I was never a cat person. For one thing I am highly allergic. Most of my bad dreams or nightmares have a cat in them. The only affectionate memory I have of a cat is Kim Novak in Bell Book and Candle. This day I would feel for the cat and its owner. This wasn’t just an old cat. It was a helpless dying creature that my friend had loved for many years. I love my friend and today her sadness was mine.

I never had a pet. I did have two Oscars years ago. When I bought them they were smaller than goldfish. After two years they were the size of small trout. Eventually, one sailed out of the tank when I wasn’t home. The other eventually died naturally. I was a little sad for a very short time. It isn’t easy to get emotionally attached with a fish. On the other hand, my friend was crushed.

D felt burdened by having to make the final decision. I gently responded by indicating that most pet owners decide to prolong the life of the animal with medical procedures. After I finished the sentence, I was concerned that it may have sounded insensitive. But my friend agreed and just let her sadness flow through.

We were directed to an examining room that could have been in a pediatric clinic. Three walls had pictures of dogs and cats. On the wall facing the child size exam table was a large 4’x6’ framed picture of a cat and a dog. They were serenely sitting atop a fluffy cloud; doggy and kitty heaven. I realized that euthanasia is part of being a pet owner. Given that piece of information, I realized I would never be a pet guy.

The vet asked if she wanted to be present for the procedure. D said yes. An assistant took the cat to another room to place a catheter in Mimi’s leg. When the assistant returned, D wrapped Mimi in the blanket she slept in. As she walked out she said, “The doctor will be here shortly.”

The room was thick with grief. Time became urgent. Every tear was like another grain of sand dropping in the hourglass. While D wept, a young woman came in and asked, “Will you be paying by check or credit card. We like to collect so you can be free to leave. With the emergency office visit, that will be $250.” Mimi was in D’s arms. I fumbled through the purse for her credit card. “Will that be debit or credit?” She left the room and returned with the receipt and invoice. She looked at D as if to convey that she needed the stub of paper signed. D asked, “Frank, will you please initial it for her.” After the bill collector left, D said, “Don’t they normally bill you?” I swallowed my contempt.

The vet came in and agreed that D was making the right decision; that Mimi’s quality of life would continue to deteriorate. I put my arm around D’s shoulder while she trembled with tears.

D put Mimi’s head in her hands and kissed her and said her soft goodbye. The vet had two syringes prepared. The first shot was a sedative. I’m not sure why she needed that. The second was an overdose of anesthesia.

After receiving the first shot, Mimi started licking her whiskers rapidly. The rest of her remained still. Moments after that came the lethal injection. It was light pink and injected quickly. The vet checked her heart. Mimi was gone. D stopped sobbing, but the tears continued to roll like streams. The moment was too big for sound. We stood in sacred silence while I watched a heart breaking. I knew the depth of her ache. D fell into my arms. She is a diminutive woman, less than one third my size. While we shared that space, I was merely a ripple in the ocean.

I used to secretly think avid pet people were a bit silly. That changed today. It makes no difference how love is expressed as long as it is. My friend is a gentle and kind human being with a terrible ache in her heart. Her grief reflects her capacity for love. I could not relate to her love of the pet, but I could identify with losing some one I loved. I am sad for D. I know how she feels. Tonight I will sleep with the one I love more than life itself. Because of my friend, I will cherish her even more.

Maybe I should have felt flattered. I could have laughed it off and walked away a bit more prideful. “Hey, dig me. All that working out is paying off.” Instead, to my surprise, it felt depressing. I have never been in a situation like that. It was disturbing to think that some variation of this behavior is an everyday occurrence for women.

I always thought of myself as a progressive thinker, particularly around social and political issues concerning women. I was wrong. How conveniently I used the cloak of political correctness to obscure my darkness. My stance on issues such as equal rights and birth control are genuine. I have also used my stance on such issues to assume a superior posture and to be accepted by my peers.

I did not treat women as second-class citizens, I was all for women’s rights; equal pay for equal work, a woman has the right to determine whether or not to be a mother. Sounds good, yes? Just because a man is on the progressive side of the aisle does not exempt him from being a misogynist. Actually, what I wanted to say was a real fucking moron.

When I was asked to turn around I felt completely invalidated as a human being. In a split second I was reduced to a joke; that my heart, my mind, what I felt were meaningless. For next few days I was invaded by a murmuring free floating sadness. I was learning something unpleasant about myself. Although I would never tell a woman in a theater lobby to remove her shirt, my way of relating leaves much to be desired.

What occurred to me was that whenever I behaved condescendingly or inappropriately to a woman, I was scared. I used women to feel superior and to validate my masculinity. I did so while cunningly exalting the very group I was using. I would say things like, “I love the company of women, I find them far more interesting than men.” My God, what bullshit.

Sexual dissonance has everything to do with power or the lack thereof. When I feel centered and secure, I tend to behave in a manner that I feel good about. I shared my stage and shirt experience with a friend. She told me that this is a default awareness mode in women. She said women know this on some level before they even wake up. She also suggested that I remember that unpleasant moment on stage. Keeping that moment fresh will positively affect my relationships with every woman I know.

How that will look is unclear. However, I have noticed subtle internal shifts in my interior landscape. I have become cognizant of my eyes during a conversation with women. Prior to my debut as an objectified man, I never realized how much my eyes shifted from eye contact to scan mode. Now my eye contact is fixed. It is surprising how much conscious effort such a simple task requires. Maybe not so surprisingly, the energy feels cleaner and the tone and quality of the conversation have a deeper authenticity.

People also make poignant remarks and ask heartfelt questions. Last night, a lovely young woman about 20 years old approached me after most of the audience had left. She looked into my eyes and wept. I took her hand and she continued to silently weep. I embraced her and she said thank you. She never told me the meaning of her tears. Sometimes the pain is too big for words. Maybe the most important thing to do is to hold a safe space for someone to express their sadness. For a moment we took the same breaths and held each other in wordless compassion.

At another screening a young woman approached me and started crying. She said her father was Sicilian and died several months ago and that I reminded her of him. She said she missed his warmth and affection and would I hold her for a moment. I wept for her and for the father I wish I had.

I don’t know why or how the Universe saw fit to cross my path with these wonderful people. When these wounded children of God open their hearts I see how small I am and that love is everything. During these precious moments I forget myself and feel the magnificent reality that can only be experienced with an open heart.

My life can be characterized by a long trail of terrible decisions made at the worst possible time. I have no credentials other than a driver’s license and a BA in history. I haven’t accomplished any noteworthy worldly achievements, nor is there any property or assets; if that weren’t bad enough, I was an alcoholic and drug addict. Yet, I find myself in front of hundreds of people asking me questions about how to improve their lives. Sometimes people share deeply personal stories, not for an answer, they just want to be heard.

I’m worried about saying the right thing to a vulnerable person. People that love me tell me to just be myself and that I’m right where I’m supposed to be. Nevertheless, I often feel inadequate to the task, as if the Universe has me confused with someone else. But the Universe is never confused. I, on the other hand, am very familiar with confusion. I am grateful to be alive and to be able to be given such an extraordinary opportunity to connect with so many people. I hope I am worthy of this gift.

That may not sound like much but it is a challenge to me. I am confronted with the ordinariness of my life. I feel like I’m supposed to come up with funny or wise anecdotes that reflect my daily experience. Well, sometimes life ain’t that interesting. Sometimes when it is really juicy it involves people I can’t mention because it will result in my death or put a physical end to my sex life.

Before the film, or BTF, my agent and I would spend many an afternoon riding in my convertible, top down blasting U2. We would talk about our dreams and the people we love. We laughed and cried and ate. Sometimes when we were in a bad way, I would drive to the bank of the bay, turn up the Latin music and we danced amid the cars and surf. It was wonderful and it is gone.

She did warn me that what we were sharing was special and finite. She said that when the film started moving we would be thrown into the work mode. I only half believed her, but as usual, she was right. I never suspected that this warm and emotionally expressive South American woman harbored an inner German; a Teutonic general yearning to give orders……to me.

“Goddamit Ferrante, where’s my fucking blog entry!! What did you do today? What are you doing now? Don’t you see the connection between success and the number of times you blog?” The only things missing are crucifixes, rulers and the Stations of the Cross.

I started trying to write something clever or philosophical. Fuck it. This is what’s in my head. I doubt it’s what my agent had in mind when she said, “Sit down and fucking write something now!!” My concern is that success will add fuel to my already fiery South American friend/agent. At any moment I expect to start belting out, “Don’t cry for me Argentina.” Make no mistake; she is more like Juan Peron than Eva. I love her just the same.

What exactly is a midlife crisis anyway? The term was first used in 1965 by Elliot Jaques, a Canadian psychologist. He describes it as a period of profound self doubt experienced during the so called middle years. This self doubt is generated by a perception the passing of youth and the commencement of old age. This is when some guys throw any sense of shame out the window and engage in behaviors that make me feel defensive about being a man in my fifties.

This is the guy that is mostly bald but still sports a stringy braided rat tail. Obscuring the reflective pate rests an embroidered baseball hat worn backward, (or worse, turned sideways) while hip-hop blares from his brand new convertible Corvette. He is often accompanied by a woman one third his age with a vacuous sexual gaze or maybe she is just concerned about her SAT’s. But not all men go this route.

I know that sounds a bit harsh. You might even say that I’m coming from jealousy. I assure you, I am not. I have always felt a degree of self doubt. I have attempted to cure it with medication, women, religion, vodka etc. Now I am left with myself. The ‘crisis’ for me is in realizing how wrong I was about so many things. The angst is amplified by a sense that time is running out. I don’t know how many heartbeats or erections I have left. This makes it difficult to relax and enjoy the moment.

The answer, as always, is that it’s an inside job. The fears and insecurities I feel have always been there. I am facing these fears from a different place. I am not the frightened little boy waiting for the next beating. I may still be scared, but I am a man, I have tools and experience to deal with this stuff. The fears I carried blocked me from fully experiencing the joys of living. At the root of all of it is that I always felt unlovable; if you really knew me, you could never love me. I have been attending twelve step meetings for a long time and go to therapy every week. All this has prepared me to approach the final frontier: Intimacy.

Oh Christ, he’s not going to start with that new age sensitive guy drivel? Don’t worry, I’m not that sensitive and I’m old school. My quest is to love without fear. Sound easy? Try it sometime.