SHAPE (Documentary Film Review)

I’ve seen a lot of mediocre documentaries since the introduction of streaming channels. They can be cheaply made, a series of interviews on a single set, a few cheesy reenactments, too often the key people not participating in the production, leaving the “truth” to be told by people two or three degrees from what actually happened. Because of this, I now make snap decisions, tuning out many a documentary within the first five minutes.  

 

Shape: When Idolisation Leads to Exclusion is an Australian documentary available for watching on YouTube that I may have given up on, but someone I respect as a deeper thinker recommended it to my partner, Evan, and so I decided to stick it out. I would watch it; Evan would watch it; then we’d come together to discuss over FaceTime. Being as we have a Vancouver – Denver long-distance relationship, our version of movie night can take a few days to unfold. 

 

Shape unfolds on a simple set, a stage on which six different queer people appear separately to offer their opinions on finding one’s place in the gay community and how one’s appearance plays a major factor in a de facto sorting system.

 

The interviewees, along with how they are identified in the film are: Miss Jay (drag queen); Stewart (casual model / dance party promoter); Stefan (Gen X, 55); Aaron (President, Vic Bears); Budi (intersectionality, equity and justice trainer; consultant; director, Ananda Training & Consultancy); and Glen (associate professor, La Trobe University / clinical psychologist).

 

Aaron, a self-described bear,
sees gay men as having
restrictive views on body shape.
He believes there is even
work to be done among bears.

Nothing in the film is earth-shattering, at least not for anyone who has been immersed in the gay community in the past several decades. From the film’s outset, I found myself nodding but wondering if I needed to stick with the ninety-minute documentary. It felt like listening to a new alphabet song—all familiar letters, just different rhythms and notes. 

 

And yet I stayed with it. I resisted the temptation to get up and tidy the living room or do the dinner dishes while the documentary droned on. I wondered if there might be a different take, however slight, when listening to a half dozen people immersed in, or at least exposed to, Australia’s gay scene.

 

“To be as diverse as we think we are,” Aaron says, “we need to get rid of the discrimination.” Hmm…the differences, if any, would be subtle.

 

Stefan, in his mid-50s, often
comes across as exasperated 
by ageism amongst gays.

The film is slow in the beginning. With half a dozen interviewees, it takes a while to get to know them. They have each been chosen to offer a slightly different take on gay inclusion, and lack thereof. Connection on film, just as in the gay scene takes time. For many a viewer, the familiarity of the gripes made about gay interactions may lead one to turn away—been there, heard that. 

 

Still there’s something to be said for the cumulative effect of six strangers, talking separately, yet echoing one another, delivering one consistent message: things are messed up. 

 

The film becomes most compelling when the interviewees are asked to read and react to Grindr profiles. In the virtual world, many do not even consider the pretense of politeness and acceptance. It’s brutal hearing profiles men have typed, saved and posted that boldly—and offensively—say this is what I want; this is what I don’t want. “This” is not a product, however; instead, it is whole groups of people. We know this about Grindr, but listening to the participants read and respond makes one want to auto-delete everyone’s profile. Grindr is too far gone. Is there a way to start over?

 

I had another reason to be hesitant in viewing Shape. The main topic is about an important one—how our looks, in general, and our bodies, more specifically—affect our integration into the gay community. I have an eating disorder. Too much talk over body ideals and body flaws can be triggering. I’m presently in one of my greater periods of struggle. One body shot or one phrase might hit me the wrong way and set me back even more. Because of this, I am grateful the film limits its images of body ideals at least until two-thirds in. One shirtless white model, who does not have a speaking part poses between interview segments. Then there is a model who would be called a twink, one who would be a daddy and one who is Asian, each of them fitting a proximation of a body ideal. By limiting the men and images, I did not become overwhelmed by notions of body perfection. 

 

When the film starts to talk about men portrayed on social media and in ads, there is a deluge of The Body Beautiful but by then I was invested enough in the film and I’d heard enough from the interviewees, each offering a form of support by saying this objectification and the higher stature it brings in the gay community are fucked up. 

 

Budi, who is of Indonesian
descent, makes many astute
comments about how gays 
discriminate over race, height
and views of masculinity and
femininity.

I didn’t reach for the button to close my YouTube window. I managed to watch the whole documentary without feeling any more messed up than I am. In fact, I went away with my feelings affirmed. Yes, the “community” has some growing up to do. The acceptance and inclusion we seek in greater society is often lacking within the Pride fold, particularly amongst gay men.

 

In general, I think gays are nicer people. We’re kind; we’re sensitive. 

 

Until we’re not. There’s the group mentality that I witnessed—and, yes, partook in—as I was coming out in the late ’80s. The gay bar was a sieve, washing away all the Not Good Enoughs, limiting everyone’s gaze to men with seemingly perfect hair, faces and bodies. Little things—a bit of body hair, a possible love handle, an underwhelming bicep—constituted reasons to overlook so many people. “Swipe left” culture existed long before the apps.  

 

I’ve often lamented that groups of gay men often go through a difficult journey—even now—in coming out, only to find rejection and cliquey behaviors in the very “community” that knows all too well about the struggle to be truly accepted for who we are. Why must we continue to dismiss and discriminate amongst our own?

 

Shape is worth a watch. Better yet, it’s worth watching with a partner and/or friends. While the messages are familiar, sometimes it helps to hear things from other people, offering another opportunity for reflection about our place in the “community” and what we can do or not do to stop us from swimming in the shallow end so we can explore deeper topics and people. The discussion that can arise during and after watching this documentary might cause some of us to rethink how we view our own, be it ourselves or our community. 

 

If you do watch it, feel to leave a comment or two about your thoughts. I’m curious to know what takeaways others get from the film.

 

 

 

 

THE WIN COLUMN

A writing colleague, a good friend of mine, is trans. We connect through FaceTime once a week to share a writing session. It starts with a check-in (How’s your week of writing going? What are you working on today?) and is followed by an hour where we disconnect and write before FaceTiming again to talk about how the hour went. 

 

They live in Seattle. As “safe” an area as any for someone who is trans in the United States but it’s still in the U.S. where Trump has already issued executive orders about trans in the military, trans girls and women in sports and trans healthcare for people under eighteen. I have sensed my friend’s unease with every phone call since the election. It’s hard not to feel targeted or to sense walls closing in.

 

For gay white cisgender men such as myself, the equivalent would be to live in a country whose newly appointed ruler issued orders banning gay marriage, gays in the military, gay adoption and discussion of anything gay in schools. If your tendency is to quibble over anything I mentioned that is not an exact equivalent, check your personal feelings and beliefs about people who are trans. How many do you know? Have you listened to them talk about trans issues? How much are you willing to be an ally and to truly include them in the Pride “community” we speak of every June if not throughout the year?

 

I have told my friend I will drive down to Seattle (or Olympia, the state capital) and rally alongside them. Just give me a date. I want them to feel my support is real, that there is substance behind my words.

 

Part of my frustration, however, has been that I’m not seeing rallies. I’m not hearing well-packaged soundbites like the highly effective, enduring “Love Is Love,” that helped people get behind gay marriage. I have not been able to point to an organization that is leading the cause to fight back and advocate for trans rights. GLAAD and HRC exist but their agendas are diverse and I’m not sure how many trans people see these organizations as representing their voices. I imagine trans advocates want trans people actually taking the lead. They need to be empowered while the rest of us, LGBTQ and otherwise, get behind them and lift them up.

 

I asked my friend, “What organization is leading the campaign for trans rights?”

 

I wanted the answer to roll off their tongue. There was a pause, but it didn’t take too long before they replied, “Maybe A4TE?” It was a tentative response. I didn’t ask them to explain what the letters and number stood for. I could do my own research.

 

Advocates For Trans Equality.

 

Not an organization known in households. Not yet.

 

A4TE.

 

A4TE.

 

A4TE.

 

A4TE, A4TE, A4TE…

 

I got it wrong a couple of times in the past week. Not rolling just yet. But I can say I’m getting familiar with the organization.

 

Advocates for Trans Equality is a merger of sorts, coming into being just last year after two organizations established in 2003 joined forces: National Center for Transgender Equality (NCTE) and Transgender Legal Defense and Education Fund (TLDEF). Honestly, I’d never heard of either or, if I had, the names didn’t stick with me. Maybe I had just never made trans rights enough of a priority.

 

I spent an hour going through their website. At first, I was underwhelmed. This is it? That’s all? But then I subscribed to their newsletter and read the first one. I was emailed a link and listened to an excellent 90-minute webinar, “Trans Rights vs. Trump: How A4TE Is Fighting Back.” I started to feel more encouraged. The information is getting out there. A4TE is taking a lead.

 

A4TE, A4TE, A4TE.

 

One part of the website in particular resonated with me. When I scrolled down the ABOUT tab, I clicked on the first option, HISTORY, and reading through the web page, I came upon the heading, What We’ve Done, which begins with:

 

Over the last twenty years, NCTE secured over 100

federal policy changes in various agencies and

helped defeat hundreds of anti-trans state bills

across the country, and TLDEF saw major

victories and had unflappable persistence in

courtrooms across the country, having worked

on some of the most significant trans legal

victories in the nation.

 

The following six paragraphs offered specifics regarding what the separate organization accomplished before merging. There are significant victories arising from battling various institutions and the governments of the day. 

 

While Trump’s executive orders are setbacks and are clearly disheartening if not devastating to trans people and their families, the prior wins represent hope. Change can happen. There is an organization with a track record of victories. Defeats occur as well, perhaps fueling a sense of incensement that can rally people, but the victories motivate too. There are things in the win column. All is not lost. All is not dark. 

 

Hopefully, you will check out the website for Advocates for Trans Equality. I recommend subscribing to the newsletter. (The "subscribe" button appears at the bottom of each page on their website.) Read or skim the ones you have time for in your busy life. Perhaps mark them to be read later. 

 

I want the rallies. I want the “good trouble” the late Congressmen John Lewis mentioned. I want the court challenges. I want safety and security for people who are trans. I want more in the W column.

 

  

I AM ONE: A BOOK OF ACTION

 

 

Words by Susan Verde

 

Illustrations by Peter H. Reynolds

 

(Abrams Books for Young Readers, 2020)

 

Back in November, I posted two pieces about going Beyond the Vote. (You can read them here and here.) Trump had won the U.S. election and the Republicans held power in both the Senate and the House of Representatives but that only meant that people seeking change and advocating for trans and queer rights as well as topics like climate change and freedom from book banning needed to actively and steadfastly pursue other channels to affect change.

 

Frankly, going beyond and around formal political structures is where the fun is. The late U.S. Congressman John Lewis referred to some of these non-legislative actions as “good trouble.” I smile every time I think of the phrase and I recall some of the things I did during the height of the AIDS crisis. I was not a member of ACT UP which was more radical than I dared to be as I still had one foot in the closet. Still, I participated in protests and marches. When I attended monthly meetings as an AIDS Project Los Angeles volunteer, I removed all my money to have it stamped as “gay dollars” to remind people when the bills went back into circulation that gays had money and the economic power that went with it.

 

Clearly, we need to get creative in how we fight back against many of Trump’s executive orders and it will take a swell of participation from allies. Just this weekend, the president has gotten me more incensed than ever by imposing 25% tariffs on Canadian and Mexican goods while setting tariffs on China at 10%. Tell me how it makes sense to be most economically punishing to your long-term neighbors, your most natural trading partners? Why even target Canada (and Mexico)? We’ve had a good thing going between North American countries. I know that Canadians are outraged.

 

I, of course, can participate in protest actions and change initiatives relating to more than one issue and now I most certainly must. Trans and queer rights remain at the forefront. Canadian pushback now stands alongside that. 

 

I’ve talked with people over the past week who feel scattered and overwhelmed by the rapid change Trump is creating through his promised rainstorm of executive actions. That’s normal. Catch your breath, everybody.

 

But Susan Verde and Peter H. Reynolds’ book I Am One: A Book of Action reminds us in a simple yet inspirational way that change starts with one person doing one action. The message is comparable to the image of a drop in a bucket seeming inconsequential until another drop and another and many, many more are added in. Keep it coming. Keep doing the work. Let others see and feel your actions. Let those who are so motivated do the same or similar actions. Let them try another course of action. Let everything build.

 

A Book of Action was inspired by a quote from the Dalai Lama: “Just as ripples spread out when a single pebble is dropped into water, the actions of individuals can have far-reaching effects.” The book begins with a key question: “How do I make a difference?”

 

Yeah, we all feel that little old me syndrome from time to time. I hear people who are less hopeful opt out with the defeatist statement, “What difference does it make?”

 

All I know is I have control over my own thoughts and actions. I always believe in doing what I can. For the issues that matter most to me, I must move beyond talking the talk. I must walk the walk. Actions matter.

 

As the book reminds us, “Beautiful things start with just One.” 

 

One seed to start a garden.

One stroke to start a masterpiece.

One note to start a melody. 

 

Starting matters. That first action is the root of bigger things, sometimes even a movement. Not every action will have legs, but it’s worth giving it a go and seeing if it might. It’s worth checking out online what people are doing and adopting your own version of an action or actions that seem within your ability.

 

 

The book reminds us that that pebble drop in water the Dalai Lama referred to can create ripples and, with enough pebbles dropped, we can imagine ripples evolving into swells, then waves. 

 

It’s time to act. Try something. Try something else. Comment on and acknowledge what others are doing. Action feels so much better than sitting, stewing and fretting. 

 

I may be reading I Am One: A Book of Action on the daily for the next while. The book itself calms me and reminds me of opportunity, pushing me past passivity. 

 

Again, it’s time to act. 

 

What will it be?

 

 

 

 

A WORK IN PROGRESS (STILL)

There’s a stereotype of a cantankerous, old man who no longer gives a shit. Ebenezer Scrooge. Statler and Waldorf, the two crankpot Muppets who criticize everything from the audience. Donald Trump? Not only does the seventy-eight-year-old not care but he is totally settled on who he is. He isn’t going to change.

 

I’m sixty and happy to say I’m not there yet. No shrugging. No humbugging. No all-caps Tweets at 3 a.m.

 

I’m neither cranky—even before my first coffee of the day—nor settled with who I am. I still have work to do. Or attempt, at least. 

 

I remain a work in progress. I am relieved I still care. Some of my greatest still-pending self-improvement pertains to my body and my mindset regarding it.

 

My dang eating disorder is an unwanted guest that arrived forty-three years ago and has never left. Sure, there’ve been times when it’s hung out in the attic or basement or even the condo storage locker, out of sight, mostly out of mind, but my messed up thinking and body dysmorphia have always been with me…even when my weight appeared healthy…occasionally several pounds “beyond” healthy. 

 

More often than being an attic dweller, the eating disorder has been in the same room with me, wherever I go, right by my side. It hangs around, defiant. 

Just try to ignore me. You can’t take two steps without bumping into me. 

 

The eating disorder harps. 

You sure you want to eat that? Seriously…ALL that? 

 

It’s bound to put a pound on you. How you gonna

work that off?

 

Why haven’t you exercised yet? It’s not your day off, 

you know. You only get one a week…even if you’ve

got a fractured rib. 

 

You think  you’ve only gained half a pound? It’s a 

slippery slope, you know. You can’t take chances.

 

Many of the eating disorder programs in which I’ve taken part refer to the eating disorder as one’s guilty conscience, an inner voice or, often, a separate character: ED. He befriends and acts like he’s got your best interests in mind. Ed’s a supporter. Rah rah, be your best self.

 

And, clearly, that self has half a pound to lose. So unacceptable!

 

It would be easier—maybe even better—if I continued to keep my eating disorder a secret. But I’m very open about the fact ED hangs around. I lived alone with my eating disorder for thirty-six years. It was undiagnosed. When I’d finally summoned the courage to consult my family doctor thirteen years into the disorder, he shook off the possibility. “You’re just very fit,” he said. A good thing in general. A bad thing though for someone feeling messed up, for a person constantly exhausted from working so hard to eat so little and to exercise so much.

 

The diagnosis came twenty-three years after that consultation. At first, it was only known to me and the person who had done the assessment. Then, it was public info for anyone else in my first eating disorder group. It was confirmed again by a psychiatrist who did another assessment. I’ve been assessed and reassessed several times, formalities to continue receiving services. The result is never in question. 

 

My family knows I have an eating disorder. My close friends know. My partner knows. Strangers know as well. I’ve been contacted by a few people after CBC published an essay I wrote about my eating disorder and after I participated in a CBC podcast. A researcher from a major Canadian university reached out to me via Instagram to invite me to be a patient-contributor in creating a new eating disorder assessment tool. I’ve also been the living-and-breathing patient participant alongside a professor and a social worker on a panel to enlighten nursing majors at another Canadian university. 

 

Being public has a few benefits. It’s a load off me. I’m still a work in progress but the burden feels lighter knowing I’m not fully in hiding. My food restriction still happens in private, but I have the sense I’m no longer fooling anyone. I also hope that my openness may help others—friends and family of someone who may have and eating disorder or, even better, a person who is going through the struggle, diagnosed or not. I continue to believe that the earlier people get support, the better the chances they will see some progress in their own recovery. 

 

Practically speaking, being public about my eating disorder helps me continue to qualify for services and supports. I was re-diagnosed and referred for programming last April as my eating disorder habits spiked. (Another assessment came in August.) My behaviors have evened out on their own since last April—still well within the zone of a diagnosable condition but less alarming. I’m currently accessing outpatient support though I went through a lengthy intake session last week for the possibility of being re-hospitalized and/or being readmitted to a group home for persons with eating disorders. I’m on the fence about these more intensive programs. They didn’t change me at all when I went through both in 2019. I wonder if I might be more receptive this time. What has changed for that to be a possibility?

 

Yes, I am a work in progress. Sometimes, however, progress is especially hard to quantify.

LOOKING FORWARD

Flash forward from last week’s post about kissing my ex to the present…

 

I’m writing this from his kitchen table in Denver. Clearly, we’ve lasted longer than my two-week stint in the area, dog-sitting for my sister. 

 

I flew home two days before Christmas and spent the holidays alone though Evan and I continued communicating daily via FaceTime. Usually, they were long chats, Evan still wondering what was going on with us, me waiting for him to realize we deserved a second chance—full on, not as hiking bros but as a couple in the present, looking ahead, hoping to be in each other’s future. 

 

I think we’re there. There are moments Evan walks things back a bit. 

 

What are we? 

 

How are we supposed to make our international relationship work? 

 

Why hadn’t I said “no veggies, no vegans” on my OkCupid profile back in 2021? 

 

But here I am. In the kitchen with a Bodum of decaf coffee. Day 5 of a one-week visit. All is well. It feels like our ten-month break never happened. We mesh like we always have. Two peas in a pod…or maybe one pea and one meatball. I’m vegetarian, verging on vegan; he is, well, not. He gets at least two kinds of meat on his pizza and I, needing a cheeseless version, wound up with a gluten-free crust as well when dining out Friday night. (Not my thing but we “picky” eaters get lumped together.) 

 

Half his clothing seems to have a leather component while my home is completely leather-free, including three dozen pairs of canvas Converse

 

Peas and meatballs, it turns out pair well together. 

 

We know our differences. For the most part, we accept—and respect—them in one another. It’s the common values that I have always felt were the foundation of a strong relationship and our values are wholly aligned. 

 

Soon I’ll be flying home, our next time together uncertain in terms of calendaring but assured in terms of it being a reality. 

 

We go forward.

 

 

 

 

  

COFFEE & KISSING WITH MY EX

Okay, so my ex said yes to coffee in Denver. (See last week’s post if you want the background.) I emailed Sunday night and he wanted to meet Monday. Um. Sure. I could get it over with.

 

What did I really want in meeting Evan?

 

The last time I’d met an ex who’d dumped me was thirty years ago. By then, a year had passed and I was in another relationship. Coffee was closure and it was an easy process. Within five minutes, I was bored with the conversation, I realized we didn’t have much in common and I felt no more need to look back on what could’ve been. It was never going to work out.

 

Truth? I kinda love the band.

With Evan though, I’d had decades of dating behind me. I’d fallen in and out of love with others. I’d learned a few things about what made relationships work or fall apart. I’d really felt we had a good shot of going the distance. Still, I couldn’t shake the look on his face when we’d FaceTimed a week after he ended things. It said, “I would rather be anywhere but in this moment.” Prison in Siberia. In line for the guillotine in an unfortunate time travel episode. Nickelback concert. Would coffee be punishment for both of us?

 

And yet…

 

He’d started texting me twenty minutes after I emailed. It was textbook texting for Evan, a rapid-fire series of short statements.

                  Thanks for reaching out

                  I’ve missed you so much

                  Think about you every day

 

The eagerness was disarming. How was this the same man who had so quickly dropped me like I was a handkerchief infested with COVID, avian flu and cooties? 

 

When he suggested his place instead of a café, it felt too intimate for a closure conversation. Having some couple sitting beside us, rehashing the plot of Wicked seemed like the protection I needed so I wouldn’t cry into my hoodie and he wouldn’t suddenly snap back to February 2024, remembering all the reasons I’d seemed unworthy. Clutching a warm oat latte in a hipster café seemed safer, saner.

 

But, no, I drove to his place which was itself a strange experience. Technically, I saw it back in February. I was there ten minutes, walking around stunned as he gave me a tour that seemed utterly pointless since he’d ended things in the car ride from Union Station. I could process nothing other than things were OVER and I needed to find a hotel for the night. 

 

Adding to the strangeness this time was the fact I had my sister’s very hyper dog with me and my first actions involved following her own thorough inspection of the place, sniffing everything, seeking socks, shoes or basically anything to put in her mouth, a wet, slobbery way of staking claim. 

 

Somewhere in the midst of me playing Follow the Dog, Evan and I hugged. Long, tight…that kind of don’t-let-go gesture ruined by the fact the dog had discovered the roll of toilet paper in the bathroom.  

 

Evan and I talked, we teared up, we kissed.

 

Wait. What? Kissing was not in my mental flow chart of possibilities for how our conversation would go. 

 

He was clear about wanting me in his life. It sounded like he was proposing something on the friendship path. And I knew I didn’t want that. I don’t kiss friends on the lips. Certainly not the way we were kissing. I couldn’t redefine us, going from my partner for life to a buddy I hiked with when I occasionally ended up in Colorado. 

 

We continued talking…and kissing until I had to leave. Being mid-December, darkness loomed and I had to get back to my sister’s mini ranch with the three horses that needed attending to. I wanted to make the drive in daylight because the “highway” to her place was basically a curvy roller coaster track without the loop-de-loop. (Plus, as it turned out, there was considerable snow coming down within thirty minutes of her place.)

 

I was in the area for two weeks. We’d have time to see each other again. Maybe we’d even figure out what, if anything, we might be to one another again.

 

 

DODGING WHITE CARS

Back in the fall, my sister reached out and asked if I would come to Colorado to dog-sit for a couple of weeks. I was hesitant. Yes, I’d dog-sat for friend in California in July. Yes, I’d dog-sat for my aunt and uncle in September. This is not some new professional gig. I fell into these experiences, there being a mutual benefit in that a dog avoided kennel time and I got to spend an extended break in areas I really liked. Plus, I love dogs and I’ve gone the past decade without one of my own, telling myself I wanted to enjoy travel without the guilt, expense and logistics of dog care. The two dog-sitting gigs were win-win situations.

 

It was different in the case of my sister. Nothing against her or her dog, a four-year-old, partially deaf English cocker spaniel. Even by my sister’s reports, the dog had some challenges, but I knew the dog and I would figure things out in some sort of comical alpha battle.

 

The problem was where my sister lived—Colorado. I realize the state is generally a draw from a tourist’s perspective. Her home is in a rural community, an hour outside of Denver. Urban accessibility, a general plus but a distinct negative for me. 

 

The last time I was in Colorado, I’d flown to Denver on Valentine’s Day. My partner of nearly two years had just moved there to start a new job. After a Seattle-Vancouver long-distance relationship, we were committed to making Denver-Vancouver work, too. I’m a writer; I can write anywhere. Denver would simply be a new setting. 

 

But we hadn’t even made it to his new place before we broke up. Ten minutes in the car and I was suddenly single. They say there’s something about the Colorado air that induces altitude sickness. Apparently it also implodes relationships. 

 

I stayed at a hotel that night and rescheduled my flight. A two-week visit got whittled down to a day. I insisted on that day, figuring it would feel too pathetic taking the first flight home on February 15^th, my sole memory centered on getting dumped. Instead, I walked around downtown, forcing myself to be a tourist, cramming in more than usual to try to temporarily distract from what had brought me to Denver and what had happened. I needed the city to be more than That Place. I salvaged the city’s reputation but barely.

 

The idea of flying back to Denver ten months later had zero appeal. It felt like I should wait a few years or, really, a lifetime. There were other places to see. Omaha, for instance. Iowa City. Duluth.

 

I went back and forth with my sister, first via text, then a phone call. “Are you sure about this?” (She’d be paying for my flight.) “Isn’t a kennel cheaper?”

 

But she did seem sure. 

 

And I, having not always been the best member of the family, set aside my Colorado-avoidance urge to say, “Okay. I’ll do it.”

 

To most people, an ex would not factor into the decision at all. The trip was not about him. He and my sister did not live on the same street or in the same neighborhood. I was certain they did not shop the same Safeway and, if I had to avoid Trader Joe’s, well, I could do without the banana chips.

 

Still, with months until my trip, I found I was dreading it. What if I run into him? The chances were so remote, I kept telling myself. Six million people live in Colorado. 700,000 in Denver. Nope, there was no way our paths would cross. He was yoga; I was gym. He was Mexican food; I was Indian. He was flashy New York City-styled cowboy; I could duck into a closet if I saw him approaching from two hundred yards away. If coincidence actually came to be—and it wouldn’t—I could deke and dodge. 

 

But I couldn’t convince myself with 100% certainty that we wouldn’t stumble into one another. His family cabin was off the same highway, halfway between my sister’s place and Denver. It was an added possibility. What if he ventured there due to a burst water pipe or a sudden calling to lay a few mousetraps for winter? 

 

I became surer of the fact we wouldn’t walk into each other on the street or in a café. My worst-case scenario became a chance encounter at a traffic light, me glancing down from my sister’s SUV into his white BMW. No matter how much I tried to lean into logistics and statistics, I couldn’t shake this idea. Sure it would be winter, our windows rolled up, any “hello” or “Oh, shit” fully muted. 

 

But seeing him would be enough to undo me. All the frantic travel I’d been doing for ten months to numb the pain of rejection and to delay processing the loss of the person I’d thought was finally The One would be for naught. One glance. So much potential harm.

 

I developed an anticipatory new phobia: fear of white cars. I am terrible at identifying makes and models of vehicles. I can distinguish between a semi and a Fiat, but everything in between has a sameness to it. Any approaching white car could, for at least a fraction of a second, register in my brain as a BMW. His BMW. Driving would produce tiny shocks every time I’d spy something that is white. 

 

There are so many white cars.

 

Shock agony.

 

And so a month before my scheduled Colorado dog-sitting I decided to be proactive. After I arrived, I would reach out to him. “Hey, I’m here for two weeks. Let me know if you want to grab a coffee.” It would be done. I’d have reached out and gotten it over with. 

 

He could ignore the message.

 

He could say he’s out of town, a work trip in Omaha. (Lucky bastard.)

 

He could reply, “Why the hell would I want to do that?”

 

A message hanging in the virtual world would, of course, put him back on my mind but the fact was he was already on my mind and I was failing to bat away all notions of a coincidental encounter. If he ignored it or said no thanks, I’d have at least done my part. If then we did cross paths, I’d be justified passing with blinders on. I wouldn’t be slighting him because he’d already done the slighting.

 

There was one other response I hadn’t fully considered:

 

He could say yes.

 

And that’s just what he did.