November 24th, 1979

The date with Siegfried materializes. The phone wakes me from a late afternoon nap; Siegfried is back in town from the holiday and wants a date tonight. I agree. 

Going out has become such an exercise in frustration for me lately that I now question whether it’s worth the energy involved to shower and iron a shirt. I no longer fly about the house getting ready for a date the way I used to– the way Wendy and I used to get ready in Rosslyn: shower and ironing and painting. I have stopped thinking that romance is waiting out there in the city night– sparkling like jewels, beckoning me. Just another sad stranger to share a few hours of personal fantasy with.

I realize how boring I must sound– plodding through my days with heartless routine– how empty I have become.

I surprise myself; here I am, dressed and ready for a cross-town romantic rendezvous with some stranger named Siegfried. At least, Larry, you are not your cousin Johnnie living with some woman down at Forsythe. At least you are not your emaciated haggard cousin Freddie putting four kids to bed and cleaning up a greasy kitchen– your life may be stale and repetitious and uninteresting– but it still contains that one vital ingredient that has defined your life: the possibility of the unknown. You have no idea what to expect from this evening.