Elegy For Innocence (Or: If You See My Youth, Please Return It C.O.D.)

"Feeling old by twenty-one,
Never thought my day would come." -Tori Amos, "Jackie's Strength"


I never wanted to become one of "those" queers.

We all know the type. The once-vivacious gay man who ages into a bitter, cynical old queen, firmly planted to the end barstool in his Member's Only jacket, lost in a swirling haze of menthol smoke and perpetual cattiness. He drinks entirely too much and peppers his conversations (when people actually talk to him) with exasperated and dramatic sighs. He mourns the passing of a simpler, kinder time, and desperately despises anyone younger, or in shape, or with a full head of hair. He feels himself a hopeless victim of the times: another useless, aging fag that made it through...only to disappear into the woodwork of a ratty old bar.

This afternoon, while waiting for my doctor, I decided to weigh myself. As I did, I looked into the mirror over the scale and caught glimpse of a strange and maturing man. Truth be told, it took me a moment to realize who the hell it even was. It wasn't until I looked at the scale (156 -- oy vey!) and back up again that it hit me like a truckload of Botox.

It's me. And I'm suddenly old.

What happened to that sloe-eyed, baby-faced young thing who could walk into a bar and turn heads and flirt coyly (I've always been more coquettish than slutty, though some might argue that point) with whatever handsome face that caught his attention? Where is that stylish yet approachable twenty-something who could hold a dozen scotch-and-sodas and still be coherent and lusty enough to dance on a stage (yes, I did that once)? What became of the happy youthful guy that sang bad karaoke and knew how to seduce "Days of Our Lives" actors (yeah, I did that too)?

Somewhere along the way, I've misplaced him.

Don't misread me here. I have no desire whatsoever to revisit those drunken, bar-centric days of yore. It is the essence of that young man that I truly miss.

He of course manifested himself in other ways too. He went to an audition a few days after arriving in L.A., with no agent, headshot, or resume, and proceeded to impress the director so much that he was invited to a callback. He didn't settle for sub-par day jobs that didn't wholly cater to his talent, his dreams, his creative strengths. He looked at life with new, fresh eyes in every single moment and with every single breath. He believed that, despite it all, people are inherently good, suffering is conceivably expendable, and The Golden Rule is the only one, true guideline to which one should adhere one's life.

My initial, gut-level response was, Maybe this happens to all gay men. But then I look at some of the gay men older than me that I know personally (Johnny, Tony, Peter). And when I scrutinize them, I don't see this grieving loss off innocence and surrender. I see vibrant, handsome, compassionate men who aren't battling regret, lost opportunities, and/or fading looks.

So my conclusion is simply No, I don't think this is a "gay thing". I think it's a human thing. That old man in the bar could be any of us, of any gender, of any sexual identity. The stresses of growing older are not discriminating. The gay men older than me that I examined probably went through these same thoughts at some point, and, if they didn't, they are fortunate indeed. All the more reason to look up to and admire them, which I do. Greatly. The courage it takes to investigate our spent youth, and then calmly put it away, is something terrifically commendable.

Another interesting point is that I've always felt old. Even when I was that starry-eyed kid, I felt old inside. It's just that now the outside seems to be catching up to the inside, and that scares me. It's natural, I know. Growing old is matter-of-course. Sure it is. Tell that to the 90% of Hollywood that has had plastic surgery. Tell that to the septuagenarian who is full of anxiety because he/she can't even think young anymore. Tell that to the bitter old queen at the end of the bar.

There is, however, the possibility that I did not lose my youth. Perhaps it's still there, buried beneath the rubble of a life not fully lived. A few weeks ago, my mother-in-law Phyllis turned 70 (and, may I add, a damn fiiiiiiiine 70). John asked her how she felt about it, and her response was this: "It's just my body that's 70. I feel the same inside as I felt at 20 or 40. I've learned more, definitely, but I'm still the same on the inside. The mirror is the only thing that reminds me that I'm growing old."

So, after all, maybe my youth is not M.I.A. I hold fast to the idea that it's still somewhere inside of me, metamorphosing into something more age-appropriate to the old carcass that now adorns it.

Maybe by the time I'm 70, I'll feel young again.