SO FAR AWAY

I often say a long-distance relationship suits me. I like my time with my partner, but I also value time on my own. As an introvert, I can never seem to get enough quiet time to myself. 

 

But having returned from Evan’s home in Denver three days ago, I haven’t settled in the way I usually do. I know a big part of it has to do with the fact I’m flying again at the end of the week to Canada’s East Coast for a conference that I’ll stretch into a week of travel. So, yes, the suitcase only gets a brief period in my closet before another round of packing. Vancouver doesn’t feel like home at the moment; instead, it’s a pit stop. 

 

But backing things up a bit, I didn’t want to fly home from Denver in the first place. I’d been there three weeks which is about as long as any of our visits, but there was nothing beckoning back in Vancouver. Even my introverted ways were subdued rather than begging for respite. 

 

I suppose that means our relationship is continuing to grow after four years together, always living in different cities with Evan first in Seattle, then Denver. Each time I visit, Evan says, “I wish you weren’t going. Can’t you change your flight?” This time, instead of saying no, I offered an alternative version of yes. I might drive back in a couple weeks’ time with the intent of staying for two months. 

 

Big step.

 

Of course, there’s the obvious—it would be our longest time together. But a two-month stay also changes the dynamics in terms of what is legally permissible. I am only allowed to visit the U.S. for a day less than half the year and a two-month chunk all at once eats up a lot of visitation time, frontloading the year. I’ve already been in the U.S. for five or six weeks so more than half of my year’s allotment will be eaten up after this extended trip. It means we’ll have to plan more carefully for the second half of the year. It’s like eating too much pie all at once and then having to spread out and savour the last bites, although not to such an extreme.

 

Evan can, of course, visit me in Canada as well, but he’s just started a new job and can’t get away as often or as long. Again, his trips, when even possible, will need to be thoughtfully scheduled over the rest of the year. 

 

It’s not a bad problem to have. Four years in, we want to see more of each other. We want to see how we handle being together for a longer chunk of time. In the meantime, it feels like I’m stationed in Vancouver, feeling like it is but a stopover, trying to make the most of my normally coveted downtime. 

 

My, how a relationship changes everything! 

HANDYMAN

I’m regularly reminded how different my partner Evan and I are. And each time I feel blessed that we are able to overcome, appreciate and even lean into those differences. 

 

We’re currently in Taos, New Mexico, spending an extended long weekend at his Airstream trailer. Taos? Trailer? Four years ago, I’d have said that’s not me at all. And yet I love it. The trailer is just another place where our relationship feels at home—the sagebrush, the sunsets, even the ponchos. Evan bought his after a day trip we made to Santa Fe a few years ago. This weekend I found myself nodding to a woolen raspberry poncho of my own. (The chill in the air may have played a factor.)

 

I’ve been a vegetarian for 41 years and, well, Evan is inclined to order the meat lover’s pizza. Still, the meals we’ve made here together have been entirely meatless: veggie chili, veggie tacos, and veggie tikka masala Indian bowl. He still feigns energy and protein deprivation each time but he’s joking…I think.

 

Evan’s Airstream is a vintage trailer from the 1950s. Since he’s a gifted interior designer, the space makes a statement worthy of the cover of Architectural Digest if the magazine ever published a special issue on glamping. But a 70-year-old trailer requires ongoing maintenance. Parts break down. Newer “fixes” can sometimes be temporary. While Evan works on minor repairs, I typically stand clear. I know I have nothing to contribute. I will be in the way. My questions will only shine a light on my ignorance.

 

And, no, I am not putting myself down. I am simply being a realist. I’ve long since come to terms with many things I’m incapable of and being a handy man is at the top of the list, even above throwing a football, drawing a stick figure and firing a gun. 

 

Growing up, my father held out hope. Just as he thought I could learn to throw and catch a ball—any freakin’ ball—he figured I could learn how to do an oil change, how to start the pilot light for a gas fireplace and how to replace a light fixture. Actually, he may have equalled my own low expectations. It was my mother who nudged us both—to my Dad, “Show him”; to me, “Go see.” These were always futile moments, me staring at my shoelaces until my father would sigh and say, “Just go watch your MTV.”

 

My father hopefully never took it personally. Typically an A student, I made Ds in Woodworking every term in junior high school. Mr. Bentley had less patience than my father as he frequently called me an “incompetent ninny” in his British accent. I avoided the power saw, the lathe and, well, even things that required a hammer and nails. (I believed it was important to hang on to both my thumbs…and all other digits.) 

 

As Evan worked to stop some water leaks—something about changing copper and plastic gaskets or other thingies—I stood outside the trailer, gazing at the sweeping mountain and valley views while pretending I knew how to set up the firepit for a nighttime bonfire. Since the water leak issue required several tweaks over the course of a couple of days, I was finally put to use, turning on and shutting off the water from outside. It was a minor task a Labradoodle could be trained to do, but then we don’t have a Labradoodle…or any pet. I filled in.

 

Yesterday, a crank for opening and closing one of the trailer windows had to be replaced. This was more challenging than one might think because they no longer make the size or brand of window handle cranks that corresponded with the original Airstream. Evan ordered two different ones and had to figure out whether he could use some combination of the parts to be able to open and close the window. I resumed my role of avoiding the scene/staying out of the way by editing sunset photos on my phone. (Really, Taos sunsets are so stunning no edits are required; I just had to appear busy.) 

 

But then Evan said five dreaded words, “Hey, can you help me?”

 

Gosh darn it. I should have driven into town to write at a café. 

 

“Help” meant doing something with a washer and nut from inside the trailer while Evan poked a screw through from outside the trailer. Yes, by its very nature, it was a two-person task. (I’m working on us getting a Labradoodle, dammit.) 

 

It only took fifteen seconds for me to feel I wasn’t doing it right. Evan would tell me to line up the holes—“Higher”—but the holes could not be aligned. I had no Plan B. 

 

We switched positions with me now standing outside the trailer holding a screw and a washer, my head wedged between the trailer wall and the tiny window opened at a small angle. Despite it being decades, I suddenly wanted my MTV…that cool video by A-ha, Madonna’s “Papa Don’t Preach” or even Phil Collins’ grating “Sussudio.”

 

It took a few attempts but apparently we did it. Next thing I knew, I was holding a screwdriver and using it properly. Again a Labradoodle or a captive crow could accomplish as much but I was the only being available in the moment. Window crank replaced. Ta-da!

 

We did it. Evan’s patience, persistence and making do with what he’d been dealt paid off. There are so many things about Evan that make me grateful, but him being a handy man is up near the top. 

 

I have a few little “projects” awaiting him next time he visits me in Vancouver… I’m hoping one of my neighbour’s cats can provide an assist.

 

  

THE YOGA STRETCH

I knew Evan was a yoga regular when we first started dating four years ago. He wasn’t a runner, a swimmer or a gym goer like me, but that was fine. I wouldn’t drag him to the gym and he wouldn’t con me into going to the yoga studio. We both talked of liking hiking. Let that be enough. It’s good to have separate interests and activities, I told myself. We were a couple of fifty-something guys, not high schoolers who had to like the same movies, have the same favourite Depeche Mode song and eat off each other’s plates at Denny’s.

 

For almost three years, I managed to avoid yoga. Evan would go five or six times a week at some insanely early hour while I would try (unsuccessfully) to fall back asleep, knowing my workout would wait until midafternoon. Time apart was good, plus we’d each have separate stories, him telling me about a guy who was too gassy doing his downward-facing dogs and me sharing about the woman with headphones on the elliptical machine who always sang bits hysterically off-key without knowing her attempt at lip synching could be heard by everyone in the gym. (The hysterics are gone; it’s now plain annoying.) 

 

And then it happened. For the umpteenth time, he tried to get me to go with him to yoga. “Come on. Just try it. Once.” For some still inexplicable reason, I said, “Okay.”

 

Let’s just get this over with, once and for all. All along, I had told Evan I didn’t have a body for yoga. I lack balance. My body is unstretchable. I would be a distraction to others. I would cause the instructor to lose the beat, to mistakenly do a star pose when he called for a mountain pose. Surely, that would be enough. One class. Half a class, actually. The instructor would boot me. Namaste.

 

My kind of place...

I should mention that Evan always goes to hot yoga. This is even worse. I do not like heat. This is why my last vacation was to above the Arctic Circle in Norway. In January. Sweaty me is definitively unsexy. I’m an uber-pale white dude whose face gets blotchy red after a few minutes of heat. The blotchiness remains even after a cold shower when I’ve been removed from the heat zone. 

 

I don’t do saunas. I don’t do Death Valley any time of year. I don’t even like standing in front of an open oven. 

 

Happy baby pose...
not gonna happen.

So, yeah, getting kicked out halfway through my first and last hot yoga class would be more of a relief than an embarrassment. I could say to Evan, “I tried,” and he’d never mention me going to yoga again. No more happy baby poses, otherwise known to me as, “Simon says, ‘Touch your knees.’” Very, very sad baby.

 

Gilbert was the pour soul who served as the yoga instructor. As Evan introduced me at the check-in counter and Gilbert handed me a two-dollar rental towel and a four-dollar rental mat, I apologized for what we were all about to experience. “I will put my mat in a corner,” I said. “Don’t look my way. It will throw you completely off.” 

 

As expected, I sucked. My chair pose was more of a standing lean, my Warrior II unfit for battle…even my cow pose (basically a head-up crawl position) stank like manure. Yes, I humiliated myself. No, I did not get kicked out.

 

Dammit, Gilbert was too much of a professional. I was giving him the all-out worst and he had the nerve to say after class while standing behind the counter, “You were really getting it.” Had I known then. there was a fire hydrant pose, I’d have attempted it because this liar, liar’s yoga pants were definitely on fire. 

 

The next f#%king week, Evan wanted me to go to hot yoga again.

 

Oh, no. This was not the deal.

 

I only got my wisdom teeth pulled once. One time for having to take a girl to prom. I don’t even have to have another colonoscopy in the next ten years.

 

Yes, I just compared yoga to a colonoscopy. 

 

Thank god for cow pose!

But the following week I was back at the yoga studio with Evan, this time apologizing pre-class to Jenny whom I could tell was a formidable force just from the way she said, “You’ll do fine.” It was more of an order than an expression of encouragement. Jenny’s class felt like hot yoga boot camp, the pace and the moves exponentially upping both the sweat factor and level of personal cluelessness. I’d sort of figured out cow pose and its corresponding cat pose, but what the hell was a chaturanga? Could we please stick to animals? Flamingo pose, elephant trunk sway, wet dog shake. I could visualize these things but not a chaturanga which sounded, if anything like a drink at a bar you down in one swallow. Maybe a shot was exactly what I needed before class even if it was 6:15 in the morning. Something with Kahlua, please.

 

Jenny should have been the end of it. She scared me. She overwhelmed me. Still, as I tried to sneak out to the parking lot after class, she stopped me and said, “You were great.” Another liar. Must be part of yoga training. She at least had the sense not to add an exclamation mark. 

 

I’ve probably done hot yoga fifteen times now, including a week of free classes over New Year’s. Every time has been with Evan. (Why else would I go?) I know what more of the poses are supposed to look like. I just can’t do them. I’ve reached a level of proficiency in ugly-sweating and that hasn’t scared Evan away yet but apparently even a pose as elementary as downward-facing dog remains aspirational. 

 

It doesn’t help that I have a hard time hearing what the instructor is saying because the music is too loud for me. It probably also doesn’t help that Gilbert is the only instructor that has had to endure me a second time. Fourteen instructors’ different styles and routines for fifteen classes. I’ve stopped apologizing, maybe even stopped feeling humiliated. Still, my body’s lack of flexibility is as glaring as ever. I’m telling myself this morning’s class was the last. But, well I’ve said that fifteen times now. 

 

Evan has a way of making me think I’m almost capable or at least looking past my flaws—in the studio and beyond. If he can accept me looking my absolute worst, I suppose I can keep showing up. Something tells me there will be a sixteen occasion. Fortunately though, hiking season is right around the corner.