(Maybe now people will stop ask if the W on my baseball cap stands for Walgreens.)
I am a heterosexual female who enjoys watching sports. I'm not particularly die-hard over any teams or players, though I have dated men who are, and I in turn began to care about them too. But yes. A straight lady who likes sports. Not that big a phenomenon. So why (this is a legit question) am I SO STUPID to repeatedly use "liking sports" as a litmus test for a man's sexuality? I AM STUPID. And wrong. Granted, none of the gay men I socialize with are particularly into sports, but if I learned anything from watching Season 1 of Smash, it's that gay dancers can also be really into the Knicks. Also that Bollywood is terrific. But that's neither here or there. That kind of thinking is narrow, close-minded nonsense and I'm as guilty of it as the next person.
But I heard my work crush talking about the playoff games this morning with his friend Smokey (who I have thus Christened because he takes a smoke break every 20 minutes or so) and my heart skipped a beat and hopes swung back into the "maybe he isn't" category which is silly, stupid, and most likely incorrect. Just because he enjoyed the game doesn't mean he automatically likes ladies. It's like those statements I was always terrible at during high school math class. (It's logic. I fail at basic, simple, monkey logic.)
Take my own idiocy and use it against me.
All straight men like sports (False)
To like sports, one must be a straight man (False)
To really hammer home how delusional I've been I will share with you a story about yet another crush I had about 5 years ago. I don't even remember his name now. Michael? He came into the gym where I worked (I used to toy with dreams of being a personal trainer and specializing in recovery physical therapy - more on that another time) and every day he'd be so sweet. He'd smile and ask how I was doing, and always turn around to smile at me again as he made his way up the stairs. I was smitten and all my co-workers knew. Whenever I was on the gym floor itself, assisting one of the PTs, I'd see him running on the treadmill and watching ESPN. I had no idea what he did for a living, or anything about him other than he had a nice smile and liked watching ESPN.
You know where this story is going. He wasn't straight. Michael? Kevin? No I think it was Michael. That sounds right. Michael wasn't straight. But I didn't know that until he told me. And he didn't tell me until I'd swallowed a lifetime's worth of shyness and run after him on my last day of work (remaining as ever the consummate professional) and told him I liked him and wondered if he'd like to go out sometime. Obviously I took all my dating tips circa 1992. "Wanna go out?" Gah. Embarrassing. That was definitely one of those moments where the idea of bursting into flames was really appealing.
So after Michael politely (and awkwardly) told me that he was gay I slunk back to work and found my coworker R waiting with open arms for a hug. He said "I've gotta give props for what you just did. That took balls. That was cool. Sorry he's gay." I laughed and accepted the hug. Because R was right. At least I tried. I put myself out there (based on completely stupid logic) and ended up looking like a grade-A idiot. It was pretty humiliating in the moment.
But at least I tried.
