ver the years, I have developed a fairly healthy sense of personal identity. I've gradually grown comfortable in my own skin, gained interests and tastes that I feel are uniquely my own and have fortunately crossed paths with several amazing people with whom I've formed intimate friendships. I feel I have also, for the most part, come to terms with my limitations – in some instances even embracing them. Quirks and all, I can't complain. I am fond of the person I am becoming.

On rare occasions, however, I find myself immediately transported back to junior high. In situations that take me back to the lunch line at Haskell Middle School, while eagerly waiting for a slice of greasy cardboard pizza with one of my few friends, Erica Blakely, I overhear a group of popular, attractive future fat fraternity brothers and big-breasted, bleached blonde rich husband-chasers commenting on the small, red triangular patch on the back right pocket of my jeans. "Are those girls' Guess jeans he's wearing? Or is he a she? Oh...my...Gawwd!! It's a Red Guess Triangle!!!"

Long before the male Emo population blurred gender lines by donning tight female denim at least two sizes too small for their frames, my mother, out of genuine concern for her son but lacking an insider's knowledge of the latest adolescent fashion trends, purchased for me a pair of girls' Guess jeans, complete with tapered legs finished with shiny gold zippers at the bottom. She discovered the fancy threads at her favorite neighborhood secondhand store. My family lived on a strict budget when I was young, and during our annual back to school shopping trips to the mall, my mother would steadily guide me by the arm to the sale racks at the back of Renberg's department store while, with tears streaming down my face, I pleaded for a pair of last season's Cole Haan moccasin loafers. After thumbing through a pile of 40% off XXL Vuarnet France t-shirts, she would sigh and say, "You will just have to make due this year with what I find at the consignment shop." So, bearing the constant fear of garnering the dreaded title of "school fag," I reluctantly wore the jeans.

I wasn't anticipating one of these odd flashbacks when I stopped by the local General Nutrition Center Friday afternoon. After taking an extended vacation from swimming laps (part of my current exercise routine that also includes a few beginning Yoga classes), I decided my rekindled workout regimen could benefit from drinking the occasional protein shake. As I opened the doors, I noticed the friendly older woman who usually greets me when I drop in for multi-vitamins was absent from behind the counter. In her place stood a very handsome, extremely fit, 6'3", dark-haired twenty-something guy rummaging through some paperwork.

"Wassup, bro?" he said, without glancing up at me. As I walked to the back of the store toward the "enhancement supplement" section, I casually scanned the room.

Shortly after moving to Tulsa , I was surprised to discover the GNC of Broken Arrow, Oklahoma (a suburb of Tulsa ) attracts a relatively diverse customer base – a far cry from the store location in Chicago 's Boystown, where gym rats gather outside the doors with their equally in-shape friends and sip soymilk lattes while exchanging the latest Bally's gossip.

But the store atmosphere was a bit different on this particular afternoon.

Along with myself in the shop were no fewer than ten other male customers - each and every one the picture perfect embodiment of culturally admired masculinity. The Men's Health magazine cover variety with perfectly chiseled faces and biceps to match (and I'm fairly certain one of the kids recently landed a national television commercial advertising the Gillette "Mach III" razor and I presumed must be in town taking a short break, after his latest successful booking, to visit family).

After choosing a powdered meal supplement with a nice balance of protein, aminogens and carbogens (the last two of the three I had never heard of but enjoyed reading about on the back of the container), I hoisted my barrel-like selection under my arm and made my way to the checkout counter.

I filed in line behind five guys who were already waiting and listened as the attractive employee talked fitness shop with his customers while he scanned the UPC codes on their purchases.

"For best results, make sure you take these anabolic amplifiers 30 minutes before working out," he said.

I don't remember the content of the following informational exchanges, since they might as well have been speaking Hebrew, but after what seemed 45 minutes or so, I finally took my place at the register.

"Did you find everything ok, bro?" the attractive guy asked.

"Yeah, I did. Thanks," I replied.

As I reached for my wallet, the attractive guy then said, "Are you from around here?"

I looked up as I pulled out my credit card, "Yes, from Broken Arrow , originally. Why?" 

"Well, I'm from Portland , Oregon ," he said, "and you kind of look like someone from the street. No offense or anything. It's just you're skinny and with the shaggy facial hair and all."

"Oh, well…it's…uhmm…been a while since I've trimmed my beard," I said as I attempted a chuckle and turned a slight shade of red. "Thanks, and have a good night."

I grabbed my bag and quickly exited the store.

Do I really look that bad? I thought to myself on the way to the car. I had seen a few Discovery Channel documentaries exposing the troubled lives of hundreds of kids who flock to Portland each year to take up permanent residence on the city's downtown sidewalks. Really? I asked myself, I mean, I've let myself go a bit over the last few weeks and could also stand to gain a few pounds, but The Portland Homeless???

As I opened my car door, I began talking myself down (as I often do when catching myself in a silly, irrational string of thoughts) with familiar reminders that there's much more to life (and my identity) than my outward appearance and that it really doesn't matter anyway what a stranger thinks of me - even a very handsome stranger - and how a comparison to a homeless Portland teenager might even be considered a compliment in that "maybe I'm pulling off a hip, heroine-chic look" sort of way.

Then I peered into the rearview mirror at the two weeks' worth of untrimmed growth on my face and greasy, unwashed hair and then down at my faded, ratty t-shirt and realized that I did, in fact, look like hell warmed over.

As I pulled out of the parking lot and up to a red stoplight, I remembered something I heard a pop psychologist say years ago on a random television talk show. As sensational as the episode on child bullying was, for some reason the statement resonated with me:

We as adults harbor many of the same insecurities we had as children. We have only learned to better mask them.

On most any other day, perhaps when I wasn't already feeling a little too pensive before suddenly finding myself standing shoulder to shoulder with all that physical perfection, I wouldn't have given the employee's comment a second thought. Did I still secretly long, on some subconscious level, to have wowed Big 10 school talent scouts as the hunky star quarterback on my high school football team or to have graced runways as the new Calvin Klein underwear model "IT" boy during New York's Fashion Week? Sure, those scenarios would have shaped me into a completely different person with his own array of challenges and issues. But would life have gone a bit more smoothly? Might I be more content?

For whatever reasons, his comment affected me. And I felt as if I had once again just been shoved into the locker by that asshole, Shane Ingram.

When I arrived back home, I walked into my bedroom and glanced at a picture taken of me and some good friends in Chicago during my going away party. As I smiled remembering the funny conversation that unfolded shortly after a stranger snapped the picture, I noticed a copy of my grandmother's funeral program from her service held a few weeks ago resting beside the photo. I thought briefly about spending with her the last few minutes of her life and the impact of those uninterrupted moments. No sentimental musical score erupted in the background. I didn't weep and join the Peace Corps. But I did quietly whisper, "Thanks, Granny."

And I waited a few more days before taking the clippers to my shaggy beard.

Here's to perspective.