"AM I PORTLY?"

It’s been going on for a couple of weeks now. At least once a day, I enter the living room and Evan asks, “Do you think I’m portly?”

 

Good god, where’s the escape hatch?

 

As I’ve told Evan multiple times, the answer is no. Still, the question must be asked. Over and over.

 

So what brought this on? Has Evan stopped going to his cardo-yoga classes? No. Is he suffering from a medical condition that causes regular bloating? No. Has he started eating desserts? No. (Blueberries regularly sit in the refrigerator and go bad because I believe someone once told Evan there are natural sugars in fruit and he grew up in a certain gay era where all sugars were considered bad. I’ve seen him eat a single blueberry and then stop.) This is not an issue related to exercise or eating. The problem is Evan is moving.

 

I realize that, for most people, getting ready for a big move does not cause them to go through a crisis regarding body dysmorphia. Moves bring on stress. They stir a sense of melancholy over leaving an established life behind. They induce anxiety over what the future holds and how settling into a new home in an unknown town may come with struggles. But I’ve never known anyone to fret over body weight because of a move.

 

Then again, I’ve never known anyone like Evan.

 

The problem in the biggest sense is that Evan owns a lot of stuff. Furniture. Tchotchkes. Clothes. It’s that last category that triggers, “Am I portly?”

 

Evan spent some of his formative gay years in New York City and Miami. Whereas I embraced the baggy decade of the ’80s, Evan ascribed to a more common gay mindset: the tighter, the better. If you had even a trace of a muscle, the clothing was supposed to smother that bulge like a cast so pecs, biceps, butts and even calf muscles were flaunted. Having to buy a crow bar to undress at the end of the day was just one of those sacrifices made in the name of fashion. And all signs indicate Evan has always loved fashion. 

 

Evan’s current apartment has five closets he has equipped with double and triple rods for accumulating and cramming in the maximum amount of clothing. As well, he has the largest chest of drawers I’ve ever seen. More cramming! Although he asserts he got rid of a lot of clothes when he moved from Seattle to Denver two years ago, “a lot” means too little for someone who can’t walk past a vintage store without going in and will ramble on for twenty minutes espousing the virtues of the brand, Dsquared2, or Ralph Lauren’s contribution to the betterment of the world. (I try to nod and say, “Uh-huh” in the right places.) 

 

Evan has dozens of cowboy boots, at least fifty pairs of jeans, countless jackets and blazers and drawers of shirts I’m afraid to open for fear I’ll never be able to shut them. Do a Google Images search of clothes horse and Evan’s photo should be the first thing that pops up. I believe the Oxford Dictionary is currently amending their definition to include Evan as a synonym.

 

With all that handy storage, Evan has had the luxury of holding onto a massive stockpile of clothing. 

 

That, however, is about to change. His big move is from Denver to the Aspen area, widely regarded as one of the most expensive places to live in the United States. Costs to rent a place are outrageous. At 57, Evan does not want the hourlong commute that some of his younger coworkers have opted for in order to find something more affordable. As well, he rightly considers himself as having aged out of a time when having one or more roommates is palatable. After finally finding a MUCH smaller place for just himself that’s a reasonable commute to and from work, he now has to go through a significant downsizing. Many of his possessions are going to a storage locker but other items are just going. Hello, Goodwill.

 

This leads to the daily “Am I portly?” question.

 

Downsizing comes with painful decisions. What stays? What goes? I’ve shared with Evan the oft-stated rule: if you haven’t worn something for a year, chuck it. I hear him restating it as he talks to himself while staring into one of his closets. He amends the term to two years. But there are too many exceptions to make the rule a rule. While I go out and write—he won’t let me in on the decision-making—he proceeds to try on countless items. 

 

Let me restate the shopping philosophy he was raised on: the tighter, the better. Imagine what happens to him then when trying on a pair of leather pants he bought ten years ago, a shirt from fifteen years ago and a blazer that dates back to last century. (If he reads this post, he’ll take great offense to this paragraph. Where are all the adjectives to describe the utter awesomeness of the pants, the shirt and the blazer? These are not ordinary clothing items. Each has a story and a long list of features to make the item particularly precious.) 

 

Clothes Evan bought many, many years ago were as tight as they could be when he bought them at twenty-three or thirty-six. (I wonder how many XX Small shirts were left on fitting room floors when a sleeve ripped as he tried to get the darn things off.) Now fifty-seven, it stands to reason that some things are even snugger. Uncomfortably so. 

 

Yes, aging sucks. There are indignities even for people who remain fit. That mirror, mirror on the wall betrays us every time.

 

Hence yesterday’s welcoming when I returned from a writing session: “Am I portly?”

 

The day before: “Am I portly?”

 

The day before that: “Am I portly?”

 

The move happens tomorrow and Evan still has to tackle that colossal chest of drawers today. I know I’m going to be hit with that familiar question yet again. And again. Twenty-four hours cannot pass fast enough.

 

 

 

 

 

MOCK JOCK

My boyfriend, Evan, thinks I’m a jock. He tells me he got this impression when he first came across my photos on my OkCupid profile a year before I reached out and sent him a message. He figured I was a dumb sports dude and passed me over. 

 

There’s a whole lot wrong with that. Just being into sports doesn’t signify a diminished IQ. I’m supposed to say that. I’m supposed to disregard any impressions I get from inebriated guys watching games at the bar of a pizzeria I frequent. It’s the booze, not the basketball. They’d be just as avid fans if they drank straight tomato juice during the game, right? (As an aside, who put clam juice in a V8 and decided it was a thing?) 

 

The bigger issue is that Evan passed on me because I came off as a jock. Surely there were many reasons for guys on dating sites to dismiss me but me being some hardcore sports dude? How had I even conveyed that? I recall a photo of me cycling and one of me hiking and another of me at the beach, fully clothed, just smiling because it’s, you know, the beach. That’s my happy place. I wasn’t playing beach volleyball or jogging along the shore (which I do, often, when I travel). I wasn’t even hauling one of those metal detectors, which I presume to be heavy enough for a mild upper body workout, searching for gold or nickels or someone’s lost keys. 

 

In no way should the photo of me in the sand have given off a jock vibe. I think I was wearing a hoodie in the shot which, to Evan, is jock clothing. (Walk through Safeway and check out all the guys wearing hoodies while loading up on Doritos and pork rinds. That oughta destroy any jock connotation.) 

 

I suppose I wanted the biking and hiking pics to convey that I’m an active person, at least when not lounging in hoodies. Jock though? Me?!

 

The weird thing is that Evan still thinks I’m a jock. This after ten months of dating. It’s baffling.

 

I can say with 100% certainty that not a single person in elementary school, junior high or high school ever mistook me for a jock. Just the opposite. I went through physical education at a time when lame teachers assigned to people to be captains who then took turns picking classmates to make teams. I was always the last boy standing against the wall. If it was a good day, I’d get picked before Mary Novakovic. But then a lot of days weren’t good at all. Not in P.E. I can’t count all the times Stephen P. loud-whispered, “We lost because of you!” He said what the rest of the team was thinking.

 

Jock.

 

Um, it just sounds weird. Like calling me a Martian or a Muppet or a Fanilow. (Okay, I did own several Barry Manilow albums and I did see him in concert and I never change the radio station when “Mandy” comes on even if “Looks Like We Made It” is a better song though not as epic as “Weekend in New England.”) Maybe Fanilow fits, but I’m neither a Martian, nor a Muppet (even though I adore the Swedish Chef), nor a jock.

 

Evan begs to differ. The latest piece of evidence he’s holding over me is the fact that I just went to a college football bowl game, shelling out more than $1,200 Canadian to see my alma mater, TCU, beat Michigan at the Fiesta Bowl in Arizona. (This, incidentally, is the fifth time I’ve gone to a bowl game to watch TCU play.) I might have also gone to Los Angeles to see TCU play Georgia in the national championship today, but my bank account won’t cooperate. Honestly, I thought getting to the Fiesta Bowl was as good as it would get. Never thought we’d win. Isn’t that proof that I’m not a dumb jock? I’m realistic. I don’t go around boasting about My Team. I don’t wear jerseys to pretend I’m What’s His Name. (Really, I only knew the quarterback, Heisman Trophy runner-up, Matt Duggan, whom I called Max for the entire first half and whose last name I only realized I’d mispronounced when I saw the highlights on TV after the game.) 

 

Not a jock.

 

I think I watched the last ten minutes of one TCU football game in the regular season. Instead, I just checked out the scores online and watched the team move up the rankings in the weekly polls. It wasn’t much different than following the Billboard music charts which I’ve done ever since I was a kid listening to American Top 40 while my peers were outside playing baseball or throwing the football around or skateboarding in the neighborhood. (One scabbed knee from a tumble on the driveway was enough for me to let Tony Hawk have all the glory. For the record, I had to Google him, thinking he might be a surfer or racecar driver instead of a skateboarder.)  

 

I should add that I went to the football game with my two besties, both women, from my days at TCU. They are my bowl buddies. I should also say I didn’t drink beer at the game. I’m realizing now that I didn’t drink anything at all. Apparently, I think stadium refreshments are overpriced, but I’m a sucker for premium football tickets with hefty service fees. 

 

I think that makes me more of a dork than a jock, but I’m not going to enlighten Evan. If my boyfriend still thinks I’m a jock, I’m weirdly flattered. Hopefully, he’s cast aside the “dumb” descriptor. I don’t dare ask.

 

And one more thing:

 

Go Frogs!

 

 

ANOTHER ROUND

Here I go again. A new day, waking up in a strange bed. I wish there were a more exciting circumstance but, no, I get up, shower and experience a different walk of shame. No wondering about whether some guy will text me, no worrying that this is just a one-off. I have absolute certainty that I’ll wake up in the same bed tomorrow and the morning after that. It will be the same routine for the next fourteen weeks. And then, for better or for worse, it will all be over.

There’s no other guy involved. This is my own doing. I moved into a group home yesterday for another crack at treating my eating disorder. On the surface, it’s all perfectly tolerable, possibly even a great gig. I’m only five kilometers from my condo but now, instead of being in the bustle of the seedier part of downtown Vancouver, I’m smack in the middle of a charming neighborhood of older character homes and shaded parks. I’m a block from Commercial Drive, the city’s Little Italy, dotted with cafes competing to serve up the best cappuccino and all sorts of trendy new restaurants that have strayed from the lasagne-fettucine script and now offer Lebanese, Ethiopian and Japanese fare. If only eating out had some appeal.

As good as it may all seem, I can’t shake the fact that this is not normal. Fifty-somethings don’t flit off to three months of summer camp in the city. They get to sleep in their own bed whenever they want. They don’t go for programming at a hospital four days a week. They don’t have their meals monitored. They don’t have restrictions placed on how much exercise is acceptable. What fifty-year-old man has his exercise limited?!

The confusing thing to others—and even to me—is that I don’t look the part of someone with an eating disorder. I’m not eerily thin. I’d say I’m actually having to fight that middle-aged belly bulge that most men get. I’m consumed with fear that I am repulsively fat. I obsess over belly watching when in public, noting all the stomachs that may be bigger than mine, trying to take some comfort in the notion that mine might be less prominent and desperately wanting to assure myself that my tummy is normal for a guy my age. But the sense I have, at least now, is it will never be okay.

Prior to my group home gig, I spent an inordinate amount of time each day ignoring hunger cues and pushing myself to exercise longer, harder. In a way, I’m an eating disorder failure—massively blistered feet, worn out body, significant food deprivation and still no results. Not enough weight loss, not a trace of muscle gain. So much effort with nothing to show for it. A rational person would abandon a regimen that doesn’t produce results.

Drastic thoughts about my body image directly chip away at my self-esteem. Being in a group home for three months—regardless of the pleasant surroundings—is wildly threatening. With my exercise reduced to only five one-hour sessions per week and a meal plan that requires me to eat three meals and three snacks per day, it pokes at all my fears of gaining belly weight, going flabby and never being able to correct the “damage” done.

There’s another fear, a deeper one. What if I don’t see significant weight gain and, despite the encouraging evidence, I return to my extreme routines anyway? After all, this eating disorder is a fierce beast. In the spring, I spent six weeks in hospital for another treatment program. Upon discharge, I immediately went back to my eating disordered routines. I fretted that I’d gone flabby. I lost five pounds in the month between programs and the news made me giddy. This from a guy who, due to medications and moods, had thought he’d lost his ability to laugh. “It will never be enough,” the dietitian told me, referring to my weight loss intentions. Still, I wonder if the same goes for treatment.

Much of the work in program is intended to examine the underlying thoughts, emotions and events that brought on the eating disorder and continue to feed into it. I meet one-on-one each week with a psychiatrist, a psychologist and a dietitian and participate in multiple group sessions with the other residents each day. The feedback I got from the team working with me in hospital was that I’m a tough nut to crack. There were no insights, no breakthroughs. What if I can’t dig deeper? What if my sharing remains vague and evasive? How successful can I be at changing entrenched habits if I never chip away at what drives them?

I feel great pressure for treatment to work while also having no confidence that it will. What if I go through all this—the hospitalization, the group home experience, essentially half a year of intervention—and nothing changes? My eating disorder behaviors go back more than forty years and, while I’ve only been receiving treatment for the past two years, this feels like my last shot. Please don’t let this extended adult camp experiment be all for naught.