The Dose

Whoah. It appears that yours truly can be found on the South End Open Market website. I only know this because a friend pointed it out to me. I’m incredibly impressed that my friend noticed this because I don’t think I’d notice it myself unless I was asked to play a game of “Where’s Andy?” with this image.

I know, I know… “God damnit, Andy! It’s that god damn blue flannel god damn shirt again! God damnit!”

Well, I’m proud to report that I no longer own this shirt. (in fact it allows me to date the above image.) I forfeited ownership of this shirt on Sunday May 4th, 2008. I know this because that’s the day that me and my “men’s image consultant” embarked on a very personal four and a half hour journey within the confines of a dressing room at Macy’s. I wore the shirt that day as a symbol of both my time of need and the changing of the guard that was about to happen. At this point, both elbows had worn through completely.

Yes, you read that right. A men’s image consultant. Yes, I’m a grown man and I can’t shop for myself. Does this really surprise you coming from the owner of the Clothes Matrix?

I returned to my apartment that day with five bags brimming with new clothes. I was literally sore from the activity. I tore up the blue flannel shirt, but I used my scissors to cut out a perfect square swatch of cloth to remember it by. I have this grand dream of doing this with all of my old favorites, over time having enough swatches to sew together a full shirt with them.

In the future I hope to share more about my personal shopping experience and why I felt the need to take such extreme measures. But for now you must excuse me while I go sue the South End Open Market for using my image without consent.

If you move your eyes to the top of this page you’ll see a visual reminder that I enjoy an occasional pedicure. I’m not a sissy. I’m merely evolved.

I’ve never caught myself thinking or saying, “Oh boy, I really need a pedicure!” But I view it as a fun, occasional, pampering treat. I deserve it. And if I’m being really honest about it, I probably enjoy telling people that I get pedicures more than I enjoy actually getting them.

But I can’t just stroll into Ye Olde Pedicure Shoppe and get service. The salons are set up in a way that are socially challenging for me. I walk in. There is never anyone manning the front desk, if there’s a front desk at all, and then a voice from the ether angrily screeches, “What you want?!” I can’t tell who’s asking this of me. All I know is that ten heads are now turned in my direction. Since I don’t know who’s addressing me I don’t know who to look at in response. And it doesn’t help that everyone is now staring at me, waiting to see what this guy is going to say.

This is the only part of the whole experience that is hard for me. “Pedicure?” I say, pointing to me feet. Saying it as a question is actually a defeat. I should just say it as a statement and not like I’m asking a favor. Come to think of it I probably don’t need to point to my feet either.

From there on it’s a breeze. Well, with the exception of the part where they scrub the bottom of my feet and I squeal like a little piggy and bite on my complimentary copy of US Weekly in a failed attempt to quiet myself. They usually laugh at me. And there’s always the same obligatory joke. “What color?” they ask with a smile. “Very funny,” I reply.

I’ve gotten pedicures at several salons in the South End before where the male clientele is more of a norm than a rarity. But in my push to get outside my comfort zone, I decided it was time to up the bar. It was time to get a pedicure in… South Boston. Yes, Southie. Right smack on Broadway.

Getting myself through the front door took massive resolve. I spent fifteen minutes loitering outside the front of the salon, pretending to talk on my cell phone, trying to scope the place out a bit. I think what finally got me inside was that I was starting to get noticed. I had to either go in now or abandon the mission altogether. In I went.

Needless to say I gave the three older Southie ladies already in chairs quite a treat. “I wish my husband would come here! His toe nails are like talons in the bed!” “I bet you’re going on vacation and you want your tootsies to look nice!” “I think it’s great that a guy would get a pedicure!” “Will we see here next month too?”

I blush. But I’m also kind of loving it. And to boot it’s probably the best pedicure I’ve ever received.

After I pay up and tip (another awkward process)… I approach the front door and pause. I look left. I look right. I repeat. The coast is clear. I fling open the door and sprint to my car.. and these little piggies run all the way home.

(Entry proudly subtitled: I Got a Pedicure in Southie and Didn’t Get My Ass Kicked.)

It’s been a hard and pivotal 2-3 years for me. A serious long-term relationship came to an end amidst a great deal of emotional angst and regret. I pried myself from my cocoon of an apartment and moved downtown. And after over 10 years at the same company, in a position and career track that was making me incredibly unhappy, I took a chance on a new job that has to date offered me more than I originally thought it could.

These things aren’t easy for me. That’s a bit of an understatement actually. The things I find hard in my life are the things that other people take as everyday conveniences. And I’ve spent my entire life hiding these things from everyone. Secretly managing them by myself; alone. It’s affected my mood. My behavior. My decisions. How I interact with other people. How I don’t interact with other people.

If a man spends his entire life on an island he might not know that another world exists. He may even turn down life-savers thrown his way. He’s fine on his island. It’s all he’s known. In fact this is his island. “Thanks, I’m good,” he says as he waves boats past, hurrying them along, although he secretly wishes they’d anchor and stay for a little while. But the reality of the situation is that as safe as he may feel, he’s the only one on the island. And a human being can only tolerate that for so many years before he finally breaks.

It will always be the great sadness of my life that it took the particular events that it took for me to finally break. But I did. I broke in dramatic fashion. And against every instinct in my core, I finally took the life-saver.

So what now? Never in my life have I worked so hard. Along the way long held life views have been shattered. Past behavior has been owned up to and better yet explained. Metrics of success have been re-evaluated. Psychological muscles hardened and stiff from decades of strain are finally learning to relax. I think it’s just the beginning.

There’s an uncomfortable urgency to all of this. Like I’ve woken up from a deep sleep to find myself on an asphalt track with everyone several laps ahead of me. I desperately want to catch up to everyone else but I don’t know if it’s even possible at this point. I’m still wiping the sleep from my eyes and shaking the pins and needles out of my feet.

But as my feet ache and my head throbs, in my moments of doubt and desperation, all I have to do is think of one thing: If I weren’t here, I’d still be on the island. What my world would still look like if that were the case is a much more painful and regrettable existence than this could ever be. I pick up the pace.

And if I’m lucky enough. If I’m smart enough. I’ll come to realize sooner rather than later that no one on this track is actually racing each other after all. They’re just running.

There’s a large square parquet floor, a cash bar manned by two women in black vests, a DJ, and circular tables with dark maroon table clothes. It feels a lot like a wedding reception and I’m having those classic wedding reception feelings. I’m looking at my watch a lot. My feet hurt. And I have no intention of getting on the dance floor. I haven’t danced in years.

I’m leaning against a retractable wall that separates this ballroom from the one next to it. I’m sipping on my coke, slowly, trying to make it last. It’s an art, appearing incredibly involved in an act or a place when under the surface lies a completely different story.

At least I’m a bit calmer now. My heart is no longer racing like it was when I first entered the Holiday Inn Express 30 minutes ago. I was terrified I would get questioned. “Sir, can I help you find something?” A question I don’t want to have to answer. This fear causes me to walk straight past the front desk in an act of feigned confidence. I walk what feels like a mile down the wrong side of the hotel before I finally backtrack and find the ballroom.

Now, I am the party gargoyle. But it’s ok, I’m soaking it all in. I’m surprised by the number of couples that are here, which is pretty cool considering I thought this was going to be somewhat of a meat market. The attendance is impressive too. About 100 people so far and they’re continuing to stream in. Another false notion is that I assumed there would be food here. I actually had envisioned a buffet of some kind. Not the case.

“I like to move it, move it!!” The DJ has been spinning for a while but this song is the first one that brings people out of their chairs and onto the dance floor. The bass threatens to disrupt my bowels. It takes right now, this visual of everyone on the dance floor at the same time in such proximity to each other, to make me cognizant of where I am.

I’m at a BBW Party. An event for “BBWs, BHMs, their friends, and admirers.” For the uninitiated, a BBW is a Big Beautiful Woman. A BHM is a Big Handsome Man. I am neither of these. I don’t have any friends here. And I would not exactly classify myself as an admirer either. But the night is young.

For now I will continue to do a stellar job of holding up this retractable wall. Someone has to do it.

Every time it looks like someone is walking in my direction my heart jumps. I am convinced they’re coming over to initiate a conversation with me. This is never the case, people are simply walking to the bar or the bathroom. But, whoah. I realize what I’m doing. I’m assuming that just because I’m not a BB-anything that I must be a prized possession in this environment. “Check out that size 38 against the wall. I’ve got first dibs ladies! Growwwl!”

How self-centered of me. I feel bad about it. It’s never fun to uncover an unattractive truth about yourself. Turns out I’m a BBJ. A Big Beautiful Jerk.

I head to the bathroom, more for the change of scenery than to use the facilities. As I’m drying off my hands a guy strikes up a conversation with me.

“I don’t mean to be forward but I saw you in the ballroom. You here by yourself?”
“Yeah.”
“Why don’t you come to our table, I’ll introduce you to some people.”
“Sure. Thanks. That’s really nice of you.”
“Well, I was in your shoes a few months ago. I remember how I felt at my first one of these.”

Dan walks me back to his table and introduces me to 1 other guy and 3 women sitting at his table.

Thrilled to not be standing against the wall anymore I’m coming to life and chatting it up with these people. But I’m getting the third degree. Are you single? Are you Jewish? Where do you live? Where do you work? How old are you? Are larger women your preference? When was your last serious relationship? Was she a larger woman?

It’s a challenge. I’m trying to answer these questions as honestly and openly as I can but I also don’t want them to resent me for being here for hidden reasons.

Conversations continue and in the process I get to learn a bit about the scene in general. Apparently there’s nothing else like this in New England and people drive from New Hampshire and Connecticut for it. In fact they do so regularly since these events happen every 4-5 weeks. Because of the regular frequency of these parties there’s a bit of a gossipy high school feel to things. The people at my table are able to point out several people in the room and give me the low-down on them. “He just wanted to have sex with me.” “He used to date that girl in the blue dress.”

Dan talks about why he likes larger women. I can’t tell if he’s doing it for my benefit or to get in even better graces with the women at our table. He likes “a real girl. With real Legs. And real Thighs, and real Hips.” He also dispels a notion that BBW’s are desperate. “Just because they’re big doesn’t mean they’re hard up. No no no.” Ok, now I feel like he’s talking to the BBW newbie, but it’s cool. It’s why I’m here.

The woman next to me (she’s 6’3” and probably 250 lbs) talks to me about how she and her friends just feel more comfortable here. If they went to a regular club they know they’d be talked about, or judged. Even if said out of earshot, there’d be enough of a vibe or enough looks that they’d feel uncomfortable.

I feel a mix of emotions. I feel a sadness that people can be so cruel to each other. And for some reason I start to have flashbacks to the kind of unfair cruelty children inflict on each other, and some of my own childhood experiences. There’s something about an emotionally charged childhood event that will never completely leave your core. But at the same time I feel really happy and proud that these people have created a place where they feel so accepted and comfortable.

“Want to dance?”

Eek! Andy doesn’t dance. It’s law. But I feel like I can’t say no. And before I know it I’m a lone string bean being bandied about by a crop of plump ripe tomatoes.

Right now, in this moment, these people are happy. Truly happy in their own skin. Happy just being themselves. No hang-ups. And for the first time in a long time I feel a small slice of this. I’m dancing! I’m actually letting go.

I don’t have any glaring physical attributes that might cause people to unfairly judge me on sight, yet these people are happier and freer than I am. Being surrounded by their self-acceptance is allowing me to do the same. What a lesson.

I do three songs and I’m done. I chat with people a little bit more and then announce that I have to go. “Leaving already? It’s only 10:30” I’m apologetic but I know it’s time. I say my good-byes and head back to my apartment and sleep like a log.

Sunday morning I wake up and head to my neighborhood café. “An iced-coffee please and, hmm….” I look up at the menu trying to decide.

“You need a BBW?”

What. The. Fuck. My eyes bug out. My jaw drops. I am staring back blankly in utter disbelief.

“You need a Big Bad Wolf?” she says again. And it hits me. This is my regular Sunday morning order, I just never made note of the acronym before…

“Yes,” I say. “Yes! I need a BBW!”

I enjoy every single savory bite. It’s a gorgeous day out. I am not going to stay home, again, and feel sorry for myself. Not today.

I leave the café with a spring in my step, iced-coffee in hand, ready to take on life…. and as I skip down the street I can’t help but sing my favorite new song….

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