When I meet friends around my own age, particularly those I haven't seen in a while, we have different versions of the same conversation.

Last Monday, I was looking out at the blue water of the Gulf of Mexico near St Petersburg, Florida. The scene was idyllic, the weather warm on the verge of hot. I wasn't complaining, after a long New England winter, though I did feel a bit sad, reflecting on my trip and a missed connection.

I'd been struggling with a low-grade cold virus that I couldn?t seem to shake. That virus had invaded my system in December and was still hanging around -- like this snowy winter that refuses to yield to spring -- in the depths of March. I'd wake up after a restless night's sleep due to my stuffy nose and scratchy throat, feeling like I hadn't slept more than a few hours. So one morning last week, I was still snoring away when I was jolted awake at 7:30.

I don't like crowds. This fact was brought home to me again recently, when I attended a writers' conference in Boston last week.

I come from a long line of pessimists, or as they would say, realists. Perhaps that's why my father's ancestors took -- or were given -- the family name of 'Leblang,' which means 'long life' in German. Unfortunately, the name has been a karmic joke in recent generations, as my grandfather Papa Ed died of brain cancer at 62, and my father passed away of a (second) heart attack at 61.

For me, February is the cruelest month.

For years, I resisted getting a smart phone.

Over the course of my gay dating life, which began in 1985 when I came out at the age of 28, I've pined for many unavailable men. My late 20s, 30s, and 40s were full of unrequited lust and missed connections. I had a visual aesthetic, a deeply ingrained physical type, which grew more specific over the years as I was socialized into the dominant gay culture. Muscles, broad shoulders, smooth pecs and narrow waist, the classic swimmer's v-shaped build, combined with blue or green eyes and a sweet smile have always gotten my pulse racing.

I woke up to a gray, overcast day, the trees bending in the wind outside my bedroom window, rain spattering against the panes.

A few years ago I saw the Canadian film, Away From Her, which followed the journey of an active sixty-something husband and wife, as the woman gradually lost her memory, sinking into dementia triggered by Alzheimer?s disease.