So, we were cleaning out some old boxes and came across a very interesting photo taken of me on my eighth birthday.

While it wasn’t too much of a shock to my system considering my upbringing, it made me wonder – why did it take me until I was in my thirties to come to grip with my sexuality? I mean, duh! 

Obviously my parents didn’t care, as long as I was happy. And as you can see by the photo below, I seemed pretty darned pleased. I pointed out to my mother that while I was wearing a Dallas Cowboys football uniform, somehow she managed to make my cake with ROSES on it. LOL! Poor woman – she tried. And I won’t even go into the years of fighting over dresses vs. jeans.

A couple of years ago, Jan asked my mother if she and my dad ever thought that I was gay. Mom shrugged and said they did, but wanted to wait until I figured it out on my own. Gee, thanks, Mom. I sure could have used a hint or two along the way. 🙂

But, in the long run, things worked out for the best. It took me a while, but I finally understood why I always felt ‘different’. When my girl friends were swooning over the hunk of the day, I was more interested in what kind of car they drove. Besides, back in the Seventies, the “hunks” all looked like danged girls, anyway! Does anyone remember Leif Garrett, Andy Gibb or The Bay City Rollers? <shiver>  I had posters of Burt Reynolds (Smokey & the Bandit), Clint Eastwood (Dirty Harry) and a ton of silly animals. With Burt, I think it was more Sally Field and that awesome Trans Am that I liked. And with Clint…well, did you ever see what a cool gun a Magnum .357 was? 

But, since I waited until I was older, I was able to connect with the greatest gift I could ever be blessed with – my wife, Jan. And, to tell you the truth, I wouldn’t change a damned thing.