Usually, a few weeks before a big vacation that involves an airport, I start having nightmares about flying. I can calm myself enough to get on a plane sober (or Gravol-ed out) but I can’t seem to shut off my sub-conscious fears, and they burble up from my inner id pit.

We’re 17 days away from vacation, less than three weeks. As of yet, nothing, thankfully. But last night was pretty close:

I’m walking through the halls of the Battlestar called Galactia and it’s festooned with images from the movie The Watchmen. I’m getting more upset because I know I’ve missed half the Battlestar series and the new, updated “Trekkie Toddlers”, Star Trek (joke supplied by CB). What this had to do with Dr Manhattan, I have no clue.

Suddenly the ship lurches and I know we’re going down. Now, I know that “down” is pretty relative to a near by astral body, would probably take a long time to actually happen depending on the angle of re-entry and the Battlestar is a massive ship, but in my dream, instantly the ship was replaced with an aluminum skinned death tube. Hey… it’s a dream.

I woke before anything else can happen. I’m hoping that the lateness in my nightmares will not be concentrated as we get closer to our departure.

These last few Sundays, Sharkboy and I have been getting up at 6am, log our body stats (after a cleansing, lightening poo) with the Wii Fit and then hoof it over to the gym for Aquafit. Yes, we’re the only two gays at the Y at that time, most being still in bed after a night of smart cocktails and masculine fursuits at various bars and such. It’s another world, people. The class is nearly full and sign up is a must (last week I put down “Carlos” and “Rolando” as our names and got called out for it). Granted it’s not Woodys on a Friday night, the average age before we arrive is around 65, but we did manage to chat up a couple nice people, including a 50 year old woman with a sleeve tattoo. At 50 yrs old, I hope my back looks as good as her arm! The bitter queen in me has to mention here that a couple participants look like they’ve walked off the set of District 9 (I know. I’m not Olympic material myself, but I love making Sharkboy laugh with that analogy).

A few weeks back we got up early on a Saturday, made it to St Lawrence Market for some Canadian bacon sarnies at 7am and hopped on our bikes to the island. By 10:30am we were done and waited at the Hanlan’s Point ferry dock to go back home. When the skip arrived, wave upon wave of homosexuals disembarked, each giving us the “Where the hell are YOU two going? The party is on the nude beach!” eye. It was slightly embarrassing but yet felt good to be apart from that crowd. Not that I’m putting down a nice gay day at the beach, but I felt kind of justified for all my gay bar work in the late 90s: I could now look upon that constant party mentality and think it “quaint”.

I admit that we’re early risers. I’ve been getting up at 530am for the last couple months to accommodate my gym time before work, which means we’re in bed well before 10pm. If we’re out on the town, we’re yawning at 11pm and making sheepish excuses to go home. Yes it cuts into our social life sometimes but we can’t seem to help it. We’re both the kind of person who feels like the day is half done at 10am.

I guess we’re ripe to join a sports group or some early morning knitting club or something. I’d be all for a gay men’s Farmers Market Shopping Club. Imagine the looks we’d get just from our cloth bags!