What Size Am I?

For much of my adult life my shirts had a 15 ½” neck. One day I found myself in Nordstrom’s during a sale and went to buy a new suit. Wearing only a tee shirt was a problem but as befits a high end store they had extra dress shirts for fittings. Wow, that shirt was comfortable. It had a 16” neck; for the first time in years I could button and breathe simultaneously.

I have given much thought lately to Flip’s concept of right sizing. The volume at home has been lowered. There are other things to talk about – some benign and as in any marriage some almost (though never quite) as charged as TGT. There is much in my life to occupy my mind – family, work, and music. Less time has been spent posting (sorry guys).

Yet in my mind, that little place central to all, the size while smaller is still quite substantial. Just the act of writing of right sizing is a form of “wrong” sizing. Of course the story of my neck is not random. My shirts were right sized at 15 ½” for many years. Then something happened: I got older, added a few pounds, nothing special, just life. Sexual identity is much more complicated and how one addresses newly found identities just add to the confusion.

So I do want to right size this in my life. I have been telling people – my therapist, the small circle I am out to, and of course myself - how successful I have been. My therapist tells me it is okay to put the bus in idle – this is my bus. But I still think about it – always there – peeking around the corner at me. I sit at work and in a random moment with a minute or two to kill while on hold find myself looking at Craig’s List. I consider, multiple times a week, whether to call the guy I had been hooking up with. Desire does not go quietly into the night.

Intellectually I understand that a marital spat – even an ugly one – unrelated to sexuality is normal and is, well, unrelated to sexuality. But after the fight, laying there in the dark, I cannot help but question why I am not hooking up. I have permission. She assumes it is only a matter of time. We are in the land of don’t ask, don’t tell again. So I lay there – I sit here now typing – and cannot fathom why I do not send my friend an e-mail. I would love to have “lunch” tomorrow.

I am afraid I suppose. Afraid that like an alcoholic, one drink will not satisfy me. Instead I will remember that I enjoyed the taste (lets not go there), the excitement, the forbidden nature. And I fear the emotion of turning a bad day or two (and the last few have been pretty bad) into an excuse to act out.

So Flip, I would like to right size, Lord knows, but my thoughts are not as cooperative as I claim. When I look at CL my fingers betray me. The road continues...