how many more carrie bradshaw references can i come up with?

now, having woken up a little, i share with you this week's column, courtesy of the fine folks over at baltimore gay life.

Homebody
by Robert

I went to bed at 11 o’clock last night. I don’t tell you this because I think it’s strange; in fact it’s become quite normal. Back when I could afford to be a little crazier, back in college and grad school, I went to bed at two, three, four in the morning. Then again, I didn’t have to show up to class until 10, and some days not at all. Those carefree times are over. My shining, happy face has to be sitting at my desk by 8:30am (ok, so between 8:45 and 9) five days a week, ready to work on projects, sit in meetings. I didn’t want to admit it to myself for a long time, but I’ve become that guy. I’ve become the guy who wants to get in bed at nine, is reading a book by ten, and is asleep before midnight.

My friend Ashli, a foppish 22-year-old, has recently stopped bothering to ask whether or not I’ll go out with her on a weeknight, something I’m less likely to do than adopt a Cambodian baby and name it Maddox. I scoff at the idea, laughing as I tell her, “Go out? Ashli, it’s Tuesday. I don’t think so.” I then adjust the half-glasses I have on a chain around my neck and achingly hoist myself up out of my easy chair, grasping my gray metal walker, grumbling to myself as I amble to the bathroom. Ok, so that’s an exaggeration. I like to think that I haven’t just grown up and gotten tired. I like to think that my priorities have changed. So what if those priorities now involve a full eight hours of sleep a night? I don’t dye my hair blue anymore, either. People change.

It’s not just that I’ve joined the ranks of corporate America, or that too many years of debauchery have taken their toll. Sure, that’s part of it. When I moved to the east coast and didn’t have to drive an hour to get to a gay bar I thought I’d finally made it. But lately it seems like I’ve discovered a whole new option, one that’s been hidden from me by designer rum promoters and cigarette vendors: there are things to do besides going to gay bars. I know, it sounds shocking. But really. Apparently there are gads of activities I could’ve been doing this whole time: going to the farmers’ market, having long, gossipy dinners with friends, going hiking, or reading, or writing…the list just goes on and on. I guess it just never occurred to me to do anything besides go to the gay bar—if it was there, and available to me within walking distance for the first time in my life, why on earth would I want to go anywhere else? Now, though, I find myself going weeks at a time without setting foot inside a gay bar; I used go out every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday night. Sometimes during the week, too.

What’s changed? Why have I suddenly decided to pursue so many other interests? I’m certainly not drinking a lot less than I ever was, nor am I spending much less money. I think it’s because what’s become important to me, as cheesy as it may sound, are the people I’ve chosen to share my life with. It’s a lot easier to talk to someone when you’re not forcing yourself to dance to wordless techno (did I really just say the phrase “wordless techno?” God, I really do need that walker), shouting yourself hoarse over a droning, thudding bass. The older I get, the more I realize that the best things in life usually come at you quietly; if you’re distracted you’re probably going to miss them.

The next in my ever-expanding catalog of adventures is a Labor Day trip to a gay-owned bed and breakfast in West Virginia. As other gay Baltimorians flock to the beach, my boyfriend and I will head west, ready to escape ambulances, muggers, checkout girls, traffic. Just as I was congratulating myself on yet another non-gay-bar excursion, though, it hit me: I might not be spending as much time in gay bars, but I haven’t gone that far from the beaten path. Think about it: going with my boyfriend to a gay-owned bed and breakfast; going for dinner with a bunch of queer friends--I haven’t taken myself out of the gay ghetto, I’ve just changed its address.

Maybe this should tell me something. Maybe I’ve been too hard on the gay bar. After all, people at the gay bar are just looking for the same community I’ve been finding elsewhere for a few months. So I won’t stop going to the gay bar completely; I might even venture out on a weeknight sometime. Just as long as I’m in bed by 11.