I remember my first account of a gay person in childhood: it was Richard Simmons, effeminate clown-head, world-famous exercise guru. I asked my mother at the ripe old age of six,
"Mommy! Why does Richard talk in such a high voice?"
My mother, a meticulously proper woman (who I could usually fluster easily), quite breezily replied,
"Sweetie. Richard Simmons is a fruit."
She either went back to folding the clothes expertly, or resumed rolling her perfectly-rolled crescent rolls: two (of many) tasks synonymous with my childhood memories of Mom. Either way, my mother went on with her day without missing a beat. Meanwhile, I remember, yes, I really do, sitting after our exchange, utterly baffled amidst my paper dolls at the kitchen table:
Just what exactly is a man-fruit?
To complicate an already complicated matter in the complicated world of a rather complex child in the Midwestern eighties, my father also used the term fruit, this time, referring to the musician, Little Richard:
"But, Dad! Why does he YELL and get so excited and wear all of that make-up and -"
"Well, Sami, Little Richard is a...fruit."
Hmmm. This was coming from a man who called Charo a "pig" and Janet Jackson a "fox", which was utterly maddening to a literal-minded kid in the first grade.
Speaking of fruit: Apples don't fall too far from the trees that they bloom from; my own daughter, Olive, has asked on several occasions after seeing unfeminine looking (most-likely lesbian) women, "Mum-ah is dat a man oh a lady?" Conversely, after seeing effeminate (most-likely gay) men, I have heard from both of my children:
"Mum-ah, why does dat lady have a bee-yerd?"
I just simply say:
"Well, Olive, (or 'Well, Iris') I don't know." Because really, we just don't always know.
Recently, at the New York Sports Club, I muscled my way through the cardiovascular equipment; January often brings about all of the out-of-shape New-Year's-Resolution-folk, as they fervently try to make good on their ill-fated promises. Huffing through the more-than-usual concentration of body odor and stale breath in the air, I noticed a few other regulars who have the whole lifestyle fitness thing going: a group of nondescript, yet muscular and fit "guys' guys" who are always in the weight room.
As I made my way through the weight training machines, I noticed that one sort-of good-looking guy was zoning out on the chest press machine. We sat right across from one another (I was on the dreaded quad machine); I thought (?!) he was staring at me.
Now, mind you, hogging exercise machines due to zoning out, fatigue, or what-have-you, is one of my ultimate pet peeves, but, this guy was sort of cute and uh, hey! Woo-hoo! The dude was (maybe?) checking me out, man! It's funny: people at the gym master the corner-eye-check-out technique, so it really is hard to tell who is doing what and what is looking at who. Anyway, I shouldn't care: I am married, not dead, but, married.
Meanwhile, an annoying narcissistic tendency shot up her hand in my brain, "Ding! Ding!" which in turn, translated to my brain's messengers, "Aha: all of those gym hours have paid off. Looking good, Sister!"
Well, flattery will get you anywhere, but not always for the long haul. As I proceeded to do my weight-bar dead lifts (Omygawd! He's following me!) where one sticks out one's butt and bends over repeatedly, Slacker Man didn't miss a beat. In my ego-ridden brain: Sheesh! I hope he doesn't hit on me, I hate the whole married/kids spiel... but alas, too late! He sidled right over...to the blonde, Captain America pretty man doing squats next door,
"So, uh, what's the secret to having great delts?" Verbatim. I kid you not.
Captain America blushed, "Well, I uh, did football and stuff in high school, but, here I'll show you...this is more of a finishing set, but first, you can..." Are you kidding me? Slacker Man has friggin' beer cans in his shoulders...what the -
You get the picture.
After Slacker got his tutorial, his eyes followed Captain America across the gym: sort of like a Rottweiler hopelessly tied up and whining, as the German Shepard runs past, free and mangy with a juicy bone in mouth...
I'll never forget my incredulous disbelief, upon learning long ago that a tomato was indeed, a fruit:
"Well, yes, dear...anything that has seeds is a fruit. See! Some things you just cannot be sure of, so you really just have to..."
Check...'yo self, before you wreck 'yo self.
