I was looking forward to my first posing lesson. I was going to be taught by a man who produces excellent shows. I met him in his home 45 minutes away. His gym was in the garage. He announced it was cold as hell. He offered me a seat on the bench, he sat on the other and we talked. I was having problems following what he was saying. I wanted to take it in and my head was spinning, I had to stay super focused for fear I wouldn’t understand. I couldn’t take off my coat. I was frozen, but not by the temperature.
Far under my anxiety was the simple question “when does the lesson start?” but I couldn’t think it, let alone say it out loud. It was a struggle to stay present. So he just talked. I learned a lot about contests and judges, but not the poses.
When our hour was up, I paid him and left. Driving home I felt empty. It took me hours to to realize what I did. I had collapsed into the old version of Brian; terrified of other men, unworthy of my dreams. I was angry with myself and terribly embarrassed.
The next day I saw my trainer. I resolved I would confess what I did. He brilliantly suggested that I write a fictionalized version of the events, but with a positive outcome.
A beautiful notion emerged: a boy stumbling into his dreams: life ambitions found in photographs of muscular men: a gentle mentor. It’s the story of a boy invited and encouraged to embody his dreams, a sun drenched bliss, a moment that forges his identity. It’s a moment outside of time I’ve finally come to. I will lead that boy into his life.
Inspired, I’ve forgiven myself for faltering and falling backwards. Dipping back into who I was for over 50 years opened my eyes to the progress I’ve made. It also warned me that I still need to be vigilant. The depth of that disappointment only showed me how badly I want this. I’ve since found an instructor intown. When he works me into his schedule I will be present for my first lesson. I can not, not do this.