Upright Position

Mission 1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54)and as young as my sister (20) in a month.
Mission 2. Live a completely gay lifestyle (without the gay sex) for a month.

Maybe it was the east coast Italian food. Maybe it was the recent change in my libations from beer and whiskey to “sweeter” drinks like Cosmos. Or maybe it was the amazing mind fuck I provided my family this weekend by “coming out.” Whatever it was, my body was paying the price and yesterday I committed a workplace felony.

I called in sick after a 3-day weekend.

So my day was spent in bed with saltines, 7-up and Magnum P.I. by my side. But it did give me some time to reflect on a monumental weekend. A weekend of self-discovery. A weekend of coming apart and pulling together. A weekend the Lowe family will never forget.

First, I agreed to a few ground rules for myself:

1. I would enlist an accomplice who would know this was a farce, but would keep the secret. He would be the eyes and ears to provide me an insider’s perspective to my family’s dilemma. Without that insight, my mission would fall victim to suburban repression and I would never know my parent’s true feelings. I chose my brother, Derek. He’s a dick, but can be trusted under these circumstances.

2. No one else could know about this. No matter what happened, I would not cave in and admit the lie.

3. I would tell my parents as soon as I could. It would have to be natural, but I would make every effort to steer the conversation to "gay" early on in my visit.

4. I would let my parents dictate the outcome before I returned to L.A. If they provided arguments to the contrary, I would listen attentively. Later, I would agree with what they said, lending the appearance that they “changed me back.”

5. I would get advice from others on how to come out to your parents, and then, like always, would do the exact opposite. The ride home from the airport would be good because (1) we would be in a moving vehicle and (2) I would be drunk, thus breaking two rules out of the gate.

I thought a lot about these rules and my plan during the flight. It was a red-eye from LAX to Newark. I’ve taken this flight a million times in college and beyond. And once again, I have surreptitiously consumed a flask of alcohol (peach liquor, this month) in anticipation of my arrival in parent-tucky. But normally, it is to take the edge off merely seeing them under normal circumstances. This time, there’s a much bigger edge, one of duress. Shit, I really was about to come out to my parents. And as Daniel once said, "the only person to ever be happy their kid came out was Judith Light." And that was some bastardized mix of Sitcom and reality.

The fuzzy navel in my hairless tummy said this was not going to be an easy weekend. Sleep.

Awake. Cotton mouth. 3 a.m. (West coast time). New Jersey Gray Sky.
My dad picked me up by the curb. My mom was too tired to come, and since she saw me a few weekends ago, didn’t feel the need. So this would have to wait. Until at least two more hours. Until I endured my dad slowing down to point out a recycling plant or new cell phone tower on my last leg home. Of telling me stories about people I had long forgotten. Of providing white noise in the form of monotonous monologue. I was home.

So I just sat shotgun, near-drunk, stressed about this weekend and mortified that people think I look like John Favreau (ill). And this was only the beginning. It would certainly get worse. Much.