Face Value

I must have one of those faces. People I’ve never met, people I have no connection to whatsoever, seem to trust me, immediately, implicitly. My friends complain that I am “flypaper for freaks;” but I always appreciate that perfect strangers are inspired to include me in their conversations, trust me with secrets, or ask for my opinions. This includes fellow subway riders, coffee-shop dwellers, movie-goers, K-mart shoppers, elevator riders, social smokers, construction workers, waiters, waitresses, bar-patrons, and just generally anyone in my immediate vicinity. I once had a woman insist I share her umbrella at a stoplight one rainy evening and within sixty seconds, I learned that she was 53 years old, twice divorced, and an organic food fanatic. She then shared with me that she was carrying a gun. She reached in her purse to offer me a breath-mint, but I quickly declined and then faked a phone call with a friend. This story is exceptional. Usually the things people share are unremarkable; but they’re almost always personal and incredibly interesting...to me at least.

This week, I found myself in a ladies locker room at an uptown spa after indulging in the world’s most fantastic massage (being hunched over a laptop twenty-four/seven isn’t exactly great for the musculature). I hit the steam room and then showered off, taking my sweet time, enjoying every moment of my visit. I lingered at the beauty counter, blow-drying my hair to avoid catching a chill. After a few moments of blissful solitude, an attractive older woman entered my area. Her tight, fit body was wrapped in tight, black spandex from shoulder to shoe, and I would have guessed she came from the pilates class, except that her hair and make-up were virtually flawless. She stood right beside me, scrutinizing her skin, tugging and tucking at the few wrinkles she did have. I continued to primp, remaining respectful of our public solitude—unabashed vanity is sometimes considered embarrassing—until she glanced over at me and decided I had an agreeable aura.

She sighed heavily and dropped her hands. “I hate being a woman,” she said, reaching begrudgingly for her lip-liner. I caught sight of her ice-blue eyes in the mirror and smiled. If I had to guess her age, I would have said forty, but it was clear she had a great face-lift at some point, so who really knows. She was in impeccable physical shape, and seemed quite comfortable in her alabaster skin. “I mean the bras, the make-up, the judgment....” She waited to see if I would respond.

I chuckled a little and said only enough to encourage her to continue: “Yeah, I guess we did get the bum end of that deal.” I tried to wax positive by adding, “But at least we’re not gay men. No one gets judged more than a gay man.”

She paused for a moment and considered. Then, returning to her lipstick, she shook her head. “No, somehow I think we’ve even got it worse than they do.”

“Well,” I said, “they don’t have to deal with under-wire…or pantyhose…mostly…”

Her train of thought never even paused at my station. She continued nodding and shifting her facial features, as if carrying on a much more elaborate version of this conversation in her mind. “And then, the worst part is, we die after them too! I mean, we work so hard, fixing ourselves, making ourselves perfect, and then they die first—the men, I mean.” She stopped, turned from the mirror and faced me, clearly looking for some kind of answer.

I’m not sure why I didn’t offer the obvious answer (lesbianism) to her troubles. I don’t know why I didn’t come out at that moment. Maybe because we were in a locker-room, or maybe because she was entrusting me with her momentary life-crisis and I didn’t want to break the bond of camaraderie by pointing out our obvious differences. She seemed genuinely comforted by my acceptance of her dilemma and willingness to share the struggle of sorting it out. I could have said, "Well, I'm not gonna have that issue. I date women roughly in my age-range, and I'm looking forward to growing old and wrinkly right along side a woman going through the exact same thing." One of the perks of being gay is that we don't feel so isolated when it comes to these body-issues. We both get cramps, we both have fat-days, and we'll both start to sag at the same time. But I’m glad I didn’t say this. Instead I shut off the hair-dryer, and searched for a solution: "Date--younger--men?" I offered.

I think this broke her trance because her smile broadened and she stepped forward to tap me on the shoulder. “You're funny,” she said. Then, she reached into her black duffel bag and pulled out her mascara. “My better half is only five years older than me, thankfully." She returned to the mirror and the negative thoughts seemed to find her again. "But still—it just doesn’t seem fair.”

I caught her eyes again and smiled empathetically. “I suppose it doesn’t,” I said and returned to my hair dryer.

She finished touching up her make-up and shook off her pensive state. Again, breaking her own gaze from the mirror seemed to lift her mood. “Sorry to be so morbid,” she said, zipping up her bag. “I don’t know why I dragged you into this. Have a good weekend.” She touched me on the shoulder again this time with gratitude. Then she picked her towel up off the bench and disappeared.

This kind of thing happens to me all the time. I don’t mind; in fact, I kind of like it. I feel like a vigilante psychiatrist, a freelance friend. The obvious observation to make is that so many people are so lonely, or so afraid to confront these issues in their lives, that their deepest thoughts leak out at inopportune times, in the company of any arbitrary listener. Most listeners, I suppose, would just shut down, or shy away; but I’m actually interested to hear what other people are thinking. I’m always so appreciative of their sharing. I never know if these interactions are memorable to the folks who approach me, but I'm always grateful for the lessons learned, happy to have a better understanding of that individual, people in general, or sometimes even myself. I’ll never really understand why people pick me, though; I must have one of those faces.