I haven't blogged about this topic in a while.
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I attended a wedding reception yesterday.
It's during these ceremonies when I find myself thinking of age. And when you're homosexual, the idea of age eating up youth and vigor can be scary at times. While I've relegated the concept of age to just that--a concept--bearing witness to the milestones of straight friends and family always gives me a dose of the worries. There is that "rule" that the age of a homosexual is indirectly proportional to his marketability. And I, who hadn't experienced being extremely marketable in my teenage and young adult life, can't help but wonder if the rule has been implemented of late.
But I don't feel old. I don't feel like I'm 37. Perhaps all that mental conditioning I've done in the past few years have pinned me on 26, which I wholeheartedly embrace. And I did that only because I'm a late-bloomer, only recently discovering what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. Since I know that a lot of my peers has had a head start, why not turn back my own clock?
No amount of meditation, however, can reverse the hard fate that most homosexuals face--the prospect of growing old alone. That, coupled with the idea of diminished opportunity presented by age gives one's life a tinge of hopelessness. My bouts of loneliness have been coming in far less often, but I still fancy experiencing the magic that romance and partnership promises. Yes, many jaded folk may have already discounted the sweet nothings and candy-coated stares, the electricity of touch and the giddy high school phone calls as fleeting oxytocin indulgences. But I've had too few of them. Those moments are still on my shelf, tagged a full price, under lock and key.
A few months ago, a fortune teller told me that my wait would soon be over. But as prognostications are, one would be better off relegating the thought to dream. I would love to have that milestone, but right now the work continues still, and his arrival will be the bonus, not the requirement.