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Throughout the next however many months I’ll be counting down my 100 favorite albums, because why not. I’m up to number seventy-three.

Every night during the COVID-19 pandemic I engaged in a ménage à trois with my two best friends: pasta and ice cream. Our torrid affair resulted in an additional 30 pounds clinging to my frame like Jan Brady clinging to her story about having a boyfriend named George Glass. Sure, Jan. So it came to pass that at the ripe age of 60, I found myself staring at a reflection that looked less like a person and more like a sentient collection of dinner rolls. I was pretty lean going into the pandemic, so the additional 30 pounds don’t really stand out among the general population. However, to gay men, I’m Precious. As in Precious: Based on the Novel “Push” by Sapphire.

Coupled with four years of avoiding human contact even more rigorously than usual (and believe me, I was a gold medal winner in that category), I found myself in need of physical and social relief, and so, in a moment of what I can only call pandemic-induced insanity, I purchased a week of unlimited spin classes. My goal was simple: to emerge from that week of daily classes socially rejuvenated and looking like Shawn Mendes. According to the Shawn Mendes fanfic website, which I do not have bookmarked [Sure, Jan.], Shawnie and I are already the same weight, so all I need to do is grow four inches, de-age 35 years, fix my smile and voila! And if I can’t look like Shawn Mendes, I’d settle for looking like Sean Connery – 30 years older than me, dead, but trim.

I stumbled upon this class in a directory of workout studios marketed to the gay population, naively believing “my people” would welcome me with open, toned arms. As I entered the spin studio, the realization hit me harder than any workout could: I was the oldest person in the room by two-plus decades, practically a living, breathing carbon dating exhibit. In this sea of toned twenty-somethings, I stood out like an alpaca’s knackers. And while none of the guys appeared to be as fit as O.J. Simpson in his prime (sorry, he’s the only famous sports figure I can think of right now), they also didn’t look like they were offered a trip to the Arts & Crafts shack while the other kids in their summer camp group played softball.

The spin instructor opened class looking at his cell phone, as people younger than me tend to do quite frequently, and then casually lobbed out “Does anybody else leave their ex’s phone numbers in their contacts so you can ignore them when they call?” It took only a millisecond to recall that my last boyfriend predated cell phones, so that would be a no from me, chief. As he then chirped some nonsense about setting our bikes to resistance level 7, I struggled to adjust my seat with the grace of a stroke victim attempting interpretive dance. “Class is delayed while we teach Methuselah here how to operate a stationary bike,” the trainer didn’t say but I heard anyway. Then, a gym employee quietly approached me and asked if I understood what a spin class was — a moment that felt less like customer service and more like a soft, professional intervention to save the new Jan Brady from herself.

You’ve heard the expression “It’s as easy as riding a bike?” Well, I never found riding a bike easy. In fact, I’d rank it somewhere between “folding a fitted sheet” and “looking like Shawn Mendes after a week of spin classes when you’re 60” on the difficulty scale. Ever the contrarian, things others struggled with seemed simple to me. Like math.

My first grade teacher was Mrs. Bolander. Learning math under her reign was about as challenging as breathing (no disrespect to any asthmatics reading this). I didn’t do the work in her class because it was too easy. While my classmates sweated over addition like it was advanced calculus, I sat there, bored out of my skull, making scribble scrabble on my paper, but I always had the correct answer when called upon. One fateful day, Mrs. Bolander, with her eagle eyes that could spot a misplaced comma from outer space, noticed my paper looked less like arithmetic and more like the work of a budding Jackson Pollock. She immediately summoned two teacher’s aides to stand by each side of my desk and flank me like Secret Service agents guarding the nuclear codes. Their mission? To ensure I wasted precious minutes of my life laboriously writing out answers to easy questions like “What is 12 + 76?” Math was easy. A cakewalk. A stroll in the park. A breeze. A snap. No sweat. Easy as pie. Riding a bike was all sweat, no pie.

That memory of Mrs. Bolander dredged up one of another teacher, this one from fourth grade: Miss Luthin, a woman whose name alone could curdle milk and make small animals spontaneously combust. She was the kind of teacher who, when asked “What?”, would respond with the patience of a hangry piranha. “Don’t ‘watt’ me; I’m not an electric lightbulb!” As if anyone had ever mistaken her for anything remotely illuminating. Heaven forbid you called her Mrs. Luthin. She’d bark, “Nice of you to talk to my mother, but she isn’t here right now. She’s dead!” How someone with her charm was still a ‘Miss’ boggled the mind. You might say it’s a miss-tery. Ha ha! (How someone with my wit is still a “Miss” boggles the mind. You might say something’s amiss. Ha ha! DM me if you want to date.) Perhaps Miss Luthin’s sparkling personality had scared off all potential suitors, leaving them to seek refuge in less intimidating environments, like a game of Russian Roulette or an eight-hour root canal sans Novocain.

I clearly remember one day in her history class. A minute or so into Ellen Baker and Michelle Whatever’s oral presentation about Christopher Columbus, Miss Luthin heckled “BO-RING!” I was secretly glad somebody said it. Besides being bo-ring, Michelle and Ellen once told me I look like a shriveled up piece of bacon, and not because I was lean and sizzling. They meant it as an insult, though who uses “bacon” as a pejorative? I’ll tell you who – someone who’s a few penguins short of a lawnmower. Naturally, I decided to hate them – a hatred I’m proud to say I’ve held on to for half a century like it’s a limited edition Beatles album signed by all four members. What I wouldn’t give now to look like a shriveled up piece of bacon, rather than the fully inflated, country baked ham I’ve become.

I admired Miss Luthin’s candor, but I never wanted it aimed at me. Flying under the radar was safer. Now, decades later, I was back in survival mode: blend in, don’t stand out, and please, don’t draw attention. The fear of humiliation, it seemed, was a loyal companion, following me from elementary school to this sweat-soaked spin studio. Here I was again, the odd man out, huffing alongside a sea of younger, fitter bodies who probably actually enjoy eating a salad, having been brainwashed by Big Lettuce.

The workout itself was a mix of bike torture and mat exercises. The instructor encouraged us to grab a medium weight for the dumbbell curls. I naively thought that 20-pound dumbbells would be easy enough for me. What I didn’t realize was that my years of neglect (thanks, pandemic!) had turned my muscles (I use that word loosely) into marshmallows. While everyone else was breezing through their third round of curls, I was still on my first (curl, not round), struggling not to drop the weights on my feet. I chose to remain positive. At least this classroom had no windows. I’d hate for some bros walking by to get a glimpse of me, laugh, and create their next Instagram reel. “Look at Miss Thing,” they’d title it. Is it so obvious I’m single?

At one point, the instructor noticed my flailing limbs, which resembled Pinocchio being operated by Geppetto after a weekend bender. He offered what I’m sure he thought was encouragement: “Glenn, if you’re having trouble keeping up, feel free to do what you can manage. You’re not required to keep up with everybody else.” His words, though meant to be uplifting, felt like a pat on the head from a kindergarten teacher who just watched me eat paste. I wasn’t humiliated. Not exactly. It was like being asked the give the keynote address at an inadequacy conference. Thanks?

As I struggled to keep up with the relentless pace of the spin class, my mind drifted back to the summer of ’73 at Camp Echo Lake. There I was, a scrawny 9-year-old, standing awkwardly on the baseball diamond as teams were being picked. Like a mosquito at a nudist colony, I was unwanted. When I was finally chosen – well, not actually chosen. When I was the only camper left, they just started the game, treating me like the top slice of a grocery store loaf of bread — always being passed over but out of politeness not immediately thrown away. I ended up on a team by default, and I was promptly banished to right field, where I prayed for the first, last and only time in my life. I prayed that no ball would ever come my way. The counselor took me aside and said, “It’s okay if you’d rather go to the Arts & Crafts shack and knit.” Knit? “Yes, knit, you little pansy,” he didn’t say but I heard anyway. Sure, why not also suggest I sign up to audition for the camp musical so I can sing show tunes, like a good little stereotype? By the way, I did audition for the camp musical, Damn Yankees, for which I got cast as…a baseball-playing extra, the most athletic role I could muster.

Fast forward five decades, and here I was again, feeling just as out of place and inadequate as a urinal in a nunnery. The spin instructor’s peppy encouragement felt more like a spotlight on my ineptitude, reminding me that some things remain stubbornly unchanged. As I pedaled furiously, going nowhere fast – a perfect metaphor for my post-pandemic life, I might add – I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d ever outgrow that forsaken kid from camp, forever doomed to be picked last for life’s proverbial teams.

The only thing I was cycling through faster than those pedals were memories of every humiliating moment from high school sports, like that one miraculous time we were playing volleyball and it was my turn to serve (a prospect scarier than evolving into the corpse of Sean Connery). I hit the ball over the net, and the opposing team was so shocked that instead of trying to return it they just clapped.

Back at the spin studio, I focused on the music playing over the studio’s speakers. A fantasy common to me began to take shape. In it, the spin instructor would call out, “Anyone who can name this song wins $10,000 and a free membership!” I’d casually reply, “That’s ‘Femininomenon’ by Chappell Roan,” and watch as jaws dropped around the room, which would then erupt in applause (not the jaws, but those in the room who owned them) like a high school volleyball team shocked to see a piece of bacon serve a ball with such perfection. My classmates would be stunned—how does this relic who wasn’t even born in this century know current pop music? They’d crowd around me after class, asking for my number, planning our weekend outings, wanting to know more about the oracle who knew Chappell Roan. “Are you Gandalf the Wizard?” Suddenly, I’d be the coolest sexagenarian in spin class (which I guess I already was by default), with invitations to brunches and gallery openings flowing like the sweat currently drenching my shirt. Next thing you know we’re at Hugo’s Café on a Sunday mid-morning and I’m hanging out with the young ‘uns regaling them with tales from my youth. It’d be like that time at the Salt-n-Straw ice cream shop when I asked cashier if they take cash and I told her that when I was her age we used to ask if establishments took charge cards. “Please don’t launch into an old man story,” she didn’t say but was written on her face. Except it wouldn’t be like that at all. Instead, they’d coo “Tell us more about prehistoric methods of payment!”

Something similar did happen to me. Not the explaining of the trade of currency for goods to a table of salad-eating young people; rather, the music knowledge prize thingie. I was participating in a music trivia contest, where six tables of randomly selected people competed for the top prize of…I can’t remember what. I think a greasy cardboard box from Dominos with something inside they call “pizza.” The emcee, Rich, posed a question to my table to win that coveted pepperoni trophy: “What female vocal quartet performed regularly on The Robert Q. Lewis Show prior to getting a record contract?” It may as well have been “What color socks was Abraham Lincoln wearing when he delivered the Gettysburg Address?” Miss Luthin never taught us that. She was useless. Nobody at my table had a clue as to the answer. With one second left I blurted into the mic a random guess. “The Chordettes.” When the emcee responded “Correct!,” the room erupted in cheers as if I just discovered the cure for cancer. People high-fived me, patted my back, and looked at me with a mixture of awe and pity, clearly wondering what kind of sad, empty life would lead a man to possess such utterly useless information. Looking back, that may have been the high point of my life.

The second highest point of my life came around 15 years before that, during college, when I went with a group of friends to Steve’s Ice Cream. On a chalk board by the register was the trivia question of the day: Who sings the theme song for Laverne & Shirley?

It’s time to make my dreams come true. With the confidence of a young Sam Harris channeling Patti LaBelle on Star Search, I declared “Cyndi Grecco!” The silence that followed was so profound, you could hear a sprinkle drop.

The wide-eyed cashier confirmed my answer, his voice tinged with the kind of awe usually reserved for royalty or people who can neatly fold fitted sheets.

For my encyclopedic knowledge of mid-seventies TV theme songs that cracked the US pop chart, I was awarded a genuine, bona fide, made-in-a-factory-somewhere Steve’s Ice Cream hat. Not a hat made of ice cream, an invention which I hope to someday patent, but a white poly-cotton cap that I wore like a crown.

In that moment, this glorious convergence of useless knowledge, frozen treats, and ill-fitting headwear seemed like a beacon for my future. I wasn’t invisible. I was the guy who could name Cyndi Grecco’s one hit. The guy who knew the second cop in the Village People was the brother of Valerie Simpson, of Ashford & Simpson fame. The guy who over the years would tell anyone within earshot that Chubby Checker got his stage name from Dick Clark’s wife as a pun on Fats Domino. This knowledge wasn’t useless—it was my currency, earning me sartorial accessories, dubious pizza slices, and admiration of all in my presence. Or so I told myself.

Of course, none of that happened in spin class. Instead, I was left struggling with my 20-pound weights while everyone else breezed through, and the only thing the instructor noticed was how far behind I was.

As I left the studio after the hour-long class, walking to my car with the awkward gait of someone who got caught in the crossfire of Al Capone and the coppers, I realized that I’m no longer that young, shriveled up piece of bacon that is not chosen. I’m older, heavier, and not chosen. Some things never change, except now, I possess the ultimate superpower: the ability to never come back. The money I spent on classes I then knew I would never attend gave me a new appreciation for the pandemic. I didn’t have to see anyone and nobody would see my physique.  I could focus on my annual New Year’s resolution of watching more television. Tangentially related, I watched that video clip of wealthy celebrities known for their comedy or action movies attempting to comfort those who suddenly found themselves out of a job by singing “Imagine no possessions – it’s easy if you try.” I, too, could embrace my privilege: the freedom to stay home and comfortably gorge on pasta and ice cream.

Let’s face it: I’m not the cat I used to be. The pandemic had thrown a wrench into my routine, and while I emerged thirty pounds heavier, at least I emerged. Many did not. Now, trying to pick up the pieces, I felt a lot like I was learning to crawl all over again.

Fittingly, Learning To Crawl was the Pretenders’ third album—a record born out of tragedy after the death of two founding members. Its biggest hit, “Back on the Chain Gang,” may sound deceptively upbeat, but it’s Chrissie Hynde’s bittersweet tribute to her late bandmate, James Honeyman-Scott. The album became a chronicle of loss, rebirth, and the disorienting process of starting over. “I didn’t know who I was anymore,” Hynde later confessed. “You have to walk the plank, dive into uncharted waters again, so you can figure out what your strengths and weaknesses are.”

Those uncharted waters led to some of the band’s most powerful work. In “Watching the Clothes,” Hynde captures the haunting mundanity of grief, watching her late roommate’s clothes spin in a laundromat dryer, knowing he’d never wear them again. Loss threads through the entire album: in “My City Was Gone,” she mourns her hometown’s transformation from pretty countryside to parking lots; in “Thin Line Between Love and Hate,” she reframes The Persuaders’ soul classic into an even more gut-wrenching tale of love destroyed; and in “Time the Avenger,” she reminds us we can’t outrun our past. Yet amid this landscape of loss, she finds moments of hope in “Thumbelina”‘s tale of escape and independence, and creates what would become a perennial Christmas favorite in the yearning “2000 Miles.”

In “Show Me,” Hynde welcomes her newborn to a world teeming with “war, disease, and brutality,” not to mention ageism, body shaming, environmental degradation, economic inequality, loneliness and isolation, political polarization, systemic racism, xenophobia, and ill-conceived covers of “Imagine.” And in “Middle of the Road,” she matter-of-factly notes, “I’m not the cat I used to be / I’ve got a kid, I’m 33.”

Do you remember feeling old at 33? I don’t, which isn’t to say I didn’t. But now, decades later, there’s no hiding my mortality in a room full of people half my age, all pedaling with the effortless vigor of youth. Like Hynde rebuilding after loss, I was diving into my own uncharted waters. And while my spin class comeback might lack the gravitas of a rock and roll redemption story, it shared one crucial truth with Learning To Crawl: sometimes moving forward means accepting where you are, even if you’re wobbling.

Though born from tragedy, the album never wallows. Hynde and her reconstituted band transformed their circumstances into something vibrant and vital—the kind of record that even Miss Luthin would find impossible to dismiss as BO-RING.

There’s more from Pretenders to come on this list.

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