Nice To See StevieB: Gym, or Jack N' The Box

By StevieB

"You move in the direction you think."

For me, walking out to the gym at 1a.m. covered in sweat with my headphones blaring, is the most triumphant and empowering part of my life. It's that feeling, one of being Alexander the Great standing over King Darius, that I crave. Yet, why do I forget that feeling when I want to skip the gym and head straight for the bar?

It is funny how I must re-learn this lesson, over and over. How we as humans sabotage our own happiness. I find that there is nothing better in my world than completing a great workout and to be filled with accomplishment. And yet, it is tough to shut-off the little part of our brains that does not want me to have this feeling of happiness. As I feel it is not deserved. Is this because we attach value to the negative beliefs and thoughts we have on deserving rewards? These nagging doubts on whether we really deserve what we're striving for; apprehension that we don't deserve success. It is that fear of our achievement that isolates us.

I guess I need to pay better attention. Tune into my thoughts. Listen to find out if they are trying to sabotage my goals. Free myself from this cycle negatively impacting the things that make me happy. Spend more energy smashing these anti-sucess beliefs with a frickin' dumbbell.



This post originally appeared on Steven Bennet's website Nice to See StevieB. Republished with permission.

Nice To See StevieB: Growing Up Beige

By StevieB

Growing up as a good Mormon boy I had a lot of idiosyncrasies. Being the youngest of seven kids probably compounded this. Let’s just say it was like Equus but with Jell-O after dinner on Saturdays.

Part of living in a big house on a big ranch in the middle of nowhere is when a sibling got married and moved out everyone got to move up to a better bedroom. After several basement bedrooms that have scared me for life, when the last sister got taken away for marriage, I got to move upstairs. A room with a window, no longer to be a subterranean dweller. Which to this day has made me hate basements.

Being the youngest also means I got the painted furniture and painted walls from countless sisters wanted bright happy colors. The room I was to inherit had been pink, blue, yellow, and puke green, along with all the furniture. Now, after kicking six other kids out of the house the Mother didn’t care at this point what the hell I did, so she sent me into the K marts with fifty bucks and told me she would wait in the Kmart Kafe, sucking down ham sandwiches.

Having the urge and twisted desire to be grown up like Steven Carrington I went about decorating my room. Beige walls, beige sheets and pillows, brown paint on the furniture and I ripped down the flowery curtains and installed beige mini blinds. It looked like the inside of a cardboard box. The only thing my Mom said was “It looks like the God damn underside of a God damn mushroom” and she was right. But my yearning to be normal made me want to be bland. Unlike the flamboyant little boy with an Under Gear magazine hidden inside the beige sheets. 

The funny thing is, although I still use the design esthetic the Steven Carrington’s “bachelor pad” It’s taught me that even when you cover up things with beige paint you’re still the flamboyant boy underneath.

This post originally appeared on Steven Bennet's website Nice to See StevieB. Republished with permission.

Nice To See StevieB: Checking Monsters

By StevieB

I got home super late last night. One of those nights where you dump your belongings and drag yourself up the stairs. I dumped my countless number of bags inside the door and stripped naked as I ascended the stairs. My only goal was to be horizontal within my 800 thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets. Nothing was going to stop me. One thing did.

I stopped and checked my closet for monsters.

Monster in The Closet
by MoMoCookie

In my sleep deprived state, it hit me. I just checked my closet. I began to think; do I do this a lot? Yes, without even thinking of it. Every night I'm alone I open my closet door and flip on the light to ensure that there isn't anything evil lurking behind the Pumas. Hiding behind the flannel shirts. I'm a fully fledged adult, and yet I check for monsters in my room.


I'm sure this habit began when I was eight. My brother hid in my closet one evening to jump out and scare me. To this day it is my foundation in my belief that brothers are just simply assholes. Ever since that night I have checked my closet. This habit has ingrained itself into just who I am for my entire life, so much so that I don't even remember or acknowledge doing it.


In the movie 'The Dark Knight' The Joker says, “We stopped checking for monsters under our beds when we realized they were inside us." So maybe, that fact that I'm a full ground man and still checking behind the closet door every night, symbolizes that I don't have a monster inside of me. That evil is still an abstract. To be pushed away with one small ritual. 

This post originally appeared on Steven Bennet's website Nice to See StevieB. Republished with permission.

Nice to See StevieB: Summer

By StevieB

Can you believe that it is almost the end of July? What happened to the future plans of summer? I started to ponder this the other day as I daydreamed; looking upon clouds in the middle of Cheesman Park. Reclining on a blanket with my face looking upon the clouds. The clouds and I shared a lazy agenda, to waste an afternoon. Their plan was to slowly creep across the huge blue sky. My plan was to watch their paced path.
It is funny how, upon the first breath of Spring, the plans for “everything you want to do this summer” become laid. The long path of warm weather. A chance to enjoy. The scheme of being able to look back in September and recite to the class, “How I Spent my Summer.” 

Here we sit at the end of July. How has your plans come along so far? This is fair warning to the end of fair warming. So, maybe the roadtrip to Mount Rushmore isn’t going to materialize for this summer. But, a road trip somewhere will. Get out there! There isn’t much time.

There isn't time, there isn't time
To do the things I want to do,
With all the mountain-tops to climb,
And all the woods to wander through,
And all the seas to sail upon,
And everywhere there is to go,
And all the people, everyone
Who lives upon the earth , to know.
To know a few, and do a few,
And then sit down and make a rhyme
About the rest I want to do.
-Eleanor Farjeon

This post originally appeared on Steven Bennet's website Nice to See StevieB. Republished with permission.

Nice To See StevieB: Four-Eyes

By StevieB
 
After what seemed an insane amount of shopping, I have finally bought new glasses. This is my first pair of bi-focal lenses. And, it's the problem I'm having. I spend most of my day unable to see anything. I am constantly looking through the top part of my lens, designed for distance vision, to read and text. Then using the bottom section to drive. The optometrist did warn me, but really. At this point I would see better without glasses at all.

I will; however, keeping trying. But, if you see me without my glasses upon my face, you know not to inquire to their whereabouts. If you see me with my glasses on, I won't see you anyway. So I'll probably step on your foot. I'll apologize now.

Nice To See StevieB: Have A Nice Life

By StevieB

It is funny; how relationships work.

The more relationships you have, the more you have the opportunity to learn. Learn what works, what does not, and test in action how developed you are as a human. You also have the opportunity to repeat bad behaviors that only serve and self-protection, but create more harm.

This week I reconnected with a friend, completely by accident. And, by accident, I mean by me stepping out of my comfort zone. Monday, July 4th Independence Day It was 7 am, and I didn’t want to wake up the boyfriend next to me in bed. I was clicking away on Facebook, via my phone. Grumbling as I always do, about how I should just delete my account, as it serves to only one good purpose. That being tormenting my roommate by posting inappropriate photos on his timeline. Truly it’s my life’s work, teasing my best friend Mike. My mind wandered to how important he is to me, that we will be best friends for ever… then I started to roll back my life to other times I thought that. The feeling of safety that comes from have one friend that will never leave you. Then they do.

Jamie was the closest person to me for most of the nineties until 2002. Late fall, 2002. We decided to move to Dallas together, we lived together. We were inseparable. But, a lot of dark stuff began to happen. It was as if a black velvet shroud came to envelop him. Pulling him from my reach, grasping for empty air were he once stood. My Jeep Cherokee was packed and waiting as I sarcastically barked at him from the driveway, “have a nice life!” fully believing that he might be dead soon from drugs, or men, or both.

When some relationships end, a gaping hole seems to be the only evidence left where the other person is torn from your life. You have to function in your day-today tasks, picking up Chinese takeout, waiting for your number to be called at the DMV, all the while, this dark red wound is there, slowly scabbing over and healing. It took by brain and body so long to heal, it was just a couple of years ago that I opened my eyes and discovered that Mike was going to stand next to me, regardless of the weather. Soon, forgetting the pain of any past relationship.

I thought about my relationship with Mike, how oddly adult is was, treating each other with respect and using open communication, when I suddenly wished I had those mature skills back in Dallas, late fall, 2002. I entered Jamie’s name in to the Facebook search bar. Almost automatically, my mind not realizing what my hands were doing. In seconds his face popped up. “God… I thought you were dead?” I sent a message, “Uh. Hi there.” I am so not eloquent with the written word. Within seconds he responded with an avalanche of messages. Quickly we were speaking on the phone. We were Jamie and Steve again. But this time around, fourteen years later, it seems we have the maturity to function.

It is funny; how relationships work.

It took Mike to teach me how to be a friend, and I have taken those tools to heal a broken relationship from my past. But, Jamie seems to have taken my advice, he is having a nice life. 

This post originally appeared on Steven Bennet's website Nice to See StevieB. Republished with permission.

Nice To See StevieB: Lady In Orange

By StevieB

A whirlwind of emotions swept over me. A cyclone of unattached feelings, settling on anger. No, rage. The lady in orange, was discussing something with my Mother. I didn’t understand anything they were talking about, other than that I wasn’t normal. They were trying to figure out the easiest way to fix me. My Mother worked nights, so a meeting like this, was interfering with her sleep. She seemed irritated that the lady in orange needed to explain how to handle the issue. Later, she would tell my Father that the “N*igg*r should have just done her job and not bothered us.” The lady in orange explained all the details of my learning disabilities. The symptoms, of my falling behind in class was due to dyslexia. I watched as the two of them debated the problem. As I was a problem to be dealt with.

My rage grew as the lady flatly explained the new education program to deal with “special kids” like me. I kicked the metal legs of my chair. My Mother and the lady not hearing me, as I did not exist. They simply discussed the problem. My knuckles, white from gripping the metal chair, my rage finally snapped. I bolted from my chair, running through the classroom door, and down my school’s main hallway. Only the cool air that hit my face upon exiting the front of the school, stopped tears from flowing.

A vise-like hand suddenly grabbed my arm, swing me around. “What the hell are you doing?!” My Mother inches away from my face. The smell of Certs on her breath. “You are just talking about me like I don’t matter!” What I was trying to say was that decisions are being made for me, in front of me, but my opinion, my voice, never came to be heard. Her pure white nursing shoes squeaked on the tile as we marched back to the councilor’s office.

I have always avoided situations where it appears others are making decisions for me. Without, of course a simple acknowledgment to my human existence. I always feel as if I am on that cold metal chair my Mother slammed me into, barking a half-hearted apology to the lady in orange. My rage always builds, and explodes… wanting to run. Friendships have been tested, supervisors questioned, if the feeling of an arbitrary choice is made on my behalf.

It was the first really hot, summer day in Denver. We were enjoying a street fair in Downtown. The boyfriend and his best-friend wandered ahead of me. I chased the shady spots, as the boyfriend let the sun absorb into his caramel-brown skin. It was more golden. The way the rays of sun danced upon his broad shoulders. They enjoyed the chalk art drawn upon the sidewalks, I enjoyed this beautiful man, whom for some strange reason, chose me. 

At the end of the street fair, they kept walking. I tuned in their conversation. Ideas of what to do next being debated. It was casually decided to end our time at the street fair and go grab drinks at a popular bar nearby. They quickened the pace, as my heartbeat sped up. I was eight years old again. Overhearing a plan where I had no say. My fists clenched. Knuckles turning white. My vision narrowed. If I quickly turned the corner, would I be missed? I felt my Mother’s death grip on my arm. Rage boiled up, turning my face red. “I’m so sorry… what are we doing?” I purposely attempted to stop every word from being dipped in sarcasm. Feeling like my anger immediately turns me into an uncontrollable, line-crossing asshole. I stopped - - exhaled. I didn’t hear the response that was given me. I instead began to question myself how I could go from worshiping this beautiful boy in front of me to dragging up, and inserting unresolved rage into the situation? It really is why they call it unresolved anger. 

This post originally appeared on Steven Bennet's website Nice to See StevieB. Republished with permission.

Nice To See StevieB: Hunter

By StevieB

It was a crisp autumn morning. A sea of flannel and Carhartt covered the field. It had been cleared of its crop recently, the corn harvested. In the early morning light, hunters gathered, the fall air of Colorado showing itself on the breath. Anticipation also hung in the air. This was the first time all season that the hunters would be able to raise their rifles to fire the polished steel at the migratory geese that pass over Colorado.

I stood at the edge of this group of men. They in their flannel, me in a Wal-Mart knockoff of an OP Ski jacket. It was too large for my slight frame, as the jacket was a hand-me-down, twice removed. I held my rifle in proper stance in the crook of my arm. At twelve years old this was my first trip out. To the field, with the men of flannel. The thought of pulling a trigger, and possibly killing a beautiful creature sickened me. So much so, I had not slept a wink the night before. Throughout Hunter Safety Class, the training class my Father said would “toughen me up” I asked, “why do we want to kill innocent animals?” The teacher shaking his head explaining a Copenhagen infused version of Makumba Matata.

The other boys in the crowed, all seemed excited. The opportunity of finally being able to use their steel sticks of death was all they spoke about. I slowly side-stepped away from the other kids. It was a church event, so a long history of not being “one of the good Mormon boys” was already established. It seemed like hours had gone by since my Brother and I were dumped off in the field, as our Father wandered off to speak to other Bishops from other Wards.

As I waited for geese to rain from the sky, I began to let my mind wander. It wandered to the very first time I saw a marching majorette in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. One day I was going to be the first male, professional majorette. That was going to be my profession. Majoretting. Having everyone focused on me. As I stood in the field, I decided to practice my skills. Using my rifle as my baton. I began to spin my rifle in my hand. Just as I got the feel of the spinning rifle in my hand, my concentration was broken with a loud, “Brother Bennett!! Brother Bennett! Your Son…..!!!” I looked up to see several people, backing up from me and calling for my Father. My father appeared from the crowd of flannel; running over and grabbing the gun from my hand in mid-swing.
We marched to the truck as my Father screamed. How could I do such a thing after my costly training in Hunter Safety class. How could I embarrass him in front of his church? I screamed back that killing beautiful birds was just wrong. As he slammed the truck door, and expelled me from ever joining church events, both my Father and I learned a lot about each other. I would never be the Son he wanted. He would never be the Dad I needed. But, I would grow up to be the first-best male majorette in the world. That would teach him. 

This post originally appeared on Steven Bennet's website Nice to See StevieB. Republished with permission.

Nice To See StevieB: That Time I Was Coached

By StevieB

It was spring time. When I lost my virginity. Well, the first time it was Spring as well. Kevin Allen and I, were rummaging around a pile of tossed out items left behind from tenants who were evicted out of a house next door to Kevin. Pulling open a box, the sun just beginning to set behind one of Colorado’s famous “fourteeners” the local nick-name for a series of mountains surpassing fourteen thousand feet tall. From our small town these mountains were on the edge of the world. The box gave way, and Kevin and I peered into the box. The golden-setting sun highlighting a naked man’s torso on the cover of a porn mag. A gay porn mag. We both attempted to play it cool, yet this was difficult as both our hearts had stopped beating. It wasn’t long before we sat in his bedroom viewing the stack of magazines noticing the rising bulges in each other’s jeans. By the time it was completely dark out, I was welcomed inside of Kevin. Forced deep inside of him to scratch an itch he had just realized needing scratching.

It was also Spring when I lost my “other” virginity. Just last Spring to be precise. From a dashing smile on a rugby player. Built like a brick house, solid in build and mind. He corrected me, quickly when we began to chat. “Not rugby, I play Lacrosse. A coach actually.” He said with a solid voice that made me melt. I then knew how Lacrosse coaches were supposed to sound. He was a straight-up and grounded man. He was straight-up too, about being Trans.

It was in my bedroom when I pulled the tee-shirt from his massive frame. The cotton of the shirt didn’t stand a chance against his rippled and veiny biceps. I stuttered a little. Just as I had done with Kevin. Imagining the unknown. “How would I do this?” With Kevin, it was easier. I knew all the parts; they were the same as mine. I knew I wanted to be inside him, I knew how to accomplish the task. But…. with the Coach, I… had never seen, I mean not in real life… a vagina. “oh god.” My eyes darted everywhere. “Just relax.” The Lacrosse Coach said. We’ll take it easy. This was unfamiliar to me, as I am always the one in charge in the bedroom. Me the one to ensure my partner to relax. Now I wanted to be the one in charge, but had to listen for instruction. I listened intently to how the device worked. I practiced. The Coach praised me for picking up so quickly, assuring me I was a natural. 

It. Was. Amazing. I finally figured out what the fuss was all about. Why those vagina things were so popular. Of course, only if they’re attached to a fireplug of a man. I mean, it truly helps if your vagina is attached to a solid muscle-bound Lacrosse player. If you’re gay, and had no intention in ever seeing one in real life. 

This post originally appeared on Steven Bennet's website Nice to See StevieB. Republished with permission.

Nice To See StevieB: New York

By StevieB

The most terrifying feeling in the world is the moment when the plane touches down. You are gracefully sailing through the sky inside a metal tube, then suddenly you're jarred forward as the retro-boosters, or whatever they're called, instantaneously jerk you forward as the plane attempts to land. You feel the rubber tires skidding out of control, attempting to gain traction. A deafening metallic screech fill your ears. The floor underfoot feels as if it will tear away any second.

Every time I fly, I dread this sensation. Yet, I would never let this terror, as I see it, stop me from flying. Even though every time I take an airplane trip, I have night terrors for weeks. It's simple to understand that you can't have a vacation. A trip via airplane, without this 60 seconds of absolute soul scratching terror. It is the good stuff that happens on vacation you have remember. The bad part, fades away.

It's been a week since I took a plane to New York. The purpose of the trip was to attend a reception for my ex, Dalton. A wedding reception, for his wedding to his partner. Who he married. He with his new, me with my new. Although; is wasn't that long ago the it was he and I getting married. Well, long compared to the life-span of a Great Dane. If we had received a Great Dane as a wedding gift, Duke, as we would have named him, would probably, even with the best veterinary care, died four years ago. But, short compared to my memory.

Please don't get me wrong, I am not in any way pining away for a relationship from ancient history. It would be like me wishing I could wander the halls of The Great Library of Alexandria. Nor am I discontented. I have finally found someone to whom I mesh with in an astounding amount of layers. So, I bought a $700 suit and showed up on time. My hand in the hand of this amazing individual. What I am asking is, can you imagine standing up in front of your family and friends and make a promise for ever and always, then live long enough to see the other half make that promise to another. As the reception began, I began to hear the lowering of landing gear; quiet at first, then louder. Know-one else in the reception hall seemed to hear it. Suddenly a thud. I was thrust forward as shaking rocked the room. Every word; every speech, drowned out by a mechanical screeching sound. Rubber tires attempting to gain traction. My heart being stopped as it gets forced out of my chest. Then... the tires get traction... The room slowed and the mechanical scream subsided as quickly as it started.

I fear landings. More than I let on. They terrify me. They leave me a trembling child. Yet, if I avoided the landing, I would miss sailing through the sky. I get enormous joy knowing that Dalton is truly happy. That I shared a small part of his affirmation to Brian, legally his husband. The bad part will fade away. 

This post originally appeared on Steven Bennet's website Nice to See StevieB. Republished with permission.

Nice To See StevieB: Steve In The Box

By StevieB

I have been attempting to eat in a healthier manner. This is a far cry from the back-lash of my stuff-everything-into-my-face-hole policy I employed after the Speedo clad cruise in February. There has been an increase of dinning on the Caesar salad at restaurants, and finding myself heading to vegetarian / Vegan place to dine. On my own. And enjoying it.

This is of course not calculating my dark, deep secret. My addiction.

I have been hiding this addiction from my friends and family. My complete chemical addiction to Jack in The Box. An addiction that I am powerless to conquer. As an example, I'll will give you last Friday: For lunch I ate my healthy prepared salad to get me through evening. I then left work after ten p.m. and made a straight path for Jack in The Box for a teriyaki bowl and three egg rolls. Which, I ate sitting in my Jeep in the parking lot of my gym. After happy egg roll time, I did go have a massively great work out, so there is that. After the gym I headed to the bar which I then closed. As I'm friends with the entire staff, I hung out after closing to watch a series of strange events, including a round of "foreskin shots. " Better if you don't ask. I was neither the shot glass, nor the drinker. But, I finally, in my life, feel cheated in that I don't have a built in shot glass.


 
Around four a.m. I headed towards the ranch. On my way I stopped off at... you guested it, Jack in The Box. Consuming a front seat full of horrible, tasty items like a bear eating a small goat. If the bear drove a well-apointed, yet dented Jeep.

So my secret is out. I require my friends to help me kick this self-destructive habit. A habit I'm powerless to stop. Jack. I'm braking up with you. I know you bring me instant happiness. I know how much you love me, yet it's a calorie filled empty love. You're just no good for me. 

This post originally appeared on Steven Bennet's website Nice to See StevieB. Republished with permission.

Nice To See StevieB: Moving On

By StevieB

It’s been fun. No, really is been a lot of fun.

Mike and I moved in together on May 16th 2015. If you are a longtime reader of my blog, you know this move was a major change in my life. I ended a nine-year relationship, and was throwing off the binds that a toxic relationship can wrap around your soul. Suddenly I was free. It wasn’t on the level of Celie gaining freedom in The Color Purple, but for me, it felt like that.

We will soon be in our current apartment for a year. This is the place I had in my mind every night when I dreamed of escaping an unhealthy relationship. My vision of peace. All that time, painting in my mind how my own place would look like, how it would feel. Now, a year has passed, and the escape is just a memory. It is now the time for the roommate and I to move on with our lives. We have learned a lot in one year. The best lesson is how well we get along. Suddenly we were best friends, and most beneficial critics.

After a drama-filled search we have chosen a new apartment. The only thing we did not like about the current place is how far away it is from the city-center. The new place is close to downtown. Literally across the street from the train line, and a station. The only bad news is that we can’t move in until the end of June. I mean, our current lease is not over until the end of June, but I can’t wait for the new place.

I however, am already missing the feeling of the current place. It feels like Miss Celie, after leaving the farm gets a swanky apartment where she can do whatever she wants; whenever she likes. Now it is time to move on. Yes, the new place will be better. Yes, I’m now dating a wonderful and caring guy. It’s a simple matter of a chapter closing. For many years I dreamt of my own home. I imagined how it would feel. Now, we move on. It’s funny; life. If you live long enough, you’ll do everything. 

This post originally appeared on Steven Bennet's website Nice to See StevieB. Republished with permission.

Nice To See StevieB: TMBBE

By StevieB

“I need to think up a nickname.” I said from the kitchen, directed to Mike, my eligible roommate, sitting on the Super-squishy-elle-shaped sofa of love. Mike cocked his head. “I mean when I blog. I’m sure I’ll be referring to The most beautiful boy ever more often… if all goes well.” Sitting at the bar, the most beautiful boy ever raised his head from his MacBook. He gazed over at me. “I have a name…” I then had to explain my blogging history. How “Fuzzy” my Ex was called Fuzzy for blogging purposes. How the names get changed to protect the innocent. The most beautiful boy ever, continued to look blankly at me over his glasses. “What did you nickname the apparently long string of twenty-two year olds that came before me?” Mike, my eligible roommate, laughed from the couch.

I can tell when people have not read my blog entries. I usually prefer this; when people have not read my past blog posts. Nothing is worse than when I’m half-way through an exciting story in regard to the life and times of StevieB, when they correct me on a detail as they remember it from my on-line diary. They most likely are correct, as my memory distorts as my dramatic retelling gets… dramatic. Other times it is comforting. I don’t need to tell Patrick how ten grade was for me, he already knows. He read the transcript.
 
But, for the long string of twenty year olds, I honestly couldn’t tell, nor remember, if he read about them, along with nicknames, in my blog. I honestly don’t remember blogging about them… other than the Olympic Swimmer. The Lebanese wrestler, whom I was afraid to talk too… The Amazing Mexican. Oh, God.. The Ginger… Mike, my eligible roommate, noticed how I began to drift off in a haze of ex nicknames. He snapped me back, just in time for me to lock eyes with my most beautiful boy ever. Head turned a slight to the left pondering his choice in me. “You could call him The Indian?” Mike blurted. “That’s raciest” I snapped. I guess your nickname for the blog will have to be, The Most Beautiful Boy Ever. TMBBE?

This post originally appeared on Steven Bennet's website Nice to See StevieB. Republished with permission.

Nice To See StevieB: Purgatory

By StevieB
 
If there is such a thing as Purgatory, in the afterlife, I know what my Purgatory will look like. If it is like the Catholics describe it; a place of suffering inhabited by the souls of sinners who are expiating their sins before going to heaven, then I can tell what it looks like.

My personal purgatory will be spent wandering around the prepared foods department of a Whole foods.

Hours are spent with me dazed and confused moving from one bar to the next. Approaching the soup bar to squish the ladle down in over-cooked chicken noodle soup, or white bean chili. Then, to the deli counter to gaze upon the chicken wraps. Starving for something, yet not sure how the normal people of the world make a decision in a sea of choices.

Last night, I approached the area with the intent to pick up dinner. The boyfriend quickly made some healthy choices, and disappeared. Leaving me to fend for myself. I had the look of an eight-year-old, who after hiding in the middle of a clothing rack full of women’s blouses, emerged to find his Mom, gone. I was alone in Hell Foods. I entered the Whole Foods convincing everyone around me that it was a “soup night.” Only to find none of the eighteen dozen soups to be quite right. Maybe salad…..? no. It was either malaise, or my fear of food commitment that sent me into the desert for a plastic-boxed food vision quest. 

What seemed to be hours later the boyfriend called out from the edge of the desert. “Ready?” He asked munching on kelp-kale fun crisps. I left with a tiny container of tomato soup. My soul still hovering over the olive bar. 

This post originally appeared on Steven Bennet's website Nice to See StevieB. Republished with permission.

Nice To See StevieB: Four-Eyes

By StevieB

After what seemed an insane amount of shopping, I have finally bought new glasses. This is my first pair of bi-focal lenses. And, it's the problem I'm having. I spend most of my day unable to see anything. I am constantly looking through the top part of my lens, designed for distance vision, to read and text. Then using the bottom section to drive. The optometrist did warn me, but really. At this point I would see better without glasses at all.

I will; however, keeping trying. But, if you see me without my glasses upon my face, you know not to inquire to their whereabouts. If you see me with my glasses on, I won't see you anyway. So I'll probably step on your foot. I'll apologize now. 

This post originally appeared on Steven Bennet's website Nice to See StevieB. Republished with permission.

Nice To See StevieB: So Very

By StevieB

I went to see a new musical last weekend. I hadn't gone to enjoy legitimate theater in a while, so it was a great treat. It was a classic tale, finally turned into a musical. A story as epic as it is heartbreaking to twisted level that Shakespeare himself would of told.

Heathers.

Yes, the original dark and demented movie that started all modern writers down the long list of teenage angst movies. The 1989 classic was the cardinal rule on how a generation would see teenage life and hold a mirror up to highschool itself. I waited in anticipation how this story, the world of the late eighties would be re-told in a musical format. I sat in the audience, awaiting the start of the show like a resident of Scotland eager to see how Macbeth would portray the motherland.

As the epic fable began to unfolded, I realized that I was trapped in Happy Days. Not... Happy days, but the television show. See, the TV show Happy Days was made in the 1970's for an audience hungry with nostalgic notions of the 1950's. Middle aged folks could reconnect with their "happy days." I was unaware that my excitement in seeing this play was to see my high school days played in front of me. I am now in that age bracket where my teenage angst is a historic reference. Tales of my youth to be told by kids born the year Windows '95 came out.

The play itself was decent enough. The costume designer obviously had never seen a single episode of Saved By The Bell. You would think that there would be decent Guess or Z Cavaricci jeans at local thrift stores. I had to physically restrain myself from walking up on stage and re-tight rolling the male leads jeans cuffs. But, all things considered, I bet viewers of Happy Days thought that Fonzie was dressed in a non-authentic manner. So, I silently judged the cheap knock-offs of the shoulder -padded blazers, and off brand jeans to enjoy my youth played out in front of me. 

This post originally appeared on Steven Bennet's website Nice to See StevieB. Republished with permission.

Nice To See StevieB: Run Towards Something

By StevieB

Over dinner a friend was detailing the cycle she was in over breaking up, then getting back together with her girlfriend. This was a relationship where it seems impossible to create a solid, healthy connection, and seemed impossible to end and moving forward. It was explained as an endless cycle of mistrust and conflict. No matter how painful the situation was, it was explained that it felt safer to continue the conflict than simply committing to ending the connection. Like the idea of being single, ending a toxic relationship was simply life-ending terror. More terrifying then the endless emotional abuse, relationship rollercoaster that was over-taking her life.

This puzzled me. Like ending a relationship somehow is an indication of failure. Like having the strength to let go is less important than the perception of the outside world judging the relationship. It truly isn't a case of running away from a "good fight" it is a case of running towards a "good choice."

“You don’t need strength to let go of something. What you really need is understanding.” ~Guy Finley

We have a tendency to crave and depend on external emotional support, we get this primarily from our relationships. Then, when we need emotional support because of our relationship, we feel there is nowhere to turn. We wait and re-live the same damaging issues over and over. Somehow expecting another external means of support,  so that we don't have to be strong. This is a means of bypassing the perceived lack of inner strength to rely on someone else’s. Meanwhile our inner voice continues  to scream that it is all wrong. This starts a vicious cycle of self-abuse. Feeling to weak to change your own situation, secretly wanting someone else to fix it.  Giving the conclusion that the problems and obstacles appear to be insurmountable.

What is needed is a possibility. A vision of what life could be. That safety and happiness can grow away from the confines of the relationship. Of any relationship, and on our own terms. This leads to a simple choice. A rational decision to seek happiness, and go search of it. The fear of ending a relationship is soon replaced by a unshakeable conviction that there was something better out there, and an unwillingness to ignore that knowledge. This rarely comes form external forces, but a commitment to one's own well-being. It’s about finding clarity on what you want instead. Giving yourself a goal to go toward rather than run away.

This post originally appeared on Steven Bennet's website Nice to See StevieB. Republished with permission.

Nice To See StevieB: Looking Ruff at the Airport

By StevieB

I think I've stumbled upon a great design idea. Elizabethan Travel Pillows.

My job has me walking around the airport all day long. Lately I've noticed something. Well, beside the fact that people will attempt to pull their luggage through you like you are Patrick Swayze in Ghost. Although he would never receive roller-bag marks on his new Nordstom wing tips. What I've really noticed is that everyone who travels has a "C" shaped travel pillow wrapped around their neck.

So, here's my big design idea. Elizabethan collars, that are also travel pillows. Think of it, how great would you look heading towards your gate like a mid-sixteenth century to the mid-seventeenth century noble-person? This new fashion trend will leave our airports looking like the fashion houses of the high Elizabeth era. Families heading off to visit grandma, will look like the cast from Love's Labour's Lost. Maybe this would spark a whole fad. Lute shaped travel bags and the like. It's going to be huge. 

This post originally appeared on Steven Bennet's website Nice to See StevieB. Republished with permission.

Nice To See StevieB: Adventure Time

By StevieB

I realized that I am an old gay man. This moment in my life occurred as I stood in front of the soda machine of my local Panara Bread. I was sporting my new cardigan sweater, sweats, and Uggs. I was dressed for comfort. Let's just say, that I would not be snapping a new Grindr profile pic in the Pandara bathroom. In my comfort driven ensemble, I approached the wide selection of iced teas. I was looking for a nice herbal tea. As it was 8:30 at night, I didn't want a tea that would keep me awake all night. I glanced over and spotted the Caffeine Free Diet Pepsi. Great! I could have it all!

This is when it hit me; in the recent past my nights were filled with dancing, boozing, and urban spelunking. Now I'm excited about caffeine free drinks.

That's it! I need to get back to scaring myself. I've gotten way too comfortable. I need to get back into doing things I love. Thinks that require risk. That's why I chose the fully caffeinated soda. I will drink the caffeine and go have an adventure. 

This post originally appeared on Steven Bennet's website Nice to See StevieB. Republished with permission.

Looking Ruff at the Airport

By StevieB

I think I've stumbled upon a great design idea. Elizabethan Travel Pillows.

My job has me walking around the airport all day long. Lately I've noticed something. Well, beside the fact that people will attempt to pull their luggage through you like you are Patrick Swayze in Ghost. Although he would never receive roller-bag marks on his new Nordstom wing tips. What I've really noticed is that everyone who travels has a "C" shaped travel pillow wrapped around their neck.

So, here's my big design idea. Elizabethan collars, that are also travel pillows. Think of it, how great would you look heading towards your gate like a mid-sixteenth century to the mid-seventeenth century noble-person? This new fashion trend will leave our airports looking like the fashion houses of the high Elizabeth era. Families heading off to visit grandma, will look like the cast from Love's Labour's Lost. Maybe this would spark a whole fad. Lute shaped travel bags and the like. It's going to be huge. 

This post originally appeared on Steven Bennet's website Nice to See StevieB. Republished with permission.