never seem to end. Plus, I already gave away my TV, so in the evenings I can’t escape into mindless programming like Adult Swim on the Cartoon Network. Instead, I throw/give more furniture away, pack up some more stuff, wig a little, and then write some for my website. Oh, and then I spend a lot of time in the middle of the night not sleeping.

There is training, thank God. This morning I cried on the way to class, became completely absorbed in the training session, which was taught by an amazing black belt whose nickname is Soneca (“sleepy” or “nap” in Portuguese), and then cried some more on the way back from class when I came out of the BJJ reverie. Well, that tells me that the guiding principle of this trip is a good one.

Anyway, the point is, as much as I want to like GPW, it’s got a lot of ‘splaining to do. Let’s hope 2007 is the year Mama finally gets some ass candy, or something. Third time’s the charm.