You know, I’ve spent 36 years learning to be comfortable with myself. Many years of preening, working out, creating a special style that is fabulous without being too gay. Years of trying to create a positive image that shows success and inner peace. Many years of creating a solid, upper-middle-class façade that inspires confidence and self-assuredness.Years of studying yoga, Pilates, Elle Décor, Men’s Health and Details magazines. This includes seven years of psychological counseling, four years of college, nine years of marriage and two years on anti-depressants. All of this was undone at 10:00 p.m. at a local taco shop when a group of gangly teenagers pulled up to where my son Alfy and I were eating and he says: “Don’t embarrass me.”

“Don’t embarrass me!?! Don’t embarrass him? Don’t embarrass ME!” I thought. Is he ashamed? Could it be the Audi Wagon with the rainbow stickers all over it, and a small poodle inside? (Okay, maybe the gay pride stickers and the poodle might be a bit redundant.) But they are Pride stickers aren’t they?

Sadly, I once considered myself a “hip” parent. I know the slang, the bands and the styles. I let him wear his hair long and pierce his ear, and I bought the boxers that hang out the back of his pants. I watch Ozzy and Dave Chapelle. How did sitting next to a 15 year old make me feel so hopelessly uncool? Worse yet, why did I care? I was so tempted to really embarrass him (and myself). I was so tempted to get up and talk about his pimples, pull the naked baby pictures out of my wallet or ask him in a loud voice if his constipation had cleared up. (All things that my father did to us when our friends or schoolmates were nearby.)

But I held my tongue. I held my head up high. I mustered all the dignity I could as I looked at the peculiar teenage boys that had wandered into the restaurant. Black T-shirts, ripped jeans, total clones of one another. No style, no originality, desperate to be different yet looking alike. Alfy too, with his thrift store clothes and concert tees, falling into my definition of a “rocker.” I looked back to myself at 15, wanting to “fit in” but, sadly, having a personality that couldn’t. Never cool, never uncool – just there. I remember the pain of wanting to be seen and be invisible at the same time.

At that point I was happy for Alfy. While his gay dad and Scruffy the Poodle didn’t necessarily fit in with his idea of coolness, I knew at that moment, for a little while, he had found his place in the scheme of things. I could tell that he had been accepted by these boys and respected for being a good guitar player. I also understood that ever since I was little, that I would always be different, weird and special. That any carefully constructed image I try to create for myself will be quickly undone the minute I open my mouth. So for both of us, I didn’t embarrass him.

I sat there, smiled and ate my taco.