Two days ago I went to a party (my ex’s birthday party, to be exact) where half of QUAC showed up, and I got to see most of the people I swim with a) clothed and b) drunk for the first time. I’ve avoided QUAC-related social events because I’m not really comfortable around crowds of people I don’t know, and that goes double for crowds of gay men. (My old therapist was working with me on that, but we never entirely resolved the issue.) Maybe I will go to more of these parties in the future, now that I know I won’t come home dead drunk, naked and/or crying. And maybe I’ll actually get to know some people from QUAC on more than a “Uh, hey, what’s up?” basis.

Anyway, we worked on the breast stroke today. There are a group of people who coach at QUAC, on a rotating basis, and this was the first time I had done breast stroke with this coach. As usual, her description and instructions were completely different from every other coach (this reminds me strongly of the challenge of being taught dance by different people), but the main difference was: I GOT IT. “Her” way of doing breast stroke was much more physically demanding than what I was used to, but it also made complete sense to my body. For the first time, I felt like I was actually swimming when I did breast stroke, instead of floundering in place. So that was nice.

My Twitter followers may have noticed that I attended something called “The 5th Annual People’s Summit on Poverty” a week ago, and one of the reasons I’m so late in posting anything is that I’m working on a post about that. Specifically, about the issues that were discussed and the statistics that were presented.

One of the things that drives me the most nuts about right-wing rhetoric in this country is how blatantly selfish and punitive it is. Even if the words used are conciliatory or loving (though usually they are not) the tone and the implications scream

“Help yourself. It’s your fault if you have problems. It’s your fault if you aren’t middle/upper-middle class. I worked hard for my money. You need to suffer the consequences of your actions, even if it means you die. I’m against any government action that doesn’t unilaterally condemn behavior I disapprove of, even if it means people die or get deadly diseases and remain uneducated about how to help themselves. . . . etc., etc.”

So I am very interested in counteracting this kind of thinking both through public education and through political/legal activism. Which is why, when I noticed that my cousin Bill was organizing the Summit, I immediately put it on my calendar, and that morning took two buses to get to there. Everyone involved in anti-poverty or anti-hunger initiatives in Salt Lake knows Bill, so at these kinds of functions I almost feel like I’m related to a celebrity. For a few hours I become “Bill’s cousin,” an identity I’m proud to claim. I only wish I were as quick to devote my time and talents to social justice as he is.

Expect a post on poverty and hunger initiatives in Utah. If you aren’t into that sort of thing, you can skip it. It won’t hurt my feelings. Just know that God loves those who help others. Think about it.

That has now come to an end, I’m sorry to say. Today Lane One (the beginner lane) was doing flutter-kick drills. I hate kick drills, but I’m pretty fast. (Not exactly the point of a kick drill, but I take what I can get.) Apparently the lane coach got tired of me mowing down everyone in the lane without even trying, and he bumped to the next lane to work on my breast kick.

You probably don’t know this, but the breaststroke is my swimming nemesis. It is awkward, uncomfortable, slow and aggravating. Doing breaststroke kick drills—especially with a kickboard— is the outside of enough. So I am very proud to say that I persevered. I gave it my all. I frog-kicked and splashed and swallowed water and choked up and down the length of the pool for an hour. I BUILT CHARACTER.

Of course, in real life, the reward for hard work is aching muscles, a headache, and sinuses full of chlorine. Maybe that’s what character is made of: chlorinated snot.

But mixed in with the backstroke we were also doing the dolphin kick, and the dolphin kick is awesome, as these contour plots show. It’s the kick used with the butterfly stroke, which you have to admit is an awesome stroke, and one I dream fondly of learning. You know, when I have muscles and stuff.

Another highlight of the day: no leg sprints, no dizziness or nausea, and best of all, no embarrassing near-fainting episodes. It almost makes up for the 2.56 gallons of inquinated pool water I swallowed/inhaled while doing the backstroke. Things are looking up!

So, will I go back to QUAC, ever? Will my blood tests reveal a fatal wasting disease that explains my complete wussification? Is my favorite color blue or green? What is the difference between “semeiotics” and “semiotics”?

I guess you’ll just have to tune in next time to find out!

9:30 AM – Get up, get showered, get dressed.

10:00 AM – Catch the bus down to Sugarhouse.

10:30 AM – Warm up in the Faimont pool for half an hour.

11:00 AM – Swim with QUAC for the first time since November 19 of last year.

12:00 noon – Get ride home from QUAC with a nice gay guy I had never met before with a beautiful white BMW convertible.

1:00 PM – Decide it’s time to eat and begin making focaccia.

3:00 PM – Take photos of the beautiful finished product.

4:00 PM – Take photos of post-swimming, post-cooking self.

When I was leaving, I noticed that one of the lifeguards was painting a scene with watercolors, and when I commented on it, she said it was a Father’s Day card.

“I know it’s a bit late,” she admitted, “and it’s not very good. But my dad likes them anyway.”

I smiled and walked away, thinking that my dad probably would have appreciated a messy watercolor card from his son. So as I was walking home from the pool, I pulled out my cell phone and called home for the first time in at least eight months. And you know what? I had a really good conversation with my father, about copyright, democracy, physical fitness and the handcart-company re-enactment the family is taking part in in a month or so. He said he would try to make sure he called a bit more often, and I said that would be okay.

When I was done talking to him, I asked to speak with my mom. I told her I was sorry about being so harsh towards her in my emails—the things I had said were true, and I really meant them, but they didn’t matter to me as much as staying in touch with my mother. She was really happy to hear from me, which made me feel even guiltier about being so stubborn and unforgiving.

“I just wonder,” I said, “what’s going to happen when I’m in a long-term relationship. How is that going to work with us?”

“Well, how do you want it to work?” she asked.

We agreed that if I were in a relationship it wouldn’t be unreasonable for me to talk about my boyfriend, or for them to meet him and get to know him. For their benefit, I wouldn’t make out with my boyfriend in front of them, or demand that we be invited to their house overnight.

Later, I called my sister. It was almost as if it hadn’t been eight months since we last spoke. She’s about six months pregnant, and we talked about placentas and uteruses and amniotic fluid and due dates, just like we always used to. And then she apologized for Christmas, and I apologized back, and we agreed that when my little brother brings his fiancee up to Utah, that we should all try and get together for lunch or something.

My brother-in-law got on the phone next, and we both apologized to each other for being less than tolerant, and agreed that we would try to work on that in the future.

So that’s it. Kind of a letdown, isn’t it? No hair-pulling, no bloodshed, no explosions, no evil twins and no impossible disguises. Whoever the scriptwriter in charge was, he or she could learn a lot from whoever writes for Sir Jupiter‘s life.

For those of you who want your lessons pre-digested, the moral (or rather, a moral) is: don’t conduct important family discussions by email. If you hear from your mom that your sister and brother-in-law have decided that you aren’t invited to the family Christmas celebration, please call or visit your sister and talk to her about it. Call your mother, too, if you want, but make sure you aren’t operating from hearsay when you decide never to speak to the people involved ever again.

And if you should happen not to heed my advice, at least make sure you get a proper explosion or evil twin out of it. Please? For our benefit.

Now, most exercise I’ve tried leaves me feeling better afterwards. I might not be able to walk or move or breathe the next morning, but right after a good workout I usually feel doubly alive, tired but manly. After my three quarters of an hour in the pool, however, I felt nauseated, weak and dizzy. Maybe I worked out too hard for a first time; it has been known to happen before (the main reason I have never gotten back into lifting weights); maybe I did not sufficiently hydrate myself before getting in the pool (I expressed the irony to myself by composing the couplet, “Water, water, everywhere/Nor any drop that’s not chlorinated and/or tainted with urine.” Maybe it’ll catch on.). Or maybe my problem was that I had already tired myself out earlier by doing a belly-dance fitness routine on DVD.

Yes, you read correctly; as a mature adult male, in the privacy of my bedroom, I pulled my blinds, took off my shirt, put on my supportive undergarments, my high-waisted Latin dance pants and high-heeled Latin dance shoes, and shimmied and undulated for a half-hour under the direction of the world-renowned belly-dance instructor Amira Mor. In that half-hour, I learned the following fundamental belly dancing moves:

• Lower Body Shimmies
• Upper Body Shimmies
• Chest Thrusts and Drops
• Hip Lifts and Drops
• Snake, Cobra and Butterfly Arms
• Basic Walk Forward and Back

Of course, good dance student that I am, I brought a full-length mirror into my bedroom with me so that I could see exactly how far I was from actually getting any of the movements. I’m proud to say that I was fantastic! All I lack to become a professional belly-dance instructor like Amira is a flowy, abbreviated “I Dream of Jeannie”-type get-up, a flat stomach, some boobs, long raven hair, and an amusing way of never using any definite articles and never pluralizing nouns. Also, possibly some kind of certificate. If you want to sign up for private lessons, you can find me at the public pool, practicing my impression of a drowning elephant.

• From now through the foreseeable future: Shelve lots of books, tutor a lot of math, grade a lot of homework assignments.
• Sundays, Tuesdays and Thursdays: Swim, swim, swim at the community pool.
• Tuesdays and Thursdays: Personal enrichment classes at the U.
• Every evening: Watch reruns (since all of my shows are ending, and there won’t be anything else to watch) and DVDs.
• Also every evening, and at random times throughout the day: Imagine Mikey having fun with tan, hot, California surfer dudes without me. Imagine him having fun with olive-skinned Italian hunks without me. Imagine him with his shirt off all summer . . . mmmm.
• When I have time (so probably never): Study for Ph.D. qualifiers.

I think I can safely say that I’ll be so busy that I won’t have time to miss Mikey, and I definitely don’t envy him his summer. Not at all.