tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78577955387557084792024-03-18T08:23:51.559-07:00AGING GAYLY From the moment we entered the world, we began growing older. I'm just more aware of it lately. Aging Gayly is a place for a fifty-something gay guy to drop his musings, rants, critiques and opinions about all things connected with queer life and mental health. Aging Gaylyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09886888900957765438noreply@blogger.comBlogger773125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7857795538755708479.post-84978816751837565412024-03-18T08:23:00.000-07:002024-03-18T08:23:10.775-07:00DIVING IN AGAIN<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgunLoeqBx4ph8l5a7gLAbW3_W3tanx8bRPfKfGEuALki1p7zDV8HFcK9cKxsTsIDR6HynI9Y5CwY7SSaGYLmr-BHAsQOZApmwvvWfmQJcanc342RUfQmHJ9HzRVtgL4EpKBIa4sbZ37M4tmLLp4-EZ5tvsG5ToKeKNobuTj528-mhHIhtOdV0w4xjsX6A/s1250/gaydatingprofilepictures.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="1250" height="173" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgunLoeqBx4ph8l5a7gLAbW3_W3tanx8bRPfKfGEuALki1p7zDV8HFcK9cKxsTsIDR6HynI9Y5CwY7SSaGYLmr-BHAsQOZApmwvvWfmQJcanc342RUfQmHJ9HzRVtgL4EpKBIa4sbZ37M4tmLLp4-EZ5tvsG5ToKeKNobuTj528-mhHIhtOdV0w4xjsX6A/s320/gaydatingprofilepictures.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />It’s been a month since I was dumped. Harsh verb but fits perfectly. I held my breath and hoped he’d come to his senses. I thought he’d realize that, however disappointed he’d been in me, he could express that and then rejoin me in getting us back on track. I was sure we’d been a solid two-year investment. In stock market terms, you hold on, ride through the low, have confidence in its inherent value and wait for the momentum to surge again. But he got out. A complete selloff. I had become a bad investment.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSAB60mFNV9Dt3ZK8TPr68INyLmHM9LdmutyYIsL0mxy_Q9qoUivZecnzJjpccTSEDPZsvveZiDdCxGAMkTlh8vRq4iZ3m45B1ExW-C_NzBAYAUIZbHlWvo_H2uhVg5zSg-Zejj9jup8zSwDwXv8xSLpHaT6kYXeOoXehvrjdgScF2tAGeiIU5ds0exc4/s284/images-1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="177" data-original-width="284" height="177" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSAB60mFNV9Dt3ZK8TPr68INyLmHM9LdmutyYIsL0mxy_Q9qoUivZecnzJjpccTSEDPZsvveZiDdCxGAMkTlh8vRq4iZ3m45B1ExW-C_NzBAYAUIZbHlWvo_H2uhVg5zSg-Zejj9jup8zSwDwXv8xSLpHaT6kYXeOoXehvrjdgScF2tAGeiIU5ds0exc4/s1600/images-1.jpeg" width="284" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />The stock market analogy is perfect. My dabbling has had dismal results. Same for relationships.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Our <u><a href="https://ruralgayguy.blogspot.com/2024/02/close-door.html" target="_blank">closure call</a></u> helped me clearly see he was not going to reinvest. In the days that followed, I went back on apps for single gay men…and apparently for gay men in “open” relationships. Based on the number of faceless profiles, I wonder if their partners know it’s open. Not my business. Call me old-fashioned, but I like faces.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I told myself I wasn’t ready for anything anywhere on the casual-to-serious spectrum. Still in shock. Still feeling the bruises from being rejected. Too embarrassed and humiliated to even mention the breakup to friends. (But blog about it? No problem! Weird, I know. This is how this particular writer processes life.) Getting on the apps was symbolic. Must move forward. The future isn’t to be found in the past; alas, but especially not the recent past. That’s gone. He’s gone.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">A couple years away from apps and it’s been jarring to lurk again to see what’s there…and what’s not. I’ve taken to laughing at things I’ve observed and experienced so far. Like every form of social media, people can be their worst selves online. Decorum? If I were to mention the word, the reply would be: WTF? (Actually, there wouldn’t be a question mark. I just need to see it for my own sanity. <i>Breathe. The world is not coming to an end.</i>)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">When I say I’ve been laughing, I truly have and not in that meaningless LOL sense. (We seem to have phased that expression out, thankfully.) Men have devolved to boys, young teens with urges but not enough words. This is a reminder of why I never wanted to teach ninth grade. Funny. Not funny.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheBEFqTn_MdQHxtJub_gyxZD54pme1IRkawVeUfUiXoS-E-2ZvfqR-JWGWHly4WWfXgGQQJwMMrMhe0pwZsPMPaA-v75mzhKiaFbHMpdP3sUlQsqRqskGLqXrS4xOW5v7yrQ8cXnnVTkqapXmDHGB5keW0RmMudjvIPxROU-xZVuyoikwh7IFPm0xZvpc/s618/grindr-update.jpg.webp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="618" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheBEFqTn_MdQHxtJub_gyxZD54pme1IRkawVeUfUiXoS-E-2ZvfqR-JWGWHly4WWfXgGQQJwMMrMhe0pwZsPMPaA-v75mzhKiaFbHMpdP3sUlQsqRqskGLqXrS4xOW5v7yrQ8cXnnVTkqapXmDHGB5keW0RmMudjvIPxROU-xZVuyoikwh7IFPm0xZvpc/s320/grindr-update.jpg.webp" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />This morning I glanced at Grindr. The worst. I never ever thought I’d be there. A guy who identified himself as a swimmer had viewed me. Same age. Fit. His tags included hiking, reading, writing and travel. And his profile concluded with a refreshing remark: “Not your daddy.” I despise when gay men use daddy to describe themselves or others. That comment alone was worth sending this guy a message. The matching interests were a big bonus. So, yes, message sent.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">What I hadn’t realized because, either I don’t understand technology or there was a glitch, was that he’d already messaged me. So we had basically first-messaged one another in parallel universes. That’s something. I might use it in a gay romance I write.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">What I’ve already come to realize—or remember—on these apps is most message exchanges go nowhere. Example (not a real exchange): <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Hey.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Hi! Thanks for the message. How are you? Looks like the sun may finally come out later today.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Good.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYZXZjAZZRyoTvlYox-ciJHG5-4YhLh7m19NiahIVrD2b8uS3SCuKvYljgo-93vyeMwnAUVWNDvu7qoYrcQ2klTizxjrpDFoNKdZkjOdfYctMK7m0giaUiBci19KpGHuurIRGBiI-jEJC-xrjkN6pyOHW2XT21H85M1tB2IFT0BqApTpecPMpq8LcQOeA/s310/images.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="163" data-original-width="310" height="163" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYZXZjAZZRyoTvlYox-ciJHG5-4YhLh7m19NiahIVrD2b8uS3SCuKvYljgo-93vyeMwnAUVWNDvu7qoYrcQ2klTizxjrpDFoNKdZkjOdfYctMK7m0giaUiBci19KpGHuurIRGBiI-jEJC-xrjkN6pyOHW2XT21H85M1tB2IFT0BqApTpecPMpq8LcQOeA/s1600/images.png" width="310" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />You can guess which person I am in the sample exchange. I like words. These “teens”? As previously noted, not so much. Granted, I basically said nothing. Inane chitchat, the sort of stuff I abhor as an introvert, but I understand I shouldn’t open with my mental health history or that tragic tale about getting dumped by my ex. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><i><span lang="EN-US">Good. </span></i><span lang="EN-US">Was he answering how he was doing or was he happy about my sunny forecast? Did it matter? Nothing to go on. Did I really have any further interest in a monosyllabic creature, albeit one with nice biceps?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Let me answer that monosyllabically (when in Rome…): Nah.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">End of hypothetical exchange. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Back to this morning’s not-your-daddy swimmer guy who reads/writes/hikes/travels. He stood out. His profile said he liked meeting for coffee so I’d suggested we do that. He replied immediately:<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Yes please<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiir6UA726ucaWTrxZ_go_v7qFP8-YChQSQtUNnVtEkquc62LPhPCZWSeexdaTd8mF1WOoiO0iMTm1F5FsD5qEz81KTeWXapHqGYKzu-9Jv_gZzayDUfIgbiRWejy8jmCoGpEEHeNA3_QPEj4pIbxsR9Q9TPep-TKOOZjbS2fBPzxHaBEuhT7Tk1WWCYFA/s225/images-3.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiir6UA726ucaWTrxZ_go_v7qFP8-YChQSQtUNnVtEkquc62LPhPCZWSeexdaTd8mF1WOoiO0iMTm1F5FsD5qEz81KTeWXapHqGYKzu-9Jv_gZzayDUfIgbiRWejy8jmCoGpEEHeNA3_QPEj4pIbxsR9Q9TPep-TKOOZjbS2fBPzxHaBEuhT7Tk1WWCYFA/s1600/images-3.jpeg" width="225" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />No punctuation but at least he had manners. Wowza. (Sad, yes, but that’s all it takes to get a wowza online. I’m working on my very own little emoji for that.)<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Ninety minutes later, we were sitting across from one another at a café in Chinatown. I walked; he took the Skytrain and then biked over. Wowza. Wowza. (Double emojis would be so useful right now.) I LOVE mass transit! I’m that geek. I actually say, “I love mass transit!” Frequently. He’s never owned a car. Kudos! And biking? I love cycling, too! Everywhere I can.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; font-family: verdana; font-size: large; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYOyiE3rW_st_hc3WZzRQT_FbPPovHWES4fKwjiZ5Tbe5eb21XDRKBqy7nx-R5khwPnqFoUTOpNhCIKbsFGLxlPgXRlu2Yfc0jd1gRIVH1oGYYUgyi7saCQUICaGutgMjr3fZRdtXcAfWT41ans6EHcEVnB8GIti0SYUzm71-uBKkhyphenhyphenajk1VtBd9uSUcE/s275/images-5.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="275" data-original-width="183" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYOyiE3rW_st_hc3WZzRQT_FbPPovHWES4fKwjiZ5Tbe5eb21XDRKBqy7nx-R5khwPnqFoUTOpNhCIKbsFGLxlPgXRlu2Yfc0jd1gRIVH1oGYYUgyi7saCQUICaGutgMjr3fZRdtXcAfWT41ans6EHcEVnB8GIti0SYUzm71-uBKkhyphenhyphenajk1VtBd9uSUcE/s1600/images-5.jpeg" width="183" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Because that<br />Valentine's Day stunt<br />is so last month...</i></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />Cupid was clearly messing with me. <i>Let’s take this total sad-sack, dangle a carrot and then watch him fall again. </i>Hysterical!<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Attraction? Definitely! <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Mutual? He said so right away.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">A clear, direct communicator. Emoji.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">He runs his own business, working with schools and other entities throughout the world on empowering collaborative action to respond to climate change and to process mental health impacts related to it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Okay, Cupid. Enough. You’ve had your fun. Now you’re just being mean.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">There was so much more. An hour of engaging conversation. I had to work hard to keep my smile from crossing a line to goofy and/or gaga.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">A hug goodbye. “Can I kiss you?” he asked. My turn to say, “Yes, please!” <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">One hour. One date. That’s all. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Easy. Breathe. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">A follow-up message pinged on my phone the moment I walked in my place. (Off Grindr, on my regular message stream, thank god!):<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">What a treat to meet you—I have to admit that it was just a bit surreal as you seem so very much worth getting to know. I look forward to our next coffee date.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Words! Meaningful ones! Emoji, emoji, emoji.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">More messages exchanged. We’re chatting again tonight after my bike ride.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">The sun can come out today or not. I’m already basking in something. A lovely start.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">You better not be playing me, Cupid. But, if you are…well played. Wowza!<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p>Aging Gaylyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09886888900957765438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7857795538755708479.post-55197646272236856222024-03-15T12:17:00.000-07:002024-03-15T12:17:06.889-07:00SHIFTING GEARS<style class="WebKit-mso-list-quirks-style">
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</style><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white; color: #1d2228;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtz5NyP_BFBBW1n6uQfmDaYj-0rm2Q5m85afZLi8acSqWjE0sPzRwsy-vF-sfGVdjxGm7jukSUO9lbUoXv3s8zW7C7EbtWlYKAkbGxdJIHt-lu2-Pk_OxWM0dlZMUVlcrWDgFTdnremNxyOkToPGSZPYh3X00jlENVimu4A_vxUcO4z-QsgKcBS1pftO8/s1360/1360x765.webp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="765" data-original-width="1360" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtz5NyP_BFBBW1n6uQfmDaYj-0rm2Q5m85afZLi8acSqWjE0sPzRwsy-vF-sfGVdjxGm7jukSUO9lbUoXv3s8zW7C7EbtWlYKAkbGxdJIHt-lu2-Pk_OxWM0dlZMUVlcrWDgFTdnremNxyOkToPGSZPYh3X00jlENVimu4A_vxUcO4z-QsgKcBS1pftO8/s320/1360x765.webp" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />In this first month of being single again, I catch myself still leaning into the habits of when I was part of a couple, when I processed so much of every day with a certain someone in my heart and on my mind, even when an international border separated us. In a way, the distance kept him closer. Contact and communication didn’t just happen, a ho-hum, taken-for-granted, “You again.”<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white; color: #1d2228;"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span style="background: white; color: #1d2228;">Sometimes our times together felt a tad too razzle dazzle, the equivalent to a kid’s weekend stay with the non-custodial parent. We hiked and biked and ate out aplenty. I’d like to think we’d have done these things just as much if everything had played out in a shared city but time can feel less special when the effort to see each other is only a half hour drive across town or double that in rush hour. Was it “un-real” in that regard? I don’t believe so. We may have cherished shared time more, but the dynamic also came with added pressure. It was more jarring when something might be off. With time so precious, a conflict could require tinkering with the itinerary. As well, a retreat to one’s own home to regroup was more than a short drive and, if chosen, exponentially more dramatic.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><span style="color: #1d2228;"><br style="outline: currentcolor !important;" /><br style="outline: currentcolor !important;" /><span style="background: white;"></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgShbMGHwhqtHOV4qu4wfe77r_tkcWrqwSDy0bdbM69UB4Dw0ojjY5HPI-4OX8491UzXBrHvM4UVN6RIKHEOaEl6WGFDdTnay1I0Cvj0c1_RTOqogepI7iwUNwaGgyTUo3u4uswxlWOguPWVGWalEIDUQiuFpMCz-g_MuTaldDcr_vyRDLGeiMXM88_9Sk/s508/istockphoto-846247654-170667a.webp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="339" data-original-width="508" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgShbMGHwhqtHOV4qu4wfe77r_tkcWrqwSDy0bdbM69UB4Dw0ojjY5HPI-4OX8491UzXBrHvM4UVN6RIKHEOaEl6WGFDdTnay1I0Cvj0c1_RTOqogepI7iwUNwaGgyTUo3u4uswxlWOguPWVGWalEIDUQiuFpMCz-g_MuTaldDcr_vyRDLGeiMXM88_9Sk/s320/istockphoto-846247654-170667a.webp" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />Our hikes and road trips were great fun, but much of our best clicking came with the two of us sharing a sofa or sitting up in bed with morning coffee in either of our abodes, an easy stream of chatter going on and on and on.<br style="outline: currentcolor !important;" /><br style="outline: currentcolor !important;" /><span style="background: white;">Alas, my sofa is now for me alone. I never have coffee in bed. I scroll social media quickly, rotely. There is no one to lean into to show my screen and to share an anecdote triggered by a post. It’s all now literally unremarkable. This is but one example of the emptiness I now feel in something small that meant more because, for two years, it was shared. So often during every single day, it’s tiny things that prick me. <i>It’s over. I wasn’t The One, after all.</i></span><br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">These are some of the things that continue to require a mind shift:<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="color: #1d2228;"></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJYlrXYj2v0pj_i6KvtfzvJSn5jwSd6nyt8yzia_Out58tMTGDuiem2I9LAwVQgVR0iSx6x5GyWgD0zx2QKkZ4C7Y1hLiuXm4S5WH-hAd8JBbadAOvdFGvcSjFvOX3gFaNO1-Paf9gIvXdqjRfv5Ytlcvn98-sXOGETuRzEIHyANIoQfqlLG-v6TRJsuM/s300/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJYlrXYj2v0pj_i6KvtfzvJSn5jwSd6nyt8yzia_Out58tMTGDuiem2I9LAwVQgVR0iSx6x5GyWgD0zx2QKkZ4C7Y1hLiuXm4S5WH-hAd8JBbadAOvdFGvcSjFvOX3gFaNO1-Paf9gIvXdqjRfv5Ytlcvn98-sXOGETuRzEIHyANIoQfqlLG-v6TRJsuM/s1600/images.jpeg" width="300" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />·<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]--><span style="background: white; color: #1d2228;">I don’t need to mentally file away anything that happens in my day. There is no one to share it with on a FaceTime call before turning in.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span><p></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #1d2228;">·<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="background: white; color: #1d2228;">A building is just a building again.</span> I try to blot out Art Deco from my vision, much like that mechanism on newer phone cameras that allows you to make a garbage can or a photobombing crow disappear.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLM_Dq-__PSRV6Zr5U4ErROMtwl_NAYQA-5SDhigQD2ZgsDXSEWtk8OGh4P1t7IEKRc3ySUWCMPbFHQ03SWV8np1C2GpeXLmVwY59wxAGYUF-gA5MX5DCcEMfm6BqCLteMs8dwJHjH1JgzWTVoy-a9UJ3IuR8NKIUTImpHCPiKxa8XQZgiRwyldyQevMU/s700/i-dont-wanna-taco-bout-it-funny-taco-eq-designs-transparent.png.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLM_Dq-__PSRV6Zr5U4ErROMtwl_NAYQA-5SDhigQD2ZgsDXSEWtk8OGh4P1t7IEKRc3ySUWCMPbFHQ03SWV8np1C2GpeXLmVwY59wxAGYUF-gA5MX5DCcEMfm6BqCLteMs8dwJHjH1JgzWTVoy-a9UJ3IuR8NKIUTImpHCPiKxa8XQZgiRwyldyQevMU/s320/i-dont-wanna-taco-bout-it-funny-taco-eq-designs-transparent.png.jpeg" width="229" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />·<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]--><span style="background: white; color: #1d2228;">I don’t need to note the location of Mexican restaurants wherever I happen to be. I’m not stopping in. There’s bottled salsa at home—not as good as at most taco spots, but it’s just me again and, really, I’m not that picky.<o:p></o:p></span></span><p></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="color: #1d2228;">·<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="background: white; color: #1d2228;">I don’t wear the coat he bought me. I can’t. Not yet.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>I loved it. He loved me wearing it. It feels like being cloaked in him. When he was my boyfriend, that was comforting. As my ex, it’s not helpful.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #1d2228;">·<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="background: white; color: #1d2228;">I listen to my boppy pop music whenever I want. I’ll still dance and lip sync along to the songs in my crazy way. There just isn’t a bemused witness.</span> It makes me feel good; just not <i>as </i>good. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #1d2228;">·<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="background: white; color: #1d2228;">I write or read in silence. I sometimes wish NPR were still rambling on and on in every room.</span> Quick moments. They pass. Things are quieter as well on account of the lack of text messages. Ping! Ping! Ping-ping! My ex would fire off unedited texts in rapid succession. Used to make me smile but stressed me out, too. <i>What is all that? Do I have to stop everything and respond? </i>My friends rarely text. Sometimes I wonder if they’ve lost my number.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #1d2228;">·<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="background: white; color: #1d2228;">It took two weeks but I’ve stopped bracing for an instant blast from the overhead spout when I step in the shower. This is now at the top of my Good Things about Breaking Up list. It’s a sad list. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #1d2228;">·<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="background: white; color: #1d2228;">I can push back any urgency in getting an extra chair for my living room. He wanted one and I still see the hole in my design layout, but I don’t need it. I’ve been unsubscribing to those weekly furniture emails. I may even like the open space.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6zdry_84fd1V22ZEpO2HWXjbuxMSocia10F_P9UV-dLvBIRq7aHgHBUkqNwnWKewQv_lepMQxbvkylXkD0GoO6cLHqF8bAToYAWW9P5DdGZkrOc5xi4wl__EB2bzGdFV2Z4OaiuCFMNNnQ6VK0fPSNKZg_COVcjEGf4r-s_JzFEJwXxgXLc8qM6Q6Q1s/s3024/IMG_3301.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="2947" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6zdry_84fd1V22ZEpO2HWXjbuxMSocia10F_P9UV-dLvBIRq7aHgHBUkqNwnWKewQv_lepMQxbvkylXkD0GoO6cLHqF8bAToYAWW9P5DdGZkrOc5xi4wl__EB2bzGdFV2Z4OaiuCFMNNnQ6VK0fPSNKZg_COVcjEGf4r-s_JzFEJwXxgXLc8qM6Q6Q1s/s320/IMG_3301.jpeg" width="312" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />·<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]--><span style="background: white; color: #1d2228;">When I pull out my phone and take a blendie (a selfie with the background matching what I’m wearing), I feel even sillier than usual. What’s it for? Who’s it for?</span><o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #1d2228;">·<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="background: white; color: #1d2228;">I don’t have to put gel in my hair after a late afternoon workout. I’m not going anywhere for the evening and FaceTime is no longer a nightly custom.</span> Some version of bedhead now begins to take shape hours before I ever get near the bed.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #1d2228;">·<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="background: white; color: #1d2228;">I don’t have to give plant updates. The fact my Christmas cactus went through a bonus blooming period in recent weeks doesn’t matter to anyone other than the person who rejuvenated it. He’d say he “saved” it. (It’s true. Thanks!) I didn’t take a pic to send. We’re not texters anymore, even if my phone still has his contact at the top of the queue, ignoring alphabetical order so I see it every time I go there. I don’t know how to get rid of that once-handy feature. I did, however, figure out how to delete his photo. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="color: #1d2228;">·<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="background: white; color: #1d2228;">I need to stop glancing at visitors’ parking for my building. His car isn’t there. It’s never going to be there again. <span class="apple-converted-space">I also don’t need to check for empty spaces. I’m not expecting any other visitors.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="color: #1d2228;">·<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="background: white; color: #1d2228;">When I see the same color and model of his car, my heart still skips. The plates say British Columbia, not Washington. That’s supposed to calm me, but I’m left concerned about that skipping heart. <i>He dumped you. Hasn’t that sunk in? Good god, play some f#*king Alanis Morissette! Take a boxing class. Shred old manuscripts (by hand). Summon your righteous rage!</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="color: #1d2228;">·<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="background: white; color: #1d2228;">This morning I got a text from the library. A book I’d put a hold request on is ready for pickup. It’s a picture book about tacos. (No, not the <a href="https://www.penguinrandomhouse.ca/books/309024/dragons-love-tacos-by-adam-rubin-illustrated-by-daniel-salmieri/9780803736801" target="_blank">super popular one</a>. A knockoff, most likely.) I don’t remember requesting it. How long ago was that? Obviously, I did it for him. I’d show him. I’d read it aloud. None of that now. I canceled the hold. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="color: #1d2228;">·<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="background: white; color: #1d2228;">There’s no rest even when I sleep. I keep dreaming about his furniture and endless trinkets. I’m supposed to know where they go, how to arrange them. This connects directly with our breakup. I didn’t help him pack. I blurted a petty “no” when he first asked and then, after apologizing, he refused to let me help. Used against me, it felt punitive, a response uncharacteristic of my ex. Why did he shut me down? It still haunts me, literally day and night. I force myself to step away from the dilemma with a blink of my eyes. A moment awakened. The next night, the dream cycle resets.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="background: white; color: #1d2228;"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="background: white; color: #1d2228;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlYywKPn5EKoz4pjuVYDEpOB2JSw2wRxOtQhbFzurVDy5GBBD14y5J9Y7A6woPg2R6zgkg3oWPhV5EFCmaJaspUL1t0XLqc3G25_IYJE9bwJWe7GMP0IYIAp9q830IAbcCxmBtbilbPlGZ2wv0_8MAj7WjZD3IZs7DQlMra88hL9F68KPToyuKEou2zaw/s1500/61QphWhTiCL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlYywKPn5EKoz4pjuVYDEpOB2JSw2wRxOtQhbFzurVDy5GBBD14y5J9Y7A6woPg2R6zgkg3oWPhV5EFCmaJaspUL1t0XLqc3G25_IYJE9bwJWe7GMP0IYIAp9q830IAbcCxmBtbilbPlGZ2wv0_8MAj7WjZD3IZs7DQlMra88hL9F68KPToyuKEou2zaw/s320/61QphWhTiCL.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />The list will shrink. <i>Give it time. </i>In another week or two months from now, Me Days won’t feel so lacking. I like my own company. It says something about how much I loved my ex that I allowed him to crowd in with Me, Myself and I. This transition was not my choice but, as with global warming, the discontinuation of Häagen-Dazs Bananas Foster ice cream and the constant threat of no more music from <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zlJDTxahav0" target="_blank">Selena Gomez</a> (I do like my ditties), adapting is the only option.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="background: white; color: #1d2228;"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="background: white; color: #1d2228;">The process takes time. I can’t pay a higher fee and make it a </span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="background: white; color: red;">RUSH</span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="background: white; color: #1d2228;"> order. Yes…time. I seem to have so much of that now.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="background: white; color: #1d2228;"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><br /><br /></span><o:p></o:p></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></p>Aging Gaylyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09886888900957765438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7857795538755708479.post-65538023304971483092024-03-13T15:46:00.000-07:002024-03-14T06:38:37.485-07:00I THINK MY PHONE HAS AN S.T.I.<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf8PpokQyLipbam33gRp7JQWvPQPbLnu6zzTD56NoDCI_1Yii1zp9bQWZtpbBx0obuKju1o5IB6tiDF2ER9P6oT9hyqYFGLcCLuLQmd9mrEPdpOE2nJuyb3CEdf3VwyMJv8U-d7PTbFCgE8TKqdywJZyuGpEJB7CkVzVPj9DN8yomkgcO7JhYtQE0mUGk/s269/2017-05-06.jpg.webp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="269" data-original-width="250" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhf8PpokQyLipbam33gRp7JQWvPQPbLnu6zzTD56NoDCI_1Yii1zp9bQWZtpbBx0obuKju1o5IB6tiDF2ER9P6oT9hyqYFGLcCLuLQmd9mrEPdpOE2nJuyb3CEdf3VwyMJv8U-d7PTbFCgE8TKqdywJZyuGpEJB7CkVzVPj9DN8yomkgcO7JhYtQE0mUGk/s1600/2017-05-06.jpg.webp" width="250" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />Okay, time to give myself a shake. I can lament getting dumped, commiserating with a growing soundtrack of songs. It’s funny how many pop ditties are relatable. When I’m not feeling wounded, it’s the song’s hook that draws me in. Now I’m drawn to lyrics about <i>getting </i>the hook. I suppose the corresponding visual is exit stage left in these Tinder times, but I still envision a sudden chute opening up at the person’s feet, sending them down into some deep, dark hole, relegating the sad-sack to bumming a morsel of pizza crust off a sewer rat. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Hours after sitting through my closure call with my ex and hearing Taylor Swift in my head, summing up his point of view—"<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WA4iX5D9Z64" target="_blank">We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together</a>”—I downloaded a “dating” app. I think it’s actually more for hookups but the guys on this one seem to still keep it a tad higher brow. Perhaps it’s a formality but they complete the “I am open to” box with <span style="color: #0070c0;">Friendship</span>, <span style="color: #0070c0;">Relationships</span>, <span style="color: #0070c0;">Dates</span> before adding <span style="color: red;">Random play/NSA</span>. (NSA=No Strings Attached=hookup.) <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqIhZbkd1fY9aWnd_6Y3OtASRhxVqMEhXFSVd_XFryQP7Wc97oglGhIfIdcbmImEu3iWhYbQScSjs-MhSFGrGZzPI4TxgXMF8rrfPh3jImJZ9T7G5Txnkkdv7KXkjm42ybGBt-8rAHDEprN4z8oBGMJQ6aHTW37SEFeWFn3JF_kj-5c6_77Zsgspy9dBo/s550/gay-bear-pride-community-flag-woof-scruff-daddy-mens-t-shirt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="550" data-original-width="550" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqIhZbkd1fY9aWnd_6Y3OtASRhxVqMEhXFSVd_XFryQP7Wc97oglGhIfIdcbmImEu3iWhYbQScSjs-MhSFGrGZzPI4TxgXMF8rrfPh3jImJZ9T7G5Txnkkdv7KXkjm42ybGBt-8rAHDEprN4z8oBGMJQ6aHTW37SEFeWFn3JF_kj-5c6_77Zsgspy9dBo/s320/gay-bear-pride-community-flag-woof-scruff-daddy-mens-t-shirt.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />To be honest, I’m not open to any options right now. I’m here for Woofs and Likes. After getting dumped, I need to know that someone might pause on my photo, read a sentence or two of my profile and think, <i>Yeah, he’s okay. Not worth a message or anything but, I’m here and woofs are free. </i>That’s right, I’m craving virtual barks from humans. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">The world gets weirder.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">In the days that followed, I reactivated my profiles on Plenty of Fish—a pond that’s more depressing than ever—and OkCupid, a site that Vancouver men seem to have abandoned. Cupid’s apparently been playing with poison arrows. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8DMh94ITMvHTJu6N9afsvOxoY4ZqAViYWy4mu5gvpSnhiNd590G_NaK8IP7dy-GDdLBt8ETpB22p2cgKXZsVea8F_-Vbnci7s7zbEVmalZxej62Nm8ACSnQGZEGkaSWtK5G6hb8gAgJsf2np04524cc2DuzgXp7WpKZ9vX5MpHkiyClIsSZqfXZnE-is/s500/Grindr.jpg.webp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="500" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8DMh94ITMvHTJu6N9afsvOxoY4ZqAViYWy4mu5gvpSnhiNd590G_NaK8IP7dy-GDdLBt8ETpB22p2cgKXZsVea8F_-Vbnci7s7zbEVmalZxej62Nm8ACSnQGZEGkaSWtK5G6hb8gAgJsf2np04524cc2DuzgXp7WpKZ9vX5MpHkiyClIsSZqfXZnE-is/s320/Grindr.jpg.webp" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />And then I crossed over into the present century, diving into the very shallow pool that is Grindr. No risk of neck injuries from my head hitting the bottom, just a range of STIs.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Good lord. (I don’t say things like, “Good lord,” but I’m thinking I’m going to need something akin to divine intervention to help me cope. I’m experiencing shortness of breath just typing on the topic. Seriously!) <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I think the name of the app is supposed to allude to sexual friction, bodies grinding together but my first image was me getting chucked into a large meat grinder, shredded down to nothing, a variation on that woodcutter scene in <i>Fargo. </i>Not kidding. That’s where my head went. This app is going to grind me down.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Lordy lord.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Unlike the other apps, I paid some sort of fee. This is my virtual beer. When I used to go to gay bars, my survival instinct always said, <i>FLEE! </i>To combat this, I’d order a beer. I hate beer. I couldn’t gulp it down like a rum and Coke or a Tom Collins, well drinks that were always mostly ice. Being raised with a sense of frugality, I knew I would finish the beer. It would take forty-five minutes, tiny disgusting sip after tiny disgusting sip, but that meant I’d have shown up and stayed in a gay bar for practically an hour. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Sometimes I could kid myself into staying a bit longer. Never much of a drinker, I’d wonder if I might have a buzz and whether, should a police officer pull me over, I’d blow above 0.08. (I’m 6’1” so highly unlikely.) I’d add to the STAY incentive, speculating the DJ would play a Janet Jackson or Madonna song next or, if not then, right after that. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwErsyY_IPsM4qRV1mjs9CF3ATaIYdGdYrvPiot9pzegEuzd7paMhqEHNIUPcolDV-kcAB4j-30Zdl2uamQW_YfHHRqhUKirb-X0YjmHkd9XfPF8bK2O4-3TlbUK26V3M3ZB0NgX6cSSkD69-OuR9G_7RAQ0ncpRdyGqoREOKzfQy8Dh7p82E-3r4TwrU/s750/DAAL4nQUIAAIhT7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="750" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwErsyY_IPsM4qRV1mjs9CF3ATaIYdGdYrvPiot9pzegEuzd7paMhqEHNIUPcolDV-kcAB4j-30Zdl2uamQW_YfHHRqhUKirb-X0YjmHkd9XfPF8bK2O4-3TlbUK26V3M3ZB0NgX6cSSkD69-OuR9G_7RAQ0ncpRdyGqoREOKzfQy8Dh7p82E-3r4TwrU/s320/DAAL4nQUIAAIhT7.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />Paying for three months of Grindr means I’ll check in a time or two. Get my money’s worth. No woofs, but taps instead which manifest as a flame symbol. (I’m not sure how a flame translates to a “tap,” but I’m guessing no one else is bothered by this illogical visual.) Tap away, guys. I really need a boost. I’m paying for affirmation. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Grindr scares me. Most of the messages I’ve received are mind numbingly lite, a mere three letters—<i>hey </i>or <i>sup</i>. Are some users billed by the letter? Jeez. How does an overly wordy guy like me navigate three little letters? I really, REALLY don’t belong here. But <i>hey </i>is safe, at least. Not scary. I just delete it or, once or twice, I’ve <i>hey</i>’d back. It’s a dare. Message me again. More letters, please. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">People don’t like dares.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyg6zVTN9NfBtsZb0HCSV-B_p_njxgSPhmTtZBFOAhGRBdtULh9XhIi3ktHhRvLpT5WkSm3poO7hKSNDQ1y6N6QHAg0xtuj-5mQKc0FxARy8aEce3bdGX8gbJjWy-TK0XHiu165AQsmc3_HS4Zla1EjIqfr0TwszUlE_IqDSYV2VZC4hLbwLsvfMO_dTU/s2120/wiping-smartphone-screen-royalty-free-image-1650906621.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1414" data-original-width="2120" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyg6zVTN9NfBtsZb0HCSV-B_p_njxgSPhmTtZBFOAhGRBdtULh9XhIi3ktHhRvLpT5WkSm3poO7hKSNDQ1y6N6QHAg0xtuj-5mQKc0FxARy8aEce3bdGX8gbJjWy-TK0XHiu165AQsmc3_HS4Zla1EjIqfr0TwszUlE_IqDSYV2VZC4hLbwLsvfMO_dTU/s320/wiping-smartphone-screen-royalty-free-image-1650906621.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />It’s the other possibilities I’m afraid of. Something urgent, direct, crass. No mention of coffee. No talk about a favorite hike, no question about what I write. I’d share some examples but I don’t have any. I delete these messages right away, as if my device might succumb to a virtual STI. I really don’t want to have to take my phone in for repairs. How would the tech dude react if I set it on that counter and say, “I think it might have gonorrhea”? <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">“Sorry, man. You’re screwed. No antibiotics for that.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihnRY3sVqTFufX_45UhoCDIcHHBwmpTBHH60nTCtpntvTfo0SrEnwoSzvDFfbB5hPxQGeXhKalKRPJPF_K-9b1HFBv5h6KQmedqz8w9ISxgkvAJFBW-LP_-jptZa41cnNqnf_djsZ0BxZTgNAxT68RaAhAGekhQiLkv5fAwK0R8jkpD7kUVDi7MkjPSxg/s580/Pixel-censored-sign-Black-censor-Graphics-18126511-1-580x387.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="387" data-original-width="580" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihnRY3sVqTFufX_45UhoCDIcHHBwmpTBHH60nTCtpntvTfo0SrEnwoSzvDFfbB5hPxQGeXhKalKRPJPF_K-9b1HFBv5h6KQmedqz8w9ISxgkvAJFBW-LP_-jptZa41cnNqnf_djsZ0BxZTgNAxT68RaAhAGekhQiLkv5fAwK0R8jkpD7kUVDi7MkjPSxg/s320/Pixel-censored-sign-Black-censor-Graphics-18126511-1-580x387.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />So I’m paying for flame emojis and the screams are, what, a bonus? I have a low threshold for horror. I’ve never seen a <i>Halloween </i>movie or anything with Freddy Krueger. (Had to Google the character so as to not confuse him with that Flintstone guy.) What I’d be more than willing to pay for is a blocking mechanism. No faceless profiles, no profile that includes the word “daddy,” and no unsolicited homemade videos. Call me retro, but I’d prefer floppy disks to dicks. Sorry. Grindr made me say that or, more specifically, aspiring videographers with an inflated sense of, er, pride. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Damn you, Grindr. As the gays have flocked to you, the staid sites gather dust, mould and an archive of profiles from guys who haven’t figured out how to download a photo from the present century. (Seriously! Same photos for active users on Plenty of Fish from when I first logged in somewhere around 2006.) I’m tempted to contact a lawyer to bring monopoly/antitrust charges against Grindr. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">“What damages would you allege?” Thomas Buckingham Lowden III, Esq. would ask.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">“My phone has gonorrhea! And I’m going to be single forevermore!”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">“With all due respect, sir, I’m not sure we can prove in a court of law that the last part is on account of a dating app.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I hate lawyers. (I can say that. Used to be one.) No validation from the legal system.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmX6Hz_hNmJIW4zIb-R6bbSBuPDxj97mZBijw_lCP4qpy78TmG-T-ygerHizGY4c73IAHnTvuw07oKQpr6Pi6ZVVReTdqu4CaIfan7hQ2eTquk0F525Wccf9g2tTnfA8izM5GmLGeQvYs_iARsSGWmpSuvZelBz0j2dXd_k8bDAedZLTMGClt56BH7_UQ/s2560/8-vanderhorst-street-morris-architecture-llc-img~1be18bf300d0e056_14-1143-1-4b363ce.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2560" data-original-width="1706" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmX6Hz_hNmJIW4zIb-R6bbSBuPDxj97mZBijw_lCP4qpy78TmG-T-ygerHizGY4c73IAHnTvuw07oKQpr6Pi6ZVVReTdqu4CaIfan7hQ2eTquk0F525Wccf9g2tTnfA8izM5GmLGeQvYs_iARsSGWmpSuvZelBz0j2dXd_k8bDAedZLTMGClt56BH7_UQ/s320/8-vanderhorst-street-morris-architecture-llc-img~1be18bf300d0e056_14-1143-1-4b363ce.jpg" width="213" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />*Logs in* <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">No new flame emojis either. Someone just show me the trap door shute. I’ll go willingly. Sewer rats aren’t nearly as scary as certain cellphone icons.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p>Aging Gaylyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09886888900957765438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7857795538755708479.post-88796532084822896192024-03-11T15:58:00.000-07:002024-03-11T15:58:43.053-07:00MUSIC THERAPY<style class="WebKit-mso-list-quirks-style">
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</style><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqfHnbR4WkAug1FifTN5KsISCXclXQUecLritD1jlte0EOoaYQohQpsCW3JcnzRNBwjAWP6BYtOQ3RINXSpHx7MabxVZCBscThV4-FW3AKKtF6LtHYP63L7qFtB0weupirK-h_dFwCrUqPcaL9gZ0gRp9SNyi_GsA7Tsn4iOy4xB7GSCTGZhH7v9sHtQI/s1500/D3371853-F2E3-4BA1-A169-0638F284CA51_2048x.jpeg.webp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1100" data-original-width="1500" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqfHnbR4WkAug1FifTN5KsISCXclXQUecLritD1jlte0EOoaYQohQpsCW3JcnzRNBwjAWP6BYtOQ3RINXSpHx7MabxVZCBscThV4-FW3AKKtF6LtHYP63L7qFtB0weupirK-h_dFwCrUqPcaL9gZ0gRp9SNyi_GsA7Tsn4iOy4xB7GSCTGZhH7v9sHtQI/s320/D3371853-F2E3-4BA1-A169-0638F284CA51_2048x.jpeg.webp" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />I’ve been listening to music more than usual since the breakup. Once upon a time, the TV or stereo always seemed to be on, but I haven’t had a television since my as-yet-to-be-wall-mounted flatscreen flopped and smashed on the floor after an apparent wind gust from the balcony and music hasn’t been the same since I could play an album or CD on the stereo. (How much did the last part of the preceding sentence date me?) <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Somewhere along my life’s journey, perhaps linked to my first stint in a psych ward, I came to love the quiet. It calms me. It keeps me focused on writing, reading and thoughts that swirl during the in-betweens. Creative ideas, little snippets that may come off as random, provide personal entertainment.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I’m not in the mood for quiet right now. Swirly thoughts aren’t so entertaining. I need noise. I have to distract the mind.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL8mRzWYOeXyfXO58rpDnfS6MJL3OcyTZ3FwmgkRiVjWHEWwC2zKGVNgYA8ZS7CTkAM4V4MVEobsZ20El7MxgRSMXflhwMSxnIRSBpa_gGY_aVgypR9VwFBEAEmGCkOus5yZqPxbvtVonoPPS3Sr3aGhCJpMaI6LNyOVNK12MMMBL_ODXMJwRufjQTE04/s1200/en-vogue--my-lovin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="1200" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL8mRzWYOeXyfXO58rpDnfS6MJL3OcyTZ3FwmgkRiVjWHEWwC2zKGVNgYA8ZS7CTkAM4V4MVEobsZ20El7MxgRSMXflhwMSxnIRSBpa_gGY_aVgypR9VwFBEAEmGCkOus5yZqPxbvtVonoPPS3Sr3aGhCJpMaI6LNyOVNK12MMMBL_ODXMJwRufjQTE04/s320/en-vogue--my-lovin.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />Welcome back, steady music stream. It’s not just distraction. The songs I play offer a slow release of the confusion, the hurt and the WTF that still simmers under the surface. After other failed relationships, I’d been in the mood for strong, proud diva songs that mask a lost love’s sting with bravado, the basic message: <i>Stupid man, you made a huge mistake but you’ll never have a shot with me again. </i>Annotated playlist:<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US">·<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-US">“<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WA4iX5D9Z64" target="_blank">We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together</a>” – Taylor Swift<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US">·<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-US">“<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4RWfSUWVP2I" target="_blank">Someday</a>” – Mariah Carey<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US">·<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-US">“<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6dYWe1c3OyU" target="_blank">I Will Survive</a>” – Gloria Gaynor (of course!)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US">·<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-US">“<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JIuYQ_4TcXg" target="_blank">My Lovin’ (You’re Never Gonna Get It)</a>” – En Vogue<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US">·<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-US">“<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2EwViQxSJJQ" target="_blank">Irreplaceable</a>” – Beyoncé<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US">·<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-US">“<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FJfFZqTlWrQ" target="_blank">So What</a>” – Pink<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Good stuff. Better than scream therapy or walking into a glassworks studio with a baseball bat. (Less expensive, at the very least.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">But that’s not where I’m at. I don’t feel hate or bitterness. That might make things easier. (Ariana Grande even has a <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T5k2-0yRzKc">brand new song</a> exactly on point!) Given how lousy the circumstances of the breakup were, I should have no problem concocting some animosity to put whatever we had through a shredder, but I’m not there. Any anger that does seep in arises from the sense he rejected me in the end by diminishing how much I invested and how much I supported. He gave up on us.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIv1hqqariI2e0ocPJm6EDGAxjGmlP4Dzue9xrovPKArDvS1iMRrY3Kxl6LriCOmPlvUPqDIagB0RiiVATQ1BIHmT8Cl-HsCdRLo8CBe_REiFfO5dNULuOc9uEey_41Li4fHhPCohuqaKuqcW9XzEUnNW7ayfD743N3WSfj0PIAJwl-VK44RDDrTPLTjc/s400/david-soul-dont-give-up-on-us-1976.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="306" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIv1hqqariI2e0ocPJm6EDGAxjGmlP4Dzue9xrovPKArDvS1iMRrY3Kxl6LriCOmPlvUPqDIagB0RiiVATQ1BIHmT8Cl-HsCdRLo8CBe_REiFfO5dNULuOc9uEey_41Li4fHhPCohuqaKuqcW9XzEUnNW7ayfD743N3WSfj0PIAJwl-VK44RDDrTPLTjc/s320/david-soul-dont-give-up-on-us-1976.jpg" width="245" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />Cue the first song on heavy rotation on my Breakup Soundtrack (2024): “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YY8APrYU2Gs" target="_blank">Don’t Give Up On Us</a>” by David Soul (RIP). Sorry, David. I can sing it, but the dude ain’t listening. He already did. Still, the song helps. David’s voice is so gentle. The song has that classic ’70s air of hope and happiness. How could his lover say no?<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">It’s a nice little dream, a recurring one. And I don’t have an in-person therapist Googling song blockers. My condo walls are thick enough that my neighbors haven’t knocked on the door, saying, “Please stop. Play that Rebecca Black “Friday” song or even “Macarena,” but no more Starsky. Or Hutch…Whichever.” (He was Kenneth Hutch, FYI.) <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Okay, I can get more real. Given up on. Whatcha gonna play now, Mr. DJ?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">For several consecutive nights, I went to sleep with “You abandoned me, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V5gFAiPJhvI">Love Don’t Live Here Anymore</a>” playing in my head. Rose Royce version, though Madonna’s remake is almost as good. Never even had to stream the tune. I’d awaken, not to songbirds or seagulls or even the clunking trains on the tracks a hundred feet from my loft, but to Sheena Easton’s “You Could Have Been with Me.” New day, same state of mind. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">The practicalities of being “Alone Again (Naturally)” get acknowledged in Michael Johnson’s “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pYPJw8UZClw" target="_blank">Bluer than Blue</a>” (“After you go, I can catch up on my reading. After you go, I’ll have a lot more room in my closet.”) and a throwaway line of Hall & Oates’ “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=87Q042KlxI4" target="_blank">She’s Gone</a>” (“one less toothbrush hanging in the stand”). The songs remind me I’m not special. This happens to other people, too. Even if it was my ex who fixated on closet space.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ1jYgc5uG3mhBYqPk9P68NVeIDGiYgOD5208GpYPgaZ5h0AtDA2WlaWtgVjnkGJvNfCQU7ZHiCkQ1dQ66w0g05EPcU399HkyI_Hj494At-svRG1u2Gwn8oK2MAw59kamW7t0q6QPoWh17K1s76FKtT1hA1Kdy4eWlBefqlYPxl9VdYhJHEiDwSFsXy-I/s225/images-2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ1jYgc5uG3mhBYqPk9P68NVeIDGiYgOD5208GpYPgaZ5h0AtDA2WlaWtgVjnkGJvNfCQU7ZHiCkQ1dQ66w0g05EPcU399HkyI_Hj494At-svRG1u2Gwn8oK2MAw59kamW7t0q6QPoWh17K1s76FKtT1hA1Kdy4eWlBefqlYPxl9VdYhJHEiDwSFsXy-I/s1600/images-2.jpeg" width="225" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />The standouts on my present playlist include: Natalie Cole’s “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mGue0OSUrSs" target="_blank">Someone that I Used to Love</a>,” a song that relentlessly sabotages any normal brain activity multiple times every single day (“Wish it was enough for you, All the love I had to give”); Dido’s “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j-fWDrZSiZs" target="_blank">White Flag</a>” as a point of pride, knowing that I’d given everything and hadn’t shied away from the possibility (and reality) of further rejection and humiliation, “going down with the ship” by conveying I still wanted to find our way back to us; and Calum Scott’s “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ShZ978fBl6Y" target="_blank">You Are the Reason</a>” which seems to spin in place, just like me, deemed irrelevant yet still wanting more.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: start; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Other songs in my discards pile:<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-US">“Dancing on My Own” – <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CcNo07Xp8aQ" target="_blank">Robyn</a> <i>or </i><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q31tGyBJhRY" target="_blank">Calum Scott</a>; why not mix it up a little?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-US">“<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-2U0Ivkn2Ds" target="_blank">Say Something</a>” – A Great Big World and Christina Aguilera (crushing…)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-US">“<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iUrzicaiRLU" target="_blank">Knowing Me, Knowing You</a>” – ABBA(!)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-US">“<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eH686Dyy16w" target="_blank">(Our Love) Don’t Throw It All Away</a>” – Andy Gibb<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-US">“<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CUCLNPOjPZw" target="_blank">After the Love Has Gone</a>” – Earth, Wind & Fire, a song from my early teens which I loved but, when it came on the radio a couple of weeks ago, I realized, damn, it’s a breakup song<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-US">“<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ixTkLjTBQyk" target="_blank">Evergreen</a>” – Omar Apollo<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-US">“<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u1yVCeXYya4" target="_blank">Someone You Loved</a>” – Lewis Capaldi<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-US">“<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8wKU-jaus6w" target="_blank">Manhattan</a>” – Sara Bareilles (always, always, always)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-US">“<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vsGsCvJWEo8" target="_blank">Walk on By</a>” – Dionne Warwick<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-US">“<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wXPGPqRi-BQ" target="_blank">You’ll Never Find Another Love Like Mine</a>” – Lou Rawls (okay, more than a tad diva-ish)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-US">“<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VkKxmnrRVHo" target="_blank">It’s Too Late</a>” – Carole King (a freakin’ classic, now nudging me too hard)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-US">“<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6DQJPL9Yuq0" target="_blank">She’s Out of My Life</a>” – Michael Jackson, if only for the voice-cracking ending, but I’m able to move on; what did MJ ever know about love?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-US">“<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NSkboTTTmpg" target="_blank">No More I Love You's</a>” – Annie Lennox, adding a welcome Annie quirk<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-US">“<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d1PTuMQUu4g" target="_blank">Rocket 2 U</a>” – The Jets (not a breakup song but it was already on my jogging playlist and it playfully dismisses some of my ex’s reasoning for the breakup; teen-beat therapy)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><style class="WebKit-mso-list-quirks-style">
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</style></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuhyH2rvEhRraDAKm5iJKLP47PVqIVDxDpm2e7fClC0azk7paDH4Gs6WxALCq6XtuLGsfP7B9Df_OlDQF71q0wxbqEBq0AyHnYVj0O4JHzcBbIZuWtJw6MkhBiSdCyt-LFJ44JGzPUmTn_cdbEw42AUPbbDrQVIMw8rV7ApP66jJrbuowvKG5vwz88kBo/s599/R-22367272-1648088493-5700.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="599" data-original-width="383" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuhyH2rvEhRraDAKm5iJKLP47PVqIVDxDpm2e7fClC0azk7paDH4Gs6WxALCq6XtuLGsfP7B9Df_OlDQF71q0wxbqEBq0AyHnYVj0O4JHzcBbIZuWtJw6MkhBiSdCyt-LFJ44JGzPUmTn_cdbEw42AUPbbDrQVIMw8rV7ApP66jJrbuowvKG5vwz88kBo/s320/R-22367272-1648088493-5700.jpg" width="205" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />That’s an abridged list. I needn’t reveal how extensive the list is. I do love pop music. And therein lies a silver lining. I’m not wallowing all day. This post just makes it seem that way. The thing about listening to songs on YouTube—which my ex found maddening—is I control and constantly change the playlist, sometimes clicking on a suggestion, often letting my own ideas intercede. I can follow my umpteenth listen of “Someone that I Used to Love” with Natalie Cole’s exuberant “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CZjAAN4odkk" target="_blank">This Will Be</a>,” lyrically no longer relatable but oh so bop-worthy. I still play Whitney Houston’s version of “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H7_sqdkaAfo" target="_blank">I’m Every Woman</a>,” typically when I shave which continues to amuse me. And, weirdly, I’m giving Percy Faith’s “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_Wd3dlEvodk" target="_blank">Theme from A Summer Place</a>” repeated listens. My therapy doesn’t have to be embedded in sanity. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">For humor in a breakup, I always rely on Dionne Warwick’s “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FzQBOBoPg04" target="_blank">I’ll Never Fall in Love Again</a>.” Thank you, Hal David, for lyrics to help me smile through humiliation:<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 36pt;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">What do you get when you fall in love?<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 36pt;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">A guy with a pin to burst your bubble.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 36pt;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">That’s what you get for all your trouble;<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 36pt;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I’ll never fall in love again.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 36pt;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 36pt;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">What do you get when you kiss a guy?<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 36pt;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">You get enough germs to catch pneumonia.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 36pt;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">After you do, he’ll never phone you;<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 36pt;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I’ll never fall in love again.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 36pt;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 36pt;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">What do you get when you fall in love?<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 36pt;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">You only get lies and pain and sorrow,<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 36pt;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">So for at least until tomorrow,<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 36pt;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I’ll never fall in love again.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Bless you, Hal David! (And RIP to you as well.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoU7FGYfi7JHbXMaRR0cQuXk7qNcFOHyRVuLN8-RA2E9BWi_2xcFf_1J3d_sgCuYcNdnZwbcLe9Atc9hv6_8NXJwmT7wRqQ0Pw7zUQklIwEHltE071hohdBIfwX2oRfn-4RTfqDhwyE1PbrSPFImuUJzsZ-F0KWsBrC5eEVpmmqYQ2zv6lmzUPVFpG-u0/s320/asian-troubled-man-wearing-a-hood-in-an-empty-room_4jm3hiay_thumbnail-180_10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="180" data-original-width="320" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoU7FGYfi7JHbXMaRR0cQuXk7qNcFOHyRVuLN8-RA2E9BWi_2xcFf_1J3d_sgCuYcNdnZwbcLe9Atc9hv6_8NXJwmT7wRqQ0Pw7zUQklIwEHltE071hohdBIfwX2oRfn-4RTfqDhwyE1PbrSPFImuUJzsZ-F0KWsBrC5eEVpmmqYQ2zv6lmzUPVFpG-u0/s1600/asian-troubled-man-wearing-a-hood-in-an-empty-room_4jm3hiay_thumbnail-180_10.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />The first tears finally came on Day 26. I’d stumbled upon a suggested song by exes Katy Perry and John Mayer and my mind went to Mayer’s “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sv_FM0OlXtc" target="_blank">Dreaming with a Broken Heart</a>,” a song I loved for a while—objectively pretty and sad but nothing I’d personally connected with during a prolonged period of singlehood. As the song played, the lyrics opened with, “When you’re dreaming with a broken heart, the waking up is the hardest part.” That was it. I knew exactly what he was talking about. Eyes watered, cheeks caught the overflow. Suddenly, survival became acute. Not about getting through a breakup; just let me make it through the song. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I did, thanks in part to a lyrical tangent about roses. I could connect but it would take a bit of work and, hell, I wouldn’t go there. Close the floodgates. Disaster averted.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAMMfac7dppRIcilQnzv4pNp-8i51n1rZfUxBLnrlpKDQtqg7J_hl1ZYx7AutYPR7EyMk3zwXhH_-WEm1GaKGstnrQsB4nsDyYPXG7gxdiLjASY-x4rQ0qyu0YaEFqg7WsMa1BbyLAGjl3nyQg49CeeqKrxe4dVpCvRKcaMsCNjWhA6WtU0MED_NKG24I/s900/SUBFC-030-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="810" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAMMfac7dppRIcilQnzv4pNp-8i51n1rZfUxBLnrlpKDQtqg7J_hl1ZYx7AutYPR7EyMk3zwXhH_-WEm1GaKGstnrQsB4nsDyYPXG7gxdiLjASY-x4rQ0qyu0YaEFqg7WsMa1BbyLAGjl3nyQg49CeeqKrxe4dVpCvRKcaMsCNjWhA6WtU0MED_NKG24I/s320/SUBFC-030-2.jpg" width="288" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />The closest I’ve gotten to a music-enhanced release and a glimpse I will move on is the song “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G7KNmW9a75Y" target="_blank">Flowers</a>” by Miley Cyrus. I’ve been doing the Miley, buying myself flowers. It’s a bit of a hollow gesture. He wasn’t the flower buyer, I was. I loved showing up at his place each time with something fresh-cut; not roses but some stems that had an architectural quality to them or fit his color scheme. I was buying my own gerberas pre-relationship and throughout our two years. I’ll continue to do so. Not quite redemptive when it’s the status quo. I suppose I could dance around my condo in my underwear like Miley does in the video but that would only underscore how I’m not at all like Miley, after all. <i>Grab a shirt. STAT!<o:p></o:p></i></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">For now, my song list still feels fresh. I’m a long ways from Bobby McFerrin’s “Don’t Worry, Be Happy,” but then I never want to return to that delusional reincarnation of “If You’re Happy and You Know It, Clap Your Hands.” As The Beatles say, it’s a long and winding road. I ride on, two hands on the wheel for now, trying to glimpse a little less in the rear-view mirror. Radio on, of course.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p>Aging Gaylyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09886888900957765438noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7857795538755708479.post-52773391562980407522024-03-06T06:51:00.000-08:002024-03-06T06:51:31.477-08:00ORDINARY WORLD<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKWUtjOr8DtO0OhGtP3ZOXdNkszXzCB0j4oYZXRJOnp2Aw3Z_JGAMiVrtchAsgABCT8wWmbMwsytzNW6uVGTr2bZCWd_WNwbjn_Ac7UFp_niYdFkGUKsRvQQ4ZWDRFl9AsxonBKHxgu90xfvnH4e_NXQ7gf95mobDnTGsiWjQIDihUGUaUqhPGe-hgSRQ/s229/Unknown-2.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="220" data-original-width="229" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKWUtjOr8DtO0OhGtP3ZOXdNkszXzCB0j4oYZXRJOnp2Aw3Z_JGAMiVrtchAsgABCT8wWmbMwsytzNW6uVGTr2bZCWd_WNwbjn_Ac7UFp_niYdFkGUKsRvQQ4ZWDRFl9AsxonBKHxgu90xfvnH4e_NXQ7gf95mobDnTGsiWjQIDihUGUaUqhPGe-hgSRQ/s1600/Unknown-2.png" width="229" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />Calendar says March 6. I don’t have anything marked on my iCalendar app. It wasn’t like I was going to forget the significance of the date. Now, I only wish I could.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Two years together. Happy Anniversary!<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibg-xtPDs0qA1020z5e8OjVHqRheLUgMAOOIcFDSS8amvgtazaYaHO5Sm87Qh41j5ttHQDflisFibxZNJ862_9vF6ImdQSK7g5Bmd9YGvf5aidweSW-ObMqMFrkvr3Kfwm3QVi5pdrV708OCOA0M0JYcxCsjKOIW5ZRssKSmBgYPzM0a6YoZl_vZdluPg/s225/images-2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibg-xtPDs0qA1020z5e8OjVHqRheLUgMAOOIcFDSS8amvgtazaYaHO5Sm87Qh41j5ttHQDflisFibxZNJ862_9vF6ImdQSK7g5Bmd9YGvf5aidweSW-ObMqMFrkvr3Kfwm3QVi5pdrV708OCOA0M0JYcxCsjKOIW5ZRssKSmBgYPzM0a6YoZl_vZdluPg/s1600/images-2.jpeg" width="225" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />But we didn’t quite make it. We flamed out three weeks beforehand. I’d bought the card. I knew how else I’d mark the occasion, with him in Denver and me in Vancouver. A special day, but it didn’t seem essential we’d be physically together on the actual day. Such is the nature of long-distance relationships. I always knew there’d be more. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivOKGRKbIQMz9KW72rV6GZeHRJVqwq6Ez5rYe54_uNh-PikrWIhaCh9of1HCCNlreqkp-WJvhKjbfZBn-Ui2KNLvik5j-ZARhmSVtrPtjDBY0gXvGkOolQXygxjeih-v0P1gZtMuaSjTdbCuo1CGOkdiSeLnY_uMVAE44S0NguLQ6o-LMTYXYDpF8Dkz8/s276/images-3.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="276" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivOKGRKbIQMz9KW72rV6GZeHRJVqwq6Ez5rYe54_uNh-PikrWIhaCh9of1HCCNlreqkp-WJvhKjbfZBn-Ui2KNLvik5j-ZARhmSVtrPtjDBY0gXvGkOolQXygxjeih-v0P1gZtMuaSjTdbCuo1CGOkdiSeLnY_uMVAE44S0NguLQ6o-LMTYXYDpF8Dkz8/s1600/images-3.jpeg" width="276" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />Scratch all that. I’m the fool. I fully believed we were on solid ground. We’d worked through our differences as they came up. This was the one relationship where I didn’t hold on to things said and done in past conflicts. I seemed to blank on them immediately after the fact because the particulars didn’t matter. We’d gotten through. I felt secure enough to stay in the present. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">When enough time passes, I’ll be able to finally look back. When people ask how long it lasted, I’ll unequivocally say, “Two years.” The three-week deficiency won’t matter. Mathematically, it’s a no-brainer case of rounding up. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Today, of course, rounding is a faulty exercise. It stings. </span></span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />Generally speaking, I’m not a fan of special days on the calendar. I never have announced my “balloon day” on Twitter. I see how these posts generate lots of likes, but I don’t need that. It’s not an achievement when I have another birthday. "Still here." </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjggjlGBW9eeTSwrPP8DuFbmnSf8YnJ994RcQbkjUG2GaipmpwSuuKPpoSlCD85qg-kcPLM-wNr96KbwyP_G3qZ2iTe69hcsyahQ3wkueLOR33qB14RQRX-Eztg4dfwkXuSN4_n3m_PmgYWiA7eygGp0VtNZkV392Ue0-BO51q1Ed8LijA5D3kpKLt7duE/s275/Unknown.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjggjlGBW9eeTSwrPP8DuFbmnSf8YnJ994RcQbkjUG2GaipmpwSuuKPpoSlCD85qg-kcPLM-wNr96KbwyP_G3qZ2iTe69hcsyahQ3wkueLOR33qB14RQRX-Eztg4dfwkXuSN4_n3m_PmgYWiA7eygGp0VtNZkV392Ue0-BO51q1Ed8LijA5D3kpKLt7duE/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" width="275" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />Technically, I did a few things right to still be around. I regularly look both ways before crossing the street. I wash my lettuce (or, more accurately, because I’m lazy, I rarely buy the stuff, even as a vegetarian). Skydiving will always be a firm, “Hell no!” I made it through the AIDS crisis. Doctors successfully removed my melanoma thirty-five years ago and it hasn’t come back (that I know of). I haven’t fainted upon seeing a grizzly while hiking. (Worst fainting injury: broken foot—in my home, not on a trail.) <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">So birthdays…meh. Call me a humbug—it fits—but I don’t get excited about getting drunk on New Year’s Eve. (Do I even have to finish the obligatory flute of champagne?) Easter? I’m not much for chocolate. Pride? Too often it feels like people wanting to call maximum attention to themselves wearing as little as possible instead of a rally to consider what rights need our vigorous support locally, nationally and globally. Thanksgiving? I do love a pumpkin pie and I always make one sometime within a six-week window of the holiday, but it’s rarely on the designated day. Christmas? Yay, “<u><a href="https://ruralgayguy.blogspot.com/2011/12/rudolph-is-gay.html" target="_blank">Rudolph</a></u>.” Yay, shortbread. But, personally, it feels like the loneliest time of year. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkxK1EOnbHGQgrcLcYCUpjtzc0ZPZonEwRJG3NoxeVc2TmYo4sT6jdC8p-KGdQNn1gzaZjARLcqrV_GJz-KcUv3SukLjGZ_yaW4jdWC9lrsMXJhd1KzXU6TU9jBwoWFn0_tgHjAkO5ggpxO3YI7r7DR2y9YEmEn1cuwVyY2k7gbWvRtgzbZt7UmKmoyc4/s225/images-5.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkxK1EOnbHGQgrcLcYCUpjtzc0ZPZonEwRJG3NoxeVc2TmYo4sT6jdC8p-KGdQNn1gzaZjARLcqrV_GJz-KcUv3SukLjGZ_yaW4jdWC9lrsMXJhd1KzXU6TU9jBwoWFn0_tgHjAkO5ggpxO3YI7r7DR2y9YEmEn1cuwVyY2k7gbWvRtgzbZt7UmKmoyc4/s1600/images-5.jpeg" width="225" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />I prefer ordinary days. Basically, I do better on days like May 17 and November 3, random squares on a desk calendar. Maybe it’s National Pizza Day somewhere or Polka Dot Sock Day. I prefer randomness and quirkiness to obligatorily hyped days laden with expectations. Let me make something of May 17. Let me occasionally make ordinary extraordinary, all my own doing.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">This is also why I don’t like Valentine’s Day. Hallmark, the flower industry, chocolatiers and primary school teachers have done a masterful job grooming us to acknowledge the day. Considering what happened to me <u><a href="https://ruralgayguy.blogspot.com/2024/02/dumped-in-denver.html" target="_blank">this Valentine’s</a></u>, I like the day even less.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">But an anniversary has always seemed to matter to me. It’s not just the passing of time that makes an anniversary happen. This milestone is a result of commitment, communication and doing the hard work that allows a relationship’s continuation. There are lots of perks, of course—support, feeling seen and understood, sex, spontaneous laughter, truly connected conversations, a companion to do things with you wouldn’t do for yourself like make pasta from scratch or splurge on a stay at a magical hotel in a national park, someone to nudge you out of your comfort zone, getting you to ride a roller coaster or go to an EDM concert. An anniversary is a celebration of the work, the joy and connection that two people are invested in. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtpL1B_ZK7-1OKCf-mTrPoz8MA_xbKOzRru7zKmAGAqmJ4i29yaLqdOEwe4wJ_9PuxO-v01BIMNppTi2Fbb3wgj7LglwWeQIcJiz7xPuVos8RdUNYtP0EJE7C1YpxVxZCmFlFoE3KjGOP_x8gJQL_6uHeH6D9stpm-E1e9Ljp58a5Yx1LQbWof0ieOvZA/s2800/IMG_4860.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2800" data-original-width="2437" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtpL1B_ZK7-1OKCf-mTrPoz8MA_xbKOzRru7zKmAGAqmJ4i29yaLqdOEwe4wJ_9PuxO-v01BIMNppTi2Fbb3wgj7LglwWeQIcJiz7xPuVos8RdUNYtP0EJE7C1YpxVxZCmFlFoE3KjGOP_x8gJQL_6uHeH6D9stpm-E1e9Ljp58a5Yx1LQbWof0ieOvZA/s320/IMG_4860.JPG" width="279" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />Today was supposed to be a genuine day of pride, not just Pride in the LGBTQ sense but PRIDE, all-caps, and appreciation of all we had experienced and an excitement that much more was to come.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Not to be. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">This March 6<sup>th</sup> represents failure in the absence of a card or call. My parents have been married for sixty-three years, my sister for thirty-seven, my brother for thirty-four. Once again, I didn’t make it to two. And that’s not even counting time from the point of a ceremony. Weddings aren’t a marker for me. I didn’t even have the <i>right </i>to marry in a place where I lived until I was thirty-eight. It wasn’t a part of what I envisioned as a long-term relationship. I don’t need the hype of it. It’s not a must for me. Right now, of course, that prospect feels as ludicrous as it did when I first came out and was trying to find a relationship that stretched past two weeks.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I long ago stopped counting my relationships in two-week intervals, but now it’s two years that feels woefully short.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">So today is just March 6<sup>th</sup>. An ordinary day. Cue <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eqd0VDgMt30" target="_blank">Duran Duran</a>. On any other day, ordinary would be just what I asked for. But on this day, it’s not what I want at all.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></p>Aging Gaylyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09886888900957765438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7857795538755708479.post-38393477671981682192024-02-26T14:52:00.000-08:002024-02-26T15:15:56.500-08:00CLOSE THE DOOR<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: repeat white;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRpS1NZ8QSQtyoHA2WzmNzOfgf4B2LTDYAAmPOcJOIOkqw6cjHUoIT10ie5ZTTgJFlHftAsePwnt-U2CNCxcWyEAwO3NYVhpmNH60AVCuZ165StXbTvcoSSfsvgMC7Q4kIOu3VjExu9V7eTytmcRE0QjYvA1VYvwW86kLazJXnNvw7V6k8CPRk3B7oKeg/s243/Unknown.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="207" data-original-width="243" height="207" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRpS1NZ8QSQtyoHA2WzmNzOfgf4B2LTDYAAmPOcJOIOkqw6cjHUoIT10ie5ZTTgJFlHftAsePwnt-U2CNCxcWyEAwO3NYVhpmNH60AVCuZ165StXbTvcoSSfsvgMC7Q4kIOu3VjExu9V7eTytmcRE0QjYvA1VYvwW86kLazJXnNvw7V6k8CPRk3B7oKeg/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" width="243" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />The different vantage points between dumper and dumpee fascinate me. I don’t think the topic is discussed enough. It explains why breakups can be so messy, why the dumped dude is so emotional, reactionary and far from his best self. Not only has the dumper determined they’re not a match, the perspectives are woefully mismatched, one focused on the future, the other already seeing things in the past.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Four years ago, I was the dumper. A five-month relationship that came to be because of COVID lockdown. I realized it would never go deeper. Even then, I had a clear sense in the abstract that the dumpee had it worse. <u><a href="https://ruralgayguy.blogspot.com/2020/07/bad-breaks.html" target="_blank">In a blog post</a></u>, I wrote:<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span style="background: repeat white;">Being the one who is broken up with is so much harder. Sometimes it’s completely unexpected and, even when there are plenty of clues, it can feel like being blindsided.</span><o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><i><span style="background: repeat white;"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: repeat white;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I would have been the wrathful subject of a <u><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=05pDK9981QA" target="_blank">Paula Abdul song</a></u> (please, not an Alanis Morissette or Taylor Swift tune) to be unaware of how hard Daniel took it. He’d done nothing wrong. I had zero desire to hurt him. Pre-breakup, I’d put in the time, mulling over what we had and didn’t have. By contrast, he was still fully committed to us when I had The Conversation. He hadn’t considered any sort of exit plan. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: repeat white;"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: repeat white;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU0EVlgvdKwgCWGYjc3SryHgj0MmgcV-4yUzW0Nqjv7CFW70L5sWY3W9BPOvmjN3Ri-oKigcN9R5jDauhRJZzsocj_6kbEBvIK4yRhxHXAYdr4Hpzmr3hurMpxtZQ_FbBNNsvmcDjo2cH-duDWjYBBCTeXkNQGzwCXk0psUb-4VNqD9L_vRSJTcEN-8Cc/s299/Unknown-1.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="299" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU0EVlgvdKwgCWGYjc3SryHgj0MmgcV-4yUzW0Nqjv7CFW70L5sWY3W9BPOvmjN3Ri-oKigcN9R5jDauhRJZzsocj_6kbEBvIK4yRhxHXAYdr4Hpzmr3hurMpxtZQ_FbBNNsvmcDjo2cH-duDWjYBBCTeXkNQGzwCXk0psUb-4VNqD9L_vRSJTcEN-8Cc/s1600/Unknown-1.png" width="299" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />I’ve been fortunate to fall in love five times. (Sadly, none has gone the distance. No anniversary posts on Twitter. This is why I don’t change my status on Facebook. <i>That “in a relationship” thing? Yeah…never mind.</i>) <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: repeat white;"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: repeat white;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I haven’t been the dumpee since my first love disintegrated forty-two years ago. I was devastated and inconsolable. I remember showing up at John’s place at three in the morning a couple of days later, sobbing, begging and seeking answers. Even with his disclosure that he’d been and was still seeing a good friend of mine, it wasn’t enough to jolt me into moving on. Emotions had to play themselves out—a loss, even if wronged—before the brain could bring some sanity to the situation. He was never going to be my Forever Love. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: repeat white;"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: repeat white;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuMcmwga_5FRSKyMYJnTS3FkUj-51vybrPVyucNnHI9OtturrFapzp-aWk1wgTysL5gaGnp5ukjg6POZKjRerArcfYaPOVN53qrtXzxDUOZ93ETXk8Sa5A8ZvpgYBfgR0vQBSMU4nWqiKcDitGcB7f05VJvBRZ-Pljtu-aNT4QtBoEWmDzbN9vZomzVxk/s225/images-1.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuMcmwga_5FRSKyMYJnTS3FkUj-51vybrPVyucNnHI9OtturrFapzp-aWk1wgTysL5gaGnp5ukjg6POZKjRerArcfYaPOVN53qrtXzxDUOZ93ETXk8Sa5A8ZvpgYBfgR0vQBSMU4nWqiKcDitGcB7f05VJvBRZ-Pljtu-aNT4QtBoEWmDzbN9vZomzVxk/s1600/images-1.jpeg" width="225" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />Here I am, dumped once more. This is Day 12 of being <u><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fXa2w0LtXxE" target="_blank">alone again (naturally)</a></u>. (Sometimes a wallowing song makes me smile.) <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: repeat white;"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: repeat white;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I’m not nearly as emotional. Life will go on. I know this. My track record would seem to indicate this would be the logical conclusion. Evan too has a similar past. Oddsmakers wouldn’t have bet on us. Still, I was all in, and so was he, for a few weeks shy of two years. I feel humbled and humiliated, but that comes with a shrug. As a highly/harshly self-critical introvert, there are always humiliations pending. This episode just takes it to the nth degree. It’s the circumstances and Evan’s explanation that I have struggled to accept. His reading of me and of us in the last twenty-four hours of our relationship felt completely off…so off, in fact, that I thought he’d “come to his senses” and want to do the work with me to get us on track again. The breakup came after a great deal of stress. He’d just made a big move from Seattle to Denver that proved to be full of glitches. He was diving into a new job, navigating new policies, procedures and colleagues. And then an acute illness made matters worse. I did what I could to listen and support from Vancouver. We’d agreed about when I would come and stay for two weeks but suddenly it couldn’t come soon enough. Indeed, it didn’t.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: repeat white;"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: repeat white;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJxwJVbHcGmoEpwPSsIoqoxhgybgS1sDwyb2Sl5zu3x04erVE3sEDcxTHDG2F2yqMlV1pCQdcBDuMnGNPfyQ56LHaz__GqOofIRLwj-5q_sPXYGWPil6xMKI_LoXKjtTkUXM4NpHnkPIES6n0nMWjmfeJvG-TxkQmSATa7rBXp6UllEUKBkm4X7xmKcg0/s275/Unknown-3.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJxwJVbHcGmoEpwPSsIoqoxhgybgS1sDwyb2Sl5zu3x04erVE3sEDcxTHDG2F2yqMlV1pCQdcBDuMnGNPfyQ56LHaz__GqOofIRLwj-5q_sPXYGWPil6xMKI_LoXKjtTkUXM4NpHnkPIES6n0nMWjmfeJvG-TxkQmSATa7rBXp6UllEUKBkm4X7xmKcg0/s1600/Unknown-3.jpeg" width="275" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />Making big decisions under high stress is often not a good thing. Telling the boss, “I quit!” may feel good in the moment. Instant relief. Sometimes such a decision has been a long time coming. No regrets. It needed to be.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: repeat white;"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: repeat white;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">But he quit me. He quit us. No regrets? Did it really need to be? I couldn’t get my head around getting dumped. I still saw our future. I kept waiting for a text, an email, a call.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: repeat white;"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: repeat white;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Nothing.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: repeat white;"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: repeat white;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Finally, after eight days, I texted: <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><span style="background: repeat white;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Can we schedule a FaceTime call? I’m not mad and I won’t be emotional. I just need closure.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: repeat white;"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: repeat white;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq9YwRWOqfiTihtgPVLda1cvKKMkSTz-ptXodsYtWm2MCWk9kePW4yUiyEyutqQE3gt8r6AWoND4hyphenhyphen2MzBjIunmhsc1aJHAz-m24lspfW_MfYJAyU6n-nDxvMbYJfm3DWeKfYwHdwYpBHR-yhGcr5I0L9y12dp9icMhm6tqHPzQD9zyv3h-pWINaiK5dA/s275/Unknown-4.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq9YwRWOqfiTihtgPVLda1cvKKMkSTz-ptXodsYtWm2MCWk9kePW4yUiyEyutqQE3gt8r6AWoND4hyphenhyphen2MzBjIunmhsc1aJHAz-m24lspfW_MfYJAyU6n-nDxvMbYJfm3DWeKfYwHdwYpBHR-yhGcr5I0L9y12dp9icMhm6tqHPzQD9zyv3h-pWINaiK5dA/s1600/Unknown-4.jpeg" width="275" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />He agreed, said he had some questions, too. We set a time the next morning. I wrote down some questions and thoughts. I do the same now when I go to the doctor’s. If this was going to be our last chat, I didn’t want to wake up at three in the morning that night or a week later with a growing list of things I should have asked.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: repeat white;"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: repeat white;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">It was a tough call for each of us, for different reasons. I’m not going to deny I’d hoped we’d talk through things and agree to try again. The moment his face appeared on the screen, I knew that prospect was hopeless. There was no warmth, no smile, nothing of the jovial person I loved. He was on guard, jarringly stoic, perhaps stressed, perhaps wishing he were having all his teeth pulled instead…without the anesthetic. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: repeat white;"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: repeat white;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Still, I had no pride. I’d flown to Denver to get dumped in first our ten minutes back together on Valentine’s Day. What’s an extra helping of humiliation? So I reiterated that I didn’t want the breakup. I was still invested in us…if he’d be open to it. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: repeat white;"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: repeat white;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Dead air. Dead relationship.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: repeat white;"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: repeat white;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggHCR_S5yYDfxlhnKmTFk90O_3tKT8ZnR9MidB5-qDwRIGRIY4lbxSpuAf6Ug1xdsJnkkcT4sqMtgN8Jc0Ri6iHgw_iWBAO2T8chyphenhyphene3T1gvzHkUOWgKd60YG9VXrS2z-D1gicyE6sENMdBy_y7AQwR662BXTQL0jEkV-DCH5jVOMhbwY40kGeLUFt3Z0k/s269/images-3.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="188" data-original-width="269" height="188" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggHCR_S5yYDfxlhnKmTFk90O_3tKT8ZnR9MidB5-qDwRIGRIY4lbxSpuAf6Ug1xdsJnkkcT4sqMtgN8Jc0Ri6iHgw_iWBAO2T8chyphenhyphene3T1gvzHkUOWgKd60YG9VXrS2z-D1gicyE6sENMdBy_y7AQwR662BXTQL0jEkV-DCH5jVOMhbwY40kGeLUFt3Z0k/s1600/images-3.jpeg" width="269" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />All righty then. On with the questions. I suppose, as the dumpee, it was my turn to dump. More than questions, I needed to defend my character and what we had. His version which came out during the dumping undersold me and us. It was all for naught. He listened uncomfortably. “I don’t see how this is helping,” he said at one point and then, “How much more do you have?” Understandable. When he’d pronounced us dead, I’d wanted to flee. When I had the chance to more clearly give my perspective after the in-the-moment shock of <i>Is this really happening?!</i>, it was his turn to want to flee. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: repeat white;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: repeat white;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">He held on. He stuck it out. I commend Evan for agreeing to the call. He’s a good man. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: repeat white;"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: repeat white;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Having gone through this and thinking back on how things ended with John, with Daniel and a few other longer-term relationships, I’m a believer in a closure call. Under the right circumstances—calm voices, a willingness to listen, basic respect—it evens things up a bit in terms of allowing both people to move on. While the dumper was and still is ahead in this regard—his decision, his timing, his prior period of mulling—the dumpee has an opportunity to share thoughts and feelings after facing bad news while in some degree of shock. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: repeat white;"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: repeat white;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">The closure call isn’t fun for the dumper. When Daniel kept wanting to raise things with me, I allowed it. I knew he needed it. He was in pain. Maybe I could help him get over me. (How hard could it be? My flaws and deficiencies are many.) It’s uncomfortable when the dumper has to listen after getting his exit pass. <i>Do we really have to go back over this? </i>I say yes. Not fun but neither was getting dumped. It’s not about wrath or payback or venting. The person who only days ago was your partner and still in love is owed this last conversation, a chance to say things he couldn’t express in the moment of being blindsided. Hopefully being somewhat composed, the dumpee can ask the whys and maybe cross off a few wonderings so they don’t continue to swirl in his mind. There’s dignity in allowing a closure call as part of a more complete ending.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: repeat white;"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: repeat white;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">In truth, I didn’t get much satisfaction from the call. Nothing I said changed his mind. It saddens me that our versions of our relationship are so different, that he diminished what I gave and what we had. Part of me thinks that’s what someone may have to do in order to walk away. Regardless, I had my say. I didn’t leave anything on the table. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: repeat white;"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: repeat white;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Up until the end and extending until nine days after, I know I gave it my all. (I keep playing a <u><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j-fWDrZSiZs" target="_blank">Dido song</a></u> as a little affirmation.) That first glance of him on the screen turned out to be the biggest help. There would be no going back. It’s not the look I wanted to see, but it brings clarity. There is no hope. I must find a way to move on, single once again. It’ll be okay. I will heal. There is much I like about being alone.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: repeat white;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: repeat white;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />A little while after the call, I texted him a thank you, acknowledging it couldn’t have been fun for him. [But, hey, bright side. All his teeth are intact. His beautiful smile remains to dazzle Denver.] He replied saying it was “painful” while wishing me the best. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: repeat white;"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: repeat white;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii0Pr0GIaSVc7FaVTdMlKV6JqI50uZH5xJ6IQ02UOeVtLB0HDJmlDQHmoDTKJxweWBn0OrY_xItvqKqzmzskCbQ93ZAfvIr_FGuSLiAUjQp8_4vS_ZqiBY4NQWilTO6DAkTh0oZq5iVZQupYC6cCk30xea6ki7-BDMhIac6dhz1roBDgSsXgiO5ZjkkEM/s311/images-2.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="162" data-original-width="311" height="162" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii0Pr0GIaSVc7FaVTdMlKV6JqI50uZH5xJ6IQ02UOeVtLB0HDJmlDQHmoDTKJxweWBn0OrY_xItvqKqzmzskCbQ93ZAfvIr_FGuSLiAUjQp8_4vS_ZqiBY4NQWilTO6DAkTh0oZq5iVZQupYC6cCk30xea6ki7-BDMhIac6dhz1roBDgSsXgiO5ZjkkEM/s1600/images-2.jpeg" width="311" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Door closed. I don’t have to keep jigging the handle or checking the lock.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: repeat white;"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span style="background: repeat white;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">THE END<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: repeat white;"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: repeat white;"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: repeat white;"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: repeat white;"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: repeat white;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>Aging Gaylyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09886888900957765438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7857795538755708479.post-77037454714150050462024-02-21T13:58:00.000-08:002024-02-21T13:58:21.760-08:00SOMETHING ABOUT MARY<p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK1S51W4a49pmxAWr6J1LwtzRsn35aLdMf1GdZzp3QcE0DTp487PZgps73J0Ygg6THU3vUD2FSv48VyI-xpr8dHb-C6XFsX-MaZukDMcn7yv3fmZPQ18D4WY1VMWEPzX0eph5LB0-3yHdJC8DQF2c1mBP1VutRazS1og4zcxLhLYUU-BX3w23Yb6KuxP8/s262/images-1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="192" data-original-width="262" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK1S51W4a49pmxAWr6J1LwtzRsn35aLdMf1GdZzp3QcE0DTp487PZgps73J0Ygg6THU3vUD2FSv48VyI-xpr8dHb-C6XFsX-MaZukDMcn7yv3fmZPQ18D4WY1VMWEPzX0eph5LB0-3yHdJC8DQF2c1mBP1VutRazS1og4zcxLhLYUU-BX3w23Yb6KuxP8/s1600/images-1.jpeg" width="262" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />After getting dumped in Denver and checking into the hotel, I had to book my flight home, tail between my legs. Sitting in a nondescript hotel room with an ugly sofa and a clunky black desk way out of proportion for the space—Evan would have hated it—I imagined an automated voice saying, <i>You have reached your destination. </i>Please, no. But the voice didn’t relent and say, <i>Recalculating. </i>This was it. Hello, humiliation.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Back in the car with Evan, I’d known I had two stress-based options to respond to the breakup: fight or flight. I had enough self-dignity to sense that the first option was useless. Why up the humiliation? So flight then. Quite literally. I scrolled one-way options, all pricey given the short notice, some offering a quick turnaround. <i>Yes</i>, I thought. <i>Just get me home. ASAP. Let me crawl into my own bed and fall apart. </i>In a span of thirty-six hours, all of it centered on travel, this final episode would be over. Exhausting, to be sure, but I’d be exhausted under any scenario given the circumstances. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">But then I chose to delay my retreat by a day. Maybe somewhere in the back of my mind I held out hope that Evan would come to his senses and text, “Where are you?” I’d respond: “I’m still here.” Geographically, metaphorically, desperately(?). <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">It’s programmed in me to stick with things. Thick or thin…whatever that means. But what I actually told myself was that, while he’d ended us, Denver was just an innocent bystander. If I stayed and spent an extra day, maybe it wouldn’t be forevermore known to me as The City Where I Got Dumped. It felt kinder to myself if I stuck around and let the unfamiliar surroundings distract me. My bed at home would bring on full wallowing. Maybe a slow release—or, at least, a delayed release—of pain would be healthier. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxjTvsM2LRs-VPYVKdQA_DPhWHyYlAxPaF0vfmYbnx9IK5b5NQgPL9t6sRMynE-x5WfwnxwBdI6HlO9nUS5F0vWPut_XDPW864EzinqfbNe1y5c5QFVc6P6zRU_a1PrIAprnbKK2tYXJBAjVER_gEfiMLC9pPwBcwnqbLv7_gTI1vpEcd_jj6M0qJqm88/s1080/thumbnail.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxjTvsM2LRs-VPYVKdQA_DPhWHyYlAxPaF0vfmYbnx9IK5b5NQgPL9t6sRMynE-x5WfwnxwBdI6HlO9nUS5F0vWPut_XDPW864EzinqfbNe1y5c5QFVc6P6zRU_a1PrIAprnbKK2tYXJBAjVER_gEfiMLC9pPwBcwnqbLv7_gTI1vpEcd_jj6M0qJqm88/s320/thumbnail.png" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />As I walked the streets of Denver, one of Evan’s misplaced criticisms kept popping in my head. “You’re only here for fun. You’re not here to help.” It was a gross diminishment of me and of us. Still I could hear him saying, “See? I told you so.” Crazy. He’d turfed me. He’d shut down any opportunity to prove myself. (Just the thought of having to prove myself two years into a relationship feels sad.) I did what I often do in my own city and in other places. I snapped photos. Specifically, I went on a mural hunt. It wasn’t so fun. Instead, it was forced distraction. More murals, Denver. Please.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">The city came through. Thank you!<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">My return trip mirrored the one from forty-eight hours prior with the layover in Seattle being a little longer. Blessedly less stress about making the connection. First, I had to manage Denver’s airport which has always felt especially chaotic. I didn’t even try. I flagged down personnel for guidance and they were incredibly nice. Could they sense the old guy needed to be treated with kid gloves? Did they see the L on my forehead? <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">When I boarded the plane, I glanced at the screen attached to the back of the seat in front of me. I rarely pay attention to in-flight programming. The little headphones don’t suit me. Even at full volume, I can’t hear a lot of the audio. Does it even count if I say I watched <i>West Side Story </i>on the plane when I can’t lipread? <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5ixfd-aTuS2oLt77AdiEypdF-5R-TNt8__CINUv6gL4ufsI3ygY3P_dCTU2fLlvC1oCFA51QZARjRj0uChl90eAAqcMSWeg1lKJohxeUCmDfEIW7eA6Adn3zDOc1owwxRvaLeL8PlTUp19hG7B9yp3sxLGvWLMwPfqQmT3ZyOE3PkQjtWR-CS9pjNHvk/s1080/thumbnail-8.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="806" data-original-width="1080" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5ixfd-aTuS2oLt77AdiEypdF-5R-TNt8__CINUv6gL4ufsI3ygY3P_dCTU2fLlvC1oCFA51QZARjRj0uChl90eAAqcMSWeg1lKJohxeUCmDfEIW7eA6Adn3zDOc1owwxRvaLeL8PlTUp19hG7B9yp3sxLGvWLMwPfqQmT3ZyOE3PkQjtWR-CS9pjNHvk/s320/thumbnail-8.jpeg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />I don’t know if <i>West Side Story </i>was a choice. I didn’t scroll through the movie menu. Instead my eyes stared at the current slide—3 of 25—and I knew in an instant I had a way to sit through this flight without my mind obsessing on what the hell had happened to my relationship. Pass the distraction baton from Denver wall art to Mary Tyler Moore.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">My Mary! In a true moment of need.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I can’t fully explain it, but no TV series has had a bigger impact on who I am than <i>The Mary Tyler Moore Show. </i>Sure, I adored <i>St. Elsewhere</i>, I longed for a house like Hope and Michael had on <i>thirtysomething </i>where friends always popped by—ditto an apartment complex like 28 Barbary Lane in any incarnation of <i>Tales of the City</i>—and I have often wavered on who best represents me on <i>Sex in the City </i>(mostly Miranda, but with moments of Carrie or Charlotte, never Samantha). But I connect with Mary Richards to the core, someone always trying to do the right thing while navigating wackiness all around her. In the pilot episode, Mary Richards is fresh off a breakup and has to make it on her own. (Suddenly, an extra connection.) The theme song’s nods to notions that “love is all around” and “you might just make it after all” always lift my spirits, offering hope and making me believe I’ll one day throw my hat in the air at a busy intersection as a gesture of celebrating success and a <i>joie de vivre</i> while the busy-ness of life surrounds me.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-CrDk_JsnLxiL7cVJVHzSPdJisqA_R5yfvw0EpmUOUMEBz-uiKyovE43ZZqRbAjN8bKiJWKb5wmN9-FsNJV6qO8bYnmGkkmSM-oJuzvg8jbS5eaHxdL6P021FspDdMeif8k4u3g5872O5d5ImuJSHE4av3KAwUJtlL7D1BJWrKKEydbcwKSVB2x89no0/s1080/thumbnail-7.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="933" data-original-width="1080" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-CrDk_JsnLxiL7cVJVHzSPdJisqA_R5yfvw0EpmUOUMEBz-uiKyovE43ZZqRbAjN8bKiJWKb5wmN9-FsNJV6qO8bYnmGkkmSM-oJuzvg8jbS5eaHxdL6P021FspDdMeif8k4u3g5872O5d5ImuJSHE4av3KAwUJtlL7D1BJWrKKEydbcwKSVB2x89no0/s320/thumbnail-7.jpeg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />I’m not overstating this. I’ve read my hardcover copy of Jennifer Keishin Armstrong’s engrossing <i><a href="https://www.simonandschuster.com/books/Mary-and-Lou-and-Rhoda-and-Ted/Jennifer-Keishin-Armstrong/9781451659221" target="_blank">Mary and Lou and Rhoda and Ted</a> </i>(Simon & Schuster, 2013) multiple times and it’s chalk full of Post-its marking various passages. During COVID, I conducted several online searches to finally acquire an MTM t-shirt. (There were copyright issues.) Throughout the series, she’s open to dating, but accepts being single, shrugging off bad dates. I often listen to the theme song (“<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RYgKcUDZ-E0" target="_blank">Love Is All Around</a>”) on YouTube for an instant pick-me-up and I still love to watch episodes on the internet. Most telling, however, is the fact that, in 2015, I planned a weeklong trip to Minneapolis, where the show was set, just to see the places Mary Richards was filmed in the opening and closing credits. (I wrote six blog posts about it, beginning <a href="https://ruralgayguy.blogspot.com/2015/08/chasing-mary-and-so-it-begins.html" target="_blank">here</a>.)<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I could elaborate but I think I’ve said too much already.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRrPNtCGlBlPNiMMBgyxoEoiSFYyZFyaZjJ83f_iXaVwcdAtvOGJi8usTaBDpCHmMi26aCbIYxdl_RAoM4ppo_AULq7kbG6ehCKJDa1nNogjG6NyOzsXC5s0OftE9gG-ncyIF3kjoex9S8WOhM_RKvvdomzw38T2-41Zjnq1PxAmpJbwoOdjAVs5vLNII/s1080/thumbnail-17.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="635" data-original-width="1080" height="188" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRrPNtCGlBlPNiMMBgyxoEoiSFYyZFyaZjJ83f_iXaVwcdAtvOGJi8usTaBDpCHmMi26aCbIYxdl_RAoM4ppo_AULq7kbG6ehCKJDa1nNogjG6NyOzsXC5s0OftE9gG-ncyIF3kjoex9S8WOhM_RKvvdomzw38T2-41Zjnq1PxAmpJbwoOdjAVs5vLNII/s320/thumbnail-17.jpeg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />With the plane still sitting at the gate, I glanced up from the screen and saw a flight attendant approach, holding up those cheap headsets I didn’t think were still offered. My fastened seatbelt kept me from leaping into the aisle. I waited patiently and was rewarded with my swag item…way better then those miniature cookies or pretzels. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; font-size: large;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNs9qPEy9aLgW0Yq16XbQbNPH-nH_6Yc_zCy2jqEK6h5wHk_zPY3CTLHAaGc-90EKrIekYrRLl4Stkz7pg3pyp7HH0cCJ3ZK-yKdYY5pE_tmDuOmzwZDbPc77fIEFynSfs895lQZdegDExt3OwYjlFKVkfs2y-gH_N2J88fbkV1nqbbUllTEg0ddnogug/s1080/thumbnail-19.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNs9qPEy9aLgW0Yq16XbQbNPH-nH_6Yc_zCy2jqEK6h5wHk_zPY3CTLHAaGc-90EKrIekYrRLl4Stkz7pg3pyp7HH0cCJ3ZK-yKdYY5pE_tmDuOmzwZDbPc77fIEFynSfs895lQZdegDExt3OwYjlFKVkfs2y-gH_N2J88fbkV1nqbbUllTEg0ddnogug/s320/thumbnail-19.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Just as captivating as Laura Petrie<br />on The Dick Van Dyke Show.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">Immediately, I plugged in the earphones and began watching <i>Being Mary Tyler Moore. </i>There were interruptions, of course. The standard blah-blah-blah about my seat cushion as a floatation device—between Denver and Seattle?—and federal regulations prohibiting vaping and smoking. (A reminder that not everything was better about flying in the old days.) <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Back to Mary (and a fairly decent audio!).<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Most of Mary Tyler Moore’s story was familiar to me. It made some of her personal statements in interviews stand out even more. Prior to being cast in <i>Ordinary People </i>(1980), her roles had been sunny and optimistic. Prior to my breakdown at forty-nine, I had clung to a similar façade in life. She described herself has having long been protective, reserved and afraid to show imperfection and one segment described her as a “self-styled workhouse.” I’d always related to the character, Mary Richards, but there was more to connect with regarding Mary Tyler Moore. I needed this. I needed to connect to someone, even a dead celebrity (and <a href="https://ruralgayguy.blogspot.com/2017/01/chasing-mary.html" target="_blank">icon</a>!).<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeYfVJ07eTtzEWUdKmN9FpxFu_p9BQW6S3gl4FYTUBzVh7pEXWDOQc_pmRodQcYA1u9mw9p-bJAzcWezlCeH32p2DsVuqYdT2HnCl1uq1hpPD7__CUQqb5j4Pe_srMqClDiH0TlfbrOmeNmeouEvrfUXKk8kEUJ9JKtjjtfttAE9-9w23pKN1ac5d-uYg/s262/images-2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="193" data-original-width="262" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeYfVJ07eTtzEWUdKmN9FpxFu_p9BQW6S3gl4FYTUBzVh7pEXWDOQc_pmRodQcYA1u9mw9p-bJAzcWezlCeH32p2DsVuqYdT2HnCl1uq1hpPD7__CUQqb5j4Pe_srMqClDiH0TlfbrOmeNmeouEvrfUXKk8kEUJ9JKtjjtfttAE9-9w23pKN1ac5d-uYg/s1600/images-2.jpeg" width="262" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />The documentary lasted almost the entire flight. Sugar for my brain on any other occasion but true medicine on this day. Yes, sometimes a sugar pill is exactly what a wounded soul needs. Relief for two solid hours. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p>Aging Gaylyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09886888900957765438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7857795538755708479.post-34002118106691953062024-02-15T12:56:00.000-08:002024-02-15T12:56:13.392-08:00DUMPED IN DENVER<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM23jUZnAYSPkY9FpGdLWiaodqhoMWRf-19ABoAZLM8pS1tjLbX3NsZF7MVz6XxR8i6ab7v2aIjRPppzRRwBQsa1sg7762SiTxpo8s6BwWxn6OYwP2cVOvJUsx8b2W9LrOkCULaRwxwrEmU72IUs7u2Y8h3gpR5C_hAKd-zZ-27ku85Su5fx1u4LCWBvM/s1080/thumbnail-19.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM23jUZnAYSPkY9FpGdLWiaodqhoMWRf-19ABoAZLM8pS1tjLbX3NsZF7MVz6XxR8i6ab7v2aIjRPppzRRwBQsa1sg7762SiTxpo8s6BwWxn6OYwP2cVOvJUsx8b2W9LrOkCULaRwxwrEmU72IUs7u2Y8h3gpR5C_hAKd-zZ-27ku85Su5fx1u4LCWBvM/s320/thumbnail-19.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>It's the 15th, Denver.<br />Can I help you yank this down?</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br />There’s never a good time to be dumped but, I’d have to say, some times are worse.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Christmas. (Eve or Day.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">New Year’s. (Same as above.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Valentine’s Day.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Guess which one I just experienced.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">He didn’t!<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Oh, yes. He did. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I’m <a href="https://ruralgayguy.blogspot.com/2015/02/heartless.html" target="_blank">on record</a> as saying I don’t like Valentine’s Day. Gotta say, I like it even less now. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">The day before had been rocky. One of the tough parts of long-distance relationships is that communication while apart is always somehow lacking. Texts can be misread, the tone unclear. Calls are better but there are distractions. FaceTime is my preference, but it’s always clear you’re still apart. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Something had been off in the morning phone call, a laugh meant to convey lightness and support misinterpreted as uncaring and a suggestion dismissed with irritation. He was stressed, I told myself. He had reason to be. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">When I FaceTimed in the evening, he didn’t answer. He quickly message instead: <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Can’t talk now, sorry<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">A little later, a flurry of texts, an unexpected attack. He needed to focus on himself. And, incidentally, I was deficient…in many ways. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">It felt so wrong. An assault on my character. Little things were suddenly everything. I know I’d disappointed him a few weeks ago and, what I’d thought had been resolved was now the equivalent to that pesky spinning rainbow on a computer screen. It would not go away.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">A FaceTime followed. More character assassination. He depicted my view of our relationship as narrow, self-serving and a total letdown. Where was this coming from? It was exacerbating. Slanted. Absurd! I hung up. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">A few more texts came, more of the same. I let them go. What was the point of arguing—even defending—when the point of view had gone so dark?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfUhyphenhyphen4gbbyfoFKr3FKL8XRVxjPOmMpVPqwUl8ekyP8ZoH1YPmDjFev9slOtoi22HUobGzgwuYr__QroOVbTIE6_JXFPMx1lnAmmn1P7W4z-7671NBw9eHIyg6DtWr5DwAogljC5uCeay78VSB07PQS4nfwfvQoCpjoU31w1PQ6UWC8_4W4KCUgVIRFozQ/s259/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="259" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfUhyphenhyphen4gbbyfoFKr3FKL8XRVxjPOmMpVPqwUl8ekyP8ZoH1YPmDjFev9slOtoi22HUobGzgwuYr__QroOVbTIE6_JXFPMx1lnAmmn1P7W4z-7671NBw9eHIyg6DtWr5DwAogljC5uCeay78VSB07PQS4nfwfvQoCpjoU31w1PQ6UWC8_4W4KCUgVIRFozQ/s1600/images.jpeg" width="259" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />Feeling shaken and wounded, I immediately faced more confusion. I was supposed to fly to Denver the next day for a two-week stay, my first visit at his new place, a chance to help him settle in and for us to feel out our new U.S. base. Was I still welcome? <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I didn’t pack. I managed a couple of hours sleep but mostly the night passed slowly as a pillow fight, solitaire edition. When the alarm sounded, I felt both relief and dread. No more agonizing tossing and turning but now I had to face the day. Where were we? Were we even “we”?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I texted:<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">You’re my partner. I would like to come today—to<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">see you, to be with you.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Is that okay?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">And immediate response:<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Yes. Happy Valentine’s.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Okay then. What had been the significance of yesterday? Anything? Nothing? <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">There had been times when our evening chats had involved misunderstandings but, in each instance when Evan had been harsh or moody, he’d texted an apology immediately the next morning. His ability to say sorry, quickly and genuinely, had always been one of the things I most admired about him. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQJlXvzuvEzy-lYkxSUMXjqa08BqNZAmmOZPDUASf5iNaOiZjXODV1XzzTuC4KhWw01G3hxaIkmf_Eak8qruaeZNSyx0cdkHkro3o3aQMHI-oiMxHqyMqmlAxaS5KV0okKYavOD1cJNrts5lxGYirMX1XIq7vO-NvoyRsLlcow51KszQ7JxcWRUHU87CA/s600/co-denver-greetings-c1950.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="380" data-original-width="600" height="203" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQJlXvzuvEzy-lYkxSUMXjqa08BqNZAmmOZPDUASf5iNaOiZjXODV1XzzTuC4KhWw01G3hxaIkmf_Eak8qruaeZNSyx0cdkHkro3o3aQMHI-oiMxHqyMqmlAxaS5KV0okKYavOD1cJNrts5lxGYirMX1XIq7vO-NvoyRsLlcow51KszQ7JxcWRUHU87CA/s320/co-denver-greetings-c1950.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />No sorry this time. I packed. Was “Happy Valentine’s” supposed to make everything better? I spent the day traveling, still confused and wounded. I knew we’d have a difficult conversation. I knew we’d get through it. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I took the train from the airport to Union Station where he picked me up. It was a fifteen-minute drive to his place. We broke up before we arrived. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">What was going on? Why did he keep casting me in a negative, dismissive light? I could have rebutted everything and defended my character. I made a few points, but, as startling as it was, I knew nothing I said mattered. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">He’d made his case and said it. He’d dumped me. He’d freed himself from the apparent awfulness of me. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">He mumbled a couple of times, “This is a great Valentine’s Day.” I will begrudge him this. As the dumper, he needed to keep his mouth shut about that. His choice. I was the dumpee. That was my line. True, not a great VD for him either, but I’m the one who didn’t want this. I’m the one who spent the day traveling for a greeting that plays back as “Hello, I’m dumping you” on the highlight reel.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyWZrnuVHrqooE-WkdbY1FbYZJ5pywu1mXvKT6p9bNyYW2hWQ4dZRKsmGkzC2tg8CrGWd3Mx6wPnnDBoVOsIzq7LAdRjTJX0YJjU1QHOpL3XBeH2VbRZ5BEKAkMFYOp8mjPJN0m0F-F889TC3kRAC-x-gRbIwrVDlIWDDKsUsjbGOwbAoGTKxkaotWAAo/s293/images-1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="172" data-original-width="293" height="172" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyWZrnuVHrqooE-WkdbY1FbYZJ5pywu1mXvKT6p9bNyYW2hWQ4dZRKsmGkzC2tg8CrGWd3Mx6wPnnDBoVOsIzq7LAdRjTJX0YJjU1QHOpL3XBeH2VbRZ5BEKAkMFYOp8mjPJN0m0F-F889TC3kRAC-x-gRbIwrVDlIWDDKsUsjbGOwbAoGTKxkaotWAAo/s1600/images-1.jpeg" width="293" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />As the drive continued he gave me a tour guide’s narration of things along the route. It felt so tone deaf. Random buildings didn’t matter when I didn’t matter. I stared at the glove compartment, trying to will my mind to go numb, waiting for him to change course, to glance at me, to see me for me again, to see the man he fell in love with, the guy he spent the past two weeks repeatedly saying how much he missed. Nope. The tour dragged on, even as we walked the block to his place after parking.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I went through the motions looking at his place. I tried to offer a positive comment or two. My heart wasn’t in it. His heart wasn’t mine anymore.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Two weeks here? He floated the friends concept. We’d be better as that. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I sat and focused on my phone screen. How much to fly out the next day? How much for a hotel? The costs were high, but I saw no other options. I did not want to be where I was not wanted. I could not flip a switch and become friends with someone who’d just portrayed me as too much, not enough and wholly unappealing.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I should have Ubered it to the hotel. Instead, I asked for a lift. I suppose he owed me that. We drove mostly in silence. We got lost. I was relieved to have the GPS voice fill the space between us. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Still stunned, I kept thinking he’d recant. He’d remember how we gel instead of perseverating on how we’re different. He’d come to his senses. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">He didn’t. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Hello, nondescript hotel room. It was eight o’clock at night, eleven hours after I’d left my home, a single scone to sustain me for the day. I needed food but I knew you don’t ask for a table for one on Valentine’s Day. Couples don’t want a sad single dude, freshly dumped no less, in their periphery as they thank god they no longer have to eat Lean Cuisine on February 14<sup>th</sup>. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglCXHbmD3BVaQm0BAPQs1oak0RMIMGNp1AtYA4G75sQJXt-RhYXz8PvwXF1LOGjzGTAONEzwB9K_21xzop7HLRDzdOSvJi-XKElK3SrHX7_BqRXe9bc9iJPJYltxjGqFhTSoRpHd44ZN-qFy0qqH7A3BgN9K277wip3PxgF9c7WjnF4SiS2Oxlb6QOVlA/s300/images-2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglCXHbmD3BVaQm0BAPQs1oak0RMIMGNp1AtYA4G75sQJXt-RhYXz8PvwXF1LOGjzGTAONEzwB9K_21xzop7HLRDzdOSvJi-XKElK3SrHX7_BqRXe9bc9iJPJYltxjGqFhTSoRpHd44ZN-qFy0qqH7A3BgN9K277wip3PxgF9c7WjnF4SiS2Oxlb6QOVlA/s1600/images-2.jpeg" width="300" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />As with many downtowns, Denver doesn’t have a big offering of grocery stores. I walked half an hour to Whole Foods, passing many restaurants loaded with couples. Not fun. The streets were quiet as I slogged back to the hotel with my banana and guac, passing the occasional love birds spilling out of a diner, clutching bouquets and boxes of flowers. Still not fun.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Before turning in, I checked my phone yet again. No calls, no messages, no regrets. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">In the middle of the night, it became crystal clear, his resolve would not relent. Our relationship ended three weeks short of two years. Rest in peace, or something like that. He has a clean break in a new home, free of any memories of me or of us. I get to return to a home where the presence of Evan is everywhere, reminders I can’t pack away in a closet. (Maybe I’ll buy a tarp and turn the balcony to an indefinite storage space.) <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">He’d frontloaded all his thinking about ending us. He’d had time to think about us shifting to friendship. Maybe even plenty of time. Had it only been a few weeks? Had he flirted with thoughts of freedom at Christmas? Did doubts set in last summer? He’d often gotten caught up in our differences and, to be sure, some of them are pronounced. I’d repeatedly said, You be you. I meant it. I don’t think he ever got his head around that when it came to me. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">He’d held off and didn’t say it until he was ready. Why then would he recant? He’d said it. He’d freed himself. Hello, relief! <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; font-size: large;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPlBR0kPFZyfdziY915-5lAsThTbo9skqwsnxol0WApOd3MPGBxeowP6jx7TYpWIVUydtOu_jPJLXWDeD1QL_-nU5CSXxDrygBDQMplDFPNhw3r9UY9cGK7Zd0OFDChe-xd4rMgdNcG4O7prAzzNUURExPNB0CBVCz24VzrMpDNl3jUtIbGs4SDHFLBBg/s1080/thumbnail-33.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="601" data-original-width="1080" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPlBR0kPFZyfdziY915-5lAsThTbo9skqwsnxol0WApOd3MPGBxeowP6jx7TYpWIVUydtOu_jPJLXWDeD1QL_-nU5CSXxDrygBDQMplDFPNhw3r9UY9cGK7Zd0OFDChe-xd4rMgdNcG4O7prAzzNUURExPNB0CBVCz24VzrMpDNl3jUtIbGs4SDHFLBBg/s320/thumbnail-33.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>A little reminder, courtesy the<br />City of Denver.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">I checked my phone first thing in the morning. I still hoped he’d express regret. A big mistake that’s all. Stress and sickness had made him turn against me, the easiest target for doubts, frustration and distraction from other big changes in his life. Alas, the only thing on my screen was a notification from Duolingo, suggesting it was time to practice Swedish. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Plenty of time, as it turns out.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>Aging Gaylyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09886888900957765438noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7857795538755708479.post-37514224222208974632024-02-06T13:54:00.000-08:002024-02-06T13:54:48.936-08:00TO "SIR," WITHOUT LOVE<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; font-size: large;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWsbHdFwJ8_qeOPl0RDOp-aU08XYKFrZJPQ73kbMH8s3rOsDjFQJHB81Ugvac8Jw81Wn4TQsIOm0c-mpH42SmOQTJMcTnXX-il9Nj9iizIjZnRTOi4Y5ijQE0U_Ph7A0m5ALmVQgxj95PypwxiIFHYpsntALdHJ7QhDPuDrCL1_pfB6o7MGqQtUU7JByE/s600/ayesmaam.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="450" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWsbHdFwJ8_qeOPl0RDOp-aU08XYKFrZJPQ73kbMH8s3rOsDjFQJHB81Ugvac8Jw81Wn4TQsIOm0c-mpH42SmOQTJMcTnXX-il9Nj9iizIjZnRTOi4Y5ijQE0U_Ph7A0m5ALmVQgxj95PypwxiIFHYpsntALdHJ7QhDPuDrCL1_pfB6o7MGqQtUU7JByE/s320/ayesmaam.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>No Sir, please & thank you.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">When I was thirteen, my family moved from Hamilton, Ontario to a small city in East Texas. It was a huge culture shock in so many ways. Technically, they spoke the same language, but the twang and the terms were different. Every woman was called ma’am which at first startled my mother and, as her son, me. In our reserved Canadian upbringing the word was considered rude. I’m not all that sure anymore why; sassy was the connotation, I think. That and the notion the word was attributed to older women and what woman wanted to called old, however respectfully?<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I have the same feelings about <u>sir</u>. I hate it. In customer service, it’s often used to placate me. Deferential may be the intent but it sounds condescending. <i>I’ll just drop a handful of sirs into this service call and the old geezer will feel he made some impression: ‘You shall respect me…even as you don’t get me what I want.’ </i>Yeah, it’s not just the intent but the age thing that rubs the wrong way. Worse, when sir sprinklings occur over the phone, it’s often preceded with a couple ma’ams. Not only has <u>ma’am </u>spread from the American South, it’s frequently misapplied to my phone voice. Back when I used to answer unknown callers—Does anyone do that anymore? Is it ever anything other than a recording in Chinese? (Is that an only-in-Canada phenomenon?)—the first “ma’am gave me permission to abruptly hang up, the old-school misgendering forgiving my rude response and freeing me of talking my way out of a newspaper subscription, more comprehensive insurance coverage or a donation to the Heart and Stroke Foundation. (Shame on me. I am heartless.) <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; font-size: large;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHVW1spGaksdYZOGNPm3xPMg6cgops4pVDReFTBxFLgYWD0bWn2cYjnEkv9IoHcMVBkRSjXjPd54VZciS3BMFOuYv1k1Qh1tqVnnAgy3rwYMcrCH4zmknfBkM-nD24hlkTkPWCLJRrt6FIsLGDRmSRepptG74ZOkpaX2O66IUShMpPCTpSqxwLHUHyNZM/s284/images-1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="177" data-original-width="284" height="177" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHVW1spGaksdYZOGNPm3xPMg6cgops4pVDReFTBxFLgYWD0bWn2cYjnEkv9IoHcMVBkRSjXjPd54VZciS3BMFOuYv1k1Qh1tqVnnAgy3rwYMcrCH4zmknfBkM-nD24hlkTkPWCLJRrt6FIsLGDRmSRepptG74ZOkpaX2O66IUShMpPCTpSqxwLHUHyNZM/s1600/images-1.jpeg" width="284" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Not even on my Top 10 of wish<br />list of celebrity séances.<br /> </i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">I know many would say I’m making a big deal over nothing. Sir can be a good thing. Just ask Sir Elton John, Sir Paul McCartney or Sir Winston Churchill (via séance, of course, in the last instance). Setting aside the reality that I have not achieved the sort of notoriety and/or wealth ostensibly worthy of being tapped on the shoulders by the blade of a sword, I shall never achieve nobility, ceremonial or otherwise. While I’m Canadian and, thus, part of the Commonwealth, knighthood has not been bestowed on my countrymen since 1935. (Really, what does my membership get me? Why can’t I quit it at the same time as Netflix, a two-fer that’d make my life no better, no worse?) <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I shall never be Sir Gregory. I’ve come to terms with that.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; font-size: large; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitzjgpKuAEmmcfNatiQojrPmbkM5G5LV7eZJtzlPX83p4bh_-e6bqG61YFNUtW4zABfA76LbW0EN7R0wKJlBLayWy3FSZqyQiOb2LxTe0B-Io5M-RxwBoCedwfOYjLPVpRMv-OVa3vtaL_b7WX0ginx-XZqV42qMWMAshv6rl_gT5MTvcsC64nZ5KSgzc/s225/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitzjgpKuAEmmcfNatiQojrPmbkM5G5LV7eZJtzlPX83p4bh_-e6bqG61YFNUtW4zABfA76LbW0EN7R0wKJlBLayWy3FSZqyQiOb2LxTe0B-Io5M-RxwBoCedwfOYjLPVpRMv-OVa3vtaL_b7WX0ginx-XZqV42qMWMAshv6rl_gT5MTvcsC64nZ5KSgzc/w320-h320/images.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Okay, the promo bit atop the<br />movie poster may be a tad dated.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">As a commoner, being addressed with a noble title offers no status aside from being of a certain age. I’m well aware of how old I am. I don’t flaunt it. I don’t go around trying to distinguish myself by addressing others in turn by referring to them as “young man” or “young lady.” Let’s leave age out of the mix. Ironic, I know, for someone whose blog is Aging Gayly. I’m also cognizant of the fact the title of this blog post dates me. (Haven’t heard of Lulu? The chart-topping song from 1967, “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0_UpW8V6B3c" target="_blank">To Sir with Love</a>”? The movie of the same name? Starring Sidney Poitier? All blanks? “Good grief,” a common expression from Charlie Brown, comes to mind. Who? Okay…moving on…) <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUHxf7wnDDZ5SbjwBP7Yn_eQw7yLQuzAGwmwkWC03qqfPPAr9DCq27lrXxRGwkjLXlva2b1OCIwjBlMqj_988ICTSVR4o33xeDli_NzCEC8gd1Ac_VkwBske9WxDMsvwJX7uGRt8XaeUObgg2RDmWsljdX3X5zcxEUMWfYbNfJTzg0EX49ysjMWSgzAmU/s311/images-3.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="162" data-original-width="311" height="162" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUHxf7wnDDZ5SbjwBP7Yn_eQw7yLQuzAGwmwkWC03qqfPPAr9DCq27lrXxRGwkjLXlva2b1OCIwjBlMqj_988ICTSVR4o33xeDli_NzCEC8gd1Ac_VkwBske9WxDMsvwJX7uGRt8XaeUObgg2RDmWsljdX3X5zcxEUMWfYbNfJTzg0EX49ysjMWSgzAmU/s1600/images-3.jpeg" width="311" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">I’m age-sensitive. I don’t seek to define myself in any way based on age. (Ask me later—<i>much</i> later, I’ll say—when I qualify for senior discounts. 10% of Metamucil on the first Wednesday of the month at Safeway? Score!)</span></span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">When I was seven or eighteen or twenty-five, I was well aware of my exact age. Sometimes I said it with pride, as if being eighteen meant something. Official adulthood! Bah. Being a Canadian in Texas, I couldn’t even vote. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I often have to pause to recall my current age. I’d like to believe it’s not on account of early-onset Alzheimer’s—at what age is it no longer <i>early</i>?—but due to the fact it’s not important. Years blur. Wasn’t I forty-two just yesterday? (Yes, I have a broad definition of <u>yesterday</u>.) <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; font-size: large;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7ZvVPVNCfvXiOHr7S__TgEMk8JuN3PftvOfqBeqcgqS7FbPZD-bWY4DABLmm2Nz3NVfuL6VaBrKnsnQgI1nApXbUNNFZcE__bRHXgSv3HllStfmfHpE16WfSEDqrnu3isE212bo-Tg31J7uXdSaAfCMYzYjx1Uj9Jr5QfYtAn0mt02WrIgtG5onf4y6M/s1310/75.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1310" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7ZvVPVNCfvXiOHr7S__TgEMk8JuN3PftvOfqBeqcgqS7FbPZD-bWY4DABLmm2Nz3NVfuL6VaBrKnsnQgI1nApXbUNNFZcE__bRHXgSv3HllStfmfHpE16WfSEDqrnu3isE212bo-Tg31J7uXdSaAfCMYzYjx1Uj9Jr5QfYtAn0mt02WrIgtG5onf4y6M/s320/75.jpeg" width="293" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>No makeup...and real<br />eye brows, too.<br /><br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">We seem to be riding another of those waves where people use their age as an excuse to post selfies. <i>Show us twenty-year-old you, and a pic of yourself at your present age! Or just a current shot with your age!</i>Someone might explain they’re proud of their age. They’re sharing the equivalent to a makeup-free photo of Jamie Lee Curtis or Pamela Anderson. Bold! Courageous! This old coot finds it a little needy among those of us who have no claim to fame. For one, it’s rarely a Saturday morning shot, pre-shower (unless it’s a gay guy looking for a new reason to share a shirtless pic, this time, suggestively, in bed). We don’t post ho-hum pics. We post selfies we think aren’t bad and maybe are, dare we say, pretty good. (Trick photography? God bless filters!) <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj65RqUdS93MsQ_14qwCxrsGYQNSZ3gS0y3EQ1lgtMpa30lh5YlIQIigaf-O6hH-siUsxp9-2VpjQRtGHlQIry5BuIGLNYPa7BYaZRIaoD-iRcpF0GMosW-DImHX5MgIakLxAelcBQnSsenQMH9oaRYKqkvi6OA5ku3C_Z_3xt2I1gJGK-GGG1pXGK9LEQ/s290/75728d737912bb799b4bfb346415863b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="210" data-original-width="290" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj65RqUdS93MsQ_14qwCxrsGYQNSZ3gS0y3EQ1lgtMpa30lh5YlIQIigaf-O6hH-siUsxp9-2VpjQRtGHlQIry5BuIGLNYPa7BYaZRIaoD-iRcpF0GMosW-DImHX5MgIakLxAelcBQnSsenQMH9oaRYKqkvi6OA5ku3C_Z_3xt2I1gJGK-GGG1pXGK9LEQ/s1600/75728d737912bb799b4bfb346415863b.jpg" width="290" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">In the past week, it’s been more of a Twitter guessing game. <i>Without saying your age, tell us the year you were born with a movie or a fad from that time.</i> Do people really respond by Googling <i>Gone with the Wind, Sixteen Candles </i>or <i>Frozen. </i>(Shut up! You were not born the year of <i>Frozen. </i>What are you even doing on Twitter? Why aren’t you outside, having a real life, climbing trees, falling off a bike or spying on Elijah Ford-Leung’s house, hoping he’ll log off Twitter too and step out so you can walk by and say, “Oh…hey. You live here? Cool.”) Call me cynical, a sourpuss or a grumpy old man, but these waves Tell Us Your Age smack of social media neediness, a trumped-up way to earn more likes along with comments such as, “Handsome!”, “You look so much younger!”, and the occasional true but wayward remark, “Wasn’t Michael Schoeffling hot?” (Sorry, I’m a little fixated on <i>Sixteen Candles </i>all of a sudden.)<o:p></o:p></span></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0ZHROIjp1fycfnySouokNKos2iT4BXkUJUlMsGAuDN5-7hCa491X4bukct6NR3xUcFHfJJr6zX2D-w5-KV0zchqj5psWtLNvOZK3j_GP9LNOpRvTdMMfaLM_Y0vZrjEdx-xGd1upSDR2tBH-utsS4ZUSQUGuayaIktlS-ZES_gFWij91H30nehZh6TfQ/s662/upw.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="324" data-original-width="662" height="157" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0ZHROIjp1fycfnySouokNKos2iT4BXkUJUlMsGAuDN5-7hCa491X4bukct6NR3xUcFHfJJr6zX2D-w5-KV0zchqj5psWtLNvOZK3j_GP9LNOpRvTdMMfaLM_Y0vZrjEdx-xGd1upSDR2tBH-utsS4ZUSQUGuayaIktlS-ZES_gFWij91H30nehZh6TfQ/s320/upw.PNG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>WHY?!</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br />It should come as no surprise I have never partaken in age selfies. I tell myself it’s not because I fear some troll saying, “Dude. You gotta be way older.” (Block!) I tweet with a healthy paranoia. Haven’t we all heard there are scammers who can access our banking accounts and other data, once knowing our age, our dog’s name and, if we’re gay, adding the number 69 somewhere in the password? (Seriously, when do guys stop finding that number to be so funny, suggestive or, I don’t know, automatically relevant to everything? Another diatribe…) Let’s leave age to government forms and required boxes for creating new online accounts where scrolling way, way down for my year of birth comes with a moment of panic—<i>Does it go back that far? </i>Damn box with a “required” asterisk! What does my date of birth have to do with ordering a pair of jeans anyway? <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Okay. I’m sounding old. Apropos, no? Dammit, you got me. I can’t stop you from thinking it but I can beg you not to say it. Call me Gregory. Call me nothing. Call me sir? No siree.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>Aging Gaylyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09886888900957765438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7857795538755708479.post-46464146187734619632024-01-31T17:07:00.000-08:002024-01-31T17:07:49.847-08:00BODIES ARE COOL (Book Review)<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: verdana; font-size: large; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4lGsnKmRb4nUt_xavBsG0bVlexO0WOmYL1ySeftwPrFea5i0sde9FQKN7dj-X7HeHu4ra5j1YUNPSbu32-xPRi45sgr1uQoQ_LoT0vC_B98bqKZiUxlOpBzuNh4vRRUO4MurKQh1NNFvhwWwxbJuZskrAxecC5mhV9pPzz8MBLwLyuSGyShaZiT_syto/s1094/thumbnail-28.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1094" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4lGsnKmRb4nUt_xavBsG0bVlexO0WOmYL1ySeftwPrFea5i0sde9FQKN7dj-X7HeHu4ra5j1YUNPSbu32-xPRi45sgr1uQoQ_LoT0vC_B98bqKZiUxlOpBzuNh4vRRUO4MurKQh1NNFvhwWwxbJuZskrAxecC5mhV9pPzz8MBLwLyuSGyShaZiT_syto/s320/thumbnail-28.jpeg" width="316" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">By Tyler Feder</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">(Dial Books for Young Readers, 2021)</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">I’m on book alert wherever I go. Libraries, bookstores and Free Little Libraries</span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;"> </span><i style="font-family: verdana;">(Love ’em!)</i><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">are obvious places to browse unknown titles and reconnect with things read, but I’m pleasantly distracted by book sightings in cafes, on planes, and when passing park benches where someone has decided to put the day on pause and dig into a biography, a romance, an essay collection or maybe that</span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;"> </span><i style="font-family: verdana;">Dragons Love Tacos </i><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">picture book yet again, no kids necessary. (It’s the literary way to celebrate Taco Tuesday.)</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6wBqvtb7n2d3SnaKbNE4OXqe4PgWsA4HJYKZH9Be1WHTnQTN4fCwc6kFON7Fy2NYBohR4CVNFjK0bHXugbsHW-LolYPyj_gCea6okVqGkG9jDHXvi9Gtxx25HvqfGubdWS6_Sqzurdd0giE-Egy6eo9bW_-AV1-FwuoUtLPWlUt692buZjl-YKGbNE9k/s2989/IMG_4763.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2989" data-original-width="2863" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6wBqvtb7n2d3SnaKbNE4OXqe4PgWsA4HJYKZH9Be1WHTnQTN4fCwc6kFON7Fy2NYBohR4CVNFjK0bHXugbsHW-LolYPyj_gCea6okVqGkG9jDHXvi9Gtxx25HvqfGubdWS6_Sqzurdd0giE-Egy6eo9bW_-AV1-FwuoUtLPWlUt692buZjl-YKGbNE9k/s320/IMG_4763.jpeg" width="307" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />I first spotted <i>Bodies Are Cool </i>in a curated collection at Kits Beach Coffee where they have several bookshelves stocked with their Equitable Literacy Library. It would drive the anti-woke crowd crazy. (Fine by me.) As they explain online:<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><i><span style="border: 1pt windowtext; color: #323232; letter-spacing: 0.7pt; padding: 0cm;">Our wide range of books and interactive selections examine the intersections between colonial-settler history, climate, justice, anti-racism, cultural awareness and gender that goes beyond the binary…We have books that encourage self-inquiry, healing, nurturing our eco-systems, essays and poems and a sensory section for children and adults.</span></i><i><span style="color: #323232; letter-spacing: 0.7pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I was focused on a writing project at the time so I only scanned titles during the time it took the barista to prepare my oat milk latte. I’d biked there and knew from the good vibes I’d be back. I could have a more serious browse next time. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie5C7bk67iP6mAyXq0e_DOwC7YDJzg3hvjJNgZjPv1FnskNssVsM9v0LGrh3QURYet4TfNO2caRa5BQTCWqqJ6vaSFAkMUHr2kEbe5npszFUdZh14XyAWKGhLzVYbzxxQLTSwsDvUbOgoMX5ZoFk0scNeHjgTov5i2rYlvrtEPh9rvTTqPsHq1dV_vg9M/s1080/thumbnail-19.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie5C7bk67iP6mAyXq0e_DOwC7YDJzg3hvjJNgZjPv1FnskNssVsM9v0LGrh3QURYet4TfNO2caRa5BQTCWqqJ6vaSFAkMUHr2kEbe5npszFUdZh14XyAWKGhLzVYbzxxQLTSwsDvUbOgoMX5ZoFk0scNeHjgTov5i2rYlvrtEPh9rvTTqPsHq1dV_vg9M/s320/thumbnail-19.jpeg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />A couple weeks later, I biked to a vegan bakery, To Live For. (This is where anti-woke folk click away, if they haven’t already done so, to get updates on the latest conspiracy theories and “alternative facts.” Have a nice day.) The place was packed midmorning on a Monday, the line extending outside. (A thriving vegan establishment! Made me smile.) While waiting for another oat milk latte, I spotted a tidy collection of children’s books, items to let parents and young children bond or, more likely, occupy the kiddos while mommies (and daddies) got a daily dose of adult conversation. Once again, <i>Bodies Are Cool </i>was part of the collection. I made a note of the title and eventually checked it out at the library. So glad I did!<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijkXG99hFbvSdHa-DuVoC_Z7Vt9QKvMEYgngChwxIFYX0mFq7IyW4-DbRo43p_fps5-cKVzmi9jdlK9_mSnC1EYB5MitUGeseqkD4YoXU0DJhhwIbpH2jKBsiTPB4TpAtDznNFKWD78Gxx8tTkiWgg-mJEOQqw13X-m58gbOZsxoziKhtGQ1n0lcAhlZ8/s1080/thumbnail-26.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1079" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijkXG99hFbvSdHa-DuVoC_Z7Vt9QKvMEYgngChwxIFYX0mFq7IyW4-DbRo43p_fps5-cKVzmi9jdlK9_mSnC1EYB5MitUGeseqkD4YoXU0DJhhwIbpH2jKBsiTPB4TpAtDznNFKWD78Gxx8tTkiWgg-mJEOQqw13X-m58gbOZsxoziKhtGQ1n0lcAhlZ8/s320/thumbnail-26.jpeg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />This book is both simple and brilliant. It’s what you’d think it would be, based on the title and the cover illustration which features bodies of different skin colors, sizes and markings, wearing swimsuits (or is it underwear?), floating on a soft pink background. Each double-page spread focuses on a particular aspect of bodies (eyes; body hair; tummy sizes) and expressly normalizes how diverse our bodies are. The text on each spread ends with, “Bodies are cool!” <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Sixteen times: “Bodies are cool!”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Hallelujah! <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Round bodies, muscled bodies,<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">curvy curves and straight bodies,<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">jiggly-wiggly fat bodies.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">bodies are cool!<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">(I got a little edgy over the reference to “fat bodies,” but that’s because I’ve grown up with <u>fat</u> weaponized, meant to ridicule and shame. That’s not what this book is about. The word is taken back, used matter-of-factly. I have to remind myself that <u>obese</u> has a medical definition, fact-based, instead of playground-pitched.) <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">There are seven images of people in various wheelchairs, a rarity in picture books that aren’t specifically about someone needing one. People are shown with canes, crutches and arm supports. A woman in a dance class has a prosthetic leg. People wear glasses, someone has an eyepatch, another walks with a seeing-eye dog (and a white cane). There’s so much more, including things I’ve likely missed in my first three reads. Blotchy skin, scars, hairy legs, bald heads, bandanas, hijabs, turbans, swim caps, helmets. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">The beauty of picture books is they can be read and viewed, quickly or lingered upon. Repeated readings allow for the focus to change. In a book like this, new images and attributes will be noticed each time. Questions get blurted.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">“Why is her stomach like that?” <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">“Eww. His skin!”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">“What’s wrong with that boy’s hair?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfxvtgnArSey_88BNdugRjJF0qFaBRBMUiENbiWe1SXFUU_inBZxnOHoMPvl5gokoAtylHgSIgaQhv8JE_bVwdxAJt5DGspQT3aRIPN-IUkcNHXBcaYsbjzJtVKbwrDTxEXSo_0ZrWXUvCaWiwoOE0B83rMtAEBKZz6zSD6x8CPvLlX5CTog3xjrHBagI/s1080/thumbnail-18.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="609" data-original-width="1080" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfxvtgnArSey_88BNdugRjJF0qFaBRBMUiENbiWe1SXFUU_inBZxnOHoMPvl5gokoAtylHgSIgaQhv8JE_bVwdxAJt5DGspQT3aRIPN-IUkcNHXBcaYsbjzJtVKbwrDTxEXSo_0ZrWXUvCaWiwoOE0B83rMtAEBKZz6zSD6x8CPvLlX5CTog3xjrHBagI/w400-h225/thumbnail-18.jpeg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />With a picture book, unfiltered comments create teachable moments. Kids will notice differences and ask questions that lack tact. But their questions can be answered by a trusted, non-judgmental adult instead of by a classmate with bullying tendencies.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">If only this book had been around when I was growing up.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I remember a familiar admonishment from my mother when we’d be at the mall or grocery store: “Don’t stare.” Children are naturally curious and they tend to look longer when seeing some aspect of a person they haven’t seen before. There is a natural curiosity. In those don’t-stare instances, there was never any follow-up discussion to what I might have crassly phrased as, “What’s wrong with that person?” No learning. Differences were not to be talked about. It only meant that, next time, I’d have the same inclination to look and then self-censor. Something was bad about me. I wasn’t supposed to see a difference. I certainly wasn’t supposed to wonder about it. Social propriety, a big thing in my upbringing, nixed social understanding. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Somewhere in Texas, in Keller Independent School District, maybe elsewhere, <a href="https://www.dallasobserver.com/news/list-of-texas-banned-books-shows-state-has-most-in-us-17480532" target="_blank">this book is banned</a>. Hard to know why. My best guess is the text saying, “This body, that body, his and her and their body. However <u>YOU</u> define your body! Bodies are cool!” An offending pronoun, an objection to defining your own body. Apparently, society must do that (as defined by God-fearing Texans). Let the harm go on. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I hope families regularly check out this book. I hope they ask librarians to order it. I hope they buy a copy for their home library.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTnBaPM07R2A_I8mEacGE2qlXwKM5wdb9UGY1hg1HacVTzP0JP2kF4VgStE4HrdK0VWkCujgpx6ln0qdB3XGkp7I1fqNabwPVZ3LfBsFFLjTfzTEBJdoK7f692yV9FA5OdGt-sN9Jw81T8ZTziLOpM-FzKmZcuV5OlU5TKeISGACHv50Ri1ZgjV-OAqRs/s1080/thumbnail-21.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="539" data-original-width="1080" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTnBaPM07R2A_I8mEacGE2qlXwKM5wdb9UGY1hg1HacVTzP0JP2kF4VgStE4HrdK0VWkCujgpx6ln0qdB3XGkp7I1fqNabwPVZ3LfBsFFLjTfzTEBJdoK7f692yV9FA5OdGt-sN9Jw81T8ZTziLOpM-FzKmZcuV5OlU5TKeISGACHv50Ri1ZgjV-OAqRs/w400-h200/thumbnail-21.jpeg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />With this book, children will learn as they are ready to, based on what they notice. They will connect the illustrations to what they see in the real world. They may still stare, but more likely as an a-ha/I Spy moment: <i>Bodies are cool!</i><o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">A book like this as a part of one’s childhood has the potential to reduce instances of low self-esteem and body image struggles as a child, during the awkward adolescent years and into adulthood when many people continue to size up bodies, when we continue to be inundated by images of Ryan Gosling’s abs, Ariana Grande’s petiteness, Julia Roberts’ hair and that dude in the latest Calvin Klein ads. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivnXnoyAOCCl5xUurryhh7WMPE7nPwgfICtfet0k9EQkxOZSelYXMUJdNVpngRju9T8SPbVBrNpsY5jKisunqhrPov0iGJJgPMVXF31Nj8ZAXxDjSlF-Y4raPb4KtKJ3l0RYFJNrp3Wrk9VNq6Y0uJ0IaZt6Iib5Bm9Hmk36oxGfLaeVexb4d6zfgWxY0/s630/nope.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="630" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivnXnoyAOCCl5xUurryhh7WMPE7nPwgfICtfet0k9EQkxOZSelYXMUJdNVpngRju9T8SPbVBrNpsY5jKisunqhrPov0iGJJgPMVXF31Nj8ZAXxDjSlF-Y4raPb4KtKJ3l0RYFJNrp3Wrk9VNq6Y0uJ0IaZt6Iib5Bm9Hmk36oxGfLaeVexb4d6zfgWxY0/s320/nope.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />I think of my own body issues, my eating disorder and the prevalence of body dysmorphia among gay men. Gay bars could be harsh, a hierarchy established immediately upon walking or sashaying in. Now, I suppose, with gay bars no longer an epicenter of gay culture, the dismissals aren’t so much to one’s face, but empty message boxes on dating apps leave users to speculate how many times their best pics were met with a rapid swipe left. If only we’d all grown up with this book<i>.<o:p></o:p></i></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Alas, not everyone will gain access to <i>Bodies Are Cool. </i>Not everyone will accept the message. There will always be forces that rank and revile. Still, this book can make a difference, both for the youngster to whom the book is read and the adult reading it and answering the questions that pop up. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><i><span lang="EN-US">Bodies Are Cool </span></i><span lang="EN-US">is very, very cool.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p>Aging Gaylyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09886888900957765438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7857795538755708479.post-70701122827302557892024-01-23T07:34:00.000-08:002024-01-23T07:34:25.899-08:00FROM LONG TO LONGER<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaY2YuhyDG91Q7moXj_XCh5Y3cGpd21_Iquppdx_YFU2eTIqylBvLmkNYOp_ha56fvvdVWm9S-wPW-Ersm85DFCHuAHMrPYwm6trfebYGyB724Xt7t9j0Mp5p9PLwwSJY7nII-wLcZ8VPXa3pNKbQ7OPisdCh2HNsqS917nFekm9lqiDt3tPTJKwL_lIk/s272/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="186" data-original-width="272" height="186" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaY2YuhyDG91Q7moXj_XCh5Y3cGpd21_Iquppdx_YFU2eTIqylBvLmkNYOp_ha56fvvdVWm9S-wPW-Ersm85DFCHuAHMrPYwm6trfebYGyB724Xt7t9j0Mp5p9PLwwSJY7nII-wLcZ8VPXa3pNKbQ7OPisdCh2HNsqS917nFekm9lqiDt3tPTJKwL_lIk/s1600/images.jpeg" width="272" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />Dan Fogelberg took the word <u><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vVKDm_n6Ako" target="_blank">longer</a></u> and made it romantic.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><i><span style="color: #202124;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Longer than there've been fishes in the ocean<br />Higher than any bird ever flew<br />Longer than there've been stars up in the heavens<br />I've been in love with you.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #202124;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #202124;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC0_TrilVw0sALbqeQHqGWGAwZ5_Zqd3xiLUq8YVPZeRqbFq99JQ-yRJRJpbptVdPqQNzqP5XCEU1ZWP_2uwc2fnHTylgebgwkWDAHNW6PViEcRzI-_WXmRLXNKaO7y2IxhjbrxBAeNiQQCBdvVbylux0ZEx35uyQfF8NEzOaBm5M4dVX0fRABGsw1Jn4/s266/images-1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="266" data-original-width="189" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC0_TrilVw0sALbqeQHqGWGAwZ5_Zqd3xiLUq8YVPZeRqbFq99JQ-yRJRJpbptVdPqQNzqP5XCEU1ZWP_2uwc2fnHTylgebgwkWDAHNW6PViEcRzI-_WXmRLXNKaO7y2IxhjbrxBAeNiQQCBdvVbylux0ZEx35uyQfF8NEzOaBm5M4dVX0fRABGsw1Jn4/s1600/images-1.jpeg" width="189" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />My long-distance relationship is about to be longer. No so romantic. From Vancouver to Seattle, the distance is 150 miles. A three-hour drive, with a tunnel that backs up, the border crossing and a final crawl until the Space Needle comes into view. In the nearly two years we’ve been seeing each other, I took a sea plane once, the train another time. Mix things up a bit. We sometimes met at in-between spots, each of us taking different ferries to Victoria, a cabin on Whidbey Island, a campsite, and Airbnb in farm country. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #202124;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #202124;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP4x_zaKbV394439zIcIuCdzoACZ5XPcfZjEEVcFWlPmglrgs_J-vChh5GwOii4funb-veNoiOpAqjU5lV2bAJ1CqlktjbPelP6EaBLoq4_GiDyMXYXRTMTqAK0aB5KtYwepARV65jL3ONLEYhHH0wRBm98IBgUpnLo5MM8hbNWF7oqdYRHZBOxNXGIDY/s1000/1-8-33.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP4x_zaKbV394439zIcIuCdzoACZ5XPcfZjEEVcFWlPmglrgs_J-vChh5GwOii4funb-veNoiOpAqjU5lV2bAJ1CqlktjbPelP6EaBLoq4_GiDyMXYXRTMTqAK0aB5KtYwepARV65jL3ONLEYhHH0wRBm98IBgUpnLo5MM8hbNWF7oqdYRHZBOxNXGIDY/s320/1-8-33.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />But so long, Seattle. Evan got a terrific job opportunity he couldn’t turn down. (We talked about it for weeks and neither of us wavered from our gut response: “Do it!”) This morning the movers came and loaded up his things. We have two more days in a Seattle apartment, entirely empty but for three suitcases and an air mattress. I’m writing this while sipping a Caffe Vita oat latte in a vibrant open space adjoining KEXP radio studio as the station’s eclectic playlist pipes through the speakers and I gaze at the Space Needle, a short walk away. In this city I love, these are a few of my favorite things. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #202124;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #202124;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAVUjZDBgATm3BlqTuXeeHcds3ecuZ0n4jN1Ay75iBBQofR69bKyNR-ql4Ke0rVLauIotLJ_ews5m3yMyQd3kL3-B_0tyLssKqsm_1HrGJdMoYD6r6Pek43W_Iwd6_j_KUMFP_D53dh30KMDuWKzI_wgNY0uXX9wP75rLzeOOs4TxR7cJyBpqb1Y3TdbE/s600/co-denver-greetings-c1950.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="380" data-original-width="600" height="203" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAVUjZDBgATm3BlqTuXeeHcds3ecuZ0n4jN1Ay75iBBQofR69bKyNR-ql4Ke0rVLauIotLJ_ews5m3yMyQd3kL3-B_0tyLssKqsm_1HrGJdMoYD6r6Pek43W_Iwd6_j_KUMFP_D53dh30KMDuWKzI_wgNY0uXX9wP75rLzeOOs4TxR7cJyBpqb1Y3TdbE/s320/co-denver-greetings-c1950.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />The job is in Denver and, no, it’s not one of those work remotely deals. While known as the Mile-High City, it’s almost ten times the distance compared to Seattle: 1,440 miles away. Three days’ drive instead of three hours. (The days of driving seventeen hours straight and sleeping in autobody parking lots ended three decades ago.) <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #202124;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #202124;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghwh-Qi352A4ZAlr9T7j-YITZdE9pDAF4itUo9GxOp9pdlkiR-DfFaYBmPiI8dXaEYegyeKADPP6CiaA7DxmIqsikGS-fAEN01Qu70ySCBhN4y1sw9HTl7oaTYDQCeeI3wz3_8u4yI7rxXcPiuV8fIka-C7J18Bk0PgPV4lmr8mU0sxMslP5KLlbpcc0Y/s225/Unknown.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="224" data-original-width="225" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghwh-Qi352A4ZAlr9T7j-YITZdE9pDAF4itUo9GxOp9pdlkiR-DfFaYBmPiI8dXaEYegyeKADPP6CiaA7DxmIqsikGS-fAEN01Qu70ySCBhN4y1sw9HTl7oaTYDQCeeI3wz3_8u4yI7rxXcPiuV8fIka-C7J18Bk0PgPV4lmr8mU0sxMslP5KLlbpcc0Y/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" width="225" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />If one of us had moved to Sydney or Singapore, I’m sure we’d have accepted the change of circumstance, committing to make it work. But that kind of physical separation lends itself to clearer guideposts. Four visits per year perhaps. Two for him, two for me. <i>See you next season. </i>Romantic. Cue Dan Fogelberg.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><i><span style="color: #202124;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I'll bring fire in the winters<br />You'll send showers in the springs<br />We'll fly through the falls and summers<br />With love on our wings.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Does the fact the song’s lyrics are accompanied by a harp and flugelhorn make them more compelling or less real?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSzTACLYlfFI2qHQiWpnHDcR_CoYHV9fgvnGkdkAjJKxAQZ-kD_LygVrBN6FtwgN6UArTYdicHpKVFkizWVfucT-fcxoWxMmNKEy2FzzKUyXOMVhKtt1330JqUHTxj4lZAW1Mz8s0nC6veyja6fcNYRxWer5_LFPVXxdjSTArVifIv7xyEx5kNNF-xU8Y/s261/Unknown-3.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="261" data-original-width="193" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSzTACLYlfFI2qHQiWpnHDcR_CoYHV9fgvnGkdkAjJKxAQZ-kD_LygVrBN6FtwgN6UArTYdicHpKVFkizWVfucT-fcxoWxMmNKEy2FzzKUyXOMVhKtt1330JqUHTxj4lZAW1Mz8s0nC6veyja6fcNYRxWer5_LFPVXxdjSTArVifIv7xyEx5kNNF-xU8Y/s1600/Unknown-3.jpeg" width="193" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />The Vancouver-Denver distance is middling and thus a tad muddled. We won’t be seeing each other three weekends in four, but once a season sounds too sparse. Visits will be negotiated more in terms of frequency and length. For the most part, we’ve alternated between Vancouver and Seattle. For the future though, I’ll be collecting more frequent flyer miles. I can write anywhere. With a nod to Dr. Seuss: In a plane, on the train, on a boat, across a moat. On a box, in striped socks, beside a fox that’s wearing polka-Crocs. Oh, the places I’ll write! Here, there and everywhere. And now Denver.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhztNJPrKQ-eXuQC-Epmk4EUu0e8dkhrOdle2vNrhPNO_UKGg6c69MrBV80M4s57_E9kbducD6cB5HlckKB70aOwqMsfGGBE4dIEBKHbGo8ISvopFkeUJJoMvJ3z0-XERsJas_avjCMxh93-JEBwGmFxrzQvfTs6A3QgIXCd0MtpwyiTIJYIfMRK_esVFU/s640/757746ac00b78fdf63b84f0f3cc62c1a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="428" data-original-width="640" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhztNJPrKQ-eXuQC-Epmk4EUu0e8dkhrOdle2vNrhPNO_UKGg6c69MrBV80M4s57_E9kbducD6cB5HlckKB70aOwqMsfGGBE4dIEBKHbGo8ISvopFkeUJJoMvJ3z0-XERsJas_avjCMxh93-JEBwGmFxrzQvfTs6A3QgIXCd0MtpwyiTIJYIfMRK_esVFU/s320/757746ac00b78fdf63b84f0f3cc62c1a.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />Relationships have to adapt. Denver I shall adopt. The move is a return for Evan. He lived there two decades ago. His parents and other relatives are near, as are friends from high school and university. Lots of pluses, but he will miss the Pacific Northwest. I’m not the only one who thinks Seattle is awesome, a place of trolls, a monorail that goes practically nowhere, free bananas for those who venture to the heart of Amazonland and a destination wall to add your chewed up wad of Hubba Bubba Sour Blue Raspberry bubblegum before taking and posting a selfie NO ONE wanted to see. The city can’t match the Keep Portland Weird vibe, but it tries (especially in Fremont). No doubt, his return, while offering the chance to rekindle connections, is laced with confusion. Is going back going backward? <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I have connections to the city as well. My sister now lives less than an hour away, my niece and her new baby are in one of the suburbs and a university friend is a prof at the University of Denver. After three decades in my corner of Canada, I’m not sure how close any of those relationships are. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil_W6Qp77OdTS2hqqc4Uw3bNpUfLnuWPGHQ7xyYlcC9Hau3r2qCUApGnOXKPBgRtWg3GMEeOOqJkr7u7xXZgfh4K21BlPi2vgPNZ4b43XFH1pSej-8Ol4PEydui08phyphenhyphenvZ2hOPmo48DPTM9VIizd48VaA8FSI7HoBdByC9RrVP0sZMkX8ArocSjz8dW5o/s1500/spearmint-gum1.jpg.webp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1125" data-original-width="1500" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil_W6Qp77OdTS2hqqc4Uw3bNpUfLnuWPGHQ7xyYlcC9Hau3r2qCUApGnOXKPBgRtWg3GMEeOOqJkr7u7xXZgfh4K21BlPi2vgPNZ4b43XFH1pSej-8Ol4PEydui08phyphenhyphenvZ2hOPmo48DPTM9VIizd48VaA8FSI7HoBdByC9RrVP0sZMkX8ArocSjz8dW5o/s320/spearmint-gum1.jpg.webp" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />As for Evan and me as a couple, we’ll be closer to his family cabin (half an hour out of the city), his Airstream in Taos, New Mexico and plenty of new hiking adventures, one of our core common interests. I’ve already pitched a road trip to Moab, Utah and Antelope Canyon in Arizona. My Instagram will have better pics than some wall coated with saliva and spearmint. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvffImKaxwrl3UCczx6ypDiJmSaBxPwk70Wt_56U1HPps8RhPnbUlmKYxkBqWZT_HYJKsJsXXXyFFAZLM8-MmA9qGuxso2xna51d66V8bxatRVETriReTKTIF58UEQ86zmwPFlnnWbljFJfytX_k9gD-Cb5FwqQ63mNT9ewPmmw8ea1ra12u01TYTGfhE/s251/Unknown-4.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="251" data-original-width="201" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvffImKaxwrl3UCczx6ypDiJmSaBxPwk70Wt_56U1HPps8RhPnbUlmKYxkBqWZT_HYJKsJsXXXyFFAZLM8-MmA9qGuxso2xna51d66V8bxatRVETriReTKTIF58UEQ86zmwPFlnnWbljFJfytX_k9gD-Cb5FwqQ63mNT9ewPmmw8ea1ra12u01TYTGfhE/s1600/Unknown-4.jpeg" width="201" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />I’ll find whatever quirk Denver has on offer. Already, I’m wanting to eat at Casa Bonita, a kitschy Mexican restaurant with cliff divers and newly renovated by the creators of <i>South Park </i>(for realz). Another Insta post! Plus there will be dozens of new cafés to try out as writing locales. We’ll find new bike routes, too. We’ll make new memories.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Of course, as rosy as I try to spin things, there are plenty of unknowns. What if? What about? When will? How long? I prefer questions with answers. For all others, I’m just going to bat them away. Plug my ears. La-la-la. <i>Sorry. Can’t hear you!</i><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">We’ll figure it out. (Fingers crossed.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Longer in distance, but hopefully closer in the ways that truly count.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p>Aging Gaylyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09886888900957765438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7857795538755708479.post-74888385547497160942024-01-17T12:27:00.000-08:002024-01-17T13:03:04.018-08:00GHOST-BUSTING<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSjAM070U-4fUTSs0q0VApkjSEjKNs_Nqk7eWQIMHIbOEMDlKZFIqBrDBQO6FAhxpBkubkOubwT2_CWgZyAnyxTj_UmUtwLfKmoVak6Rx3zHrvPqKUShH7uPKGejsmxc9jOE047IKq_KpsfJLN5i-xKMAJL2b_0BWw6GGczXic47UWDXW5TkmwlJ3q_Hs/s800/5iRAaqxia.webp" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="800" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSjAM070U-4fUTSs0q0VApkjSEjKNs_Nqk7eWQIMHIbOEMDlKZFIqBrDBQO6FAhxpBkubkOubwT2_CWgZyAnyxTj_UmUtwLfKmoVak6Rx3zHrvPqKUShH7uPKGejsmxc9jOE047IKq_KpsfJLN5i-xKMAJL2b_0BWw6GGczXic47UWDXW5TkmwlJ3q_Hs/s320/5iRAaqxia.webp" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />Casper was a friendly ghost, wasn’t he? I’ve never thought of ghosts as spooky or mean or much of anything really. But, right now, I’m feeling like I’m gonna call Ghostbusters. Not on my behalf but for all the earnestly hopeful single folks, wishing for a date, a connection and maybe something more. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">God knows, I lingered in the dating pool long enough to feel my already fragile self-esteem elbowed, kicked and otherwise roughed up.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">“You’re nice but…no.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">“Not into redheads.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">“No fireworks.” (It was coffee. At three in the afternoon.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTelnO4Bav1EXTV09TveaevdUc01eSS2XrvElguwfjxW9tsqEf8xxKuzMb35g4JxLd3WkDRsfMMClbrp0WsLbrCNC9Do7NXhiBhSk-he1CBhwzLfFc7ZBw1Z0bEfYHT8igmPoq6yCXYAY7uAIeAxbgFm3lxzJHwDPtu_-qiOn26q2wxGX_4Zs8creD2f0/s291/Unknown.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="173" data-original-width="291" height="173" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTelnO4Bav1EXTV09TveaevdUc01eSS2XrvElguwfjxW9tsqEf8xxKuzMb35g4JxLd3WkDRsfMMClbrp0WsLbrCNC9Do7NXhiBhSk-he1CBhwzLfFc7ZBw1Z0bEfYHT8igmPoq6yCXYAY7uAIeAxbgFm3lxzJHwDPtu_-qiOn26q2wxGX_4Zs8creD2f0/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" width="291" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />My mother, and presumably everyone’s mother, instilled in me from a young age, <i>If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all. </i>I’d like to think that, with an obvious exception for siblings at least through the teen years, I’ve done a good job of sticking to that maxim. But I’m going to add another exception: dating apps.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Whoa, now. Hear me out. I’m not advocating for people to get ugly, to lash out and to coddle their own declining self-esteem by spouting some cheap digs against another dude that dared to woo. Here is where I’d offer some freebie slams about hygiene, ripped jeans and people named Gene. (Surely he’s got a middle name.<a href="applewebdata://47CCBF49-725E-4BBB-8A46-6EF22F3DE6D0#_ftn1" name="_ftnref1" style="color: #954f72;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span lang="EN-US">[1]</span></span></span></a>) But, nope. Not going to aid and abet. I still ascribe to the general rule of saying nothing In lieu of meanness.<a href="applewebdata://47CCBF49-725E-4BBB-8A46-6EF22F3DE6D0#_ftn2" name="_ftnref2" style="color: #954f72;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span lang="EN-US">[2]</span></span></span></a><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">In this world where everything is boiled down to black and white, especially on social media—Swiftie or hater; guns or none; manscaper or bear—I continue to believe in gray/grey<a href="applewebdata://47CCBF49-725E-4BBB-8A46-6EF22F3DE6D0#_ftn3" name="_ftnref3" style="color: #954f72;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span lang="EN-US">[3]</span></span></span></a> zones. I don’t think it’s necessary to engage in all dating app prompts. I suppose it’s okay not to respond to someone who sends the first message. Sure, you created a profile and you might even pay to be on the app, but we all know that there are impossibly good looking bots with sculpted abs<a href="applewebdata://47CCBF49-725E-4BBB-8A46-6EF22F3DE6D0#_ftn4" name="_ftnref4" style="color: #954f72;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span lang="EN-US">[4]</span></span></span></a> and people from foreign countries looking to jump the immigration queue by lurking on dating sites. A quick delete is permitted. Bots and wannabe citizens will message on, undaunted. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb-3zfdrZ_JYYjiFPqtIVWpEFro6TRtcEGoqDKZ60R616vGgTj1qOCnWid20mWx03odgY5et40W2INSutmu5wuqL5itls_-XcT6N7bDW0Oya1k9GdAmF-WrQDZN1OTE4cs69DHoUcOiYfW1xok9t9kVPDLTlbn3wktyUxUHLGyQjgPML2LC9-NzW6PHb0/s1024/abstract-contact-icon-symbol-in-front-of-background-picture-id1300469481-1.jpg.webp" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="519" data-original-width="1024" height="162" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb-3zfdrZ_JYYjiFPqtIVWpEFro6TRtcEGoqDKZ60R616vGgTj1qOCnWid20mWx03odgY5et40W2INSutmu5wuqL5itls_-XcT6N7bDW0Oya1k9GdAmF-WrQDZN1OTE4cs69DHoUcOiYfW1xok9t9kVPDLTlbn3wktyUxUHLGyQjgPML2LC9-NzW6PHb0/s320/abstract-contact-icon-symbol-in-front-of-background-picture-id1300469481-1.jpg.webp" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />There are other unsolicited messages that may arrive as well. I remember glancing a new message, clicking on the person’s profile and feeling horrible. Dammit, this person put himself out there and messaged me, of all people. For whatever reason or, more likely, reasons, I know this is not a match. </span><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjthiZTkcto_ezWYggy7yrNkHN5WfXzXDLI9SYfIJ40nSGZvwIs1ex0dxc8F6b2uVjJ9Sz7XV9LoyqnGbT_FfpFszLP4wQwMfgHxBUlPBbeuze7fimpcvV2bP6IlENGe_04vciJQQh6iFUqYNcWmOj5fkZa7EO070jUDZV4pC5yzKkQYRenw1TZmu6mfPs/s225/images-3.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjthiZTkcto_ezWYggy7yrNkHN5WfXzXDLI9SYfIJ40nSGZvwIs1ex0dxc8F6b2uVjJ9Sz7XV9LoyqnGbT_FfpFszLP4wQwMfgHxBUlPBbeuze7fimpcvV2bP6IlENGe_04vciJQQh6iFUqYNcWmOj5fkZa7EO070jUDZV4pC5yzKkQYRenw1TZmu6mfPs/s1600/images-3.jpeg" width="225" /></a></div><br />I’m never going to click with someone who calls himself PokemonJoe. Nor with someone who has tufts of hair sprouting from his ears in his profile photo. And every other photo. (Not making that one up. His profile name referred to himself as a faun. Some things from years on dating sites are especially memorable.) Initially, I replied to most of these messages. <i>Hey. Thanks for the message. I looked over your profile and I don’t see a match, but all the best to you. </i>I stopped when people shot back another message, needing the last word. Sometimes the f-word was tossed in, but it certainly had nothing to do with sex. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">So, yeah. You’re not a terrible person if you delete a message that you’d never specifically asked for. Maybe it’s the entrenched introvert in me, but no one has to be forced into a conversation, online or, heaven forbid, in person.<a href="applewebdata://47CCBF49-725E-4BBB-8A46-6EF22F3DE6D0#_ftn5" name="_ftnref5" style="color: #954f72;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span lang="EN-US">[5]</span></span></span></a> <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I take issue, however, with disappearing acts that occur after you start a conversation or respond to a message. Ghosting is the easy out, but it’s rude. On Grindr or some other app that’s primarily about hooking up, ghosting may be common. Exchanges are transactional. Maybe there’s an urge and then it’s gone. Urge met in some other way, I presume. On sites that purport to be about actual dating, however, manners matter.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">A couple of Evan’s closest friends are single and looking for one thing or another. One is perfectly content to Grind away. Lots of stories, short, never even a novella. His choice. The other friend is not averse to Grindr opportunities but also has an account on OkCupid, the dating site where Evan and I met. Last week, as we talked, he mentioned some early messaging with one guy but then said, “He unmatched me.” I’d heard him use the same phrase the week before.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4Z52oofDTDNr_9qw-ppwE_0Bml5WTl71Swd7XontK0K0MaDJ-bRDln3a23voyXns3Cunsz2K57EK8aC7adQPR3CY27PRvfjc3AGfDg7RPQX6k1_EvHCplJq8OhKc5_WkmegYpKJ55BuHwrSAtM4sLKvSoLADcN-D6hI_4XUMfMlPJXEJzVO7bFTCnAoA/s266/images-2.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="190" data-original-width="266" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4Z52oofDTDNr_9qw-ppwE_0Bml5WTl71Swd7XontK0K0MaDJ-bRDln3a23voyXns3Cunsz2K57EK8aC7adQPR3CY27PRvfjc3AGfDg7RPQX6k1_EvHCplJq8OhKc5_WkmegYpKJ55BuHwrSAtM4sLKvSoLADcN-D6hI_4XUMfMlPJXEJzVO7bFTCnAoA/s1600/images-2.png" width="266" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />Huh? From what I recall of that site, people are matched based on answers to questions they answer. Basic things like, “Do you smoke?”, “Do you like dogs?” and “Do you vote regularly?” There are other more specific (random?) questions with multiple choice answers: “Could you date a messy person?”, “Is it okay to lie?” and “If you were offered a slot to live the rest of your life on Mars, what would you do?” (Would someone decline to have coffee with a person because they might hypothetically move to another planet?) The dating site computes your match percentage. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJJwkuY9QGsmIvfZC7a3Zbdyar24CYNqR7bUZv0RD913ymZlOtDeZsn1ia_jm2tKox5j_M5BdJTF-ke-qJ_3YUTg4D7a3sYmb2MJICOxyWHXVfYXulqIEq-uvg1G3Isw7LT9mxIghrdPFjCXw6hEA-DC8D-b0JF-CPWrKBt-Z0yR_AemS3U8o6uWK1FH0/s300/Unknown-3.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJJwkuY9QGsmIvfZC7a3Zbdyar24CYNqR7bUZv0RD913ymZlOtDeZsn1ia_jm2tKox5j_M5BdJTF-ke-qJ_3YUTg4D7a3sYmb2MJICOxyWHXVfYXulqIEq-uvg1G3Isw7LT9mxIghrdPFjCXw6hEA-DC8D-b0JF-CPWrKBt-Z0yR_AemS3U8o6uWK1FH0/s1600/Unknown-3.jpeg" width="300" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />How does someone then un-match? I’m gathering that unmatching is a new option for app users, disabling someone’s ability to message that person again. It seems harsh. It feels like an out for someone who doesn’t want to put on his big boy pants. I hated that the titular wizard in <i>The Wizard of Oz </i>hid behind a curtain and I don’t like the thought of someone ducking out of an ongoing conversation by hiding behind a button.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">You start (or engage in) a conversation, you see it through. You may be communicating virtually, but you’re not a ghost. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Your mamma presumably taught you more nuanced etiquette beyond <i>If you can’t say anything nice</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Sometimes you still have to say something. An exchange of messages, whether one or several, is a conversation. Do people ghost IRL while in the same physical space? The thought has occurred to me a couple of times. I could say I was going to the bathroom and just leave, through the window or, heck, through the main entrance. What’s the guy going to do? Chase me down? <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">“Hey, you forgot something: our conversation.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Yeah, that would be awkward. Ballsy by him. It almost warrants a high five.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">It's never come to that because I’ve never done the dash. I’ve sat through the conversation, politely sipping from my already empty coffee cup, nodding my head as it searches for a way to wrap things up. I’m polite to a fault. I’ve remained in a seat that should never have gone warm, but I’ve told myself that, if nothing else, there’s a story in every experience. Maybe something to tell a friend next time we grab a pizza, maybe something to blog, maybe an anecdote to keep to myself until it fades from memory. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy7wlf90Zsg_H9o9yL6ah8kUUtZ5CQ_C2rxJrfilQPkTQj-IQVCqWapCalDWmahTeUI1bYMij7sdZEuomi0SZ7K43B9Po9dBJYKYesx8xfEDDQ5Qdh1xtlgGF4YxpbHC9m_L0x6EvDF_y8T5PAqHksYXIq1jMUORbKc3gUqOnskAaNwKr4thnmnkIMrss/s239/Unknown.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="211" data-original-width="239" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy7wlf90Zsg_H9o9yL6ah8kUUtZ5CQ_C2rxJrfilQPkTQj-IQVCqWapCalDWmahTeUI1bYMij7sdZEuomi0SZ7K43B9Po9dBJYKYesx8xfEDDQ5Qdh1xtlgGF4YxpbHC9m_L0x6EvDF_y8T5PAqHksYXIq1jMUORbKc3gUqOnskAaNwKr4thnmnkIMrss/s1600/Unknown.png" width="239" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />That’s right. Take the slow fade over the quick disappearance. Either that or announce your exit. That goes for real life and it goes for online dating apps you willingly joined. Ghosting should never have become a common term. And, just because it’s out there, doesn’t mean it’s a dignified option. There are all sorts of other common terms—assault, spitting, alternative facts—that one should never adopt. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgBzfiajzEqN_IUSiKaYB43_GBisiEpBUQr4AocEDkXEPD6LcxRkJanmrbm-dhpQPBlgPDVHJhBjZcZS7FzfVVrOgxHsApwbM8gDkWUOwgchPPQP9dDd3_RFYmpvKSThyphenhyphenLQe6XXn9gw5-RmttHTSHTql4u0FgqV0o8ftwZSgBjPssIttCElhOMvpxhi7M/s225/images.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgBzfiajzEqN_IUSiKaYB43_GBisiEpBUQr4AocEDkXEPD6LcxRkJanmrbm-dhpQPBlgPDVHJhBjZcZS7FzfVVrOgxHsApwbM8gDkWUOwgchPPQP9dDd3_RFYmpvKSThyphenhyphenLQe6XXn9gw5-RmttHTSHTql4u0FgqV0o8ftwZSgBjPssIttCElhOMvpxhi7M/s1600/images.jpeg" width="225" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />I’m sure some online-savvy folks think I’m out of touch.<a href="applewebdata://47CCBF49-725E-4BBB-8A46-6EF22F3DE6D0#_ftn6" name="_ftnref6" style="color: #954f72;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span lang="EN-US">[6]</span></span></span></a> <i>Etiquette is so 20<sup>th</sup> century, if not 19<sup>th</sup>.</i> Let Emily Post, Miss Manners and me step aside a moment as I refer to a January 7, 2024 <i>New York Times</i> article entitled “Here’s How to Declutter Your Dating Life.” Under the subheading BEWARE OF GHOSTING, Nick Fager, a licensed mental health counselor, notes that ghosting may be necessary if something dishonest or dangerous arises in messaging but otherwise believes that “closing the circle, when you are able to, can be restorative for both of you…The lack of closure can be emotionally exhausting on all sides.” <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Think of when you’ve exchanged a few messages and then awaited the next reply only to never hear anything again. For a while, there’s still an anticipation, another quick log-in to check messages. Alas, none. What happened? Hit by a bus? Kidnapped? Had to act quickly to get that standby ticket to Mars? No. Another frickin’ Casper.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsxZOE2N2U8jeX6sHqVL9ZuYEAG4-96jQ5GYX9kqH1v6Q97ZcF3fN8RmYEOe6WQs63EuteLeVvDCP5IUAfY2Oc3r9CqQiYWLBVIKVNLqHbpmGRwh-g-axzTPX82N2eaG3UURRBsyJYWsZS0QTas7OpplEkoqE8yRXsI54k2N7GLUB9Fx6agZTdbgyD4vg/s300/images-1.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsxZOE2N2U8jeX6sHqVL9ZuYEAG4-96jQ5GYX9kqH1v6Q97ZcF3fN8RmYEOe6WQs63EuteLeVvDCP5IUAfY2Oc3r9CqQiYWLBVIKVNLqHbpmGRwh-g-axzTPX82N2eaG3UURRBsyJYWsZS0QTas7OpplEkoqE8yRXsI54k2N7GLUB9Fx6agZTdbgyD4vg/s1600/images-1.jpeg" width="300" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />I know what the comeback is. You do the right thing and let someone down, respectfully saying you’re not sensing a connection or vaguely saying you don’t think this is moving forward (Fager suggests saying, “This doesn’t feel like a match” or just “Goodbye”). Then, the person messages some vitriolic reply, throwing insults at you and saying the equivalent to “You can’t fire me; I quit.” That’s possible but, in my experience it was rare. (Two times, I think.) That’s on them. You did the right thing. You can only control what you do and say. And, sure, that’s when you can go ahead and block, un-match or ghost Mr. Vitriol. Chances are he already did that immediately after sending the tirade. By then it doesn’t matter. Just be glad it never got to grabbing a coffee.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Please, take the high road. Save the ghosting for Halloween haunted houses. With the right person, maybe met online, that could be a fun date.</span><span face="Calibri, sans-serif"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><div><br clear="all" /><hr align="left" size="1" width="33%" /><div id="ftn1"><p class="MsoFootnoteText" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; margin: 0cm;"><a href="applewebdata://47CCBF49-725E-4BBB-8A46-6EF22F3DE6D0#_ftnref1" name="_ftn1" style="color: #954f72;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">[1]</span></span></span></a> <span lang="EN-US">No offense, Genes of the world. It’s a fine name. Keep it. Use it. I was just trying to work in a triple “gene” thread in an attempt to be funny. It fell flat, didn’t it? That’s karma for me bashing guys named Gene.<o:p></o:p></span></p></div><div id="ftn2"><p class="MsoFootnoteText" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; margin: 0cm;"><a href="applewebdata://47CCBF49-725E-4BBB-8A46-6EF22F3DE6D0#_ftnref2" name="_ftn2" style="color: #954f72;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">[2]</span></span></span></a> <span lang="EN-US">I assume Trump had a mom. She must be rolling in her grave.<o:p></o:p></span></p></div><div id="ftn3"><p class="MsoFootnoteText" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; margin: 0cm;"><a href="applewebdata://47CCBF49-725E-4BBB-8A46-6EF22F3DE6D0#_ftnref3" name="_ftn3" style="color: #954f72;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">[3]</span></span></span></a> <span lang="EN-US">I know either spelling is acceptable yet I continue to feel that picking one over the other will offend 40-60% of readers. Cue Alanis Morissette—Isn’t it ironic that people see things in black or white, even with the spelling of the color/colour that falls in between?<o:p></o:p></span></p></div><div id="ftn4"><p class="MsoFootnoteText" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; margin: 0cm;"><a href="applewebdata://47CCBF49-725E-4BBB-8A46-6EF22F3DE6D0#_ftnref4" name="_ftn4" style="color: #954f72;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">[4]</span></span></span></a> <span lang="EN-US">That was a bot that messaged me in 2016, wasn’t it? People like Matt Bomer and Ryan Gosling don’t exist in real life and certainly don’t pine for guys like me. That’s not low self-esteem chiming in; that’s just having a solid sense of self.<o:p></o:p></span></p></div><div id="ftn5"><p class="MsoFootnoteText" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; margin: 0cm;"><a href="applewebdata://47CCBF49-725E-4BBB-8A46-6EF22F3DE6D0#_ftnref5" name="_ftn5" style="color: #954f72;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">[5]</span></span></span></a> <span lang="EN-US">I’m 90% certain they created <a href="https://www.iemoji.com/view/emoji/894/smileys-people/grimacing-face" style="color: #954f72;">grimacing face emoji</a> just for me. <o:p></o:p></span></p></div><div id="ftn6"><p class="MsoFootnoteText" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; margin: 0cm;"><a href="applewebdata://47CCBF49-725E-4BBB-8A46-6EF22F3DE6D0#_ftnref6" name="_ftn6" style="color: #954f72;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">[6]</span></span></span></a> <span lang="EN-US">Case in point: my use of <u>folks</u>. I revised the sentence once already to replace <u>fuddy-duddy</u> with a reference to me being out of touch, but I didn’t want to give any false impression that I was hip.<o:p></o:p></span></p></div></div><p><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="font-size: 10pt;"> </span> </p></div>Aging Gaylyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09886888900957765438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7857795538755708479.post-28096052586936317442024-01-09T14:36:00.000-08:002024-01-09T14:36:17.295-08:00MY ROM-COM RENAISSAINCE<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span style="background: white; color: #1d2228;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLAFNalmo7JeuR3mEIhk3NvaZg8Qgl8akkFcF8OCxi44QjJeOdijjAAGtdSrL3yPFyChTw59fZW_avhb3qperUD7M4YBwQXFzIS0L8alU2SWTU57Yl9rwfHJPctaEX6krcuJ9mBgWYBbAzmCh2uDCQxTIafV4idIkqLLrXauyuxgz4avrpdfG3LuclpCw/s315/Unknown-4.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="160" data-original-width="315" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLAFNalmo7JeuR3mEIhk3NvaZg8Qgl8akkFcF8OCxi44QjJeOdijjAAGtdSrL3yPFyChTw59fZW_avhb3qperUD7M4YBwQXFzIS0L8alU2SWTU57Yl9rwfHJPctaEX6krcuJ9mBgWYBbAzmCh2uDCQxTIafV4idIkqLLrXauyuxgz4avrpdfG3LuclpCw/s1600/Unknown-4.jpeg" width="315" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />Back in the 90s, I adored, romantic, comedy movies. They filled me with hope. They reminded me that, despite what I saw in the gay community, love was possible and, yes, it was worth waiting for. It could still be an aspiration.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><span style="color: #1d2228;"><br style="outline: currentcolor !important;" /><br style="outline: currentcolor !important;" /><span style="background: white;">Even when the movie was a cookie cutter copycat of a Julia Roberts or Meg Ryan movie, even if the knock off still starred Julia Roberts or Meg Ryan, I still left the movie theatre with a broad smile on my face. These movies were sweet confections that went down so easily.</span><br style="outline: currentcolor !important;" /><br style="outline: currentcolor !important;" /><span style="background: white;">Until they didn’t.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><br style="outline: currentcolor !important;" /><br style="outline: currentcolor !important;" /><span style="background: white;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhAjGvPuhgCBOHTexvTOyKIywry0FswxZCHC9AnEeqKiZ-FFewGnOW3kS49mbElRrqvrwIaquyL3FjsR6_uvSvftlkMqXDJCM2yYRiK4cpMkrdB3cqnYlN_bklDNnqwE4CnSK6ogsUw7Oa5-x_fvgpQGQWF4srTj89IjZwpaylNF1HXCfe5UN_FuIWhYY/s259/images-16.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="259" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhAjGvPuhgCBOHTexvTOyKIywry0FswxZCHC9AnEeqKiZ-FFewGnOW3kS49mbElRrqvrwIaquyL3FjsR6_uvSvftlkMqXDJCM2yYRiK4cpMkrdB3cqnYlN_bklDNnqwE4CnSK6ogsUw7Oa5-x_fvgpQGQWF4srTj89IjZwpaylNF1HXCfe5UN_FuIWhYY/s1600/images-16.jpeg" width="259" /></a></div><br />My disillusionment with the romantic comedy came at a time when the fairytale relationship I found lapsed into a nightmare. Darkness replaced light and I felt trapped.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><br style="outline: currentcolor !important;" /><br style="outline: currentcolor !important;" /><span style="background: white;">On the rare occasion when I would allow myself to watch a rom-com, I no longer smiled. I felt bitter. These movies had set me up with false hope. Life was more complicated, much harsher.</span><br style="outline: currentcolor !important;" /><br style="outline: currentcolor !important;" /><span style="background: white;">I became a cynical viewer. I poked holes in the light plots, like an armchair quarterback yelling at the screen as his beloved Cowboys were intercepted, fumbled and got all-out whooped.</span><br style="outline: currentcolor !important;" /><br style="outline: currentcolor !important;" /><span style="background: white;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGDxg-sUK9RRQdnKhKXZATEXveo7SdgPdDnM7kSpQWdhhgKiBRJG3ct3bLAdNg2bfeh8RImnTikSUckOQKcaDg-RfzYO_iK60pg2VRgWuiOgveZttWfZeJnd0e2Rr_2xu3F_mrqnbR7jahq0BNGvWMmE2KeAMjHd6MEUe7x9sBUEtHX2PTSITMMBB-x1A/s273/Unknown-8.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="185" data-original-width="273" height="185" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGDxg-sUK9RRQdnKhKXZATEXveo7SdgPdDnM7kSpQWdhhgKiBRJG3ct3bLAdNg2bfeh8RImnTikSUckOQKcaDg-RfzYO_iK60pg2VRgWuiOgveZttWfZeJnd0e2Rr_2xu3F_mrqnbR7jahq0BNGvWMmE2KeAMjHd6MEUe7x9sBUEtHX2PTSITMMBB-x1A/s1600/Unknown-8.jpeg" width="273" /></a></div><br />“Yeah, right.“<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><br style="outline: currentcolor !important;" /><br style="outline: currentcolor !important;" /><span style="background: white;">“Get real.”<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><br style="outline: currentcolor !important;" /><br style="outline: currentcolor !important;" /><span style="background: white;">“Not buying your bullshit.“<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><br style="outline: currentcolor !important;" /><br style="outline: currentcolor !important;" /><span style="background: white;">The sticking points that threatened to undo what looked like a blossoming, cinematic relationship were too easily resolved. Happy endings seemed contrived.</span><br style="outline: currentcolor !important;" /><br style="outline: currentcolor !important;" /><span style="background: white;">My conclusions were not unreasonable. The expectation upon watching a rom-com had always been that reason and reality were tinkered with, any nods to them played out lightly and loosely. I could no longer suspend disbelief for a ninety-minute sugar rush. Deep in survival mode, I anything light or loose taunted and mocked me. Any attempts at escapism were futile.</span><br style="outline: currentcolor !important;" /><br style="outline: currentcolor !important;" /><span style="background: white;">Almost two decades after getting out of my abusive relationship, I still couldn’t bring myself to return to rom-coms to give them another chance.<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span></span><br style="outline: currentcolor !important;" /><br style="outline: currentcolor !important;" /><span style="background: white;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGvMnfV9Ipl05ql2QlRNcVE4d9Yznbq-lin180MWc7NyUvCKms7tpsPwQy7D4R_wFwbMAyX5obpKkBA1qTqZbAVHTfzC38vNn_HKiXCmPLhqSsS5nTI8Y4EMpmy0OOSB6VY0z6BIukmAFgwpxjdlpmvVemuF8IY4vXXNuoMP2OwzDLVWBNGFHiyLAt9Z4/s300/images-17.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGvMnfV9Ipl05ql2QlRNcVE4d9Yznbq-lin180MWc7NyUvCKms7tpsPwQy7D4R_wFwbMAyX5obpKkBA1qTqZbAVHTfzC38vNn_HKiXCmPLhqSsS5nTI8Y4EMpmy0OOSB6VY0z6BIukmAFgwpxjdlpmvVemuF8IY4vXXNuoMP2OwzDLVWBNGFHiyLAt9Z4/s1600/images-17.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><br />I tried another option. I read a few romance novels. Usually, this experience did not go well. I could not find enjoyment. Too much fantasy. Too little reality. Worse, I could never buy into the complications that arose in the plot. A romance novel, by its very structure, requires a happy ending. I could not muster up any suspense. Every obstacle would be overcome, no matter how insurmountable the author had set it up to be. I would dutifully read through until the end, always being in a state of disbelief, despite never buying into any aspect of the story.</span><br style="outline: currentcolor !important;" /><br style="outline: currentcolor !important;" /><span style="background: white;">And then, for reasons that still astound me, I began to consider writing my own romance two years ago. I’d write a little, then walk away from it. Let it breathe, I told myself. But I knew there was more reason for my avoidance. Who was I to write romance? I wasn’t a believer in fairy tales. Not anymore. I’d fallen in love a few times but never with a happily ever after. How dare I give a reader their own sense of false hope? <o:p></o:p></span></span></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #1d2228;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br /><span style="background: white;">Still, during my breaks from that writing project, I would pick up the occasional romance novel, giving the genre another try. I attempted to let down my guard. Let it just be a nice story. Often, I found myself wanting to give the book a radical edit. <i>If I just tear out these fifty pages of “complications,” I can get to the ending. Let us all be happy. <o:p></o:p></i></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><i><span style="background: white; color: #1d2228;"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: white; color: #1d2228;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Relax. I did not deface or destroy any part of any book. I just sighed a lot. Loudly. And not in that Meg Ryan <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J_lEs4FYkhs" target="_blank">diner scene</a> kind of way from <i>When Harry Met Sally. </i>My neighbor seemed to tolerate my reading behavior. The police never showed up to investigate a noise disturbance. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: white; color: #1d2228;"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span style="background: white; color: #1d2228;">Maybe I’d never be able to embrace rom-coms again or binge-read romance novels on a dateless weekend. I could break up, once and for all, and move on. "Sorry, genre. It's not you; it's me." </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span style="background: white; color: #1d2228;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span style="background: white; color: #1d2228;">Let somebody else enjoy them while being in a period of feeling hopeful and aspirational about love and relationships, as I once was.</span><span style="color: #1d2228;"><br style="outline: currentcolor !important;" /><br style="outline: currentcolor !important;" /><span style="background: white;"></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje1fQsdiMf9YjUwmrVwt3T4OAyEy29TyY0xh5vYFHRtq2unuGJF5yBe_FnbD_M57Mr3KVtXzCHbADn4Vic7zgod3ln8hUONKLYNmiQAQtZFCSK6QjP91Fh2ADDaP43q_i4GZkLzKSr-JSXrr44VB0Tnc8g0EuOLg1O1Vj4C5GdXwWaqyt8bXxKFVOeX9A/s324/images-18.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="155" data-original-width="324" height="153" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje1fQsdiMf9YjUwmrVwt3T4OAyEy29TyY0xh5vYFHRtq2unuGJF5yBe_FnbD_M57Mr3KVtXzCHbADn4Vic7zgod3ln8hUONKLYNmiQAQtZFCSK6QjP91Fh2ADDaP43q_i4GZkLzKSr-JSXrr44VB0Tnc8g0EuOLg1O1Vj4C5GdXwWaqyt8bXxKFVOeX9A/s320/images-18.jpeg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />In time, even I could see my resistance was overblown. I’d fallen in love two more times since the Very Bad Relationship and the second one is still going. (This is when I hear RuPaul in my head, dropping a certain <i>Drag Race </i>meme.) If I could believe in love again in my actual life, why couldn’t see it again in fictional representations?<br style="outline: currentcolor !important;" /><br style="outline: currentcolor !important;" /><span style="background: white;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTcAlwPMszctzyDdadcslnRUGlV3ER4vwzpnW83WNPmZ8tDwuz6xNg2Q8tca4aZctQ1Jw8MR_HcTW00njeoqZxar3gxsBVfCMXbkQDiNabmOy9cDABPEsi3gKSq_Oq5-Qp8HwHO72typGncVb28JiT4OV9u7S6Y1Nar3BevNCmtNRb7A-xnEWJY2dW8g0/s225/images-19.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTcAlwPMszctzyDdadcslnRUGlV3ER4vwzpnW83WNPmZ8tDwuz6xNg2Q8tca4aZctQ1Jw8MR_HcTW00njeoqZxar3gxsBVfCMXbkQDiNabmOy9cDABPEsi3gKSq_Oq5-Qp8HwHO72typGncVb28JiT4OV9u7S6Y1Nar3BevNCmtNRb7A-xnEWJY2dW8g0/s1600/images-19.jpeg" width="225" /></a></div><br />A few months ago, I took a big risk. I pulled Meg Ryan out of the vault. I pitched to my boyfriend, Evan, that we watch <i>Sleepless in Seattle</i>. It was research I told both him and myself. The romance project I had been working on, off and on, was set in Seattle. One of the things that I’ve been wanting to do in the manuscript is to pay homage to that movie, bringing back some of the more memorable settings in the city, and having the events in my own novel play out in a more tragicomic rather than meet-cute manner.</span><br style="outline: currentcolor !important;" /><br style="outline: currentcolor !important;" /><span style="background: white;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1Y7Z7qHoA5SNsd-gjszTt77lcOVMHrolZ-sMwCYw8KWVXVUH6K3lQtdbRTeEl1TmwFY1hqeTKnmUOrZ56pzHEtogiMhvhM1vfL1uC63RufOyFogWcnowhOoCIKv5DwF9p-RtCOg1DjLBbSRiaaoShQtFG_OnS0OdsBY9p7qkt3W1C39q9-1km9hGw9aQ/s318/images-20.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="159" data-original-width="318" height="159" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1Y7Z7qHoA5SNsd-gjszTt77lcOVMHrolZ-sMwCYw8KWVXVUH6K3lQtdbRTeEl1TmwFY1hqeTKnmUOrZ56pzHEtogiMhvhM1vfL1uC63RufOyFogWcnowhOoCIKv5DwF9p-RtCOg1DjLBbSRiaaoShQtFG_OnS0OdsBY9p7qkt3W1C39q9-1km9hGw9aQ/s1600/images-20.jpeg" width="318" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Um...is there such a category?</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br />Evan is neither a reader of romance books nor a viewer of rom-com movies. A Netflix night for us does not involve much chillin’. It takes extensive negotiation. He suggests zombies and cowboys or the wrong Ryan—not Meg, not even Mr. Reynolds or Mr. Gosling, but Mr. Murphy, whose work <a href="https://ruralgayguy.blogspot.com/2022/04/murphys-flaw.html" target="_blank">long ago lost its G/glee</a>. The way I conned/coerced him into watching <i>Sleepless in Seattle</i> was that, since he had much more experience living in Seattle, he could identify the public settings more accurately than I. Being the wholehearted supporter of my writing that he is, he sat down and watched with me. A true trooper. His first viewing, my umpteenth.</span><br /><br style="outline: currentcolor !important;" /><span style="background: white;">He’ll deny it, but he liked it. And so did I! <o:p></o:p></span></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: white; color: #1d2228;"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: white; color: #1d2228;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii9e9Pdv_D56W4bvOuv4MtrMJWEs6dQJBLNkb0Hr_Bc2oh-XsuSxffESlYkIehU1s1mfL6FgsC7TbjI0KGlsJbbLHpD2T7iiyyIlhmHT8N8qXvkoFFLRKLtiFqtSr-8qrqPDLp1nZ9eiLCcJzg_wmo8J5KP8XEVzsr_qHWmrxrXdahUs9Xio2puqLIZB4/s311/Unknown-11.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="162" data-original-width="311" height="162" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii9e9Pdv_D56W4bvOuv4MtrMJWEs6dQJBLNkb0Hr_Bc2oh-XsuSxffESlYkIehU1s1mfL6FgsC7TbjI0KGlsJbbLHpD2T7iiyyIlhmHT8N8qXvkoFFLRKLtiFqtSr-8qrqPDLp1nZ9eiLCcJzg_wmo8J5KP8XEVzsr_qHWmrxrXdahUs9Xio2puqLIZB4/s1600/Unknown-11.jpeg" width="311" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />Oh, Meg, how I’ve missed you. And you, too, writing goddess, Nora Ephron! I didn’t spend my time pointing out the many absurdities in the plot or projecting shame onto Meg’s Annie who was tracking down—even stalking—Tom Hanks’s Sam while engaged to Walter (Bill Pullman), an affable, stable, nerdy man whose biggest “flaw” is he has allergies. I bought into all of Annie’s sparkly hope, I loved Rosie O’Donnell’s nudging as her bestie, I rooted for Sam as he got “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3Fd8-MX9ASs" target="_blank">Back in the Saddle Again</a>” (yes, the song played), giving dating another go, and I cheered as Sam’s young son, Jonah, pimped Pops to Annie. There is no wooing between Sam and Annie. They never go on a date. They don’t have a bad breakup, only to get back together again. Nope. They just end up at the top of the Empire State Building on Valentine’s Day so we know they will live happily ever after. A cute old-timey <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=flvGmVgwkWk" target="_blank">Jimmy Durante song</a> playing over the credits cements our feel-good vibes. Ahh, love!<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: white; color: #1d2228;"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: white; color: #1d2228;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">A couple of weeks ago, Evan suggested we finish a nice day with Netflix. I tensed for the typical back-and-forth bidding, his <i>Scarface </i>versus my <i>Rustin</i>, his <i>Riverdale </i>versus my <i><a href="https://ruralgayguy.blogspot.com/2022/01/maid-for-me-netflix-tv-series-review.html" target="_blank">Maid</a>. </i>“You pick,” he said. “I don’t care.” Huh? Battle-weary even before the first round.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: white; color: #1d2228;"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: white; color: #1d2228;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I called his bluff. “How about <i>You’ve Got Mail</i>?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: white; color: #1d2228;"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: white; color: #1d2228;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1Ln63TrQUWKQRAeUQqWl8MRytFQFYzZYmtqBmQh-puhLdAYXwMDQIeWewlRmnAyqEfmISBQ2YHRJKeMILpUyOfuXi8lr_-TExSnWZTktwx_bo43nzZox-2_FD5h_Bg2NHBMvP6w-IxMXkWIWaJ4JtOdtlF79-7QysXZFRf4lBFBJmkKLAPUTZE1FPXEg/s275/Unknown-15.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="275" data-original-width="183" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1Ln63TrQUWKQRAeUQqWl8MRytFQFYzZYmtqBmQh-puhLdAYXwMDQIeWewlRmnAyqEfmISBQ2YHRJKeMILpUyOfuXi8lr_-TExSnWZTktwx_bo43nzZox-2_FD5h_Bg2NHBMvP6w-IxMXkWIWaJ4JtOdtlF79-7QysXZFRf4lBFBJmkKLAPUTZE1FPXEg/s1600/Unknown-15.jpeg" width="183" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />To be honest, I’d never loved this movie, even when I lapped up rom-coms. [SPOILER ALERTS.] Maybe I never saw the reason to make some bigtime business tycoon likable. Maybe I couldn’t handle seeing a charming little children’s bookstore close. Opening such a store had long been a dream of mine. How could a happily ever after not include the store’s survival? Goliath wins…where’s the feel-good in that? But, watching with Evan, I felt it best to suppress any objections. He’d let me pick, after all. I didn’t need to feed him with examples of the movie’s weaknesses. I needed to block any possibility of zombies being part of our next movie night. So I watched less critically.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: white; color: #1d2228;"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: white; color: #1d2228;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8KDXVCT2_lNZErQX-8bNZEOIlaQ_9b1nDAja9vdf4zVoA-MgEXwpdQdFZw08t5VIbKtBW35tqN5cW1wyEAsvdXebr1nmNq5XSjLBmaheaMgW9EbbzDtaKZ_Cdxil61gROAjf-s73dcORX51jPUGCA3HTYkZNwJzSpF14Sin0aPRCCNbzVNB8Q3Q9GTzw/s318/images-22.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="159" data-original-width="318" height="159" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8KDXVCT2_lNZErQX-8bNZEOIlaQ_9b1nDAja9vdf4zVoA-MgEXwpdQdFZw08t5VIbKtBW35tqN5cW1wyEAsvdXebr1nmNq5XSjLBmaheaMgW9EbbzDtaKZ_Cdxil61gROAjf-s73dcORX51jPUGCA3HTYkZNwJzSpF14Sin0aPRCCNbzVNB8Q3Q9GTzw/s1600/images-22.jpeg" width="318" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />Gosh golly, I really enjoyed it. Meg can do anything! She’s an actress with all sorts of cutesy tics that make her adorable and make her perfect for rom-com roles. There’s a skip in her step (even when she’s standing in place) that exudes positivity. She’s got what Mary Richards had on <i>The Mary Tyler Moore Show. </i><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z6WtXwhWqZw" target="_blank">In the pilot episode</a>, Mary’s future boss, Lou Grant, interviews her. “You’ve got spunk,” he says. Then, after a beat: “I hate spunk.” (Click on the link. The interview is wonderfully written.) In all Meg Ryan’s rom-coms, she believes in love and sees goodness in the world. She adds just enough tiny frowns to make the sweetness go down smoothly without resulting in a sugar coma. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: white; color: #1d2228;"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: white; color: #1d2228;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Evan liked the movie, too. Toward the end, his eyes may have even watered up. No doubt, a reaction to something in my stuffy condo. An allergy perhaps, but nothing on the level of Walter’s sensitivities in <i>Sleepless. </i>A keeper, that Evan. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: white; color: #1d2228;"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: white; color: #1d2228;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCQmW2M1NWkoIuQuPYQXUuKDiGLwSI5D68EEErndQ5n4Mv8t4sA038kH3Y6Du1xEele0UqGTKbMI7djZPbGyzpd45ixlvXeNqVsK0iety5NoUaC6R5ZEatYFLViZEJ61EQvvo2RGhBT5-60RSY9zkTICQb9tg2obwTeo1SHf9X9k_53jPqmw2tKkG_4C8/s415/images-11.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="121" data-original-width="415" height="93" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCQmW2M1NWkoIuQuPYQXUuKDiGLwSI5D68EEErndQ5n4Mv8t4sA038kH3Y6Du1xEele0UqGTKbMI7djZPbGyzpd45ixlvXeNqVsK0iety5NoUaC6R5ZEatYFLViZEJ61EQvvo2RGhBT5-60RSY9zkTICQb9tg2obwTeo1SHf9X9k_53jPqmw2tKkG_4C8/s320/images-11.jpeg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />It seems that watching two rom-coms with a guy I love has allowed me to love the genre again. I can stop resisting on behalf of all the jilted. I can hope for happy endings again. Maybe I can enjoy a romance novel without the urge to rip out huge chunks. Maybe I can gain momentum with my own manuscript. Maybe I can just let love be—on the screen, on the page and in real life. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: white; color: #1d2228;"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: white; color: #1d2228;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: white; color: #1d2228;"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="background: white; color: #1d2228;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></span><span style="background: white; color: #1d2228; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>Aging Gaylyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09886888900957765438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7857795538755708479.post-74748853190428232872024-01-03T14:07:00.000-08:002024-01-03T14:07:16.065-08:00READ GAY BOOKS...PLEASE!<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; font-family: verdana; font-size: large;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW1RBU_R4H-oSVt3seP_tkEguJsLovON8js9B-jfaro3wsuy5o24eDWJmK06PGba_1SZ3fLLbpqT17GtMLdLRnMbvHfD620Pz1A3PFLAZQ_xBS4kVqEA4YLA0KEI9BH864x8lSTG_XWGd2xGpfsnqf45VNFEb73D_01gnKzEcO_tt6XY5-aKYboJzqeBY/s225/Unknown-19.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW1RBU_R4H-oSVt3seP_tkEguJsLovON8js9B-jfaro3wsuy5o24eDWJmK06PGba_1SZ3fLLbpqT17GtMLdLRnMbvHfD620Pz1A3PFLAZQ_xBS4kVqEA4YLA0KEI9BH864x8lSTG_XWGd2xGpfsnqf45VNFEb73D_01gnKzEcO_tt6XY5-aKYboJzqeBY/s1600/Unknown-19.jpeg" width="225" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Support gay bookstores, too.<br />This one is in London.<br /><br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Do gay men read books? One of my closest friends reads about two a week, but that’s one extreme. Another friend of mine hasn’t read a book since law school, three decades ago. He’s fond of saying, “I only read if it’s a menu.” That’s another extreme. According to Goodreads, I read thirty-two books in 2023, amounting to eight thousand pages. Not bad for a guy who has always been a slow reader. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I have piles of books in my home and a steady number of titles on hold at the local library, their due dates and limited renewals creating artificial priorities in what gets read. Still, I’m pleased to have a well-established reading habit. While I can stretch Sunday’s<i> New York Times </i>over the course of a week and I read countless articles daily online, I love sticking with a book, seeing how a story or a single nonfiction topic plays out over a few hundred pages. A book offers me many hours of entertainment that I pace myself through over a week or sometimes more than a month. (Reflecting an apparent onset of adult ADHD, I can have up to five books on the go at a time.) I savor some reads, reading in smaller bites to extend the joy, while others demand to be devoured in bigger gulps. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUL-7aZM315MW32z6CYSFlOYYh7lU1kG1-I_c9wpoZ_vQXIcOZ8ns9QO_c6QR_dlPjoq_O6h9GzkxTDr9ahM9oT-qqYRqu3Q1TEryB2r_7Jq8BFJy1_ioY7SSZ3jY7Yyry_nuHMVAdEjMw08MINDL5CeCysUnLtzEVsoc4L9EWAInRKeqLN_t2mA4t-t4/s245/Unknown-8.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="206" data-original-width="245" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUL-7aZM315MW32z6CYSFlOYYh7lU1kG1-I_c9wpoZ_vQXIcOZ8ns9QO_c6QR_dlPjoq_O6h9GzkxTDr9ahM9oT-qqYRqu3Q1TEryB2r_7Jq8BFJy1_ioY7SSZ3jY7Yyry_nuHMVAdEjMw08MINDL5CeCysUnLtzEVsoc4L9EWAInRKeqLN_t2mA4t-t4/s1600/Unknown-8.jpeg" width="245" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />Admittedly, there are also some books that I struggle to maintain a commitment to finishing and a few I decide to abandon, reminding myself that time is precious and there is no need to stick with books that become irritating, pretentious and/or plain boring. A huge shout-out to Daniel Pennac’s <i>The Rights of the Reader </i>for getting real about reading! While Pennac’s first stated tenet is “the right not to read,” I’m hoping that 2024 is a year when more gay men commit to reading more books and, specifically, LGBTQ books.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; font-size: large;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRKCnZxR3o7MRsc4lCILIugTO5z-O-e5zAr7jhwgc33CTgjMtvNAre9z51R2TbKSwnvVO5hSNOYDW1bn89EUXxTL16REFBB9K8mtltFYHkIDLly_YMrJxftryrVz2azpzI0Q3HS11z6sUVYzieF1KOFMPPq6DHYGSsoTjE3xX084evYNztRlC18IvW-kA/s259/Unknown-21.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="259" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRKCnZxR3o7MRsc4lCILIugTO5z-O-e5zAr7jhwgc33CTgjMtvNAre9z51R2TbKSwnvVO5hSNOYDW1bn89EUXxTL16REFBB9K8mtltFYHkIDLly_YMrJxftryrVz2azpzI0Q3HS11z6sUVYzieF1KOFMPPq6DHYGSsoTjE3xX084evYNztRlC18IvW-kA/s1600/Unknown-21.jpeg" width="259" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>A favourite gay read <br />from recent years. </i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">To be even more specific: Please read gay books.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Do I sound like I’m begging? I am.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">On Twitter, I follow a lot of gay men. A few of them post regularly about books they read, but so many more identify as “gaymers” in their profile and I get a sense they pass much of their free time playing video games and jumping aboard the bandwagon to stream “Fellow Travelers” or whatever movie/series/special is generating buzz at the moment. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; font-size: large;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCLyQxDnUQHzaz0TKuK20q-JFGTPOJQtuZszPsiopVh5ve2ZuRUKWLEyJcsz0VdM2p5Gd4F2eN-kNk0nOHKNQv6agpNGeekD_5W3gsEmGpjMlzrSxTtv_Eecdfk6PKqie80Wr9gkjEBhFxcMHcMO4ftIdMoqaUQFZGrfqyLfGnTvQg03k3yKgd8h76tRU/s225/Unknown-22.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCLyQxDnUQHzaz0TKuK20q-JFGTPOJQtuZszPsiopVh5ve2ZuRUKWLEyJcsz0VdM2p5Gd4F2eN-kNk0nOHKNQv6agpNGeekD_5W3gsEmGpjMlzrSxTtv_Eecdfk6PKqie80Wr9gkjEBhFxcMHcMO4ftIdMoqaUQFZGrfqyLfGnTvQg03k3yKgd8h76tRU/s1600/Unknown-22.jpeg" width="225" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>One of the gay books I<br />read this past year.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">To each his own but, selfishly speaking, I really need gay men to be readers. I need them to read gay books and have a few good things to say about them, maybe even posting something positive, possibly creating a buzzy bookish blip on social media. (I just did a quick check of the latest tweets for common hashtags #booktwt and #BookTwitter and nothing in the LGBTQ realm popped up.) <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhECtZEIdxym8ON06Y8tw61PhBWLgrxfBNHIhYVmOYznIShp8e0yuqtwETZrOSd0Upya4EXXF-DiJ1yFtmkBdp5uUavjAylBrCc9XyxL0LEM4xfrpgo0CxppvfPkPWieYCs65egQSQ-uCtjAX_q6-KidTM3LHyhle8U2sBNJrmltll8T8xEhcc248JY83I/s480/giphy.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="358" data-original-width="480" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhECtZEIdxym8ON06Y8tw61PhBWLgrxfBNHIhYVmOYznIShp8e0yuqtwETZrOSd0Upya4EXXF-DiJ1yFtmkBdp5uUavjAylBrCc9XyxL0LEM4xfrpgo0CxppvfPkPWieYCs65egQSQ-uCtjAX_q6-KidTM3LHyhle8U2sBNJrmltll8T8xEhcc248JY83I/s320/giphy.gif" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />I am a gay writer. I write about various things—<a href="https://www.nextavenue.org/i-dream-of-ice-cream/" target="_blank">ice cream</a>, <a href="https://sprudge.com/the-sprudge-guide-to-coffee-in-whistler-british-columbia-223540.html" target="_blank">coffee</a>, <a href="https://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/first-person-male-eating-disorder-1.6192852#:~:text=Faced%20with%20zero%20control%20over,to%20an%20eating%20disorder%20program." target="_blank">mental health</a>, even fly swatters once—but often I focus on something related to <a href="https://glreview.org/the-price-of-queer-belonging/" target="_blank">being gay</a>. I journal occasionally as it can help me stop obsessing over a darker thought, but mostly I write with the hope someone else will read my work. If someone likes my writing and even comments on it, well, imagine me standing with my shoulders back, my head held high as I tell Dana Carvey’s Church Lady, “Yes. Isn’t that special!” We all need a little affirmation and writing is a solitary endeavor, the sole visitor so often being a voice in one’s head that constantly casts doubt: <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">What are you doing this for? It’s just drivel. <o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Why don’t you ever add zombies? <o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; font-size: large;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCWZfGu-Y5VRayn8LuN1N_maLwOZKeShprTi5NdlGBIWAAiR6XEVv_pP7SLuUcX17W2SqI_GXMIWPJalV1UUGoNcYZ2qu2z4idY40pxA3qUc3PIKru6-Aq7m0F9IaExix5JRdf2pUBPPYo68PP1jrTONKz6iCmYgzzKB0oUuThb-H-MLcwGLoiCYzRfZo/s225/images-17.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCWZfGu-Y5VRayn8LuN1N_maLwOZKeShprTi5NdlGBIWAAiR6XEVv_pP7SLuUcX17W2SqI_GXMIWPJalV1UUGoNcYZ2qu2z4idY40pxA3qUc3PIKru6-Aq7m0F9IaExix5JRdf2pUBPPYo68PP1jrTONKz6iCmYgzzKB0oUuThb-H-MLcwGLoiCYzRfZo/s1600/images-17.jpeg" width="225" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>An oldie but a goodie</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">I’ll say it again: Read gay books. Say something nice about them when possible and, if you can’t, then follow your mama’s advice, not saying anything at all.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">If gay men don’t read gay books, publishers don’t have an incentive to put out gay books. They may genuinely love incoming gay manuscripts, but they are running a business. They love money more. Or, at the very least, they need it. Printing books costs money. Shipping books costs money. Same with paying for editors, cover designers, warehouse storage, office heat and lighting, ice cream and coffee. Plus all the other necessities of life.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQLb6upG9VTIh3L-J-nbiqiwVWozQE8ds4ifT-3y-o7itMeaUgrj83Qn-c2aL52249eDiPBSDrpOlGknhFZjqc6Br1Y6AwQT44UItjBdV78mpphHIt1NHigUntIASuMmHHmPYB9atygc-U1eghDLGWVgm06DKUSxRXud-P9qHDbGtaopEVnuU9wFilmU8/s981/d033c3231e621de4c5353cfe1e7bcc9b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="981" data-original-width="736" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQLb6upG9VTIh3L-J-nbiqiwVWozQE8ds4ifT-3y-o7itMeaUgrj83Qn-c2aL52249eDiPBSDrpOlGknhFZjqc6Br1Y6AwQT44UItjBdV78mpphHIt1NHigUntIASuMmHHmPYB9atygc-U1eghDLGWVgm06DKUSxRXud-P9qHDbGtaopEVnuU9wFilmU8/s320/d033c3231e621de4c5353cfe1e7bcc9b.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />If people aren’t buying or checking out gay books, if they aren’t talking about them on social media, if they aren’t leaving positive reviews and ratings on Goodreads, fewer gay books are released. The reason there are thousands of <i>Chicken Soup for the Soul </i>books is because people read them (or, at least, buy them). The same for sassy takes on kids’ books, like <i>Go the F**k to Sleep. </i>James Patterson, Colleen Hoover, Stephen King and now Britney Spears could get a publishing deal to print their grocery lists or their annotated log of bathroom behaviors because they’ve proven that people will buy their work. It’s a better bet for a publisher to put out <i>Patterson Poops </i>or <i>Scatting with Britney </i>than to print an amusing take on a suddenly single middle-aged gay character written by some unknown gay dude (me!) who has a blog that no one comments on. (Oh, how I’d welcome the occasion comment!)<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; font-size: large;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLd5R8te23LZobv6A77YZ4_Pn5vzA4yE8zBj8GqFu8eCIeNR9RAV4ZgFe9WI8atDhp0hrOtfc7cDxXsAwA9NQ-rrHrvqoGuDiKoLeAJCi-YDfXKh9FsgYD-TvmK4LJ61cbzL4WDqlfTLYr7uEcRRPzpvup5zoj8cQaB-rIqDK3eenKo7LUJwevdNAW0Dk/s246/Unknown-26.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="246" data-original-width="205" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLd5R8te23LZobv6A77YZ4_Pn5vzA4yE8zBj8GqFu8eCIeNR9RAV4ZgFe9WI8atDhp0hrOtfc7cDxXsAwA9NQ-rrHrvqoGuDiKoLeAJCi-YDfXKh9FsgYD-TvmK4LJ61cbzL4WDqlfTLYr7uEcRRPzpvup5zoj8cQaB-rIqDK3eenKo7LUJwevdNAW0Dk/s1600/Unknown-26.jpeg" width="205" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>A gay young adult<br />book I read last year.<br /><br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">It's feeling like more of an uphill battle to get gay fiction published these days. Enthusiasm for #LoveIsLove faded once the Supreme Court guaranteed marriage equality in 2015. Foolish as it may be, there’s a complacency about gay rights and no deeper yearning to read about gay lives. Trans rights are the current battleground along with spats over gender pronouns. Stories by and about trans or nonbinary characters are hot. Gay plots? Not so much.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Last year, I received a very discouraging email from a nonbinary, non-white literary agent after submitting the first fifty pages of my still unpublished novel. They stated that “nothing is throwing me off [by your writing] aside from the VERY obvious which is that white men aren’t usually the best fit for my list.” They then openly wondered if “fiction primarily about gay men has kind of peaked already.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; font-size: large;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz6dlMoYvRuiybMTo0cDtcS_WM2I7rEjbuECO2bTRsaOn_JiiDT58oBKasBNS_s-YWf5pk1bq2lIcniTrQ-mFxQdvNCl8mPsKPP0KXv_-RKS-89qQ0wmVXV3tWJ-SrobAb-soWb7budbK195ibt_4bz0rA_IFsaGiYjE7V7aaaRrtfUQCxM4TlSQrXgSw/s225/images-11.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz6dlMoYvRuiybMTo0cDtcS_WM2I7rEjbuECO2bTRsaOn_JiiDT58oBKasBNS_s-YWf5pk1bq2lIcniTrQ-mFxQdvNCl8mPsKPP0KXv_-RKS-89qQ0wmVXV3tWJ-SrobAb-soWb7budbK195ibt_4bz0rA_IFsaGiYjE7V7aaaRrtfUQCxM4TlSQrXgSw/s1600/images-11.jpeg" width="225" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Um...maybe shorts instead?</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">Peaked? How did my identity become nothing more than a passé trend? Good god, tell me I’m not the equivalent to cargo pants (blech!), Crocs (horrors!) and distressed jeans that flash full knees through oversized holes.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">After George Floyd was killed and protests broke out, the publishing industry, like so many other businesses, faced scrutiny over declarations of support for racial justice and minority rights. The words were right, but was there anything to back them up? Where was the diversity in the editors on staff, in agents at firms, in authors on publication and representation lists and in the characters and subject matter that got published? <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span lang="EN-US"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; font-size: large;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4pbnVEL1bPuS7d4pK0gex_Kc-FMtMG388N1PPfn3-7AcZtHrVxq89ckrQP7iru1uiFUf6TbB15nq-hsCcz5UE5t_j5dwUfcu2yHK3vfAX2TY8EHZ_o1kkAV8qTXMnIeVl4MV46iC3hTz0Lbubfp_FpiLDiDEnNyutVrjj8Ztw1NZsQwJc8vjL2bAuFfA/s389/images-12.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="129" data-original-width="389" height="106" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4pbnVEL1bPuS7d4pK0gex_Kc-FMtMG388N1PPfn3-7AcZtHrVxq89ckrQP7iru1uiFUf6TbB15nq-hsCcz5UE5t_j5dwUfcu2yHK3vfAX2TY8EHZ_o1kkAV8qTXMnIeVl4MV46iC3hTz0Lbubfp_FpiLDiDEnNyutVrjj8Ztw1NZsQwJc8vjL2bAuFfA/s320/images-12.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>100%!</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">Since 2020, it seems to have become standard practice for agents to post in their official agency bios and on their manuscript wish lists a statement like, “I am </span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background: white; color: #434343;">committed to advocating for the work of authors and artists with marginalized identities</span>” or, “<span style="background: white;">We are looking to engage with work by writers from historically underrepresented communities, including—but not limited to—those who are Black, Indigenous, people of colour, disabled, neurodivergent, or LGBTQIA+.”</span></span><span style="background: white; color: #434343; font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: white; color: #434343;"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: white; color: #434343;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; font-size: large;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd6tmBJ_rT65jfRILXQW2042urBln0cntGiu-043WINs0UVoVk2Y1IKUcB6l5UoDuPtXuzbM26S4Rpwsdw0OTyXEjSXUyqR70IpmAWaYGX075NDMqkHMNJufxrixc3hHrB4KmCoVUmKVCjknq3Ndx1fdeIaIOkRSSoagAg2fWTHoexa9H0NFPzPYyg9fU/s275/Unknown-27.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="275" data-original-width="183" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd6tmBJ_rT65jfRILXQW2042urBln0cntGiu-043WINs0UVoVk2Y1IKUcB6l5UoDuPtXuzbM26S4Rpwsdw0OTyXEjSXUyqR70IpmAWaYGX075NDMqkHMNJufxrixc3hHrB4KmCoVUmKVCjknq3Ndx1fdeIaIOkRSSoagAg2fWTHoexa9H0NFPzPYyg9fU/s1600/Unknown-27.jpeg" width="183" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>A powerful book set<br />during the AIDS crisis.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">For a while, I felt optimistic. I’m gay! I’ve been marginalized! I lived through the AIDS crisis. Hell, I lived more than a decade in Texas. I grew up hearing repeatedly that “my kind” was a bunch of perverts who mixed with pedophiles. Why distinguish though? We were probably pedophiles, too. And recruiters who actively sought to see families disintegrate. I was often patronizingly regarded as a sinner who was loved but whose sin was hated. Sorry, but if you hate an immutable aspect of my identity, I’m never gonna feel the love. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: white; color: #434343;"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: white; color: #434343;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">So, yes, hurray! Diverse stories! My time had come. People wanted to publish my stories!<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: white; color: #434343;"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: white; color: #434343;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; font-size: large;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilEOznKwWZuWzHlw3F1cOpH1X6wfXHqPYuBZd1tB3Ys7seLEzIPuLKpsfXDBS55NMS57hsAwC4HFRpfRMMbVoAcG0RPAJ0ViHzNDVyvoVLkOctMZPtDwoXHPB9IzOCa7BpiqP7e0A1iUwmwgThHtLC2-i1hdlTqs8tcmku1hPmGSurzQhIKQt5nkUAUgs/s259/Unknown-28.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="259" data-original-width="194" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilEOznKwWZuWzHlw3F1cOpH1X6wfXHqPYuBZd1tB3Ys7seLEzIPuLKpsfXDBS55NMS57hsAwC4HFRpfRMMbVoAcG0RPAJ0ViHzNDVyvoVLkOctMZPtDwoXHPB9IzOCa7BpiqP7e0A1iUwmwgThHtLC2-i1hdlTqs8tcmku1hPmGSurzQhIKQt5nkUAUgs/s1600/Unknown-28.jpeg" width="194" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>David Sedaris is one of<br />the best known gay writers,<br />but so many more authors<br />deserve to be published.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">But it turns out they didn’t. I may have been marginalized, underrepresented and subject to hate and discrimination but not marginalized, underrepresented or subject to hate and discrimination <i>enough</i>. Those opening the gates for more storytellers still controlled the criteria. It seemed like there were only so many spaces saved for the underrepresented and thus it became a contest. Minorities were pitted against one another. Representing a trans author held more cachet than a gay author. A Black gay author looked better on an agent’s profile than a white gay author. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: white; color: #434343;"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: white; color: #434343;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I do not dispute that people who are Black or trans have felt more discrimination on a consistent basis. Being white and male, as the nonbinary agent insinuated, I was privileged which, in some regards, is certainly true, but much of that depends on passing as straight, keeping my gayness in check, liking Sam Smith but not dressing like them or endorsing (or, heaven forbid, adopting) their pronoun preferences. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: white; color: #434343;"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: white; color: #434343;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I did not feel privileged going through school and being mocked relentlessly for my effeminate mannerisms, my total lack of athletic skills and my gravitation to hanging out with girls at recess. I did not feel privileged during my thirty years as an educator, first fearing I’d be fired working in Catholic schools, then worrying about students mutinying and parents pushing for my reassignment (or their child’s transfer) if my gayness were known. It’s why I started this blog anonymously and then wrote under a pseudonym. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: white; color: #434343;"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: white; color: #434343;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; font-size: large;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGQxuVtqyyCq04MNpzmjj_Yp2hOqOqODPivNxoCRMBCf2giuFxxn31dVi6uox5zgSKIKZYpWX81MuqkupAFECiOhOAAQoylmjrdtG3S3K4W8UFjyChpq1e29y8umU96JimDJLDr5v2biiKhDp5B1wjbeZtS3dsAZ0R5gnRVoYDOjLO1eUMndxmIUED15g/s276/Unknown-25.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="276" data-original-width="183" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGQxuVtqyyCq04MNpzmjj_Yp2hOqOqODPivNxoCRMBCf2giuFxxn31dVi6uox5zgSKIKZYpWX81MuqkupAFECiOhOAAQoylmjrdtG3S3K4W8UFjyChpq1e29y8umU96JimDJLDr5v2biiKhDp5B1wjbeZtS3dsAZ0R5gnRVoYDOjLO1eUMndxmIUED15g/s1600/Unknown-25.jpeg" width="183" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>A funny book I<br />reread last year.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">I schooled the self-righteous millennial nonbinary agent who lumped me in with all white cisgender men. Technically, I know I am also nonbinary, but I haven’t officially adopted this identity. It wasn’t available during my prolonged coming out years. Getting myself to accept and eventually embrace <u>gay</u> felt like enough of a process. In the past decade, I’ve unveiled all sorts of assigned mental health labels and tried to be open, setting an example in my own effort to break the accompanying stigmas. In terms of myself, I’ve experienced label overload.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: white; color: #434343;"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: white; color: #434343;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">When one minority status is lifted up over another for one or two spots, it’s tokenism. It also pits us against one another, dividing rather than uniting us. The fact I’ve feel compelled to say, even beg, READ GAY feels unsavory but a matter of creative survival. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: white; color: #434343;"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: white; color: #434343;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; font-size: large;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCJxwx4D4gRIt53pbhom1ak4jQajm9Hqv1g-K_Flz_M7L2aIFPzBJfnfNA9iExT2SDHgIvlmHPYM7bsq2k8bCwJkCt6wl01t4wtgZbDlfQdA4qM20jLII2PdQuK4nvJOcr1ANGywahJXPBaZT7MVbAN4xw-q8PE4kxMoFw3EbqcBr-jxHzjtADh8zs5UQ/s274/Unknown-24.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="274" data-original-width="184" height="274" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCJxwx4D4gRIt53pbhom1ak4jQajm9Hqv1g-K_Flz_M7L2aIFPzBJfnfNA9iExT2SDHgIvlmHPYM7bsq2k8bCwJkCt6wl01t4wtgZbDlfQdA4qM20jLII2PdQuK4nvJOcr1ANGywahJXPBaZT7MVbAN4xw-q8PE4kxMoFw3EbqcBr-jxHzjtADh8zs5UQ/s1600/Unknown-24.jpeg" width="184" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Definitely a thought-<br />provoking read from <br />the past year<br /><br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">In the past year, I’ve read books by authors who identified as ace, nonbinary, trans, Black, Korean, Chinese, Jewish, Muslim and polyamorous. The gay authors I’ve read are white, Black, Latino, Jewish and one who was overwhelmingly stuffy and pretentious. I’m rather certain there was a Wiccan in the mix, but I can’t recall who. Some of these authors carry multiple labels. Some choose not to air all of them, hoping one or two labels are enough to entice an agent and editor to give their work a closer look. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: white; color: #434343;"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: white; color: #434343;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Read all kinds of diverse books. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background: white; color: #434343;"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjduu3RdtoDGW-V2lMquZa1ZX2z1N3IYW7lO7NohiY5L7eB06UaUsehLzY0fE_UNEYTht6Lt0ZBrz8vd-wNsVPRYWXslPi4U9-zQ7OCmxX3CPMCR7AD2dIldfAiSkPu6C4cwPmAxQdwHsNbpPc_j2-h9LuGjoPAoIuj1m5oUMMnCggtKiHnrRtZjQPnLdU/s255/images-16.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="198" data-original-width="255" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjduu3RdtoDGW-V2lMquZa1ZX2z1N3IYW7lO7NohiY5L7eB06UaUsehLzY0fE_UNEYTht6Lt0ZBrz8vd-wNsVPRYWXslPi4U9-zQ7OCmxX3CPMCR7AD2dIldfAiSkPu6C4cwPmAxQdwHsNbpPc_j2-h9LuGjoPAoIuj1m5oUMMnCggtKiHnrRtZjQPnLdU/s1600/images-16.jpeg" width="255" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>One of the classics I'm <br />determined to read this year...<br />but not while wearing <br />these jeans!</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">In the end, however, I must advocate for myself and for my aspiring cohort of gay writers. Some who are luckier, younger and more talented do manage to break through. Read something gay. As I’ve already stated, if you like it, tell people, in person and on social media. Maybe even tell the writer. (You’ll make his day, I assure you.) If you don’t like it, just mark it as “read” and move on. Negative reviews are fun to write but they don’t need to be published across any format. If you’re having a really bad day, enjoy an extra scoop of salted caramel ice cream in a waffle cone, but walk away from any temptation to drop a one-star review—that goes for all creative folks and virtually all restaurants and hotels. (If you must, air your gripes privately and directly. It’s more constructive, especially if delivered with a respectful tone.) <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; font-size: large;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirSLRbRiKFWPXlrEf-Mt7TD3KpYkebAtwGAx37WdZd29RHahk2y7Qlks63IuANG2qjkCuPcw7RJaBXsJC9h0kuk_pbML8l_AwcCubEMc4WJtBPnmvgwOO4EpwjBoYZBz5iBvuK2aydVB7nXogt0o8wr2iwMSTrYC_MvlT1VICi3MtYjBQFaLnQejb9Bck/s276/Unknown-23.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="276" data-original-width="183" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirSLRbRiKFWPXlrEf-Mt7TD3KpYkebAtwGAx37WdZd29RHahk2y7Qlks63IuANG2qjkCuPcw7RJaBXsJC9h0kuk_pbML8l_AwcCubEMc4WJtBPnmvgwOO4EpwjBoYZBz5iBvuK2aydVB7nXogt0o8wr2iwMSTrYC_MvlT1VICi3MtYjBQFaLnQejb9Bck/s1600/Unknown-23.jpeg" width="183" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Currently reading...</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">After reading one gay book, maybe read another. Is that asking too much? <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">One will do. You’ve just supported the arts. Let Love Is Love mutate into something broader and longer lasting. Thank you for your patronage! <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p>Aging Gaylyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09886888900957765438noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7857795538755708479.post-32479358578903307232023-12-26T17:32:00.000-08:002023-12-26T17:41:01.294-08:0010 ANIMAL SONGS OF THE 1970s<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMrjfcYkfkmUjkE6nJGr6WrXNt8hN4Kyb8tdVvYinI2YU-AZLTSX2Np85VyYItGjesAZPuVpK9KOYffYOw-PLihULDJIhyS0lH5BAirPipsKgWyk9IoEOQs2o5ePl40ZKUUQuaElnkzQsz7RO8d72ZYbSjBbLpzuIbSSFC2egRYUKcx1LDzK0io_iD_08/s1626/animals-nature.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1626" data-original-width="1301" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMrjfcYkfkmUjkE6nJGr6WrXNt8hN4Kyb8tdVvYinI2YU-AZLTSX2Np85VyYItGjesAZPuVpK9KOYffYOw-PLihULDJIhyS0lH5BAirPipsKgWyk9IoEOQs2o5ePl40ZKUUQuaElnkzQsz7RO8d72ZYbSjBbLpzuIbSSFC2egRYUKcx1LDzK0io_iD_08/s320/animals-nature.jpg" width="256" /></a></div><i><span style="font-family: times; font-size: x-small;">As a writer, I take my chances writing full-length novel manuscripts, essays and articles, hoping each one will find a home and gain a readership. Sometimes, I find no takers. This is an article that I pitched to an online site earlier this year, but it got rejected. Not current or catchy enough, I presume. I'd spent so many hours conducting research and documenting facts pursuant to the site's guidelines that it's hard to let the piece rest in peace. </span></i><div><i><span style="font-family: times; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></i></div><div><i><span style="font-family: times; font-size: x-small;">Let it be on my own blog. I found so many of the facts to be surprising and listened to these songs countless times, the catchiness of the article coming from the tunes themselves. Admittedly, I was relieved when a couple of these earworms finally exited my brain. Click on the song links at your own risk!</span></i><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: x-small;"><i><br /></i></span><div><i><br /></i><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">The ’70s had plenty of animal references in pop culture. Musical acts included the Eagles, Cat Stevens, Three Dog Night and the TV act, The Partridge Family. The box office featured a titular mutt, <i>Benji</i>, and that great white shark in <i>Jaws. Garfield </i>debuted as a syndicated comic strip. The </span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://www.latimes.com/local/obituaries/la-me-gary-ross-dahl-20150401-story.html" style="color: #954f72;"><span lang="EN-US">pet rock</span></a><span lang="EN-US"> had legs as a fad. Songs like “Crocodile Rock,” “Fox on the Run” and “Barracuda” mentioned animals but weren’t about them. Other songs, however, included more literal references to beasts in the wild, domesticated companions and even human-created incarnations of the real thing. These songs are truly about the animals.</span></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b><span lang="EN-US">10 “</span></b><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R5Wpn3dFrEs&list=RDR5Wpn3dFrEs&start_radio=1" style="color: #954f72;"><b><span lang="EN-US">Shannon</span></b></a><b><span lang="EN-US">” by Henry Gross</span></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOgfXDYnWsjMIh1LIRTjcM5ZrSmXHwILAagSN2g5zHWMKh0q2Pu3uXGMRwKY1wGX1-_4hmpAtXh5a8P_9iu7KrPAAFEpliZ_HjSCB_0Wj3usqZLv0XUFSQKDqb81gf5KhCLp50vptTOSn3cw__tSeGLy1cLGs9kYHGg0E57ffDipXNJ9LBbk4PjH0CClc/s600/R-12159007-1529672742-2141.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="578" data-original-width="600" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOgfXDYnWsjMIh1LIRTjcM5ZrSmXHwILAagSN2g5zHWMKh0q2Pu3uXGMRwKY1wGX1-_4hmpAtXh5a8P_9iu7KrPAAFEpliZ_HjSCB_0Wj3usqZLv0XUFSQKDqb81gf5KhCLp50vptTOSn3cw__tSeGLy1cLGs9kYHGg0E57ffDipXNJ9LBbk4PjH0CClc/s320/R-12159007-1529672742-2141.jpg" width="320" /></a></b></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b><br /><o:p></o:p></b></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><b><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span lang="EN-US">Let’s get the dead dog song out of the way first. In 1975, Henry Gross was touring with The Beach Boys and, </span><a href="https://thehenrygross.com/the-story-of-shannon/" style="color: #954f72;"><span lang="EN-US">over lunch one day</span></a><span lang="EN-US"> with guitarist Carl Wilson, Gross mentioned his Irish Setter named Shannon. Wilson shared that he too had a setter named Shannon that had recently died after getting hit by a car. As written by Gross, a mother grieves for a dog that seems to have been lost at sea. Gross amps up the sadness and mystery by noting the father’s absence. While the mother is distraught, Gross offers a consoling image: “Maybe she’ll find an island with a shaded tree, Just like the one in our backyard.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana;">The following year, “Shannon” became Gross’s only top ten hit. It’s a pretty ballad that features Gross singing falsetto and dreamy backing vocals reminiscent of The Beach Boys, creating a soothing eulogy for the family pet. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b><span lang="EN-US">9 “</span></b><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n4QSYx4wVQg" style="color: #954f72;"><b><span lang="EN-US">Rock Lobster</span></b></a><b><span lang="EN-US">” by the B-52’s</span></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ5rIwdhGeAiHswdY-ucZN3WWpIAFZ7Zx6dM4VTveRzT2M8cks1XColipvnE9i-SmLprjSuQZj9eHPsw9XXOSWvLqnoeniSM3CdPvn3gW5cmaOGZq_uWMZcB7c1MUvHx9C9SkSVe0ullXEi731zEYpahbKeMAr0U6XYdb9pnDObMrJSYASwBDmzMOo1kA/s300/e2ae7abae9ef3e5391e7af5cc7207ad5.300x300x1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="300" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ5rIwdhGeAiHswdY-ucZN3WWpIAFZ7Zx6dM4VTveRzT2M8cks1XColipvnE9i-SmLprjSuQZj9eHPsw9XXOSWvLqnoeniSM3CdPvn3gW5cmaOGZq_uWMZcB7c1MUvHx9C9SkSVe0ullXEi731zEYpahbKeMAr0U6XYdb9pnDObMrJSYASwBDmzMOo1kA/s1600/e2ae7abae9ef3e5391e7af5cc7207ad5.300x300x1.jpg" width="300" /></a></b></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b><br /></b><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span lang="EN-US">This song made a big splash for the B-52’s, the lead single from their self-titled debut album in 1979. It was the perfect introduction, as fun and kooky as anything they released, featuring Fred Schneider’s spoken delivery, groovy hooks by Ricky Wilson on electric guitar, and heavy percussive beats by Keith Strickland, all of it punctuated with animalistic wails from Cindy Wilson and Kate Pierson. Fred and Ricky wrote the song after Fred took inspiration from the Atlanta franchise of </span><a href="https://www.nytimes.com/1979/02/18/archives/merchandizing-disco-for-the-masses-the-franchiser.html" style="color: #954f72;"><span lang="EN-US">2001 Club</span></a><span lang="EN-US">, a chain of discos popping up across the U.S. in the ’70s. </span><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KxEcm0pNhJ4" style="color: #954f72;"><span lang="EN-US">As Schneider tells it</span></a><span lang="EN-US">, the club projected a slide show that included “puppies, babies and lobsters on a grill” while the music played. The tune’s star attraction is the rock lobster but includes shout-outs to other real and imagined marine animals, from a stingray and jellyfish to a sea robin and bikini whale, during the sprawling, seven-minute album cut, pared down to by two minutes for the single.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana;">In addition to creative, nonsensical “fish noises,” Cindy Wilson added screams that Schneider called “the Yoko Ono part.” When John Lennon heard the song, he took it as a sign the world was ready for Yoko’s guttural cries, prompting the couple to hit the studio to record <i>Double Fantasy</i> after a five-year musical hiatus. Yoko joined the band for “Rock Lobster” at the New York City show during their 25<sup>th</sup> anniversary tour. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b><span lang="EN-US">8 “</span></b><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uVipktbPKOI" style="color: #954f72;"><b><span lang="EN-US">Disco Duck (Part I)</span></b></a><b><span lang="EN-US">” by Rick Dees and His Cast of Idiots</span></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis_D7AUCS8psiz_XHl7TYZLA0zf5jWrv-xywhdLfuAy2etKzp2MYmIIFliSr2MBNx8peR4OCabAN8_SOd3Xajai_hKDtV6Ow1qa5g4__JNL96va3hS3RgdAujEnngZIAlQnbFAc55mMNFIB9kuU6slKTpjxVsKEYfE8i0WkJ7GCkyJFcQfh9kzfWp0HsM/s800/rick_dees-kopi.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="492" data-original-width="800" height="197" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis_D7AUCS8psiz_XHl7TYZLA0zf5jWrv-xywhdLfuAy2etKzp2MYmIIFliSr2MBNx8peR4OCabAN8_SOd3Xajai_hKDtV6Ow1qa5g4__JNL96va3hS3RgdAujEnngZIAlQnbFAc55mMNFIB9kuU6slKTpjxVsKEYfE8i0WkJ7GCkyJFcQfh9kzfWp0HsM/s320/rick_dees-kopi.jpg" width="320" /></a></b></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b><br /></b><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span lang="EN-US">In 1976, Rick Dees was a disc jockey at radio station WMPS in Memphis. Capitalizing on the disco craze, he wrote and recorded “Disco Duck” about a feverish dancer who flaps his arms and transforms to a duck. The song may remind listeners of the chicken dance, but Dees also gives a nod to Jackie Lee’s soulful “</span><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=saWSkbCGHVM" style="color: #954f72;"><span lang="EN-US">The Duck</span></a><span lang="EN-US">” which hit #14 on the <i>Billboard</i> Hot 100 in 1966. “Disco Duck” captures some of the lingo of the ’70s with the lyrics “Get down mama” and “Dyn-O-Mite” which Jimmie “J.J.” Walker popularized on the sitcom <i>Good Times</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana;">As the song took off nationally, WMPS wouldn’t play the song, considering it a conflict of interest. When Dees mentioned the song on air, he was fired. The next week, the song hit number one on <i>Billboard</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><b><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span lang="EN-US">“Disco Duck” plays in the movie </span><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P7q6tE4k29E" style="color: #954f72;"><i><span lang="EN-US">Saturday Night Fever</span></i></a><span lang="EN-US"> but was not included on the soundtrack because, </span><a href="https://www.latimes.com/archives/la-xpm-2006-sep-23-et-dees23-story.html" style="color: #954f72;"><span lang="EN-US">as Dees tells it</span></a><span lang="EN-US">, his agent didn’t want the soundtrack to take away sales from Dees’s own album, <i>The Original Disco Duck</i>. Dees tried unsuccessfully to capitalize on his “Duck” luck, recording “</span><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8nCVAFKXzX0" style="color: #954f72;"><span lang="EN-US">Dis-Gorilla</span></a><span lang="EN-US">,” which stuck to the same formula. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b><span lang="EN-US">7 “</span></b><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XU7InXfc7iY" style="color: #954f72;"><b><span lang="EN-US">Snowbird</span></b></a><b><span lang="EN-US">” by Anne Murray</span></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXvPfEGw5Y_2bHdlAKS8dHEV3FVKNKkxzgIH2FS91g_oa4xKX157DnUyB_ZFlqa4MAFsCUce3ApE1L2rRofDrOZSAlIV2JxUAkbqTrVG481T66-yQOQwkmx1bSUlf7uMENR0JPLBPeKKXe10Wp5A1QRwfOEyqb6DZlgXdDMuYTRTnnHIMSCTOtyY-TG_Q/s570/il_570xN.5187588006_rvhw.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="570" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXvPfEGw5Y_2bHdlAKS8dHEV3FVKNKkxzgIH2FS91g_oa4xKX157DnUyB_ZFlqa4MAFsCUce3ApE1L2rRofDrOZSAlIV2JxUAkbqTrVG481T66-yQOQwkmx1bSUlf7uMENR0JPLBPeKKXe10Wp5A1QRwfOEyqb6DZlgXdDMuYTRTnnHIMSCTOtyY-TG_Q/s320/il_570xN.5187588006_rvhw.jpg" width="320" /></a></b></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b><br /><o:p></o:p></b></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Anne Murray was twenty-five when “Snowbird” became her breakthrough single, reaching #8 on the <i>Billboard</i>Hot 100 chart in 1970. The song was written by Canadian Gene MacLellan whom Murray met in the late ’60s on CBC’s Nova Scotia-based music telecast, <i>Singalong Jubilee</i>. The lyrics flutter between hope (“flowers that will bloom again in spring”) and sorrow (“the one I love forever is untrue”). <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span lang="EN-US">“Snowbird” was the </span><a href="https://books.google.ca/books?id=tCkEAAAAMBAJ&pg=PT84&redir_esc=y#v=onepage&q&f=false" style="color: #954f72;"><span lang="EN-US">first single</span></a><span lang="EN-US"> by a female Canadian solo artist to be certified gold in the U.S., selling more than a million copies. The song earned Murray a 1970 Grammy nomination for best female contemporary vocal performance. An </span><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D7w2HcI1eAo" style="color: #954f72;"><span lang="EN-US">instrumental version</span></a><span lang="EN-US"> won Chet Atkins a Grammy in 1972.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span lang="EN-US">Murray guested on a 2013 episode of “</span><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eNUxfkXUNO8" style="color: #954f72;"><span lang="EN-US">Family Guy</span></a><span lang="EN-US">,” welcoming Brian and Stewie into her home with matters devolving to Stewie tying her up and holding her at gunpoint, commanding her to sing the tune while gagged. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b><span lang="EN-US">6 “</span></b><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m05otY02boA" style="color: #954f72;"><b><span lang="EN-US">Be</span></b></a><b><span lang="EN-US">” by Neil Diamond</span></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSbnJpsO_BJeFaMX1Ht1H1rkcVrr5upPinifukuNw2XGkTeteG-bzKtTjPVnneAL7IEeRkLqSFgj28B_EWArgA5esPP-f_McJe1hpgeolZI-MN-iuWOL3bojnY7AEPsQeEvgIbdwOcmHTFUtG5JorACtazhyQvuEO_lJndfoquXPx2KtE-a9IkbKKTepI/s814/Neil_05.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="814" height="302" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSbnJpsO_BJeFaMX1Ht1H1rkcVrr5upPinifukuNw2XGkTeteG-bzKtTjPVnneAL7IEeRkLqSFgj28B_EWArgA5esPP-f_McJe1hpgeolZI-MN-iuWOL3bojnY7AEPsQeEvgIbdwOcmHTFUtG5JorACtazhyQvuEO_lJndfoquXPx2KtE-a9IkbKKTepI/s320/Neil_05.jpg" width="320" /></a></b></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b><br /></b><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span lang="EN-US">It’s hard to explain the phenomenon that helped this song come to be. In 1970, Macmillan published the novella <i>Jonathan Livingston Seagull</i> by Richard Bach to little fanfare. As word of mouth grew, the book became the </span><a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-srv/style/longterm/books/25thann/bestsellers.htm" style="color: #954f72;"><span lang="EN-US">bestselling title of both 1972 and 1973</span></a><span lang="EN-US">. The story is about a seagull who eschews the obsessive food scavenging of his colony, opting to spend his days in flight, striving to go higher and faster. Due to his differences, Jonathan is banished from the colony. The meaning of the story leans into New Age thinking that gained momentum in the ’70s.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana;">In the fall of 1973, Paramount released a live-action movie based on the book, the gulls voiced by actors including Juliet Mills, Hal Holbrook and Dorothy McGuire. The movie was a flop but the soundtrack, composed by Neil Diamond, hit #2 on the <i>Billboard </i>album chart and “Be” was released as a single, reaching #34. The music is a sweeping orchestral arrangement and the lyrics are vague enough to be about a bird, a person striving to reach one’s potential or something more metaphysically muddled (“Lost on a painted sky, Where the clouds are hung for the poet’s eye, You may find him, If you may find him.”).<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b><span lang="EN-US">5 “</span></b><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aTbBvPoxUkk" style="color: #954f72;"><b><span lang="EN-US">Me and You and a Dog Named Boo</span></b></a><b><span lang="EN-US">” by Lobo</span></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcHQJNeUM2igW4u3G3AMlUnIRGbYqdG_OjRIWGwo-EibP_uVo0h6qVfLHmc5jWcXmwwIv5XLHtZTGVlMsdCKRp-Lsu0V4O7RrRGmIfd5H1FV3mYlrMjBX-uLs62MZ-VelU6IElAZdQa1H5PZfNvXmJ4oPh9aLR1LO67F36OVVCcd5B4TmDWpx2ZJf04hM/s474/4375c9d078e775ba84ab5a529d7ccad7.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="266" data-original-width="474" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcHQJNeUM2igW4u3G3AMlUnIRGbYqdG_OjRIWGwo-EibP_uVo0h6qVfLHmc5jWcXmwwIv5XLHtZTGVlMsdCKRp-Lsu0V4O7RrRGmIfd5H1FV3mYlrMjBX-uLs62MZ-VelU6IElAZdQa1H5PZfNvXmJ4oPh9aLR1LO67F36OVVCcd5B4TmDWpx2ZJf04hM/s320/4375c9d078e775ba84ab5a529d7ccad7.jpg" width="320" /></a></b></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b><br /></b><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana;">In the spring of 1971, this infectious ditty about an American road trip with a canine travel companion hit pop radio, eventually peaking at #5. Often mistaken for a band, Lobo, fittingly a Spanish word for wolf, was singer/songwriter Roland Kent LaVoie. In high school in Winter Haven, Florida, LaVoie had played gigs with Gram Parsons and Jim Stafford. The eponymous pooch was Lobo’s own dog commanded attention while LaVoie wrote the song.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span lang="EN-US">The song was produced by Phil Gernhard who’d made a name for himself producing The Royal Guardsmen’s 1967 smash, “</span><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wtJ1Gnh9wPU" style="color: #954f72;"><span lang="EN-US">Snoopy Vs. The Red Baron</span></a><span class="MsoHyperlink" style="color: #0563c1; text-decoration: underline;"><span lang="EN-US">.</span></span><span lang="EN-US">” In addition to a string of subsequent hits spanning the ’70s, Lobo also co-produced, with Gernhard, hits for Stafford, including the creepy critter-themed “</span><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fOs1w3zzWCQ" style="color: #954f72;"><span lang="EN-US">Spiders & Snakes</span></a><span class="MsoHyperlink" style="color: #0563c1; text-decoration: underline;"><span lang="EN-US">.</span></span><span lang="EN-US">”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b><span lang="EN-US">4 “</span></b><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xu_yxkuwr8A" style="color: #954f72;"><b><span lang="EN-US">Rubber Duckie</span></b></a><b><span lang="EN-US">” by Ernie</span></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnWedvSUhus0Yecd0yprYEbwSeRk1fdSgRfMA6-47tMAnZyFrSwTLMzYbuUG7avzJM35WFLggWe6Z7kY6OkhE0X4Q478TWLCCXNyZVkS4VgQtFeE-eUtshW8fgj-3ZsylX7Jj_3pWUACCnyEE4996negxhXqDVxcZqQ42EMXxRkTvAplUJH-fmGOPYzzQ/s225/Unknown-17.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="189" data-original-width="225" height="189" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnWedvSUhus0Yecd0yprYEbwSeRk1fdSgRfMA6-47tMAnZyFrSwTLMzYbuUG7avzJM35WFLggWe6Z7kY6OkhE0X4Q478TWLCCXNyZVkS4VgQtFeE-eUtshW8fgj-3ZsylX7Jj_3pWUACCnyEE4996negxhXqDVxcZqQ42EMXxRkTvAplUJH-fmGOPYzzQ/s1600/Unknown-17.jpeg" width="225" /></a></b></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b><br /></b><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span lang="EN-US">On February 25, 1970, during the first season of PBS’s <i>Sesame Street, </i>Ernie took a bath. Rather than having Bert join him, Ernie shared the moment with “a very special friend,” his rubber duckie. The song was written by the show’s first head writer, Jeff Moss, who won fourteen Emmys for his work and received an Academy Award nomination for </span><a href="https://www.cinemasight.com/awards-history/57th-academy-awards-1984/57th-academy-awards-1984-nominees-and-winners/" style="color: #954f72;"><span lang="EN-US">Original Song Score</span></a><span lang="EN-US"> in 1984 for <i>The Muppets Take Manhattan. </i>(The Oscar went to Prince’s <i>Purple Rain.</i>) Voiced and sung by Jim Henson and making heavy use of a squeak toy (and Ernie’s distinctive laugh), the tune became a mainstream novelty hit, reaching #16 on the <i>Billboard </i>Hot 100, becoming the biggest Muppet single ever. (Kermit’s “</span><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WS3Lkc6Gzlk" style="color: #954f72;"><span lang="EN-US">Rainbow Connection</span></a><span lang="EN-US">” hit #25 in 1979.<i> </i>A Carpenters cover of the <i>Sesame Street </i>song “</span><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iS4_8a5AxiA" style="color: #954f72;"><span lang="EN-US">Sing</span></a><span lang="EN-US">” was a Top Three smash in 1973.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tWCEG6lV0ek" style="color: #954f72;"><span lang="EN-US">Little Richard performed</span></a><span lang="EN-US"> “Rubber Duckie” on the show in 1994. Other <i>Sesame Street </i>songs featuring the bath toy included the reggae-infused “</span><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W6_d22aMqZs" style="color: #954f72;"><span lang="EN-US">Do De Rubber Duck</span></a><span lang="EN-US">” and “</span><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=acBixR_JRuM" style="color: #954f72;"><span lang="EN-US">Put Down the Duckie</span></a><span class="MsoHyperlink" style="color: #0563c1; text-decoration: underline;"><span lang="EN-US">.</span></span><span lang="EN-US">”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b><span lang="EN-US">3 “</span></b><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HU-qoSAATfA" style="color: #954f72;"><b><span lang="EN-US">Wildfire</span></b></a><b><span lang="EN-US">” by Michael (Martin) Murphey</span></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCdByxkAF7NvR0z52uVjAHCj2vt0u3zV3NOoraqjm4Let0mjZXbickkiGxDkQyloxTF3jLM_NwXXVA73yAcN0wJ0iAHDcoDzr0nDzd2kQDLpm7iDwQQKuKP2lT87W5s3-SKOpEu4s2jmYQZs9eGthbPFFFa7UK-LrSGJ0zI8WWdl-uEnxhnpe8SJEeGUg/s716/b6369272-d3fc-47ca-9bfc-fc3ef4090386_714x716.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="716" data-original-width="714" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCdByxkAF7NvR0z52uVjAHCj2vt0u3zV3NOoraqjm4Let0mjZXbickkiGxDkQyloxTF3jLM_NwXXVA73yAcN0wJ0iAHDcoDzr0nDzd2kQDLpm7iDwQQKuKP2lT87W5s3-SKOpEu4s2jmYQZs9eGthbPFFFa7UK-LrSGJ0zI8WWdl-uEnxhnpe8SJEeGUg/s320/b6369272-d3fc-47ca-9bfc-fc3ef4090386_714x716.jpg" width="319" /></a></b></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b><br /><o:p></o:p></b></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span lang="EN-US">Murphey’s early success in music came as a songwriter with songs recorded by Bobbie Gentry and The Monkees. While co-writing with Larry Cansler all songs for the 1972 double album, <i>The Ballad of Calico</i>, by Kenny Rogers and the First Edition, Murphey </span><a href="https://theboot.com/story-behind-the-song-wildfire-michael-martin-murphey/" style="color: #954f72;"><span lang="EN-US">dreamed the concept</span></a><span lang="EN-US"> of a song he’d call “Wildfire.” The dream recalled a </span><a href="https://www.tennessean.com/story/entertainment/music/story-behind-the-song/2019/06/28/wildfire-michael-martin-murphey-story-behind-song-horse-cowboy-country-music/1570277001/" style="color: #954f72;"><span lang="EN-US">story from boyhood</span></a><span lang="EN-US"> Murphey’s grandfather told him about a ghost horse that cowboys could never catch. In the song, Wildfire escapes its stall in a Nebraska blizzard, leading to the death of the woman who sets out to find him. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span lang="EN-US">The song opens and closes with a piano arrangement based on Russian classical composer Alexander Scriabin’s “</span><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pGWDqSrJU4c&list=RDpGWDqSrJU4c&start_radio=1" style="color: #954f72;"><span lang="EN-US">Preludes Op. 11 No. 15 in D-Flat</span></a><span class="MsoHyperlink" style="color: #0563c1; text-decoration: underline;"><span lang="EN-US">.</span></span><span lang="EN-US">” Nitty Gritty Dirt Band members Jeff Hanna and Jimmy Ibbotson contributed backing vocals. Released in 1975, the single reached # 3 on <i>Billboard’s</i> Hot 100 and went platinum with sales exceeding two million copies.<b> </b><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b><span lang="EN-US">2 “</span></b><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bjqeNoi6EmM" style="color: #954f72;"><b><span lang="EN-US">Muskrat Love</span></b></a><b><span lang="EN-US">” by Captain & Tennille</span></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpL4sKogopkqigORoZOyzwuYxkcAAkElgmgmd0ulr0EdFBUq4tzZwkyv2Hw2P098BlymXJ8WKdmE1x_XvzRte1QdHRo4lpNoXkXdgP6Pa9ogNySIriSKR45IfD1L7_XdbJN4TdKXefq8mrdCRsmt01oT2k9_pjHGcxUlYufGNRL8bAaUxCQxmJzAhw-_Y/s259/Unknown-18.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="259" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpL4sKogopkqigORoZOyzwuYxkcAAkElgmgmd0ulr0EdFBUq4tzZwkyv2Hw2P098BlymXJ8WKdmE1x_XvzRte1QdHRo4lpNoXkXdgP6Pa9ogNySIriSKR45IfD1L7_XdbJN4TdKXefq8mrdCRsmt01oT2k9_pjHGcxUlYufGNRL8bAaUxCQxmJzAhw-_Y/s1600/Unknown-18.jpeg" width="259" /></a></b></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b><br /><o:p></o:p></b></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span lang="EN-US">In 1972, a Texas singer named Willis Alan Ramsey released his self-titled debut album. To date, it is his only release but it maintains cult status, its songs having been </span><a href="https://www.elsewhere.co.nz/weneedtotalkabout/7802/we-need-to-talk-about-willis-alan-ramsey-the-love-song-of-two-semi-aquatic-rodents/" style="color: #954f72;"><span lang="EN-US">recorded by</span></a><span lang="EN-US"> Jimmy Buffett, Waylon Jennings and Shawn Colvin. One track, “</span><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eTmej_uS4c8" style="color: #954f72;"><span lang="EN-US">Muskrat Candlelight</span></a><span class="MsoHyperlink" style="color: #0563c1; text-decoration: underline;"><span lang="EN-US">,</span></span><span lang="EN-US">” caught the attention of the band America whose first hit was, incidentally, the equine-referenced “A Horse with No Name.” They changed the title to “</span><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FgF3FIrJc6Q" style="color: #954f72;"><span lang="EN-US">Muskrat Love</span></a><span lang="EN-US">.” The song reached #67 on the Billboard Hot 100, a temporary dip in their career.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span lang="EN-US">Toni Tenille and Daryl Dragon, known professionally as Captain & Tennille, heard America’s version and added the song to their nightclub act. Needing a final track for their <i>Song of Joy </i>album, they recorded “Muskrat Love.” A&M Records hadn’t planned to release it as a single but a Madison, Wisconsin radio station received overwhelmingly favorable listener feedback when it began playing the album track. It became a #4 hit on <i>Billboard’s </i>Hot 100 and topped the Adult Contemporary chart for four weeks. The song continues to draw a love-it-or-hate-it response, Dragon’s synthesizer effects to simulate muskrats mating adding to the kitsch/cringe factor. In 1976, the duo performed the song at the White House for President Gerald Ford, First Lady Betty and Queen Elizabeth II. Some in attendance, including Julia Child, considered the choice </span><a href="https://research.ebsco.com/c/jwp2k2/viewer/pdf/s3bm22vmhb" style="color: #954f72;"><span lang="EN-US">risqué and in poor taste</span></a><span lang="EN-US">. </span><a href="https://people.com/royals/toni-tennille-on-the-time-she-sang-muskrat-love-for-queen-elizabeth/" style="color: #954f72;"><span lang="EN-US">Years later</span></a><span lang="EN-US">, the former president remembered it as “the song about the mice.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b><span lang="EN-US">1 “</span></b><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UGF3OAiYzk4" style="color: #954f72;"><b><span lang="EN-US">Ben</span></b></a><b><span lang="EN-US">” by Michael Jackson</span></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr_QF8EbM6WrymXCuRJ-BEgRizTaTAaL6F0BBdOmUg3Ls_pj_VrnX-qGbzC86jfhQVlRkn02m2hx7PmF-Xpk31Z5fINj4t71_NMk-WVsghn-MBIJoBSbKHTm621kz0__YQI1fN3aQI-2mSgSRj_61Z3Byijm9K0HuvD6ZmvwdTJrd9BVlXEu4pNdyBbx8/s601/Ben.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="601" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr_QF8EbM6WrymXCuRJ-BEgRizTaTAaL6F0BBdOmUg3Ls_pj_VrnX-qGbzC86jfhQVlRkn02m2hx7PmF-Xpk31Z5fINj4t71_NMk-WVsghn-MBIJoBSbKHTm621kz0__YQI1fN3aQI-2mSgSRj_61Z3Byijm9K0HuvD6ZmvwdTJrd9BVlXEu4pNdyBbx8/s320/Ben.jpg" width="319" /></a></b></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b><br /><o:p></o:p></b></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">Michael Jackson might have earned a spot on the list with “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u2vzTKh-O5c" style="color: #954f72;">Rockin’ Robin</a>,” a remake of <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QZKSYBMCDdM" style="color: #954f72;">Bobby Day</a>’s 1958 hit—both songs hit #2 on the Billboard Hot 100—but his ode to a horror film rat in 1972 better befits the oddness that would characterize the rising superstar. Reaching its apex when Jackson was fourteen, “Ben” was Jackson’s first of thirteen #1s as a solo artist. The song was <a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20160303040249/http:/www.reviewjournal.com/norm-clarke/donny-osmond-recalls-old-friend" style="color: #954f72;">written for Donny Osmond</a>, but Osmond couldn’t be reached while on tour. (Conversely, The Osmonds’ #1 smash, “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q3Ax1yA9q74" style="color: #954f72;">One Bad Apple</a>” had been written with Jackson in mind.)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">The film <i>Ben</i> was made by Bing Crosby Productions, a company established by the Oscar-winning crooner, best known today for his rendition of “White Christmas.” The company also produced movies including the Crosby-Frank Sinatra-Grace Kelly musical, <i>High Society, </i>and TV shows such as <i>Hogan’s Heroes.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana;">The ballad “Ben” was written by five-time Oscar nominee Don Black (winner for 1967 song, “Born Free”) and ten-time Oscar nominee Walter Scharf. “Ben” was a contender for Best Song, losing to “The Morning After” from <i>The Poseidon Adventure.</i> It settled for a Golden Globe. <i> </i><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></p></div></div></div>Aging Gaylyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09886888900957765438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7857795538755708479.post-23847059622357379262023-12-21T14:14:00.000-08:002024-03-09T11:15:55.343-08:00JINGLE BELL BALK<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2GmsH6iANwbbsylM2GrBdTpwfGFjITdHRzG1oc015aDsxDRNiNlc4TmXEuxRqTdUOusGUJskKjhKQLMdI2-f9b-qPNiC6Xf52WyaFYw7HSppNYLx_6SndWTWir6WugzrTjyMzRmzOtTKNjM7aWigZJMo2y_Df-3qHHCEyjfp3l0OmefnHi2PcLqiBwDA/s259/Unknown-4.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="259" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2GmsH6iANwbbsylM2GrBdTpwfGFjITdHRzG1oc015aDsxDRNiNlc4TmXEuxRqTdUOusGUJskKjhKQLMdI2-f9b-qPNiC6Xf52WyaFYw7HSppNYLx_6SndWTWir6WugzrTjyMzRmzOtTKNjM7aWigZJMo2y_Df-3qHHCEyjfp3l0OmefnHi2PcLqiBwDA/s1600/Unknown-4.jpeg" width="259" /></a></div><br />Call me crazy, but there’s something jarring about walking into a drugstore to drop off a prescription for antidepressants and hearing Christmas ditties piped through the speaker system.<o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US">I’m not The Grinch, I swear. I just seem like that this time of year. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US">It’s nothing pervasive. I go about my days as I do during all the other calendar months. A routine keeps my mood and mind steady. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOTq-810tQDSMt8cD4EaBz5BvY11Fo07udGP7K2oC5zdjh3KEsW_O__I0kLnTC1wBUi8_Jc-HdgbkZBwVeaIUTDsPCBZh4sQvVpHKrB_6jKZtIlvV0w-1NTn0_PrUNdBQIfzk74gCDwYOGOLShXsT91VBvpwI85eIsmjDbtqrGg7r4UFBb8pvq7Ef1PD0/s259/Unknown-7.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="259" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOTq-810tQDSMt8cD4EaBz5BvY11Fo07udGP7K2oC5zdjh3KEsW_O__I0kLnTC1wBUi8_Jc-HdgbkZBwVeaIUTDsPCBZh4sQvVpHKrB_6jKZtIlvV0w-1NTn0_PrUNdBQIfzk74gCDwYOGOLShXsT91VBvpwI85eIsmjDbtqrGg7r4UFBb8pvq7Ef1PD0/s1600/Unknown-7.jpeg" width="259" /></a></div><br />Visually, I can take all the lights and decorations we slap on eaves, tape to window frames and wear as necklaces. With night creeping in so early each afternoon and hanging around like that clueless last guest at the party each morning, the strings of white lights and colored bulbs are most welcome. I can smile or good-naturedly cringe as people pass by, winter coats unzipped in balmy Vancouver, flashing their ugly Christmas sweaters. (The <i>ugly </i>is intentional, right?) Lawns filled with blown-up Santas allow the decorating-challenged to make a BIG statement and I’m inexplicably amused each morning when I see them deflated, looking more like melted Frosty than jolly Saint Nick.<o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US">Any seasonal dissociation doesn’t come from my heart; it’s triggered by my ears. Those Christmas songs, everywhere. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipGlqIUo_rN0WHq4gfLbfxs_ntcVaGPLKIao5_djPm7pZCcR_1huURosq0ZpJbUExcL7UhaX7_6bYaCV2oGnINAlauTd76PlFYGdBX-PD3DW6LiznUf7jyeH3teg7CIszcArV31TAkgyvDoC9X4suAuBvssLT1SF5WZA362l3DtMNviZvMr75c_uSVumE/s300/images-8.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipGlqIUo_rN0WHq4gfLbfxs_ntcVaGPLKIao5_djPm7pZCcR_1huURosq0ZpJbUExcL7UhaX7_6bYaCV2oGnINAlauTd76PlFYGdBX-PD3DW6LiznUf7jyeH3teg7CIszcArV31TAkgyvDoC9X4suAuBvssLT1SF5WZA362l3DtMNviZvMr75c_uSVumE/s1600/images-8.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><br />Far from making spirits bright, the drugstore onslaught came off as mean-spirited. Neil Diamond, who is Jewish and presumably celebrated Hannukah, with the requisite “Happy” slapped in front of the holiday, sang a festive love-in imploring that “Children all get happy on Christmas Day.” The dude has released six Christmas albums. Ka-ching! Of course, he’s happy. Neil sang on, commanding that we “Sing a song of love” because “Love is all we need…on Christmas Day.” <o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US">All I really needed was to get my prescription filled. It’s possible I may have been particularly cranky—er, grinchy—since the paper in my hand had more on it than usual. For the past four years, I’ve only taken one medication, but after last week’s appointment with my psychiatrist, I walked away with four making the list. Presumably, the new cocktail won’t make get “get happy.” I just need to get by. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US">I tried to tune out Noël Neil. I’d get my anti-depressants and anxiety pills, grab some toilet paper if it’s on sale (no emergency, thank goodness) and head home.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US">Alas, no pills. The pharmacy is busy this time of year. (So it’s not just me!) I’d have to come back tomorrow. Oh, goody.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US">I made my way for the exit and then remembered I needed to pick up something else. I didn’t want to ask for help so I scanned shelves while the Eagles sang “Please Come Home for Christmas.” I was thankful for Don Henley singing the blues: “My baby’s gone, I have no friends.” Dark. I could relax. A range of emotions are okay this time of year. I navigated my way, scanning shelves full of antacids, powders professing to relieve constipation and pills that were supposed to help with chronic pain. Not what I needed, but knowing this didn’t propel me to sing “Joy to the World,” not even the non-holiday <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M9uoq9gfeL0" target="_blank">Three Dog Night version</a>.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US">But even working through the blues, Henley opted to end the song on a cheery note, conjuring up a reunion with his “baby” when “There’ll be no more sorrow, no grief and pain and I’ll be happy, Christmas once again.” All righty then. Better than Metamucil.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSwp4QH8s5307mBKV5U_OTpNSh4ii85r9QuWktjUzKhJqQPRoRkYFKJWQ7vQdfJaubrGkFFywTJjC-mHUm9G6zTyTNnlHxoCqUg1L8Cfa9c9xA32b_71pK9XttS-HaQNJLnTR2sEhH8PBjiNHr1tZteA7wPKwQCWsRQ-6f6-O1B3nOJJ9XKGFIxS_cBV0/s299/Unknown-10.jpeg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="299" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSwp4QH8s5307mBKV5U_OTpNSh4ii85r9QuWktjUzKhJqQPRoRkYFKJWQ7vQdfJaubrGkFFywTJjC-mHUm9G6zTyTNnlHxoCqUg1L8Cfa9c9xA32b_71pK9XttS-HaQNJLnTR2sEhH8PBjiNHr1tZteA7wPKwQCWsRQ-6f6-O1B3nOJJ9XKGFIxS_cBV0/s1600/Unknown-10.jpeg" width="299" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Maybe more syrup is all I need.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><span lang="EN-US"><br />By now, you’ve probably misjudged me, a bah-humbugging Scrooge if not the Whoville-hating Grinch. While I don’t go all Buddy the Elf at this time of year, I did have fun <u><a href="https://ruralgayguy.blogspot.com/2023/12/oopsi-did-it-again-christmas-edition.html" target="_blank">decorating a tree</a></u> in a sad little park. I don’t have a tree since turfing all my ornaments in early 2020, anticipating a cross-country move that never happened, but I’m good with plopping my stuffie of Rudolph on a side table, a nice reminder of the 1964 TV production which just so happens to be my favorite show in the whole wide world which I’ve blogged about not <u><a href="https://ruralgayguy.blogspot.com/2011/12/rudolph-is-gay.html" target="_blank">once</a></u> but <u><a href="https://ruralgayguy.blogspot.com/2015/12/rudolph-redux.html" target="_blank">twice</a></u>. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoaEvLJ2BfAVZ39oeIdfeNfWFjSgYDU4nBHsKeCSBp1PyEmibPhbmOseLiuwbJ3GnSmslFEv0kggfEhs6l7pKAbpUXu4bpWpAi1uKprtzcMhYnkiPJvWhP2xNwpBQqh9DtXYETO33bR0WVpAAmCPeUGYBTtvkSlSotJlPVF2ZoG3Ajvk8IRWBckGr10Ks/s4032/IMG_5216.jpeg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoaEvLJ2BfAVZ39oeIdfeNfWFjSgYDU4nBHsKeCSBp1PyEmibPhbmOseLiuwbJ3GnSmslFEv0kggfEhs6l7pKAbpUXu4bpWpAi1uKprtzcMhYnkiPJvWhP2xNwpBQqh9DtXYETO33bR0WVpAAmCPeUGYBTtvkSlSotJlPVF2ZoG3Ajvk8IRWBckGr10Ks/s320/IMG_5216.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Decorating done!<br /><br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><span lang="EN-US"><br />For me, this season is about managing expectations. I’m bipolar and getting too high or too low can be problematic. I don’t like song after festive song telling me to be merry-happy-joyous-cheery because this is without out a doubt The Best Time of Year. I’m all too aware that many people struggle this month, slogging through a rough patch that can’t be conveniently brushed aside by sucking on a candy cane, eating shortbread and drinking eggnog, spiked or otherwise. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US">I do like a number of Christmas songs, notably Donny Hathaway’s “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PhKVSZsRxQM" target="_blank">This Christmas</a>,” Stevie Wonder’s “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wtgGBgpNcIo" target="_blank">What Christmas Means to Me</a>” and The Carpenters’ version of “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YR1ujXx2p-I" target="_blank">Merry Christmas, Darling</a>.” I’ll stop and smile the first time I hear “I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas” each December. Even that omnipresent Mariah Carey tune sounds fresh during its first three plays of the season. What I don’t like is being assaulted with the sounds of Christmas when I walk into a store, café or restaurant. If I’m not happy happy in that very moment, I feel like something’s wrong with me. Rocks in my stocking. Blitzen ougtta bite me in the butt. Why can’t I snap into that Christmas spirit on command?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzvNfmg4-HtLQ8djLJDhMGqoEEVD5xuOHTDKTXSc82cabUIwqXRII4xNz9UxeI2ZrxPidqNMU1FKI5d2sSNUkbXI5kheDCNXbFSPNS8qMt9q-lkiDiZARiQJh1rHAVULm5gy8OzoIhO3zoIXWQ-vz-AsYTLN7gJBLsnucE49IPMAIc-a6Sb6MT9xna6pQ/s259/Unknown-9.jpeg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="259" data-original-width="194" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzvNfmg4-HtLQ8djLJDhMGqoEEVD5xuOHTDKTXSc82cabUIwqXRII4xNz9UxeI2ZrxPidqNMU1FKI5d2sSNUkbXI5kheDCNXbFSPNS8qMt9q-lkiDiZARiQJh1rHAVULm5gy8OzoIhO3zoIXWQ-vz-AsYTLN7gJBLsnucE49IPMAIc-a6Sb6MT9xna6pQ/s1600/Unknown-9.jpeg" width="194" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>A Muppet fave, festive <br />in his candy cane apron.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><span lang="EN-US"><br />Is it weird that I don’t feel like humming umpteen rounds “fa la la la la” while trying to shop discreetly for a personal care remedy? A ghastly thought prompted me to stop lingering. I worried the store would play Paul McCartney’s “Simply Have a Wonderful Christmastime” which sounds like it was written by a second grader or, worse, The Muppets’ version of “The Twelve Days of Christmas” which I always feel compelled to listen to all the way through, Miss Piggy predictably singing of five golden rings, the Swedish Chef unjustly AWOL or, worst of all, any rendition of “The Little Drummer Boy.” (Et tu, David Bowie?!)<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiiOyYSWp4nj4p4pm12l73b6ROJ_eMbHvJxf3fcywda1MPMFFlSET0d3Ba54LAKUAkPGBJZlCfPZyIpdL7_cMaHqPQaTEJ4KA8kXiK2Lr8wPJZfaIfWHmh-W4mLWm8wPOCpyr_brqWmSdHgdftJENsWX0HAqWWU8nRkkKbaVE9EAq0hPJVZx7CoCUv8ws/s225/Unknown-8.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiiOyYSWp4nj4p4pm12l73b6ROJ_eMbHvJxf3fcywda1MPMFFlSET0d3Ba54LAKUAkPGBJZlCfPZyIpdL7_cMaHqPQaTEJ4KA8kXiK2Lr8wPJZfaIfWHmh-W4mLWm8wPOCpyr_brqWmSdHgdftJENsWX0HAqWWU8nRkkKbaVE9EAq0hPJVZx7CoCUv8ws/s1600/Unknown-8.jpeg" width="225" /></a></div><br />Driven by my unmedicated anxiety, I returned to the pharmacy counter, begging to be pointed in the right direction. Aisle 7, between toothpaste and deodorant, top shelf. A-ha! My exit pass. <o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US">Seems I may have picked up athlete’s foot or some other itch-inducing infliction at the public pool. Let an $18 bottle of Funga Soap grant me relief. From burning toes if nothing else.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"> </span></p>Aging Gaylyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09886888900957765438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7857795538755708479.post-18959270400533396652023-12-18T16:05:00.000-08:002023-12-18T16:59:00.402-08:00GETTING COZY IN A QUEER BOOKSHOP<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: verdana; font-size: large; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwwfixlWZOeoCHNV600ooU-A9zAVHEcWo416xBzWVsweJfoRj56dOg90_cRsQ6xBZs8bj5NTi7ookc1Qzo4O31cVzGqHWC7W81s2K-ywHuZp_p0Ndu03rvDEozVdb2gfIQPDU_bpnHKRHnNa7QTMtc2c_UljP6lrDYaKdobM13F3ItItKFlO7VabvHCDM/s1200/all-about-the-seattle-fremont-troll-and-how-to-find-it.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="799" data-original-width="1200" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwwfixlWZOeoCHNV600ooU-A9zAVHEcWo416xBzWVsweJfoRj56dOg90_cRsQ6xBZs8bj5NTi7ookc1Qzo4O31cVzGqHWC7W81s2K-ywHuZp_p0Ndu03rvDEozVdb2gfIQPDU_bpnHKRHnNa7QTMtc2c_UljP6lrDYaKdobM13F3ItItKFlO7VabvHCDM/s320/all-about-the-seattle-fremont-troll-and-how-to-find-it.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I like quirk. It’s why I love the Fremont neighborhood in Seattle and why I’ve made it the primary setting for a gay romance novel I’m writing.</span><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Fremont has always been a bigger draw for me than the traditionally gay area of the city, Capitol Hill. While that district may have the gay bars and a larger proportion of gay pedestrians for people watching, the truth is I was done with gay bars by the close of the last century and you can spot queer folks anywhere you go in the Seattle. We really are everywhere. Fremont has a troll under a bridge, a neon Rapunzel peering from a tower at the foot of a drawbridge, huge dinosaur hedges, a rocket ship, a paint-splattered statue of Josef Stalin and, as I discovered just this morning, a piece of the Berlin Wall. It’s also the site of a Google campus and a Solstice Parade which last year featured a fire-breathing dragon, sun gods, a ladybug float and, as always, naked painted cyclists. (Look it up.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; font-size: large;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHsLNm95U1gB8FXuzJzJLkEoXgGJH32XjAbnIJaZvvev3zMQqSn8c2_ZNHs-LC__KjFCZYX-xpOYSCn_HUdkQX9XLjQTdMYgXrPGCQinq8BJtYMGy9jskcJBpXn4EqblmSKBVlLCd8tGxu6IVXUMVMS-p-Og7I-2xxu3la2nmt0am6ZbWU9zxcxRINfo0/s1298/thumbnail-42.jpeg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1298" data-original-width="959" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHsLNm95U1gB8FXuzJzJLkEoXgGJH32XjAbnIJaZvvev3zMQqSn8c2_ZNHs-LC__KjFCZYX-xpOYSCn_HUdkQX9XLjQTdMYgXrPGCQinq8BJtYMGy9jskcJBpXn4EqblmSKBVlLCd8tGxu6IVXUMVMS-p-Og7I-2xxu3la2nmt0am6ZbWU9zxcxRINfo0/s320/thumbnail-42.jpeg" width="236" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Diverse Santas on a <br />shopkeeper's roof.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">Fremont does everything with a wink, but I like to believe it also ascribes to a higher consciousness. People who weaponize the word <u>woke</u> might risk an aneurysm walking 36<sup>th</sup> Street, peeking in store windows and seeing signs that say, “Black Lives Matter,” “Chefs and Restaurants Against Sexual Harassment,” “A Queer + Trans-Owned Workers Coop!” and “We Invite All Humans, Races, Religions, Countries of Origin, Genders, Sexual Orientations into Our Community. Our Doors and Hearts Are Open.” My kind of place.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuptuTT7lwEo4Yg_A_1W5wajnmFQZuUxkWmX4JDknEDQU4Qvolj8UN9c-h1ZB62EQnRbQY1AwBbjldx8Fw0xb29EreV1pauuP7tFc7o4DR8K7bwg19Wrl9jmF2yVxN_7VBx0VWNcdJ_R3o9lRjCMJDQwkBEvQdLSjW25SOZH-JIrWAN2XJ3Nm53GCrENk/s1080/thumbnail-1.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuptuTT7lwEo4Yg_A_1W5wajnmFQZuUxkWmX4JDknEDQU4Qvolj8UN9c-h1ZB62EQnRbQY1AwBbjldx8Fw0xb29EreV1pauuP7tFc7o4DR8K7bwg19Wrl9jmF2yVxN_7VBx0VWNcdJ_R3o9lRjCMJDQwkBEvQdLSjW25SOZH-JIrWAN2XJ3Nm53GCrENk/s320/thumbnail-1.jpeg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />Even more so as of yesterday. Walking with Evan to brunch, I noticed a small white bungalow with bright purple, pink and orange signage on the front: <a href="https://charliesqueerbooks.com" target="_blank">Charlie’s Books and Gifts</a>. When did that spring up? My eyes are always wide open in Fremont and this was an exciting newbie in the hood. I love a bookstore. An independent one is all the better. (I have no desire to give a dime to Amazon.) I stopped and took a pic. “Let’s go in after we eat,” I said. And then my heart skipped a beat. (Much better than suffering an aneurysm.) The stenciled lettering in the front window said: QUEER BOOKS.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5tAaREJU4xI0ml_WRmpo_XMGwdzJ8Vpu8THGkkeU8nv0H-adaVd5tbqCfhOQqh0RF4DiuPJ2TaCbQh91oA5qJxgs2JMl_GQn6bAkTDz_fbuMQfQzRvkOLG9RILLzLb8MKvThAJDigPwwmwhUmuzSY9C4Xaqi066HQc6R2izi7XD4ix6aXlMpE5g2Kkw0/s1080/thumbnail-30.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5tAaREJU4xI0ml_WRmpo_XMGwdzJ8Vpu8THGkkeU8nv0H-adaVd5tbqCfhOQqh0RF4DiuPJ2TaCbQh91oA5qJxgs2JMl_GQn6bAkTDz_fbuMQfQzRvkOLG9RILLzLb8MKvThAJDigPwwmwhUmuzSY9C4Xaqi066HQc6R2izi7XD4ix6aXlMpE5g2Kkw0/s320/thumbnail-30.jpeg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />What?!<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Gay book boutiques are a rare find these days. When I moved to Los Angeles three decades ago, I’d often pop into A Different Light Bookstore, an LGBT business in West Hollywood. At one point, the store also had locations in The Castro in San Francisco and New York City’s Greenwich Village. By 2011, they were all gone. NYC’s Oscar Wilde Bookshop shuttered in 2009 while Washington, D.C.’s Lambda Rising closed in 2010. The gay bookstore in Vancouver, <a href="https://ruralgayguy.blogspot.com/2013/04/book-ends-part-1.html" target="_blank">Little Sister’s</a>, is a sad remnant of what it once was, now relying on sex toys and skimpy gay apparel to stay in business. To open a new bookstore now only seems like a possibility in some fairytale land at the end of a rainbow. Or in Fremont.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXFMEW4C4pmsKvExByK1Bq74aVa5tmv0g8ejwj9KZIURdrwPc2G4dL1sNKLI6xXG1VfcFMHTlKvi6Y5Y9NzZchtDZTfcC8A-_KNpoNFsRzyaiTzT__zp91b3I5OXTb74ucQm2gV-_J0Rta3bWk_7-ZTW9Zg74xuuMBHhK22KvMH2MrFraaeF13u-4rAHc/s1080/thumbnail-31.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXFMEW4C4pmsKvExByK1Bq74aVa5tmv0g8ejwj9KZIURdrwPc2G4dL1sNKLI6xXG1VfcFMHTlKvi6Y5Y9NzZchtDZTfcC8A-_KNpoNFsRzyaiTzT__zp91b3I5OXTb74ucQm2gV-_J0Rta3bWk_7-ZTW9Zg74xuuMBHhK22KvMH2MrFraaeF13u-4rAHc/s320/thumbnail-31.jpeg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />What started as a sparkly silver “magical disco book cart” that wheeled its way to Seattle markets and Pride events is now a walled haven for queer bibliophiles, going strong after six weeks. It’s a bright space, a swath of pink paint wrapped around the bottom third of the interior walls, the remainder a clean, crisp white. A butcher block topped cart at the entry showcases current queer and queer-friendly reads such as new books by Dolly Parton, Barbra Streisand and The Old Gays. A children’s nook includes stuffed animals, plants on the windowsill and picture books like <i>Big Wig, Perfectly Norman </i>and <i>Bodies are Cool. </i>I browsed general fiction shelves and romance titles while Evan’s eyes were drawn to horror. (I keep telling myself opposites attract.) Near the checkout counter is a bright little banner that says, “YOU BELONG HERE”. Upstairs is a quiet area for reading and writing. What fun it will be to return and write a few scenes of my gay romance on site! <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHzjVte8UZrmB_UTmjx9Vqsb_3hzYCaBXG2UvgwASsroZtc77hQ2A7x61BSRQMOWWebzSjGGymmlba2lIRB9rRzWCZXlr0uJKPtVR8cHNvASdXpXu-uKYrOT_e7tZpKUJJf5o-PqWvSPM0WbCg_fmc75R8FVmjUySxeQCKKWL7jlnsJNkWk0CLhGSLtYo/s1080/thumbnail-43.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHzjVte8UZrmB_UTmjx9Vqsb_3hzYCaBXG2UvgwASsroZtc77hQ2A7x61BSRQMOWWebzSjGGymmlba2lIRB9rRzWCZXlr0uJKPtVR8cHNvASdXpXu-uKYrOT_e7tZpKUJJf5o-PqWvSPM0WbCg_fmc75R8FVmjUySxeQCKKWL7jlnsJNkWk0CLhGSLtYo/s320/thumbnail-43.jpeg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />As is the case for most bookstores these days, Charlie’s sells other merchandise, including canvas shopping bags, stickers, cards and t-shirts emblazoned with messages like “Protect Trans Folks” and “Read Banned Queer Books.” <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Books and other wares may be <a href="https://charliesqueerbooks.com/collections/books" target="_blank">ordered online</a>. I tested things out to determine shipping costs, a $20 book costing $6 to ship to Peoria, Illinois to arrive in five business days. It’s a way to back a queer-owned business rather than feeding the ever-ravenous Amazon. I have no ownership in Charlie’s, but sometimes it feels better to spend a little more when it goes to a better place.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigaWNZisOrR4baJLLK7fQdaXHJbxDhAV_SoqWc-eAca3FJMd85RAPefJfmoTwNJKnk3WOnYF7Pv-1sDwdpwDhgjix1BVQ5D_02AXv0sWCGyvuRzwfWNcXsugfORRegyxsk8jqijqdev_7dWQx_Sw2h6O9JbAI7iCms_H7iEkXs-V0sqbebR0jarjOjhbQ/s1337/thumbnail-19.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1337" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigaWNZisOrR4baJLLK7fQdaXHJbxDhAV_SoqWc-eAca3FJMd85RAPefJfmoTwNJKnk3WOnYF7Pv-1sDwdpwDhgjix1BVQ5D_02AXv0sWCGyvuRzwfWNcXsugfORRegyxsk8jqijqdev_7dWQx_Sw2h6O9JbAI7iCms_H7iEkXs-V0sqbebR0jarjOjhbQ/s320/thumbnail-19.jpeg" width="258" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />While browsing, I overheard one of the owners, Charlie Hunts, identified on the store’s website as “a man of trans experience,” telling a queer author that readings and other events are planned for the new year. As part of its own social consciousness, the store is currently decorating a little Christmas tree, each ornament representing a patron’s donation to <a href="https://genprideseattle.org" target="_blank">GenPride Center</a> which seeks to provide housing and services for older LGBTQIA+ residents of Seattle and King County. It’s worth repeating: I love indie bookstores! <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I made off with a modest first purchase, <i>First Time for Everything,</i> a gay romance by first-time novelist, Henry Fry. Lots of firsts in that sentence. Here’s hoping Charlie’s lasts.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></p>Aging Gaylyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09886888900957765438noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7857795538755708479.post-965732945734953472023-12-12T09:36:00.000-08:002023-12-12T09:42:15.694-08:00OOPS!…I DID IT AGAIN (CHRISTMAS EDITION)<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #050505; font-family: verdana; font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUnVjm0_-99EK9gMPsKotkzCo51n5zhRs-SqTeakK6yvb2iAlIK2inLmLUeQ6bvxh91ljHjGMS4JDzRfCAIQuHKFumUv6R58KtIrGlfDijsmjbPavfOQLXK4NB-7nVwERyPbiU4squETH0vfzFfGYF4hyphenhyphenijpeOY5BFuHPTwjCSxSMkItaPmDt2T60VUEs/s1920/thumbnail-44.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1920" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUnVjm0_-99EK9gMPsKotkzCo51n5zhRs-SqTeakK6yvb2iAlIK2inLmLUeQ6bvxh91ljHjGMS4JDzRfCAIQuHKFumUv6R58KtIrGlfDijsmjbPavfOQLXK4NB-7nVwERyPbiU4squETH0vfzFfGYF4hyphenhyphenijpeOY5BFuHPTwjCSxSMkItaPmDt2T60VUEs/s320/thumbnail-44.jpeg" width="180" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Second year in a row. Does that make it a tradition?<span style="color: #050505;"> </span></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><b><u><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">THE SETUP<o:p></o:p></span></span></u></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">There’s something about a guerrilla public tree decorating that gives me a festive lift this time of year. <u>Last year</u>, it was a solo effort. I worried my cheery idea might come with consequences. It wasn’t like I was going to chop down a pine tree in a public park and drag it home. No, I’d leave it be, roots intact, its perilous fate subject to other conditions, natural and otherwise. Still, I wondered if a police officer might approach, stand at the bottom of the ladder I’d “borrowed” from my condo building and await my descent (or just knock me off for his own holly jollies), then handcuff and haul me to the station, charged with public mischief, vandalism, theft and bad decorating. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Was it worth the risk? I’m generally a rule-biding citizen, apart from an entrenched habit of jaywalking and crossing dead intersections against the light as other Vancouverites stand at the curb and stare in horror at such blatant disobedience. Vancouver puts my asterisked rule-biding inclinations to shame. I if I lived in New York City, I’d have a drawerful of civic commendations.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">After some fretting, I took the risk and evaded arrest. This is Canada so maybe I’m on the Most Wanted list. Me and that <u><a href="https://globalnews.ca/news/4678118/otter-eating-koi-ponds-vancouver-classical-chinese-garden/" target="_blank">otter who raided koi</a></u> from the nearby Chinese gardens.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">This year, I had accomplices, aiders and abetters. I’d lured both of them into bad decorating, a burgeoning gang, The Red Garlands. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><b><u><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></u></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><u><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxKs6cmm4DdSVMu4bV2aKZkb4FYmSmioY7RBGbn6t_dcA2vt0LZJ29Qmbr7zgvnE52Gh5OaUwP6HjunLcOXUavxJ2S_91Z-bgdQwRY7rBtLoRQ33TFhOH9jJbsSgbEoSm1tkqwBVH46DqtfwMXb-VEgWnFU8FJ34xeUvIvGg3i18YIRRxq4x9LwVoN1LQ/s1080/thumbnail-43.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxKs6cmm4DdSVMu4bV2aKZkb4FYmSmioY7RBGbn6t_dcA2vt0LZJ29Qmbr7zgvnE52Gh5OaUwP6HjunLcOXUavxJ2S_91Z-bgdQwRY7rBtLoRQ33TFhOH9jJbsSgbEoSm1tkqwBVH46DqtfwMXb-VEgWnFU8FJ34xeUvIvGg3i18YIRRxq4x9LwVoN1LQ/s320/thumbnail-43.jpeg" width="320" /></a></span></u></b></div><b><u><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />THE SETTING<o:p></o:p></span></u></b><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">First, however, some background about the setting. After some research, I feel it’s important to share.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I walk by a neglected pocket park every day, only a block from home. It’s a stopping point for the unhoused to sit and to maybe smoke something legal (cigarettes, pot) or otherwise (in a bubble pipe). I don’t judge. How does anyone cope with life on the streets? Sometimes there are a couple of tents set up. I imagine that, even though it’s right by the railroad tracks and trains run throughout the night (I know this firsthand!), it’s a less chaotic spot to try to sleep than so many other purported options. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Officially, the park is known as Wendy Poole Park, described in a single sentence on Vancouver’s Board of Parks and Recreation website: <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444;">Wendy Poole Park is a tiny park at the foot of Main Street, with a curving pathway, trees, and outlook to Burrard Inlet.</span><o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444;"><br /></span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I could contact the board, give them an update. <u>Trees</u> is an overstatement. The dead skeleton of a tree with only two remaining branches—a stick tree—was removed at some point over the past year. It’s now down to one, a sad-looking pine, twelve feet tall, dwarfed by the tall building immediately to the west and the concrete overpass to the east. With its lower limbs removed, it’s a lollipop of a tree, mostly stick, not much pop, and definitely nothing that would conjure some fanciful image for <u>lolli</u>. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444;"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Honestly, I don’t think the Parks Board cares. Its attention to this tiny space may have ended in late 2000 with the naming of park after First Nations and Downtown Eastside (DTES) groups and individuals lobbied to have it dedicated to Wendy Poole, a member of the Tsay Keh Dene First Nation. In January 1989, she was a twenty-year-old woman, pregnant with her second child. She’d moved from Northern British Columbia to Vancouver six months prior, looking for something more, finding her way, starting out by working in fast food. On January 26<sup>th</sup> of that year, she was stabbed to death in her second-floor co-op, a murder that remains unsolved. She is one of many <a href="https://www.cbc.ca/missingandmurdered/" style="color: #954f72;">murdered and missing women</a> remembered in Vancouver every Valentine’s Day during the <a href="https://globalnews.ca/news/9486481/vancouver-womens-memorial-march-2023/" style="color: #954f72;">Women’s Memorial March</a>.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444;"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Had I not committed to giving the tree in the park a little seasonal spark, I would never have known the story behind its naming. There’s a plaque and a lovely rock with words etched in it. Like most of us in the community, I passed these markers by, unread. I’d seen the name. It’s really big on the rock. I’d foolishly assumed the place was named for a moneyed, prominent Vancouverite. Elsewhere in the downtown area is Jack Poole Plaza, named for a highly successful real estate developer who’d led the official campaign to bring the Winter Olympics to Vancouver and Whistler in 2010. I mistakenly assumed Wendy must have been his wife. Jack and Wendy’s lives were so starkly different.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444;"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFj4Gkw_EknbCvD70hEXF7kp1VBiWD6HF5eVGAnvLr3qIgHBtwwRVhYL9M8fYeOVdX1POCHGx073SZJ35Ulc-zVIEDDPqXu9iPCYdqPg6pmmnLl74z_5KP9y-PP2gQKMx6zC-hz1ioCjEsCBfotXkX5kgtc1Mxl-kmD0MtIJGtOlpX4d0NuPw7pDoZGM0/s1080/thumbnail-42.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFj4Gkw_EknbCvD70hEXF7kp1VBiWD6HF5eVGAnvLr3qIgHBtwwRVhYL9M8fYeOVdX1POCHGx073SZJ35Ulc-zVIEDDPqXu9iPCYdqPg6pmmnLl74z_5KP9y-PP2gQKMx6zC-hz1ioCjEsCBfotXkX5kgtc1Mxl-kmD0MtIJGtOlpX4d0NuPw7pDoZGM0/s320/thumbnail-42.jpeg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br /> </span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">There’s the history. Wendy would have turned forty-five this year. Let sharing be part of honoring and remembering her. (Sadly, I can find no photo.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444;"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><b><u><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">THE ADMISSION<o:p></o:p></span></span></u></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Last week, with only days until my boyfriend Evan’s next trip up from Seattle, I floated the idea of him being my partner in Christmas mischief. He didn’t hesitate. That’s my guy. Man of many talents. New skill for that LinkedIn account: elf.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Upon his arrival, we scanned the long aisle of decorations at a downtown dollar store and I returned the next day to buy all the tree trimmings. (Nothing was a dollar, of course. It’s self-apparent that The Few Dollars Store doesn’t have quite the right ring to it. Still, the glittery haul was a bargain.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Rain got in the way of decorating. Heavy rain. Bah, humbug, Mother Nature! Heavy snow would have been perfect. Tomorrow then. Or the tomorrow after that. Or not. (I didn’t want the decorations to get swooshed off the tree in the first hour. I also didn’t want to break my leg, slipping on an upper rung on the ladder!)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">On the morning Evan was to return to Seattle, the weather cleared. Not sunny but anything not involving rain is a gift this time of year. I grabbed the bag of decorations and we headed to my building’s parking garage to grab one of the ladders. (It’s a building of lofts. These ladders are for common use…or at least that’s been my assumption. Why ask? <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><i><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieI_0mh9AFC5f6ZYLPg7Ml7kEdY-m_qZhAqIQ-KZBUpORjJoM1gBAhWRBSrwSQUCTzRxAt3CaTGMuaXTh3cHbV47ktEdqfDNpuO9rdZ4saa965uvoyu9dbYQw2q6dtdWjb4mzbwjksoB0GdzNzcTMRgCYylakEWtAe76gwRjeqMfwLjPmg3Z39Wz3dxEg/s1140/thumbnail-29.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1140" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieI_0mh9AFC5f6ZYLPg7Ml7kEdY-m_qZhAqIQ-KZBUpORjJoM1gBAhWRBSrwSQUCTzRxAt3CaTGMuaXTh3cHbV47ktEdqfDNpuO9rdZ4saa965uvoyu9dbYQw2q6dtdWjb4mzbwjksoB0GdzNzcTMRgCYylakEWtAe76gwRjeqMfwLjPmg3Z39Wz3dxEg/s320/thumbnail-29.jpeg" width="303" /></a></span></i></div><i><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />Hi, officer. Just talking the ladder for a walk. No dog so you gotta make do, right?<o:p></o:p></span></i><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Last year’s graffiti had been painted over, now replaced by new tagging. Bigger! Bolder! Only one tent was pitched as we arrived to decorate the sad little pine tree. A gentleman sat at the lone picnic table, smoking a cigarette, not paying any attention to two guys with a ladder.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I decided to put the star on first. It would be the trickiest part. It also required standing on the highest rung. Let me get that over with before any dormant fear of heights awakened within and before I got too casual from all the ups and downs, less alert, more accident-prone. The star wouldn’t stay. Evan offered directions from ground control, but I got flustered. Your move, Evan. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCdkoD3LZwvqp8wINt9k9OKNWfs9gnHhROKKOlY7gI9-S6R7Aj_D9TZVtSmlm0HHFQXtraXhZJKA7LY7f3iDGc0qfMuA8v4lMev4npjTRdPHmqm0cXjqFjXRxA5pCzzoW1PrCdDZHnbRsYB8YFJSl6gYBc-odae_WTm85G-AArrlVwnuxDYj33Th_c3jA/s1440/thumbnail-31.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCdkoD3LZwvqp8wINt9k9OKNWfs9gnHhROKKOlY7gI9-S6R7Aj_D9TZVtSmlm0HHFQXtraXhZJKA7LY7f3iDGc0qfMuA8v4lMev4npjTRdPHmqm0cXjqFjXRxA5pCzzoW1PrCdDZHnbRsYB8YFJSl6gYBc-odae_WTm85G-AArrlVwnuxDYj33Th_c3jA/s320/thumbnail-31.jpeg" width="240" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />He’d only signed on to be a helper elf. Ladder climbing wasn’t in the job description. But my merriness was in a precarious state. Evan’s all too aware of how quickly I can shut down when I decide I can’t do something. He climbed, he fiddled and fidgeted, he willed that star to stay. The ornament was heavier than the pine tufts it topped so there was a sag to its stance. Quirky. Let’s call it whimsical. I don’t care what Martha Stewart would say.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444;"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR86EsZ_K9gLRNw-KdXeMrRyLxSH2-4irlD0LQECAuBdWIB9mL9qLgyJOL1F1N0caQlcBYlBAV-xz-ENCL5bcLjgz4XgGWyLwTzU6P8UsK2ACQRBziDnkDJtMVKmmWRoCQYwNytQ8AuujS7cCOqyZ0v3cjLllaLWn_f-Q54lsIbbnp2Uc_91lxEcyB1FY/s1815/thumbnail-40.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1815" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR86EsZ_K9gLRNw-KdXeMrRyLxSH2-4irlD0LQECAuBdWIB9mL9qLgyJOL1F1N0caQlcBYlBAV-xz-ENCL5bcLjgz4XgGWyLwTzU6P8UsK2ACQRBziDnkDJtMVKmmWRoCQYwNytQ8AuujS7cCOqyZ0v3cjLllaLWn_f-Q54lsIbbnp2Uc_91lxEcyB1FY/s320/thumbnail-40.jpeg" width="190" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />We switched roles again, with me navigating the ladder and Evan unpacking ornaments. As we decorated, I caught the man at the picnic table glancing over a couple of times. At first, I wondered if we were an unwelcome presence. Maybe he’d come here for some solitude only to be disturbed by a couple of wannabe elves. His face was hard to read. Then he called: “Need some help? I could hold the ladder.” <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">And so he did. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Last year’s project was a solo effort but, with three of us, it went faster and felt merrier. I noticed a few people smiling as they passed and one person shouted, “Dr. Seuss!” probably in a nod to the sagging star atop the tree. She followed up with a robust “Merry Christmas!” Was she always this excited or did we lift her spirits?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMZ74WCdXZekGXiulznGskMuLiOQ37CsW59jqOWuaM_hcx95IuXntLnMbhusIaMdmB6FvJnMxbvKNF8aR_zKVlpcIVOExDCRbFZlI7T5IISIjOTJsMR7dx1_MRz4xehoO7GTHkw8qCRA9URX2YZk4gD6RHXuvrCoqG_BGba2cBUv_-V8vUAKSNGErQKPg/s720/thumbnail-30.jpeg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="610" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMZ74WCdXZekGXiulznGskMuLiOQ37CsW59jqOWuaM_hcx95IuXntLnMbhusIaMdmB6FvJnMxbvKNF8aR_zKVlpcIVOExDCRbFZlI7T5IISIjOTJsMR7dx1_MRz4xehoO7GTHkw8qCRA9URX2YZk4gD6RHXuvrCoqG_BGba2cBUv_-V8vUAKSNGErQKPg/s320/thumbnail-30.jpeg" width="271" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>And yet he cropped just so to<br />keep the bags under my eyes!</i></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />My new ladder assistant held it in place each time we rotated it. He nodded off ever so briefly, hand still on it, committed, doing his best. He added an ornament to one of the lower branches.<o:p></o:p></span></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">We exchanged names. I took his picture, but he didn’t have a phone to forward it. He took ours, too. I could tell he was too close to get us and the tree. I knew the shot would be one of those flawed pics from the days of going to Fotomat. All the better. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">He said he was from the BC Interior and had come to Vancouver’s sketchy Downtown East Side to get his son but, in so doing, he’d relapsed. Addiction is relentlessly opportunistic.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwOurIKoGnt_OKeHQc7OFU5p8SlPtHfMlwDaf6oeQffHq-qGHjRQW3fNp31a9JM5lj7vDEGYEw0yFjCP4vNzIm0teiLp0G3yyEXQxzPejBdVI4xiSauKTlyaRvXILER9T8YIbmTA9JXwHuSI5Z_yABneRVbJevWsKAC1iCJH5p2wMh76Ttvz7ZAN7V3Xo/s1440/thumbnail-29.jpeg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwOurIKoGnt_OKeHQc7OFU5p8SlPtHfMlwDaf6oeQffHq-qGHjRQW3fNp31a9JM5lj7vDEGYEw0yFjCP4vNzIm0teiLp0G3yyEXQxzPejBdVI4xiSauKTlyaRvXILER9T8YIbmTA9JXwHuSI5Z_yABneRVbJevWsKAC1iCJH5p2wMh76Ttvz7ZAN7V3Xo/s320/thumbnail-29.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Yes, Martha. That's the tree.<br /><br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />All done, Evan and I walked the ladder home and I turned my head back to see my ladder assistant walking slowly down the street in a different direction, his face blank again. It was a novel start to the day for each of us and a rare chance for strangers living different realities to connect, however briefly. <o:p></o:p></span></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: #050505;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">This “tradition” is evolving.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p>Aging Gaylyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09886888900957765438noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7857795538755708479.post-83073618061191972362023-12-05T09:49:00.000-08:002023-12-05T09:49:14.694-08:00WHAT WOULD CARLY SAY?<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd86219pEaXLCcSMcBwjRADGnoLt2no4QPP71NFqWtDu4VB1FAlMzyCgyueIKQ7OHEdrUWZl9MBp_Mx0v8b95creGs1feelPlet7VYiVsHFNPYuge-YWRtAtXPP03h1OYkPhFQPk94KAoUKzt3Qt45IpVxi9kCc-ON_s3OR3sT4kJpBmCmtc4SxAeA8kw/s663/Carly-Simon-Youre-So-Vain-1552918357.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="663" data-original-width="660" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd86219pEaXLCcSMcBwjRADGnoLt2no4QPP71NFqWtDu4VB1FAlMzyCgyueIKQ7OHEdrUWZl9MBp_Mx0v8b95creGs1feelPlet7VYiVsHFNPYuge-YWRtAtXPP03h1OYkPhFQPk94KAoUKzt3Qt45IpVxi9kCc-ON_s3OR3sT4kJpBmCmtc4SxAeA8kw/s320/Carly-Simon-Youre-So-Vain-1552918357.jpeg" width="319" /></a></div><br />In January 1973, Carly Simon hit #1 on the Billboard Hot 100 with “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lT7I40wWYAQ" target="_blank">You’re So Vain</a>.” It’s an iconic song with lyrics I feel compelled to listen to every time YouTube decides I need to hear it again, a frequent occurrence since the music provider has surmised I’m happily stuck in the ’70s.<span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;"> </span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">As a young kid growing up in Hamilton, Ontario, I loved the fact the song had a Canadian shout-out: <i>You flew your Learjet up to Nova Scotia to see the total eclipse of the sun. </i>Of course, there was so much more, with a guy wearing an apricot scarf, his <i>hat strategically dipped below one eye </i>and references to a life of wealth, including yachting and horse racing. The man in the song is clearly a playboy who dashed Carly’s dreams—<i>clouds in my coffee</i>—and had no remorse, cozying up to <i>some underworld spy or the wife of a close friend. </i> <i> <o:p></o:p></i></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">The cad!<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Still, of all the lyrics, the line that’s appalled and amused me the most is in the chorus:<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">You’re so vain,<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><i><span lang="EN-US">You probably think this song is about you.</span></i><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Dude thinks he’s all that. It’s not a slam but an honor. “Got me a song. Carly can’t shake me. (Of course she can’t!)” Okay, that last aside wouldn’t even be in parentheses, would it?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Ever since the song’s release, people have speculated over the subject of the song. Figment of Carly’s imagination? Nah. Where’s the fun in that? <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">One guy or an amalgamation of the guys she met amongst the wealthy and in celebrity circles? (Her father, Richard, was the co-founder of American big five publisher Simon & Schuster.) <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNA5WGfdCtBxAMtdSsBq2LUZYDrXVTQkT586wxom_Zd63oXHkiYg6jJlqyCAFmFCjbgZLZ2QoUg3u42ErBqnjgRC70vL7FmQyG3p1Umb0IvMwt6RxbvgSxIRC1Jl9iy4jhhxAHnvbfBQfwK92PK29u-7E6p4eMq_EY7MT9zfz3rsIoveHLwpzmt17kkTs/s1020/image.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="891" data-original-width="1020" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNA5WGfdCtBxAMtdSsBq2LUZYDrXVTQkT586wxom_Zd63oXHkiYg6jJlqyCAFmFCjbgZLZ2QoUg3u42ErBqnjgRC70vL7FmQyG3p1Umb0IvMwt6RxbvgSxIRC1Jl9iy4jhhxAHnvbfBQfwK92PK29u-7E6p4eMq_EY7MT9zfz3rsIoveHLwpzmt17kkTs/s320/image.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />Warren Beatty seems to come up the most. Sometimes Mick Jagger gets a nod, which seemingly adds an extra jolt to the song’s renown since Carly got him to sing backing vocals. Was he in on the joke or simply the subject of it? Lots of other names have been suggested and, over the years, it’s gotten silly, with Carly whispering the subject’s name to the highest bidder at a charity auction and offering letter clues: A and E, then R. Warren and Mick still a possibility.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">No one cares anymore. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipFHuNSQntpuIm_V5mEvguTz8s1FQvSgW2F_fQxmFIhHzge5KQ-FJfuc78XkyGictSiV8h-ljR8sP19B3JZExVciDPkcmYVWhoMbA6r8YjLmTLdTT4ZjAzYjiVVanTNuEFBNO5PvUNZTO8M78JOfsxQYZwdjvYMcfEICgyiXL2aZ2vW3rmLCaxCSjBuJA/s1500/The-Masked-Singer-092623-c31ed503de9442ce8876229e37f6e87e.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1500" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipFHuNSQntpuIm_V5mEvguTz8s1FQvSgW2F_fQxmFIhHzge5KQ-FJfuc78XkyGictSiV8h-ljR8sP19B3JZExVciDPkcmYVWhoMbA6r8YjLmTLdTT4ZjAzYjiVVanTNuEFBNO5PvUNZTO8M78JOfsxQYZwdjvYMcfEICgyiXL2aZ2vW3rmLCaxCSjBuJA/s320/The-Masked-Singer-092623-c31ed503de9442ce8876229e37f6e87e.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>WHAT?!</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br />Half a century has passed. People are too consumed with whom Taylor’s dating, what the deal is with Jada and Will and perhaps who Cow and Donut are on <i>The Masked Singer. </i>(I had to look up that last tidbit. Have never watched an episode. Ten seasons?! What the hell is that all about anyway?) <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEAeDm49hGEUKkzIcubC4AqRF4qlwUQQsSt_fBQclDnVVLpKYgixAIa6afKSqQ8vpIzi9UG0MFuRB2zAKQJYXU5QZy6IUGwtIT8_3Zi7fy662UPpSPtFQ0GGYxgz_I1pWN0d8QWX5Vgec74H0n72TFkfsQKJZVklnS5lNwn8GfPz9JONq1RpaMXCvNmBI/s626/best-instant-camera_.jpg.webp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="352" data-original-width="626" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEAeDm49hGEUKkzIcubC4AqRF4qlwUQQsSt_fBQclDnVVLpKYgixAIa6afKSqQ8vpIzi9UG0MFuRB2zAKQJYXU5QZy6IUGwtIT8_3Zi7fy662UPpSPtFQ0GGYxgz_I1pWN0d8QWX5Vgec74H0n72TFkfsQKJZVklnS5lNwn8GfPz9JONq1RpaMXCvNmBI/s320/best-instant-camera_.jpg.webp" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />If we applied 1973 standards to 2023, most of us would warrant a <b>VAIN</b> label. Who in the ’70s took their Polaroid Instant Camera and turned the lens on themselves rather than on Grams blowing out candles on her cake? Who photographed the Mediterranean hummus bowl they just made? (Not even a meal then. Why would anyone want to document yet another steak dinner with baked potato and carrot-pea vegetable medley?) Would anyone take a photo of a new haircut, drop it off at Fotomat and then order three dozen copies to mail off to friends, family and ABSOLUTE STRANGERS hoping a significant portion would reply three weeks later with a letter that says, “I like your haircut,” which, by then, could use a little trim? Ridiculous!<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxSIBv8KGvgLe9-09LidWFtIaPK69nVRT_s5aLKIozGsjYOK0Y9lZ0PEyGaJYHWD8rifx9hcwUiHzvirmPcuy7CJ_z_KHcO9GN_q2hDegV5cXMfcTfA4NzNGXDREbXjrDzgW15vOUc9OVpxQ_vfQRWwPPNdhtDcd5BCIt3lWq_s5A_DXE3Aa9mjH61OW0/s1199/fotomatvintage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="684" data-original-width="1199" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxSIBv8KGvgLe9-09LidWFtIaPK69nVRT_s5aLKIozGsjYOK0Y9lZ0PEyGaJYHWD8rifx9hcwUiHzvirmPcuy7CJ_z_KHcO9GN_q2hDegV5cXMfcTfA4NzNGXDREbXjrDzgW15vOUc9OVpxQ_vfQRWwPPNdhtDcd5BCIt3lWq_s5A_DXE3Aa9mjH61OW0/s320/fotomatvintage.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />We take our own photos all the time now, maybe adding a new pose after this post: closeup, hat strategically dipped below one eye, maybe even accessorized with an apricot scarf. Thanks, Carly!<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaHEzwPGMRZ9JQYqsWJ8HQJ5-vPJDAx_DDs3OwQS6FpCTsmyWI8wN8uwFKKsHjuQInTTXXyWQUlD-xrZ-6GJvsNZPTPJTDh3xKjNqoeSKh7j4ZfNYFIup9nv1YeEB0ZvgitMnJQw0aW4S7bttdp-0D2osDrkyuYe533VC6uuGTBd4ZFNKs0xfBUG_ipo4/s259/Unknown-11.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="259" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaHEzwPGMRZ9JQYqsWJ8HQJ5-vPJDAx_DDs3OwQS6FpCTsmyWI8wN8uwFKKsHjuQInTTXXyWQUlD-xrZ-6GJvsNZPTPJTDh3xKjNqoeSKh7j4ZfNYFIup9nv1YeEB0ZvgitMnJQw0aW4S7bttdp-0D2osDrkyuYe533VC6uuGTBd4ZFNKs0xfBUG_ipo4/s1600/Unknown-11.jpeg" width="259" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />I remember all the slideshows from family vacations while I was growing up, a finger blocking half of Niagara Falls, a zoo lion with only half its head in frame, every single shot of nine-year-old me flashing my teeth in a geeky, ill-conceived attempt at a smile. What kid doesn’t know how to smile perfectly now? Five-year-olds have already figured out their better side and at least four on-command poses.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">It’s so easy now, isn’t it? Get into a heated conversation with Uncle John at Thanksgiving dinner, interrupted briefly—“Smile for the Facebook post”—before flinging words like <i>racist, woke, Boomer </i>and <i>socialist </i>along with forkfuls of mashed potatoes at one another. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7esXKN1NqRLayPPjH4OZhf3TrazobGERGr9OPaqhl8CcR8ZK1T_I_D8f0BvJYXkWBGqVLUg4JTZYFEZwf3S9xl_twwYCbPy8936lQ1TBdEfqoG4J2yTofP1O2WRhUVjw47qJhQGo-587xF7EKFLvYt0t6Q6FxDalQUhroT7BcMw1TMeFSagJPAvfKd6Q/s1000/1041356_xl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7esXKN1NqRLayPPjH4OZhf3TrazobGERGr9OPaqhl8CcR8ZK1T_I_D8f0BvJYXkWBGqVLUg4JTZYFEZwf3S9xl_twwYCbPy8936lQ1TBdEfqoG4J2yTofP1O2WRhUVjw47qJhQGo-587xF7EKFLvYt0t6Q6FxDalQUhroT7BcMw1TMeFSagJPAvfKd6Q/s320/1041356_xl.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />In my teens, I’d disappear when someone pulled out a camera. There was always time since it was in a fancy camera bag and there were lenses to be removed and carefully placed so they wouldn’t be lost before the strap went around the designated photographer’s neck. There were inevitably a few practice rounds of saying cheese since the camera hadn’t been wound and then the flash didn’t go off and then cousin Timmy’s hands had to be restrained so he’d stop giving cousin Lucy bunny ears. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">(Remember that awful phase when everyone was digitally adding bunny ears? Yeesh.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Now someone says, “Let’s get a selfie” and everyone crowds in with their well-rehearsed half-laughs and fish lip poses. Four pics, all the same, never red eye, never someone saying, “I wasn’t ready.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">We’re always ready.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">It’s too much but it is what is. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL0oCt2YJbBJr3xNMRyYKTaoQ9nx0-ZYAm-WFXSMMEATXvlrCHwTCa8NihSZMGOvigWZsisBJTQ7nUv_aqVacqDJtrc-w7FTeLPUsuoJDPb9pf-kn4Jd3RbmRPhAQjJh5rApCi49dx_mxB6VshOCl3PV62QzRcW8pRMQF36o6XMuye-Dd-Ja346v3bnoI/s1268/IMG_2253.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="895" data-original-width="1268" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL0oCt2YJbBJr3xNMRyYKTaoQ9nx0-ZYAm-WFXSMMEATXvlrCHwTCa8NihSZMGOvigWZsisBJTQ7nUv_aqVacqDJtrc-w7FTeLPUsuoJDPb9pf-kn4Jd3RbmRPhAQjJh5rApCi49dx_mxB6VshOCl3PV62QzRcW8pRMQF36o6XMuye-Dd-Ja346v3bnoI/s320/IMG_2253.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Yep. Guilty. I tell myself it's different<br />because I "blendie." I try to find a<br />matching background. Maybe you<br />can't even see me.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br />I selfie, too. (My Word doc didn’t even question my use of <i>selfie </i>as a verb.) I’ll admit to using my phone camera’s selfie mode for checking my hair and ensuring I don’t have a flax seed nestled between my teeth. It’s so much clearer than the image in a passing window. Purses must be a tad lighter without requiring a hand mirror. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoik2tY8NpTV_tcNFCFmwM3zVXaf3NrhdXW-P3Sa7_S88dFxw-eiost4DeTlThO_CsQs7D8mdyNJ0YLqA3mDN7CPADp-6SGsipwfNz1T9hpGztY9oVqkoP-g18ehMvzcF8SURaqb3tjit1JtjTI-EiQsxmTTwXw1tORqmEKsSyBC0pqZVKc2NzgSeLVMU/s1080/thumbnail-21.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoik2tY8NpTV_tcNFCFmwM3zVXaf3NrhdXW-P3Sa7_S88dFxw-eiost4DeTlThO_CsQs7D8mdyNJ0YLqA3mDN7CPADp-6SGsipwfNz1T9hpGztY9oVqkoP-g18ehMvzcF8SURaqb3tjit1JtjTI-EiQsxmTTwXw1tORqmEKsSyBC0pqZVKc2NzgSeLVMU/s320/thumbnail-21.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Weekend blendie. Lines on face<br />unintentionally adding to the<br />blend effect. Ack!</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br />But I’m deeper in the selfie sphere than I’d like to admit. Yes, I adjust the zoom lens, I do a little circle with the phone in hand checking for the best light, I smile, I click. Again. A third time, in profile, if I dare. (I hate my profile shots.) I don’t look right away and consider retakes. Enough already! I’ll look later. At home or on an elevator to look busy and to avoid an inane conversation about Vancouver’s rain. (Is there anything left to say?) <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmNyshUMIyCpOMifN5zuKd-snHL9b90P6u2MurlMEKl9YfDvMNxji7C-KncabY14VbtRSS9aAzj5Jzmm9hsEIOio2TvviYr3irM1Xi-7UTh_Hk6uLRXCF2_J6R4xTMRdMraj_grREbAayoVtSYkklYanCJhhUkNwymNI2iQBa2gU92RBH74SKO2sed4Rc/s1280/IMG_4874.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmNyshUMIyCpOMifN5zuKd-snHL9b90P6u2MurlMEKl9YfDvMNxji7C-KncabY14VbtRSS9aAzj5Jzmm9hsEIOio2TvviYr3irM1Xi-7UTh_Hk6uLRXCF2_J6R4xTMRdMraj_grREbAayoVtSYkklYanCJhhUkNwymNI2iQBa2gU92RBH74SKO2sed4Rc/s320/IMG_4874.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Another blendie. Sunglasses<br />are so forgiving!</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br />It gets worse, of course. I selfie and I post. On Facebook. On Instagram. On Twitter (even though it feels like it’s in hospice care). On Blue Sky Social (even if it still doesn’t feel like a thing).<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Worse still. I check in more during the day. Did anyone other than my mother and my aunt like the post? Oh, no! My mother “liked” the painted fire hydrant but not my selfie sipping my umpteenth oat latte. Is she signaling that I need to ease up on the selfies? Is she anti-oat? Is she saying I’m having a bad hair day? <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">When did I start relying on a “like” count to decide whether I should go the rest of the day with a baseball cap? <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">When did I start relying on a “like” count for anything?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Please “like” me. Retweet? [Why would anyone do that?] Like me! Comment?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir1tmYC4fR39BRgYM6QPozp7ibDnVlXKv8y35yYr2Cbpqp3vQm-DbnIYa8wHVFACHS9t4wrXVu1GpZI0N1d4TykyaD_IG3V6HBX_SA0c7nyl2KkhHSPf6XEp7JPaTzfKbuc-jyIwoxSoplux3PbDbUBxUUYsih2_RVWcQV2vgXuEhCCyHmsxwsVYHIoSI/s3024/IMG_0671.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="2472" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir1tmYC4fR39BRgYM6QPozp7ibDnVlXKv8y35yYr2Cbpqp3vQm-DbnIYa8wHVFACHS9t4wrXVu1GpZI0N1d4TykyaD_IG3V6HBX_SA0c7nyl2KkhHSPf6XEp7JPaTzfKbuc-jyIwoxSoplux3PbDbUBxUUYsih2_RVWcQV2vgXuEhCCyHmsxwsVYHIoSI/s320/IMG_0671.jpeg" width="262" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>It goes on and on...</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br />It sounds so sad when I write it out, when I articulate these trivial brain tics. Vanity is laced with insecurity instead of overconfidence these days. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Maybe the next selfie will get more likes. Maybe if I wear green. Maybe if I add a croissant. Would they be liking the pastry and not the person? Some questions must not be asked. Is it weird to stop a dog walker and ask to get a shot with their Yorkie? Sunshine would brighten the shot. Damn Vancouver rain!<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">It doesn’t stop. Neither the rain nor the selfies. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I’m thinking “You’re So Vain” is due for a 2023 cover, maybe by Carly herself. She may be the only one to knock some sense in all of us.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>Aging Gaylyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09886888900957765438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7857795538755708479.post-25722838146082486912023-11-27T11:58:00.000-08:002023-11-27T11:58:35.586-08:00CONFESSIONS OF A BAD VEGETARIAN<style class="WebKit-mso-list-quirks-style">
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</style><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0F3RhtouyIUStfk0MhZh01EzyNMRRiEDRLnelyzxzsh2NTbSdDBTyIw-Can46WW-0gMh70pSy-29cT_HlwJffi1_IpxaVf4Tn-bWINmaPHLxUEVJF1Y2hiyLjwhEB6WPwqlIXjtEbdKurljEhJvFdvKwinLJwL-p4ZOECw_7KCRoQBcDlbaAb7P01z7A/s225/images-15.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0F3RhtouyIUStfk0MhZh01EzyNMRRiEDRLnelyzxzsh2NTbSdDBTyIw-Can46WW-0gMh70pSy-29cT_HlwJffi1_IpxaVf4Tn-bWINmaPHLxUEVJF1Y2hiyLjwhEB6WPwqlIXjtEbdKurljEhJvFdvKwinLJwL-p4ZOECw_7KCRoQBcDlbaAb7P01z7A/s1600/images-15.jpeg" width="225" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />1)<span style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-US">I’m not vegan. To a certain segment of my cuisine “community,” that makes me bad. End of story. Never mind that I’ve remained steadfast, without a single dietary exception, since I made this choice thirty-eight years ago. In Texas.<o:p></o:p></span></span><p></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ3SnrztUHDWJsiPL5BiP1hOYBeZ9STsAeKR3jx0uZiWbwNEX5d-jy2mz4J0Ab2GJij1561bBeN7ThX4tYjlF3upssjKowEEGNs5TBBkGciCQl4Gy5UfEuFZioKicbMLuTfWIOxOvuAtg0CkWV8vG9gr7ActvZ8mb9alY5kVpF0L8yCiBVW6VFmZFnxYM/s259/Unknown-3.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="259" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ3SnrztUHDWJsiPL5BiP1hOYBeZ9STsAeKR3jx0uZiWbwNEX5d-jy2mz4J0Ab2GJij1561bBeN7ThX4tYjlF3upssjKowEEGNs5TBBkGciCQl4Gy5UfEuFZioKicbMLuTfWIOxOvuAtg0CkWV8vG9gr7ActvZ8mb9alY5kVpF0L8yCiBVW6VFmZFnxYM/s1600/Unknown-3.jpeg" width="259" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">2)<span style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-US">I have a dysfunctional relationship with tofu. It sits in the “meat” compartment of my refrigerator until 6-8 months past its expiration date. When it becomes impossible for me to overlook the mold, I unwrap the package and chuck the contents in my compost container. Honestly, I don’t know what to do with tofu. I’ve never once been cooking and thought, <i>Hey, this would be better with tofu. </i>I’m not anti-tofu, just tofu-ambivalent.<i></i><o:p></o:p></span></span><p></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEXz3hlmBwkew9PbO7j-Nx7CC5n4q7RdL2KSGFXTg-KvMkhPc1eXELEDFo8PLuQM31lS9gD5CrRFLNJqm-G4byw-8EANUPcnKRjn4I5s-BHqzbBVbVYiiUf-CBEWiyrwRHVMeApm7n7hPEwmEK1ZWmXEIjbPFCeLUAJ5FOcmerqijjokHRJdKiGn2eXXo/s318/Unknown-9.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="159" data-original-width="318" height="159" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEXz3hlmBwkew9PbO7j-Nx7CC5n4q7RdL2KSGFXTg-KvMkhPc1eXELEDFo8PLuQM31lS9gD5CrRFLNJqm-G4byw-8EANUPcnKRjn4I5s-BHqzbBVbVYiiUf-CBEWiyrwRHVMeApm7n7hPEwmEK1ZWmXEIjbPFCeLUAJ5FOcmerqijjokHRJdKiGn2eXXo/s1600/Unknown-9.jpeg" width="318" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />3)<span style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-US">I don’t eat nuts. No allergy. I just really, really, really don’t like them. It’s the bitterness. And the way the little bits want to nestle in the grooves of my teeth. (I pass on jelly beans, too.) You can have all the chocolate covered almonds and the banana bread chalk full of walnuts. No sharing necessary. I’m not so big on banana bread anyway. I suppose that could be a separate point, but you already know enough.<o:p></o:p></span></span><p></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIhl3tBuH8vX9cjxc2pdskrMTXJdrBCXYiKOhITHaSHVqNTMmE_HNK4v3ofUBpbqkcVXwSfv9BGPPZg6pn4kk6pb-BALw1TZpI2TaVJOqJv252fTmyKUIQ2_V26L_jlKYDzgiIJtEdAHMnyLaXOg8WC7Wb2AP_wA_R9w2HWSplEYYhCqnA226ocfwo85k/s640/070822-cheese-1657306973.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="637" data-original-width="640" height="319" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIhl3tBuH8vX9cjxc2pdskrMTXJdrBCXYiKOhITHaSHVqNTMmE_HNK4v3ofUBpbqkcVXwSfv9BGPPZg6pn4kk6pb-BALw1TZpI2TaVJOqJv252fTmyKUIQ2_V26L_jlKYDzgiIJtEdAHMnyLaXOg8WC7Wb2AP_wA_R9w2HWSplEYYhCqnA226ocfwo85k/s320/070822-cheese-1657306973.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />4)<span style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-US">Vegan cheez does not get a passing grade. I’ve bought all the brands. I’ve tried the vegan interpretation of mozzarella, gouda, blue, parmesan, feta, cream cheese and cheddar. There’s always a foreign tanginess or an issue with melting or just the fact that the cheez does not taste like cheese. You could blindfold me to conduct a taste test, but I should warn you it doesn’t take much for me to feel claustrophobic. It won’t end well with me screaming and swatting the air. You don’t need the assault and I don’t need that tedious detour through the legal system. <o:p></o:p></span></span><p></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I lined up a couple times at a “vegan dairy” that only opened four hours on Saturdays. The line seemed to justify the high prices. But it all comes down to taste. That “vegan dairy” is now a ceramics store. Karma.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP14KImnBLYAle6jJcCxSCV2zxvTXQT7BKvIl4VIEuEhLf8U9BVrF1JjoPhsB0uUwPQYqQPAHeEx8hu87NhpZZIfAhVrXUn3a_TaPq7P1A5vOyvwUACVERnVJI3-7p5sCxtStlcgqnRsar2ds_HUvGMjODj58HKuASFCddpMM2dIYbe_JW_Y5Tj8fXNJw/s500/Greek-Salad-featsqb-500x500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP14KImnBLYAle6jJcCxSCV2zxvTXQT7BKvIl4VIEuEhLf8U9BVrF1JjoPhsB0uUwPQYqQPAHeEx8hu87NhpZZIfAhVrXUn3a_TaPq7P1A5vOyvwUACVERnVJI3-7p5sCxtStlcgqnRsar2ds_HUvGMjODj58HKuASFCddpMM2dIYbe_JW_Y5Tj8fXNJw/s320/Greek-Salad-featsqb-500x500.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />5)<span style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-US"> I don’t eat Greek. Sure, there’s moussaka, but my uncle and I may be the only two people on the planet who are allergic to eggplant. My reaction isn’t pretty. Just trust me on that. Sure, I could have the Greek salad, but that’s a whole lot of chopped onions and cucumbers and, frankly, not all that interesting. There’s spanakopita, but phyllo is too messy. Same with baklava, also loaded with those dang nuts.</span></span><p></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw_q8Tx6MYszlyUrvZ2l862VP4fbuDFHjWefvMg27LEqkcVxVPiLj21Dz8YZC-2WrEAJBMMK00D4EkuV3FLFrCrH4jqPo-PG_OWZU5S7jh12XqeZDjaJtHmKkAKssWv7Azwfw7UK1xLoMeqzC4qzl79ABx4vX_RERhPnKWUczGVuzvG4qPgVIxOBF2SM8/s1920/realistic-pulpit-clipart-design-illustration-free-png.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1920" data-original-width="938" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw_q8Tx6MYszlyUrvZ2l862VP4fbuDFHjWefvMg27LEqkcVxVPiLj21Dz8YZC-2WrEAJBMMK00D4EkuV3FLFrCrH4jqPo-PG_OWZU5S7jh12XqeZDjaJtHmKkAKssWv7Azwfw7UK1xLoMeqzC4qzl79ABx4vX_RERhPnKWUczGVuzvG4qPgVIxOBF2SM8/s320/realistic-pulpit-clipart-design-illustration-free-png.png" width="156" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />6)<span style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-US">I don’t preach. I’ve sat through plenty of meals with people grilling me about being on the veg spectrum. Really, I’d rather talk about anything else. Even Trump. I don’t mind talking with someone who is genuinely curious, but the questioning is often leading in a way that makes the former lawyer in me want to shout, “Objection!” The motive comes around to finding flaws in my choice and ultimately superiority in the meat-eating lifestyle. But I’m not battling and I’m not recruiting. I have very strong feelings on the subject but, as with religion, I keep them to myself. Find your own way. Make your own choices. Respect that others make their own.<o:p></o:p></span></span><p></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgClxY57L5IiNk8CE2Y4jXV-eDKNGQbcp2VffEHvp4DHGowircBJBSGZ-6mb_W9-ds9SNOPlYAHnmfF8fr9Cz8x8mz6ICucwTH8o7hLFso897rUprG1xONgSNDgLg1us5mfInmtmoXCNRB83lVqNHZuVjTPqA9Jk3Qo7yu8LGmXHQx_ttaUGwwXT4z2V8Q/s307/i_like_vegans_trucker_hat-r6cd2a10e586f4bc093e426fe1cade360_eahwr_8byvr_307.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="307" data-original-width="307" height="307" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgClxY57L5IiNk8CE2Y4jXV-eDKNGQbcp2VffEHvp4DHGowircBJBSGZ-6mb_W9-ds9SNOPlYAHnmfF8fr9Cz8x8mz6ICucwTH8o7hLFso897rUprG1xONgSNDgLg1us5mfInmtmoXCNRB83lVqNHZuVjTPqA9Jk3Qo7yu8LGmXHQx_ttaUGwwXT4z2V8Q/s1600/i_like_vegans_trucker_hat-r6cd2a10e586f4bc093e426fe1cade360_eahwr_8byvr_307.jpg" width="307" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />7)<span style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-US">I’ve heard your joke. Jokes even. You’re a meat-a-tarian. Har har. You eat vegetarians for breakfast. (Who are you…Hannibal Lecter?) A lawyer, a vegan/vegetarian and a politician are on a sinking boat…who do you save? Society! Yuk yuk. I have a sense of humor; I laugh when something’s funny. Here’s the thing: the joke has to be funny. And new.<o:p></o:p></span></span><p></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-siL0MXCS55KSQKZEng8-CW41WkbOV_EoSKPCtudbhb2Yvb00mfLCIRXMsuLWCRKy_-I90V7B5eJtyjduESNldc15K63Fi6TYlwxpGvaKdA81mrSdXgFPaIed-HLqYWl4O3gASimbWYGfWgCC9sIRquKBjJU0k0xfpJWj1N9L2mC45SdHNCjPy9x8zkQ/s259/images-16.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="259" data-original-width="194" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-siL0MXCS55KSQKZEng8-CW41WkbOV_EoSKPCtudbhb2Yvb00mfLCIRXMsuLWCRKy_-I90V7B5eJtyjduESNldc15K63Fi6TYlwxpGvaKdA81mrSdXgFPaIed-HLqYWl4O3gASimbWYGfWgCC9sIRquKBjJU0k0xfpJWj1N9L2mC45SdHNCjPy9x8zkQ/s1600/images-16.jpeg" width="194" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />8)<span style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-US">Cheese-less pizza is good. I swear. I’ll admit I felt embarrassed the first time I ordered it in one of those lines like at Chipotle where you choose the toppings. The two guys behind the counter thought I was pranking them. Like it was being filmed for a new incarnation of <i>Candid Camera. </i>No pepperoni. No mozza. “No taste.” (Yuk yuk…again.)<o:p></o:p></span></span><p></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglFtAb0VRqekk6EhkIvK0B0DFfg44I-ozj9cYsvnbTgSGI6RDJmthteTBDfBDa0d9baT8anWSy4AeNU9lYoMbRuWeMwwerkn0ybDsgp5hhrClWCIjmDJjYi3Pv_hRil8hxQ0wxp0N2FKyWWJ8bqrpEhz3qxxgw5aVtjQw60N6c-v85-x5ThR01fhTf2O0/s3600/shutterstock_1537830014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2700" data-original-width="3600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglFtAb0VRqekk6EhkIvK0B0DFfg44I-ozj9cYsvnbTgSGI6RDJmthteTBDfBDa0d9baT8anWSy4AeNU9lYoMbRuWeMwwerkn0ybDsgp5hhrClWCIjmDJjYi3Pv_hRil8hxQ0wxp0N2FKyWWJ8bqrpEhz3qxxgw5aVtjQw60N6c-v85-x5ThR01fhTf2O0/s320/shutterstock_1537830014.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />9)<span style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-US">I don’t want fake meat. And I really don’t want fake bloody “juices.” I don’t miss the taste of meat. Honestly. It’s been thirty-eight years. I’m over it. Eating a meaty burger or chick*n in a restaurant freaks me out. A regular meat eater may chew away and dismiss the attempt at the deep fake, but I take a bite and worry. To me, it tastes like sausage, ground beef or bacon. Again, it’s been thirty-eight years. What do I know? <o:p></o:p></span></span><p></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I surmise the fake meat movement is directed to veg folk who have made the switch for health reasons. They miss meat. It’s also an option for meat eaters dragged into a vegan café, “forced” to abide by the sign at the door (No Smoking, No Kicking, No Screaming). They can order the butter chick*n and shrug (translation: passable, not that they’ll admit it) or mock. Everyone loves a critic. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><span lang="EN-US"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzb94Rp9cwPZM5X8hlY5bxek2Ww9VY3aSRncFJFGiVVFb3YKcxJ5UhvIWiJiQlWCE0IcJwlfK5eu76YBEuzU6nH-HTPfvo6EAjk02gvccusecVLP5FnOzfUHM4sBXLY4vp97yAAaNv0B2jETOo39cT1GosIVMbd2cTGZZGLUzF-FJGN4XsqqRNh03GgCQ/s226/Unknown-10.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="226" data-original-width="223" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzb94Rp9cwPZM5X8hlY5bxek2Ww9VY3aSRncFJFGiVVFb3YKcxJ5UhvIWiJiQlWCE0IcJwlfK5eu76YBEuzU6nH-HTPfvo6EAjk02gvccusecVLP5FnOzfUHM4sBXLY4vp97yAAaNv0B2jETOo39cT1GosIVMbd2cTGZZGLUzF-FJGN4XsqqRNh03GgCQ/s1600/Unknown-10.jpeg" width="223" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />10)<span style="font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-US">I’m not a healthy eater. I don’t track my protein (a favorite perceived Achilles’ heel of steadfast meat-a-tarians). I never went into this as a health choice. It was solely about my personal ethics and morals which, no, I’m still not going to barrage you with. Ice cream is one of my main food groups. I sometimes munch on raisins and decide that’s lunch. I love carbs—loaves of sourdough, heaps of fettuccini, Scandinavian crispbread—even though society has been on an extended anti-carbs kick. Maybe that’s why I don’t preach. I am nobody’s role model. I won’t look you in the eye (or mouth) while you gnaw on a basket of buffalo wings or pull apart a lobster, but I’m going to let you be you as long as you do the same with me.<o:p></o:p></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></p>Aging Gaylyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09886888900957765438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7857795538755708479.post-34907248703197241052023-11-21T09:37:00.000-08:002023-11-21T09:37:26.471-08:00IF I COULD TURN BACK TIME<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDVzJWxLzMCmPCQFB2QpaJNO9tvQCd3AtIzdaeKNW41HV3umvaL-FBYrOTOFGUlab-euXtZPg1ic8HVs3uywNJV1x-3PYyrXIHy3X_FM4O8F3OLAIIHfW5BPQxjDSFKWtUuij8UgfCD1fxYfBfpx6SqLJg6elhquz9NB9pc0YW8vMH-sIceSH0Q6vtwJE/s300/images-4.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDVzJWxLzMCmPCQFB2QpaJNO9tvQCd3AtIzdaeKNW41HV3umvaL-FBYrOTOFGUlab-euXtZPg1ic8HVs3uywNJV1x-3PYyrXIHy3X_FM4O8F3OLAIIHfW5BPQxjDSFKWtUuij8UgfCD1fxYfBfpx6SqLJg6elhquz9NB9pc0YW8vMH-sIceSH0Q6vtwJE/s1600/images-4.jpeg" width="300" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />So, yeah, this aging thing has been on my mind lately. Last week I contemplated a field trip to Florida’s Fountain of Youth, but Florida’s off my travel list these days (one word: “GAY!”) and the only thing worse than looking young and foolish is being old and foolish. No splash of holy water is going to reduce the vestiges of age. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">This week’s post continues of the notion of aging denialism. Sigh. Maybe I should have renamed my blog, Ice Cream Gayly. Writing, and especially researching, would be so much more fun.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">What I’d meant to write about last week before tangents took over was how fifty-somethings I know, myself included, are trying to appear young to stay in the game in terms of our careers. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I recently FaceTimed a friend from college who is now a principal in an architecture firm in Los Angeles. She switched firms during the pandemic and, during her first year, only met colleagues once in person. As I observed when I stayed with her for a few days in January, the job continues to be mostly a work from home experience, her days filled with Zoom and phone meetings that seem to go on and on. (My friend has always been intense about all aspects of her life.) I wondered how she was connecting. She said everything was highly satisfying which was a highly unusual stance as I’ve listened to her rant ad nauseum about the office dynamics in every firm she’s worked at during the past thirty-five years. Maybe working from home was offering some necessary space and distance. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">When she talked about her team, she mentioned that all of them are under thirty. “Can you relate?” I asked.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">“Of course,” she said. “We click.” But then there was a pause. “You know, when I was twenty-eight, I used to think all my bosses were so old, but they were the age I am now.” Another pause. Wait for it…Recalculating…“Do you think they thing <i>I’m </i>old? Come to think of it, their weekends sound so different than mine. More, um, fun. And they do things together. I don’t get invited.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Oh, dear. The highly satisfying stance was taking a hit. Her face showed some extra lines—creases, furls. I needed to divert a freefall. I brought up American politics. My turn to suffer. We’re completely on the same team, but she argues as though I’m not. (Intense, I said.) The talk lasted another hour—all politics, no more mention of work. I saved her but not myself.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFQqELGFOWmPuh5IV3mrwJos20fWFeqdaRwRd9VQ_OXBkjVITX7nEqXgdmXCjMolnrvxFLlcLla9Rb-PowNIRu6HAKIpWz0LA4dWaKRqdeBkogGjkFY5_6P4RxaRH2nErKIF5Bzpk9wYSyBHdmjUaysJVJjI7yheYhb0SaYcwrT9NNWuYpihyphenhyphen64eel8oc/s276/Unknown.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="276" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFQqELGFOWmPuh5IV3mrwJos20fWFeqdaRwRd9VQ_OXBkjVITX7nEqXgdmXCjMolnrvxFLlcLla9Rb-PowNIRu6HAKIpWz0LA4dWaKRqdeBkogGjkFY5_6P4RxaRH2nErKIF5Bzpk9wYSyBHdmjUaysJVJjI7yheYhb0SaYcwrT9NNWuYpihyphenhyphen64eel8oc/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" width="276" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />Speaking of myself, I attended a writers’ conference in Seattle in September. I have three novels I’m desperate to get published and I haven’t been able to stand out in what they call the <i>slush pile</i> which is the hundreds of emails agents get every month, if not week, from writers seeking representation, hoping to see one of their books at Barnes and Noble, a needle in a haystack of books by Stephen King, Colleen Hoover and that dang James Patterson who comes up with a new book as often at <i>The New York Times </i>publishes another issue of its newspaper. Jeez, James. Take a vacation. Maybe learn an instrument and join Stephen King’s band, a group of writers. Pick the <a href="https://mussila.com/the-11-hardest-musical-instruments-to-learn/" style="color: #954f72;">hardest instrument</a>, James. Spend two years on violin, then give up and take up the oboe. You’ll need to practice plenty to get up to snuff. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Okay, tangent. Sorry.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 12pt 0cm 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqVvtUyr1PUiumVwCUvFV8u_6VhxxqnlcRGxtZOMQiRs775oneArjrFWUl3iTDLBGZDvx-CCETnH8Cw3smKlV7csyZyl9eUOxBo_09wN7dTwH32-fsnwOzToQwZeFNw90k7lzn7kNectMwslrWm_PXBAMB-uolDHrHceXOqIDtoJy9ArnGXASc4C08KG8/s263/Unknown-4.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="263" data-original-width="192" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqVvtUyr1PUiumVwCUvFV8u_6VhxxqnlcRGxtZOMQiRs775oneArjrFWUl3iTDLBGZDvx-CCETnH8Cw3smKlV7csyZyl9eUOxBo_09wN7dTwH32-fsnwOzToQwZeFNw90k7lzn7kNectMwslrWm_PXBAMB-uolDHrHceXOqIDtoJy9ArnGXASc4C08KG8/s1600/Unknown-4.jpeg" width="192" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />The conference. I put big pressure on myself. Agents would be sitting through four-minute pitches from all of us slush pile foragers. I needed to stand out. I needed them to believe they could make money off me…a ten percent cut from hundreds of thousands of copies of my bestseller which would eventually become a hit streaming series. (How many seasons of <i>The Handmaid’s Tale</i> can they milk?) I needed agents to know I have a whole career ahead of me. Many, many more books. Much, much more money. Let other slush pile writers begin wishing I took up bagpipes to perform instrumental duets with James Patterson.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 12pt 0cm 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I theorized that one way to convey to agents I needed to be scooped up was to give them the impression that I was much younger than I am. Looong career. No arthritis, Metamucil or <i>Matlock </i>marathons in lieu of writing for decades to come.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 12pt 0cm 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM_tcIDCmw31q7v9fU62PGwjPMDYrPOkp5KGdh3lAVAt_lzWjq1k_V54snkS4FDpAoMVyPh0UoeUoIabJe8rgeW7jcy07PYh2PntxzvHQUsodkj_NmSir90a1BLd_6dYqjqhMAoxP7e7L8MghSj8EChYYIAjVqduLWKUVYFnGwBsg1_pmwYFXcsRDSzbI/s1400/s1324193-main-zoom.jpg.webp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1400" data-original-width="1400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM_tcIDCmw31q7v9fU62PGwjPMDYrPOkp5KGdh3lAVAt_lzWjq1k_V54snkS4FDpAoMVyPh0UoeUoIabJe8rgeW7jcy07PYh2PntxzvHQUsodkj_NmSir90a1BLd_6dYqjqhMAoxP7e7L8MghSj8EChYYIAjVqduLWKUVYFnGwBsg1_pmwYFXcsRDSzbI/s320/s1324193-main-zoom.jpg.webp" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />It was clear that applying a Fresh Lotus Youth Preserve Rescue Mask and then slathering my face with glycolic acid, retinol serum, Hyaluronic Marine Hydration Booster and Wrinkle Expert 55+ Moisturizer during the week of the conference would make me poorer, not younger. (I’m feeling a tad defensive over the word choice of “Youth Preserve Rescue,” as if my face needs emergency intervention. But then, maybe it does. That product is shaming me!) My best shot from the <a href="https://www.byrdie.com/best-anti-aging-products-4801333" target="_blank">list of 2023’s best</a> anti-aging <s>scams</s> products was the <a href="https://www.sephora.com/product/instant-firmx-eye-P283106?om_mmc=aff-linkshare-redirect-ty8NUtOSnl0&c3ch=Linkshare&c3nid=ty8NUtOSnl0&affid=ty8NUtOSnl0-dlDhiZSPtcPZZNnnSf3zfw&ranEAID=ty8NUtOSnl0&ranMID=2417&ranSiteID=ty8NUtOSnl0-dlDhiZSPtcPZZNnnSf3zfw&ranLinkID=10-1&browserdefault=true&skuId=1324193&nrtv_cid=da0da68346e9064aeb6f5850fddd3a457acedd5b57e1ff7b1603d0edf0ad5238&SubID=1033&nrtv_as_src=1" target="_blank">Peter Thomas Roth Instant FIRMx Temporary Eye Tightener</a>, but that got me worried. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 12pt 0cm 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><i><span lang="EN-US">Temporary eye tightening?!</span></i><span lang="EN-US"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 12pt 0cm 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I might not be able to blink or, worse, sleep. Would an agent interrupt my pitch, shield their face with a raised arm and yell, “Stop staring at me!” A memorable pitch but no deal. Call it a hunch. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 12pt 0cm 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYlVDWlviV6LBENrCiz9CqnRohu1CwmmGBMEUjthNmI-OGwqKfykwn9bMNBNjjZnr0rLnoKDdoPWCm9RSai8QztZlmir3-AKVDfWGFU29fRgKXG6uJ73Ov-RM0p_Q49Y39VQYPtfei8kcNOIchq8YxRNFtpsEMIFnGcI6VbSD3fBtWgw6yEcb0wKJr4rQ/s329/images-8.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="153" data-original-width="329" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYlVDWlviV6LBENrCiz9CqnRohu1CwmmGBMEUjthNmI-OGwqKfykwn9bMNBNjjZnr0rLnoKDdoPWCm9RSai8QztZlmir3-AKVDfWGFU29fRgKXG6uJ73Ov-RM0p_Q49Y39VQYPtfei8kcNOIchq8YxRNFtpsEMIFnGcI6VbSD3fBtWgw6yEcb0wKJr4rQ/s320/images-8.jpeg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />I opted for a hair appointment. Melanie, my foul-mouthed but expert stylist, needed to work a miracle. A magic potion perhaps: foil, white goop and two and a half hours of hocus pocus. Poof! Blond highlights plus gray sideburns painted away. A decade younger (or a couple years?) without losing eye function. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 12pt 0cm 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I pitched. Two out of three agents asked for more. Alas, one has followed up with a rejection and the other seems to have ghosted me. Maybe the requests were about politeness, a pity play for the old man with the bad dye job and eyes in dire need of tightening.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 12pt 0cm 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpw8HpVtbPTP5nlqPoStQzitDp2WLMTDjzwi_k0ACO5xr5R69G37m4WiF6pH-bT-ug58atjvCQ1OLk2c_wgTESsJJLNU8Jnl61Q1Nj50qxuvQzYJJvkf9u1IQduw-mMQQa6nZWO4dug-3FFskaCMbt29156D3XhvNJSrYDfL8LCJyfCN_cOuDzxQl_tto/s225/Unknown-7.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpw8HpVtbPTP5nlqPoStQzitDp2WLMTDjzwi_k0ACO5xr5R69G37m4WiF6pH-bT-ug58atjvCQ1OLk2c_wgTESsJJLNU8Jnl61Q1Nj50qxuvQzYJJvkf9u1IQduw-mMQQa6nZWO4dug-3FFskaCMbt29156D3XhvNJSrYDfL8LCJyfCN_cOuDzxQl_tto/s1600/Unknown-7.jpeg" width="225" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />I’m not the only one praying a fresh coat of paint offers a new improved look. Another friend in his fifties is looking for a new job. He’s a star in his field, his talents obvious in just a five-minute chat about his profession. Still, the interviews have been fewer this time around and younger, less experienced people are filling the positions. Experience is an asset until it’s an extra financial cost. He’s lopped off the first decade from his résumé. He’s also gotten a younger cut from his stylist, colored his mustache and tried to go more pepper than salt with Just for Men’s Grey Reducing Shampoo. To my eyes, it’s working. Maybe he can monetize his transformation as a TikTok influencer. It’s apparently a viable career for young ’uns.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 12pt 0cm 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjECbUQDSfKJVaHstYNI4hSZ2q-mMl2Y4l_J7xcH1TMo-wNKFrVLH5DUpgtoRcxYbIM3W8eynjFV_hK_knrZG0yboKTR6a5aCzLFo65hJFgzh8sA6UaazDKOWGycXTru6egtuUGdlYWKPxGAI0rzt5F6bPTRnz4CalC1yMW0bHyMMDQWlVV4EOQ8JDjM_Q/s275/images-9.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjECbUQDSfKJVaHstYNI4hSZ2q-mMl2Y4l_J7xcH1TMo-wNKFrVLH5DUpgtoRcxYbIM3W8eynjFV_hK_knrZG0yboKTR6a5aCzLFo65hJFgzh8sA6UaazDKOWGycXTru6egtuUGdlYWKPxGAI0rzt5F6bPTRnz4CalC1yMW0bHyMMDQWlVV4EOQ8JDjM_Q/s1600/images-9.jpeg" width="275" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Just say no!</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br />An acquaintance who owns a business in which attracting new clients is always a pressing concern is getting a facial procedure today. I’m not sure the specifics. She’s discreet about these things and assures me it has nothing to do with exploding lips. (Seriously, can we please have an intervention for every woman seeking puffy lips? It’s unnatural, unflattering and maybe a little bit scary. I’ve told my friends to do something similar when my highlights stop making me look Swedish and start messaging Old Man Being Scammed by Moneygrubbing Salon.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 12pt 0cm 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Someone else my age is getting a whole set of dentures this week. Again, I don’t know the specifics, but just the mention gets me fretting about my smile. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 12pt 0cm 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Aging teeth can pull focus from all that other age-reducing work. I whitened mine for the first time the day before my writers’ conference. (No difference.) <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 12pt 0cm 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqnDbXgfUlN95rL596X1WFDmUh4aOfxGVR6ipvDKiUKEwELVmVRS0YLt-2EPFomh6Xa_Vu-chCwT5KiGdKkn9t7WHbCc8ionLzMO_VhVHy0eYHWIt0AaZCdrXX6FIdCVAMxoy6yl3wG1IuD1yB0bHgKyykUhJPzQWAJnswhpdpIViJ0LnaQp78PIWQ1M4/s3264/IMG_2811.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqnDbXgfUlN95rL596X1WFDmUh4aOfxGVR6ipvDKiUKEwELVmVRS0YLt-2EPFomh6Xa_Vu-chCwT5KiGdKkn9t7WHbCc8ionLzMO_VhVHy0eYHWIt0AaZCdrXX6FIdCVAMxoy6yl3wG1IuD1yB0bHgKyykUhJPzQWAJnswhpdpIViJ0LnaQp78PIWQ1M4/s320/IMG_2811.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />I’ve had great teeth my whole life but, after I hit fifty, pesky—and, for me, traumatic—work became the norm. I’ve fractured teeth on both sides of my mouth. When I despairingly asked my dentist what was going on, he gently talked to me about “wear and tear.” I’m basically an old set of tires, treads worn down, ready to be chucked in a junkyard or converted to an <a href="https://earthship.com" target="_blank">earthship in New Mexico</a>. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 12pt 0cm 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I remind myself there are plenty of old tires still rolling along. Misery loves that. Still, all I want to do is kick and scream…burn some rubber. I haven’t tantrummed since I was seven. It’s my easiest shot at appearing younger, but that’s not the look I’m going for. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 12pt 0cm 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr1tygIW-dWb2eRWpHsIoZ9HIl6WXCSGtiofnTpLN9j42hjPFuLzNhw-u8z-ZWmObHwSBhrjitGLVJxMPvMXCkDGf4tC9eeLS77esiMGZNncNBgPj2OovSQYRZPwKOPKvG8ch8KrgcedZjzF4TiFcagAu1zRt-5S3K_wqo_LMX7wXDthZ2g-M8NT7jqf8/s259/images-11.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="259" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr1tygIW-dWb2eRWpHsIoZ9HIl6WXCSGtiofnTpLN9j42hjPFuLzNhw-u8z-ZWmObHwSBhrjitGLVJxMPvMXCkDGf4tC9eeLS77esiMGZNncNBgPj2OovSQYRZPwKOPKvG8ch8KrgcedZjzF4TiFcagAu1zRt-5S3K_wqo_LMX7wXDthZ2g-M8NT7jqf8/s1600/images-11.jpeg" width="259" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />Guess I’ll have to hit the drugstore and splurge on a face mask. Perhaps not the Youth Preserve Rescue one. Maybe there’s a Batman one in the back I can get at a discount. We older shoppers are known to be savvier. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 12pt 0cm 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 12pt 0cm 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 12pt 0cm 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 12pt 0cm 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 12pt 0cm 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 12pt 0cm 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></p>Aging Gaylyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09886888900957765438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7857795538755708479.post-31568480644521550472023-11-15T10:27:00.000-08:002023-11-15T10:27:11.322-08:00DRINKING THE KOOL-AID…OR BATHING IN IT<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinsugN0xaZ5SB2FMZ_hPndVi9kvHT6D6EsNZ2pfyiShTJo_paSJguohjAntL-yGOQ5Rzad-80o8Y6ahyphenhyphenibmhyna6lnOe8D6mcO1mOoyd1AQkLAKmyrIHriFwiAUvU7jIWZj4AzcCiybQc0qR1_wzcP7eaFc1mWy2oHlFc-EaFtfcEtaXJLbWSdIxSRYXk/s4288/P1300537.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3216" data-original-width="4288" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinsugN0xaZ5SB2FMZ_hPndVi9kvHT6D6EsNZ2pfyiShTJo_paSJguohjAntL-yGOQ5Rzad-80o8Y6ahyphenhyphenibmhyna6lnOe8D6mcO1mOoyd1AQkLAKmyrIHriFwiAUvU7jIWZj4AzcCiybQc0qR1_wzcP7eaFc1mWy2oHlFc-EaFtfcEtaXJLbWSdIxSRYXk/s320/P1300537.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: right;"><i>Not as far back as childhood. </i><i>In Disney World, </i><i>I had my picture taken </i></div><div style="text-align: right;"><i>with </i><i>Minnie Mouse. </i><i>It's part of my father's collection </i><i>of slides, </i></div><div style="text-align: right;"><i>never to turn up again. As you </i><i>can see, </i><i>finally meeting </i></div><div style="text-align: right;"><i>Pluto in Disneyland </i><i>was one of life's milestones.</i></div></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;">I was born in Hamilton, Ontario and grew up there until the age of thirteen. Situated on Lake Ontario, the city was considered part of the “banana belt” in the southwestern portion of the province since we got less snow than places like Buffalo, New York which was sixty-five miles away on Lake Erie. Still, the predominant Ontario mindset was to book vacation time during winter to head south, most commonly to Florida. Sun! Beaches! Pluto and Goofy!</span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: large;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Every March, my family loaded up the station wagon and headed for cities like Sarasota and Fort Myers on the Gulf Coast. These were excruciatingly long trips for a kid. How many times did my brother, sister or I ask, “How much longer?” or more naively, “Are we there yet?” <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIjWIby8HCXqpWke7gSl8guCtVSyrotjs6g9tWz2Cw0gX7YIkHnKrYm4cfZw6CD7-9nVC2d-UhsfmfVOV8yQc_1SAyA8W-9l_xQ7qPq9C3eO0o12DGzuKIQA9pPq0DNraO8356UpGFRqoY_pJ1s8U2dTJpkqc7kfY2qtu8KGfZZyPejBZ21_BV0nBZJk4/s3300/49d735c276148450f251b4820fec337d.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2100" data-original-width="3300" height="204" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIjWIby8HCXqpWke7gSl8guCtVSyrotjs6g9tWz2Cw0gX7YIkHnKrYm4cfZw6CD7-9nVC2d-UhsfmfVOV8yQc_1SAyA8W-9l_xQ7qPq9C3eO0o12DGzuKIQA9pPq0DNraO8356UpGFRqoY_pJ1s8U2dTJpkqc7kfY2qtu8KGfZZyPejBZ21_BV0nBZJk4/s320/49d735c276148450f251b4820fec337d.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />My parents learned the best way to make the trek tolerable was to set me up in “the very back,” in the section behind the rear seat where two little seats popped up, facing one another. Luggage and coolers were stacked between my spot and the rear seat where my siblings sat. This reduced my opportunities to pester everyone which I’d discovered was a highly entertaining way to pass the time. Every time my brother or sister shrieked my name, I felt deeply rewarded. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">With me being barricaded away, I had to find less interactive entertainment. Books seemed like an ominous undertaking, too long, too many extended descriptions about kitchens and pond algae. Every time we pulled into a rest area, I stocked up on tourist maps and pamphlets. I grabbed one of everything, a boy of indiscriminating taste. (Has that changed?) My father’s driving itinerary was always ambitious so there was no chance we’d stop at the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/ghosttownfindlay/timeline/" target="_blank">ghost town</a> in Findlay, Ohio or a Kentucky <a href="https://www.roadsideamerica.com/story/10050" target="_blank">ventriloquist museum</a>, but I could read about these spots, gaze at the photos and count the number of exclamations that dotted the descriptions of things to do there. Oh! What! Fun! It was more interesting than reading about what a fictional character name Albert noticed in Aunt Mildred’s mason jars. (Always berry preserves, never fingers suspended in formaldehyde.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4x_cAaTglhKHLZQbajAXqMFlXMp0Wo9ss2P1hXSU8pDoX5dmNmQic5eY7nnHPOUs1B8C1rsob0eHo0vN5i36E8uFv-zEGu5dytAqgU5fYWLPWzgfGw6ezYDhSdzgAauuPZSdFQ4MjUliGn09EChpTls_w_2zrL34VSxBHcdEpLQiexKdUDgnPp1TFvaU/s299/images-4.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="169" data-original-width="299" height="169" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4x_cAaTglhKHLZQbajAXqMFlXMp0Wo9ss2P1hXSU8pDoX5dmNmQic5eY7nnHPOUs1B8C1rsob0eHo0vN5i36E8uFv-zEGu5dytAqgU5fYWLPWzgfGw6ezYDhSdzgAauuPZSdFQ4MjUliGn09EChpTls_w_2zrL34VSxBHcdEpLQiexKdUDgnPp1TFvaU/s1600/images-4.jpeg" width="299" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />My pamphlet collection grew exponentially as the drive dragged on, each place overhyped to such a degree that I wondered if there were any standards for allowing a roadside stop to declare itself “WORLD FAMOUS!” How does a small chain in Florida gain such renown for plopping sauerkraut on a hotdog? Did people in Australia really talk about it? In Turkey? (As an eight-year-old, I thought a lot about a country named after a bird stuffed with cornbread.)<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKzudnBjNPoYaE5zLE_6cHuPErFfHYdDOASmt-ZkOwOES_oeZNbDna5-8axaOxdgOBxqf5BkFSJKJLl5fXIZnwNuyqfxSy8a8x1UX2Kc0EiH3NxH3QKFWhDKIEjSCBG-uRw3i4PnCJTB2zJoA8nSkxnZAm0VMPTEg6x4PPVkmu0xtMIFNkpIhETuVh_-g/s260/images-8.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="260" data-original-width="194" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKzudnBjNPoYaE5zLE_6cHuPErFfHYdDOASmt-ZkOwOES_oeZNbDna5-8axaOxdgOBxqf5BkFSJKJLl5fXIZnwNuyqfxSy8a8x1UX2Kc0EiH3NxH3QKFWhDKIEjSCBG-uRw3i4PnCJTB2zJoA8nSkxnZAm0VMPTEg6x4PPVkmu0xtMIFNkpIhETuVh_-g/s1600/images-8.jpeg" width="194" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />One pamphlet-harkening destination in northeastern Florida randomly popped in my mind again this past week, an attraction in the town of Saint Augustine, billed as “the nation’s oldest city.” I don’t know if the Medieval Torture Museum, the Oldest Wooden School House or St. Augustine Shipwreck Museum existed way back in my days of being barricaded. What piqued my interest then, and does so exponentially more now, is Ponce de León’s Fountain of Youth. There was no picture of this place, but I imagined something stately, one of those garden features but supersized with carvings of flying fish and lions and a long line of people waiting to drink from it as others jumped in and splashed about, their wrinkled skin becoming smooth, hair growing back on aging men’s scalps, none of it gray or white. This was why so many seniors flocked to Florida! I couldn’t understand why my grandparents, who stayed six months every year in a mobile home farther south in Lakeland, returned every April looking more like Jed Clampett or even Granny from <i>The Beverly Hillbillies, </i>not having transformed into Elly May or Jethro. Wrong priorities was all I could come up with.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-XmI6duqHOEZ_hMwtGGcMWkv5G0L9caQVDrSvPVqnS580a7BlIDEoqoRO-__4MROeSV8RDoZ6k_XORA36NeNPx49ggxttXLhhP0U2siHXmbNLv4DdXH7BFrqCsxhXgtfxIVFgxROAEnPtHvNaeF27NFzs9T88Wr4m9P_BG4dfAHkWUd2OUfSgne1L2_Y/s270/Unknown-7.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="270" data-original-width="187" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-XmI6duqHOEZ_hMwtGGcMWkv5G0L9caQVDrSvPVqnS580a7BlIDEoqoRO-__4MROeSV8RDoZ6k_XORA36NeNPx49ggxttXLhhP0U2siHXmbNLv4DdXH7BFrqCsxhXgtfxIVFgxROAEnPtHvNaeF27NFzs9T88Wr4m9P_BG4dfAHkWUd2OUfSgne1L2_Y/s1600/Unknown-7.jpeg" width="187" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />At eight, the Fountain of Youth wasn’t a draw. I didn’t want to look four again, with grownups plopping back on a tricycle and clapping as I reverted to assembling ten-piece puzzles of fruit. Still, I knew I’d head to St. Augustine and the Fountain of Youth when the time seemed right. And, by golly, the time is now. Let me splash in it, swim, snorkel, scuba dive, float, drink from it and gargle with it. So long saggy bits! Begone, Santa beard! Vamoose, age spots! Hello again, boyish skin…without, fingers crossed, the accompanying zits. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">If only I still had an eight-year-old’s imagination…and gullibility. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Like most of us looking at middle age in the rearview mirror—hell, that period’s long out of frame—I’m facing a comeuppance every time I glimpse any part of me in a mirror. Certain <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZKCiC-H2Xbg" target="_blank">lyrics from Neil Young</a> have new meaning as they pop into my head, like a most unwanted earworm: <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Old man, look at my life,<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I’m a lot like you.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5o1zTeFJndLvy0-akpBIvWjmItvbNl7mrZGsSuRYnUP3o8gjKO6cenWmb9QynNskp_b88DWyblX4RKhV78DsHglgo8bcoREENP4drG33OPt-EcN2RaOGnf2FoKnVuudtW_vfqThmLF002WZ3zLOWl-NYZr2NvjNnaXJ3fs6RrwotGkrAFvOTi0e-H3vo/s259/Unknown-8.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="259" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5o1zTeFJndLvy0-akpBIvWjmItvbNl7mrZGsSuRYnUP3o8gjKO6cenWmb9QynNskp_b88DWyblX4RKhV78DsHglgo8bcoREENP4drG33OPt-EcN2RaOGnf2FoKnVuudtW_vfqThmLF002WZ3zLOWl-NYZr2NvjNnaXJ3fs6RrwotGkrAFvOTi0e-H3vo/s1600/Unknown-8.jpeg" width="259" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />God lord, it doesn’t help that I’m conjuring up a song that was released fifty-one years ago. My only other pop culture reference thus far in this post is a TV show that’s even older. Why can’t I come up with a way to weave in TikTok, Doja Cat and some new series on a streaming channel that I refuse to pay for because I grew up in a time when watching <i>The Carol Burnett Show </i>and <i>The Waltons </i>was free? (I canceled Netflix after finishing all of <i>Grace and Frankie.</i>)<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXrbgg_oevT7SB4L1L1JWTa5whLSOZMY5YyJuT3Fi6YgrIGhGwBtH722AuU7J3znK2XXduR6z6n69up0cl8OH1HVvTQcXJEKi0iPYcneZB4cWiheh0yR2gWbCwNWPX15FquAMKmwemKEHzJxsvrzTls3F-UdxceWZbtt-YOpxKAnQzmUqM8l2AZk_2okw/s225/images-9.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXrbgg_oevT7SB4L1L1JWTa5whLSOZMY5YyJuT3Fi6YgrIGhGwBtH722AuU7J3znK2XXduR6z6n69up0cl8OH1HVvTQcXJEKi0iPYcneZB4cWiheh0yR2gWbCwNWPX15FquAMKmwemKEHzJxsvrzTls3F-UdxceWZbtt-YOpxKAnQzmUqM8l2AZk_2okw/s1600/images-9.jpeg" width="225" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />I’m at that awkward stage where I haven’t yet surrendered to complete irrelevance and dinners at three in the afternoon. I consider it a small victory that AARP, which had been popping up in my spam email folder during COVID, The Early Years, has lost my scent. Maybe my L’Oréal Revitalift eye cream is having a better result than I think. Maybe the dark bags I continue to see under my eyes are ghost imprints. After two decades of hanging out there, I can’t help but see the illusion of the pesky buggers. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Aging is supposed to help us evolve, doing away with vanity, letting others take their moment in the limelight and paring our lives down to the things experience tells us are more important. As someone who has spent a lifetime beating myself up over my looks, letting go of all that misery would be a blessing. It’s a relief knowing that self-criticism is quieter, the swells passing more quickly. I step away from the mirror the second a negative notion surfaces, I don’t glance in windows to gauge my weight as often anymore…something I learned is very common for people with eating disorders. I can settle with a shrug as my self-assessment for the day, a teenager’s ennui (<i>Yeah, whatever</i>) without the youthful complexion. (Oily, Pimply…stop romanticizing it!) <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Still, I brace for the onslaught of wrinkles and age spots. I worry about my face being pulled down by prominent jowls. I wonder how I’ll be able to handle seeing my skin turn as thin as crepe paper, every bumbling bump commemorated in red blotches. Sure, vanity will fade to nothing, but I feel that, for myself, despair will move in. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsoBLgliueVRgf5aHNYcvznQ5faBNV1x5xK1tOd5bLuJa17Dj3nEUXCb5Yr-MDUSiAXHEGh0T0722ZF25BwIPq-DFl0LXb_5Kp5dTyDL-j5Gx8EtwpLWGu5Ogsc_RdiCzuYRNX1dj1VulBxWiBQpy6Krw4bkb3tlqLWdIcIGhPl5BJd-3AFHAPkO-l1Bs/s346/images-10.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="146" data-original-width="346" height="135" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsoBLgliueVRgf5aHNYcvznQ5faBNV1x5xK1tOd5bLuJa17Dj3nEUXCb5Yr-MDUSiAXHEGh0T0722ZF25BwIPq-DFl0LXb_5Kp5dTyDL-j5Gx8EtwpLWGu5Ogsc_RdiCzuYRNX1dj1VulBxWiBQpy6Krw4bkb3tlqLWdIcIGhPl5BJd-3AFHAPkO-l1Bs/s320/images-10.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Could have bought that Porsche<br />if I hadn't invested so heavily<br />in false hope.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br />Like red Porsches, life’s lessons are wasted on older folks. Why couldn’t I have accepted my younger self? Why didn’t I embrace it, knowing that was as good as it would get? Why did I put so much hope into the radio commercial testimonials about Clearasil? Why didn’t I extend college another year or three? Why didn’t I fight back, blaring the Donna Summer cassettes in my Chevette every time someone had the audacity to say disco sucked?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I feel an inkling to fly to Tampa, rent a car and head two hours northeast. I’ve Googled the Fountain of Youth and I see no fountain at all. It’s just another schmucky attraction where people will happily my $17.79. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">But I won’t be a sucker. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">If I wait another year, I’ll get the senior’s discount, coughing up only $15.92, the savings getting me a sauerkraut-laden hotdog, once I peruse old pamphlets to find a time machine that’ll take me back to 1978. Ah, forget it. They didn’t have veggie dogs back then. Sauerkraut in a bun isn’t worth the effort.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">And so it goes. Life. No brakes. No turning back. Maybe it’s another one of those indignities that comes with aging, but the future seems to be approaching at greater speed. I’m buckled in. Ready. Or not.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></p>Aging Gaylyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09886888900957765438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7857795538755708479.post-55740640886175403612023-11-08T12:35:00.000-08:002023-11-08T12:35:18.219-08:00GENDER QUEER (Book Review)<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFN4I8BOhHGuuD41zK9nlKzomfyyZW61aAmQCeNCiJAHhpzcNJXeQg1OM-GdX_DO20ZUscyJKGrHT29HBnBUBzleDyYVVz5C7gEeKmfjXiAwcviYThmZRuzbV0ElKntWDUOPTNicP8tAzlW3sTBUw85oXdKONFvDVBQ4gh5k0kCm7ZJbTUuNjWltS4eNc/s1540/thumbnail-1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1540" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFN4I8BOhHGuuD41zK9nlKzomfyyZW61aAmQCeNCiJAHhpzcNJXeQg1OM-GdX_DO20ZUscyJKGrHT29HBnBUBzleDyYVVz5C7gEeKmfjXiAwcviYThmZRuzbV0ElKntWDUOPTNicP8tAzlW3sTBUw85oXdKONFvDVBQ4gh5k0kCm7ZJbTUuNjWltS4eNc/s320/thumbnail-1.jpeg" width="224" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />By Maia Kobabe<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">(Oni Press, 2022)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I have the whole banned books brouhaha to thank for leading me to <i>Gender Queer: A Memoir. </i>It’s a graphic novel that may have otherwise escaped my gaydar. I’m the better for reading it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><i><span lang="EN-US">Gender Queer </span></i><span lang="EN-US">is a quick read that should be widely read. It’s not dramatic in the events that are told. What’s remarkable is the journey the author and illustrator has taken in coming to terms with eir identity. (Finding the “right” pronouns for Maia is its own long, arduous, thoughtful pursuit, leading finally to adopting <i>e, em, eir</i>. I had heretofore been unaware of these pronouns. If you’re rolling your eyes over the pronoun “issue,” all the more reason to read this book. Seek to understand instead of judging what you don’t.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO2LgLwYe318aj4THXwn42Xf-wNaCBEuei5bchdkmhek4RkF5CSjWoorfuDtAhIkYybPR7Zn1syIWYs2l1u4eaZQyFD7cIGoK5U529YbEt8gpcr87BvpkrLZJesbPHccACdOJ8wxrSnVVxXQN6qrHcfjQ2pjDvI-O7U3dj-wT-sxb-RpRDSEQB0wimdt8/s1567/thumbnail-19.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1567" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO2LgLwYe318aj4THXwn42Xf-wNaCBEuei5bchdkmhek4RkF5CSjWoorfuDtAhIkYybPR7Zn1syIWYs2l1u4eaZQyFD7cIGoK5U529YbEt8gpcr87BvpkrLZJesbPHccACdOJ8wxrSnVVxXQN6qrHcfjQ2pjDvI-O7U3dj-wT-sxb-RpRDSEQB0wimdt8/s320/thumbnail-19.jpeg" width="221" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />There is a lot of talk about sex talk in the book, but all of it is relevant in Kobabe’s search for discovering eir identity. The exploration is informative but not titillating. It reminded me of all the matter-of-fact sex ed classes I’ve attended as a teacher and a principal, my presence required ostensibly to ensure the students are respectful and to bear witness in case someone discloses an experience that might be construed as abuse or an assault for which follow-up is required. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">References to masturbation—how nice to get beyond “you’ll go blind”—include a book ban-triggering drawing of Maia conjuring up an image of men with erections in ancient Greece, one man reading and almost touching the other’s penis. While the drawing is clear, it does not seem intended to arouse. If the banning brood paid any attention to the words below the drawing, their trumped up indignance would lose its luster: <i><o:p></o:p></i></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">The more I had to interact with my genitals the less </span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">likely</span></span></i><i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> I was to reach a point of any satisfaction. </span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">The best fantasy </span></span></i><i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">was one that didn’t require any </span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">physical touch at all.</span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">That’s right, kiddos. Don’t touch your privates! This seems like the kind of message prudish banners would like.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">While we’re on the sex stuff, there’s talk about buying a vibrator. Maia uses it once. “It’s not that exciting because I don’t really like it.” E gives it to eir sister, with whom e has a trusting, close connection. At the age of twenty-five, Maia goes on a second date with a woman and says, “I’ve never had sex.” Again, sex-repressed book banners should be applauding. The author is giving a voice to the notion that sex isn’t everything; in fact, sometimes it’s nothing. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">The other page that book banners specifically object to portrays two graphic novel cells in which the girlfriend performs oral sex on adult Maia or, at least, an appendage attached to Maia: a strap-on penis. Yes, a sex toy, drawn as blandly as possible. Admittedly, the images may give pause. A depiction of the toy while it’s not worn would have diluted any possible objection, but that’s not the choice Kobabe and the publisher made. It’s nothing more erotic than putting a condom over a banana in a high school sex ed class. The author makes clear e doesn’t like it. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP5EGB1J2Zxx0sVi_FhfXlixz-2q-Er3wQLHbZwVO5Fnt4DLYq1ryF46IR06Dyzf8P06ogAgOl91J3BJItpcqkQUoo9EsKmpGnGJk8OpX8M5tgUxpLj3WdNSavD1YO5KmOU00qDFXcDb3RIpE1AxLXUegkFdmF7JSc112U2ALBw42VSOWAE-Nhd3AUbMs/s1080/thumbnail-21.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="926" data-original-width="1080" height="274" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP5EGB1J2Zxx0sVi_FhfXlixz-2q-Er3wQLHbZwVO5Fnt4DLYq1ryF46IR06Dyzf8P06ogAgOl91J3BJItpcqkQUoo9EsKmpGnGJk8OpX8M5tgUxpLj3WdNSavD1YO5KmOU00qDFXcDb3RIpE1AxLXUegkFdmF7JSc112U2ALBw42VSOWAE-Nhd3AUbMs/s320/thumbnail-21.jpeg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />Later, e rejoices in realizing, “I never have to date anyone” and “I don’t even have to care about sex.” If the cells depicting Greek men (page 139) or the strap-on (page 171) were postcards available in a high school, the distribution might indeed be shut down, but in the larger context of this graphic novel and the messages provided, any hoopla is overblown. These three cells are an excuse to try to deny access to a book about gender blurring and alternative pronouns.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">The author’s journey does not seek to go from being born female to representing as male. “I don’t want a beard, and I don’t want my voice to change. I don’t want <u>MORE</u> gendered traits, I want <u>LESS</u>.”<a href="applewebdata://D491F325-CCB6-4EAA-9330-7C2876AEA9AB#_ftn1" name="_ftnref1" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span lang="EN-US">[1]</span></span></span></a><o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I can’t understand how that should be a problem for anyone. There will be a lot of trial and error in terms of friends, family and colleagues using non-gendered pronouns. Kobabe provides many examples of this. People mess up, but they are earnestly and respectfully trying. It reminds me of the adjustment period friends and family go through in coming to terms with someone coming out as queer. The individual’s process took time; likewise, so does the understanding of those around them. I especially appreciated the inclusion of Maia’s aunt, a “lesbian feminist,” who is honest about her struggle to understand:<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">If you ask me to start using new pronouns for you, <o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">of course I will. But I’d like you to explain why.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Right now I don’t understand and I’m going<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">to keep asking until I do.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">This particular struggle goes largely unspoken, one in which older gays and lesbians haven’t been able to keep up with an evolution in queer identity wherein there are more options in terms of defining oneself. Online and in a few conversations I’ve had with gay men, the reflex by some is to resist or reject change. Everyone struggles with change. It presents new challenges; it means the person trying/having to change may mess up; it means altering what seemed to be known and established. Sometimes, even in the queer “community,” that doesn’t play out well. I appreciate the aunt’s honesty and her willingness to listen, learn and grow.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; font-size: large;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikVyQ1mKqtzfYqJftrEPk_D1Ikz0oHzeEtOKfr6wuJaFt4IDkrCeoG4dc0WFecLjGMpADjy_jp-xlFMotiRXgyJa6G3bJw3jcvetn4o6vMfw4RfJftpKmqbRU8OG-FMhjPdQqz8Y0KSg8MNdeaVwMwDU6ycNr2NNw88eFA56WQ2cvLX4BrV4iK4G9Cvx8/s266/Unknown.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="266" data-original-width="190" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikVyQ1mKqtzfYqJftrEPk_D1Ikz0oHzeEtOKfr6wuJaFt4IDkrCeoG4dc0WFecLjGMpADjy_jp-xlFMotiRXgyJa6G3bJw3jcvetn4o6vMfw4RfJftpKmqbRU8OG-FMhjPdQqz8Y0KSg8MNdeaVwMwDU6ycNr2NNw88eFA56WQ2cvLX4BrV4iK4G9Cvx8/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" width="190" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Maia Kobabe<br /><br /></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">I learned from reading this book. I have a person’s example, through memoir, to add context to understanding a path to nonbinary identity and to appreciate how this personal search and decision does not come on a whim. I hope young people will access this book, sidestepping any bans to get their hands on it. The book will help those who are struggling to understand their relationship with gender and sexuality. It will help them understand peers who are trying to figure out their own issues. As well, I hope older folks with seemingly fixed minds will be open enough to give <i>Gender Queer </i>a read, allowing the concepts, contexts and personal testimonial simmer long after it is finished.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br clear="all" /></span><hr align="left" size="1" width="33%" /></div><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: x-small;"><a href="applewebdata://D491F325-CCB6-4EAA-9330-7C2876AEA9AB#_ftnref1" name="_ftn1" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference" style="vertical-align: super;">[1]</span></span></a> <span lang="EN-US">This is why the <i>e, em, eir</i> prounouns make particular sense. Not he or she, the h/sh has been lopped off…just e. Not them, just em. Not their, just eir. Any gender connotations are gone.</span> </span></p>Aging Gaylyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09886888900957765438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7857795538755708479.post-79075094378070403832023-10-31T09:54:00.001-07:002023-10-31T09:54:43.252-07:00THE DAY THE FASHION DIED<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8u5Nt6gtc9IM_BL31JAFLLCt-hMkjgbKK_DoGCV6pu259U2DVzK_5q8HQB9ayz9t3wmfTodMtRM8nczrr95f6r7heFXtpUhL3EgHEPcr_t1uhUU30VkAdQx8_mtn0iVPBOS1GLguIbXlZkVuEa29bY66WUUTKxTEbKJPdG_ypIgV38cj7pPYrfj9rWz0/s275/images-8.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="275" data-original-width="183" height="351" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8u5Nt6gtc9IM_BL31JAFLLCt-hMkjgbKK_DoGCV6pu259U2DVzK_5q8HQB9ayz9t3wmfTodMtRM8nczrr95f6r7heFXtpUhL3EgHEPcr_t1uhUU30VkAdQx8_mtn0iVPBOS1GLguIbXlZkVuEa29bY66WUUTKxTEbKJPdG_ypIgV38cj7pPYrfj9rWz0/w233-h351/images-8.jpeg" width="233" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />I didn’t start out in this world with a sense of fashion. My first influences—my parents—have probably never fit Yves Saint Laurent, Coco Chanel or Giorgio Armani into any conversation. My earliest memories of my mother’s glamor involved muumuus and wigs. My father stuck to suits and standard ties with diagonal stripes. Shoe polish was important but it came with connotations of labor instead of shine. At some point in my youth, my mother took a continuing education sewing class at the local high school and that brought on a mortifying period of making matching t-shirts for my brother and me, dressing us as twins even though I was three years older. Luckily all evidence of this “trend” in our household is in my father’s slide collection which no one has ever transferred to photos or any other kind of easily viewed humiliation. Lying around somewhere is an actual photograph of my brother and me sporting Budweiser tees at Busch Gardens in Tampa, Florida, as macaws perched on our elbows. Classy stuff.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkaKGBV6DBYeApZmBCumVK_i_LqkQIhotd3aYDHndBpDtzkN4GO2sZ4_p-7jxjSD31s6rQeu_WJ53FYN3zhkGrmG8vv0RgFLJmP6QW0XzVY6_E_C9NQhKTDLFpSnP2xYhrqxcVw63zeww33AmTQA5sQwhNK_4xXBQAfe1Sh-WYqjOFF_nJpCUe7fV4Cvc/s276/Unknown-18.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="276" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkaKGBV6DBYeApZmBCumVK_i_LqkQIhotd3aYDHndBpDtzkN4GO2sZ4_p-7jxjSD31s6rQeu_WJ53FYN3zhkGrmG8vv0RgFLJmP6QW0XzVY6_E_C9NQhKTDLFpSnP2xYhrqxcVw63zeww33AmTQA5sQwhNK_4xXBQAfe1Sh-WYqjOFF_nJpCUe7fV4Cvc/s1600/Unknown-18.jpeg" width="276" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />My first personal fashion choices were copycat clothes based on what my peers wore: disco shirts, a pair of platform shirts and nearly knee-high tube socks that I liked because a few horizontal stripes of color looked crisper against bright white. (I could have scripted and starred in my own Tide commercial.) “Bucking the trend” for me meant preferring Lee jeans to Levi’s. Mostly, I remained a follower. Skintight Calvin Kleins. Jordache. Velour shirts. Izods. Polos. The fashion industry needs followers. I was still my awkward self, but I was at least a geek in Calvins. No one asked me if I was Amish. That was my fashion bar. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPHb0kaHsPD3xurkqW_YPtZl2CHHoO_pno8Rnrfh4GinkEQr41airtNRQKaXhPrDwFGT3BXQs0bOPk_XwCDUS3rpaKXIhV3iWWRex5R5m8GU8y9bssjT6yh_RhkZsE5D5mCGb17tTy6pKYF7lugYP5nCN41ebc3hl5uOhmwTURK0BaqGy4LnbL6oxBSRM/s248/images-9.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="248" data-original-width="203" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPHb0kaHsPD3xurkqW_YPtZl2CHHoO_pno8Rnrfh4GinkEQr41airtNRQKaXhPrDwFGT3BXQs0bOPk_XwCDUS3rpaKXIhV3iWWRex5R5m8GU8y9bssjT6yh_RhkZsE5D5mCGb17tTy6pKYF7lugYP5nCN41ebc3hl5uOhmwTURK0BaqGy4LnbL6oxBSRM/s1600/images-9.jpeg" width="203" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />By the time I hit eighteen—An adult? Me?!—a few more personal preferences had crept in. Wimbledon-worthy K-Swiss tennis shoes. A WilliWear shirt that felt as comfy as a pajama top. Perry Ellis spread collar dress shirts. I was a closeted gay guy in Texas who figured I might as well make that closet look nice. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYqFJyJXrcr70G3tmiUuM47PCXy7jxfbTMz2czv0n6H6myTVo-cqN51h0bPZx1aK67jXS7Rkx8VwlESlkGQGAtxxjYuVBHnH2eXH7QhI5zqdMzySvbfjFC10vCumeCJbt1udkhUpS3WX2y3idgwtrI899F2vbG5hLN2xGY-6-Lao5KWjmFJB_TP0r-H8g/s290/Unknown-19.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="174" data-original-width="290" height="174" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYqFJyJXrcr70G3tmiUuM47PCXy7jxfbTMz2czv0n6H6myTVo-cqN51h0bPZx1aK67jXS7Rkx8VwlESlkGQGAtxxjYuVBHnH2eXH7QhI5zqdMzySvbfjFC10vCumeCJbt1udkhUpS3WX2y3idgwtrI899F2vbG5hLN2xGY-6-Lao5KWjmFJB_TP0r-H8g/s1600/Unknown-19.jpeg" width="290" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />Gays were into fashion, right? I bought <i>GQ </i>to look at the fashion ads (and unsmiling, impossibly chiseled models’ faces). <i>International Male </i>tracked me down—did they have gaydar?—trying to entice me into buying skimpy, colorful undies and oddly cut shirts that looked stunning on their own crop of unsmiling, impossibly chiseled models—the faces and the hairless bodies. I never got duped. I knew I couldn’t carry off those garments with my goofy smile and my non-chiseled everything. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr56eq7xs2wJHjdWY6Tftt2C0wplIpgbP99innBUxD3i4sBi4GCp2jCDgm7oAgygnfYgpGa5Qn8mMhsGnMXEOjRF-IM4WuiNKvp1xr0i1gPic0SYXZZRHv3XIG3-aFwnO-Yih5r_AygsJtFcNDzIBuIgqVdwMoKCW78Iz0Rg2ZLGoZWfGm90z-OyYp0z8/s284/images-10.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="177" data-original-width="284" height="177" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr56eq7xs2wJHjdWY6Tftt2C0wplIpgbP99innBUxD3i4sBi4GCp2jCDgm7oAgygnfYgpGa5Qn8mMhsGnMXEOjRF-IM4WuiNKvp1xr0i1gPic0SYXZZRHv3XIG3-aFwnO-Yih5r_AygsJtFcNDzIBuIgqVdwMoKCW78Iz0Rg2ZLGoZWfGm90z-OyYp0z8/s1600/images-10.jpeg" width="284" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />My first year out of college, I taught at a private special education school outside of Dallas. It was my dream job, but the pay was a pittance—less than. I moonlit as a sales associate at Sanger-Harris, a higher end department store, at least the one at the recently razed Valley View Center in Dallas. I loved the shifts when I was assigned to the Guess/Generra/Claiborne collections and felt it was a personal affront whenever my manager stuck me in Ocean Pacific, Levi’s or, gross, Haggar. I began to understand a fashion hierarchy and spent my breaks zipping over to Bloomingdale’s (snootier than Sanger-Harris) to fondle Armani clothes. Yes, they felt amazing! It took me many paychecks before I could buy a coveted Armani sweater which I still have and wear once each winter.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-OOmhBx_DiYgIiittAw3EwxCd08ksleY27E4f2eTRAHRnx5iMfkShQ9_-QmEs-b5dnXTXK7dvWCXDAz3uJ860l_hlbGsKVDTdBCJC3H5bgE1h8Kr6CoeFh_XZToUdeAqqU2gOd0hEg-BMf3_zXPsZhPtyJy2RxgmepGIVX441Zv2I-4RAXifuAh6Cs_c/s648/fred_segal_2010_a_l.jpg.webp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="365" data-original-width="648" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-OOmhBx_DiYgIiittAw3EwxCd08ksleY27E4f2eTRAHRnx5iMfkShQ9_-QmEs-b5dnXTXK7dvWCXDAz3uJ860l_hlbGsKVDTdBCJC3H5bgE1h8Kr6CoeFh_XZToUdeAqqU2gOd0hEg-BMf3_zXPsZhPtyJy2RxgmepGIVX441Zv2I-4RAXifuAh6Cs_c/s320/fred_segal_2010_a_l.jpg.webp" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>RIP, Fred Segal, Santa Monica.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br />I found my own favorite brands and styles. Girbaud jeans. Paul Smith shirts. Guess watches. Cole Haan and Kenneth Cole shoes. Moving to L.A., I fell in love with Hugo Boss, a few label-subtle Tommy Hilfiger offerings and hip stores like Ron Ross, George’s on Melrose and, especially, Fred Segal in Santa Monica where I bought a pair of purple and green paisley socks and sought out an Italian shirt and shoes plus a Hugo Boss suit and tie to match them. The fact the look began with socks felt insane. I understood fashion! <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVGfaNt4xik-wE8Zz4Irv5i4RFq4bipRnxUs2UMrsLmBH6IlEhfOWAlWteQvuGz7eBd-4krzaQD4bHqFn0-dBlfNAt8741i3TzAvHq3pURBv83mPfJIqIMvLWeXiOVxnMO3aAes0IIHU6Cd-uvtyswQwG_VCyLVfiixCVGUO-vIUyvcAOlQFs4Oe_TXZM/s263/images-11.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="263" data-original-width="175" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVGfaNt4xik-wE8Zz4Irv5i4RFq4bipRnxUs2UMrsLmBH6IlEhfOWAlWteQvuGz7eBd-4krzaQD4bHqFn0-dBlfNAt8741i3TzAvHq3pURBv83mPfJIqIMvLWeXiOVxnMO3aAes0IIHU6Cd-uvtyswQwG_VCyLVfiixCVGUO-vIUyvcAOlQFs4Oe_TXZM/s1600/images-11.jpeg" width="175" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />When I moved to Vancouver, I landed a job in a men’s boutique on trendy Robson Street, but it was a temporary gig. I got back into teaching and there wasn’t a need to dazzle ten-year-olds, the girls having an indiscriminating affinity for pink and Hello Kitty, the boys wearing the same Pokémon sweatshirts for days on end. I’d also come to realize that the stereotype about gays having impeccable fashion taste was vastly overstated. They followed the flock, wearing tank tops, jean shorts and Doc Martens or, worse, construction boots. The misguided independents wore passé Cosby-style sweaters and, on one first date, a Batman t-shirt. ZOWIE! KLONK! My fashion sense was bound to wane.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">It might have been a gradual thing, but seitan (or something like that) finally did me in. It happened when I went for dinner with Ron, my closest friend in Vancouver. We have plenty in common except for food. Picking a restaurant has been a constant challenge.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgzfKw8dBD7yH0fadoNtuNlnj5H6eMX2ueR0kqtHcasdLn0_VGKXgTggQD6B0YfVcRSslVwOt30jBqjri03VpkTM6VJdVOIJ7-Fur9HFfCUi1EYapbHadjVlplAfSSxlDQNfPYvMPjO-XGRzuZ64WajycYG6ou5jz0Crm_5J3OnL45v9M0tJLEuEiO7lI/s318/images-12.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="159" data-original-width="318" height="159" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgzfKw8dBD7yH0fadoNtuNlnj5H6eMX2ueR0kqtHcasdLn0_VGKXgTggQD6B0YfVcRSslVwOt30jBqjri03VpkTM6VJdVOIJ7-Fur9HFfCUi1EYapbHadjVlplAfSSxlDQNfPYvMPjO-XGRzuZ64WajycYG6ou5jz0Crm_5J3OnL45v9M0tJLEuEiO7lI/s1600/images-12.jpeg" width="318" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />For the first decade I knew him, there always seemed to be a fight in him, needing to resist my personal choice as a vegetarian, wanting to assert the supremacy of meat eating. So often after I’d order a meal—pasta primavera is what every restaurant served the “difficult” diners back then—he’d enter a one-way debate about the absurdity, even the hypocrisy, of being vegetarian. What was sushi if it was just seaweed and rice? Why did vegetarians eat veggie “burgers”? Couldn’t they come up with their own cuisine? Kale is just roughage. “Kale chips” are NOT a thing!<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA0GZvC3y-JOEH4cSRPprktP4sJBT4msPTj9blZtrKrz7Eb0YNMuZgUn7mXFFtQ1lwna5NV9xcSGBFHFNvaW5AocoAM4uJvdtA-QVSnwYebjimCdVYpttGj6E9HmdeeK_eMyTG-VHrBAsp9wA7QnFE9h6tFPTuK36nODVI_-peea5hktoJCNaAjIcMmtU/s1275/thumbnail-1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1275" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA0GZvC3y-JOEH4cSRPprktP4sJBT4msPTj9blZtrKrz7Eb0YNMuZgUn7mXFFtQ1lwna5NV9xcSGBFHFNvaW5AocoAM4uJvdtA-QVSnwYebjimCdVYpttGj6E9HmdeeK_eMyTG-VHrBAsp9wA7QnFE9h6tFPTuK36nODVI_-peea5hktoJCNaAjIcMmtU/s320/thumbnail-1.jpeg" width="271" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The gift I couldn't ignore.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br />His breaking point came after my 40<sup>th</sup> birthday, when another friend gave me a vegan cookbook and, as I randomly flipped pages as a performative measure to demonstrate my excitement about the gift—<i>So thoughtful! I LOVE it!</i> (I hate birthdays.)—my eyes fixed on an unknown term in the glossary. A certain binding ingredient wasn’t vegan. It wasn’t even vegetarian. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Cheese suddenly became very complicated and basically a no-go at restaurants since staff were as unfamiliar with the complicating term as I had been. It meant cheese-less pizzas which continues to baffle helpful servers (as recently as last week) who assume I’m making a mistake. It unnecessarily draws out my order. It’s like a spotlight is cast on me and an alarm has been triggered. WARNING: WEIRDO DETECTED. I’m mortified. I don’t like attention. I love <i>When Harry Met Sally, </i>but I never want to be compared to <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IxeeeSUFpmE" target="_blank">Sally when she orders food</a>. After the server escapes, I’m met with an oft-asked question by people at my table: “Why can’t you eat cheese?” <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHG7rk6CJrZ6iSWscTUmeKsa-7AM5zJQj_lHVj62kbp5iXgF4SwTRVXxdIZQWGM22nNIgE-HDv_-9V2EVVBuT6I6rDGeo1iwC2Yh4Cd5stfEhQrrev24LudcSUGRGl8LSdaOoxPOiM2ROWQH2TN4cNKw0YKUmpXbFLvPrOifr4YQU-ICa9MScuCOChCbY/s736/B2C-BlogPost-Top5CheeselessNYC-Keste-Marinara-close.jpg.webp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="429" data-original-width="736" height="187" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHG7rk6CJrZ6iSWscTUmeKsa-7AM5zJQj_lHVj62kbp5iXgF4SwTRVXxdIZQWGM22nNIgE-HDv_-9V2EVVBuT6I6rDGeo1iwC2Yh4Cd5stfEhQrrev24LudcSUGRGl8LSdaOoxPOiM2ROWQH2TN4cNKw0YKUmpXbFLvPrOifr4YQU-ICa9MScuCOChCbY/s320/B2C-BlogPost-Top5CheeselessNYC-Keste-Marinara-close.jpg.webp" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>It's tasty, I swear. Usually, my<br />friends look away. The horror!</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br />If I were smarter, I’d say I’m lactose intolerant, someone would say, “You poor thing” and we’d resume talking about the perks of working from home or movies only one person at the table has seen because everyone has different streaming channels. But I’m dutifully honest. If someone asks, I assume they are genuinely curious. (As an introvert, I abhor inane chitchat, including longwinded takes on movies only one of us has seen.) My dinner companions prod when I try to brush things off with, “It’s complicated.” I explain. Ron’s heard it all umpteen times. Nowadays, he jumps in and gives the explanation, the disdain almost disguised.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKviahcojaVVXmbzR7aDsVTkngkkwoy057abjZj9qFhp1kpgm6NWcqlQx0rsLUyIGRWibnAyys_-ihd3VImtN2uqYGrkS_6ozJKgZc6fJoPeuY2eb9hwx5YnfB7okPFze8QRQy3BgEMnvqS9cjanMW4lKi7m3ORLBtnssXtdv-Pis_kh5goh8iwfDi0HY/s259/images-13.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="259" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKviahcojaVVXmbzR7aDsVTkngkkwoy057abjZj9qFhp1kpgm6NWcqlQx0rsLUyIGRWibnAyys_-ihd3VImtN2uqYGrkS_6ozJKgZc6fJoPeuY2eb9hwx5YnfB7okPFze8QRQy3BgEMnvqS9cjanMW4lKi7m3ORLBtnssXtdv-Pis_kh5goh8iwfDi0HY/s1600/images-13.jpeg" width="259" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />When I first had to abstain from public cheese consumption, it was a step too far for Ron. I’d become radicalized. I’d insulted pizza. I’d become a mocking sympathizer of the truly unfortunate souls who are lactose intolerant. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Ron loves food. His memories are always first about the food. I’m sure he saw the Eiffel Tower and The Louvre in Paris, but every recollection is about the baguettes. (He rhapsodizes over them!) Dallas is about a slice of pecan pie he once had. Any mention of the province of Ontario leads to a reference to a butter tart served at a particular law school cafeteria. When I went on a recent epic hike last month in Washington, his first response was, “Did you stop at the place with the sausage breakfast sandwich?” <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJwsjXQEL90-5hczWqLUzk_7-4EydubX99a8-9YmqLm3o6B2OmcvxS9tpSvWXrxY999Tvfex-57hUC5Lz5sjRMWTOeXI6HyvsmmUFX07kVyIsLC59tMUGhwzytRhKpSq-PxbjCjf6deiWekG_q6R3jHOyYjYYJ_YMM41YHHMcdxmncpx5xocblj5TEwoA/s253/images-14.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="253" data-original-width="199" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJwsjXQEL90-5hczWqLUzk_7-4EydubX99a8-9YmqLm3o6B2OmcvxS9tpSvWXrxY999Tvfex-57hUC5Lz5sjRMWTOeXI6HyvsmmUFX07kVyIsLC59tMUGhwzytRhKpSq-PxbjCjf6deiWekG_q6R3jHOyYjYYJ_YMM41YHHMcdxmncpx5xocblj5TEwoA/s1600/images-14.jpeg" width="199" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />While my cheese choice in no way kiboshed his opportunities to talk at length about gorgonzola—it comes up annually, out of the blue—he’d had enough veggie-babble. He went for the jugular. He made a show of shifting in his seat and peeking under the table before saying, “If you’re a vegetarian, why are your shoes leather?”<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">It had been asked before. By others seeking to find fault in vegetarianism, even by Ron. It was the Achilles’ heel in what he saw as my sanctimonious dietary nonsense. I responded as I had before, “I don’t eat shoes.” We moved on to other topics, finding common ground on something about <i>Will & Grace </i>or Roger Federer’s rapid rise in tennis. But I knew I had a shoe problem.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7gKEvhlNtT-F0rDkHHnf9IElrZGkd_B0IFFzsRNEDaZ4-CNO64kXgoNHh9N7Z4-WYnelYPKaWzw4PAMVcCkWTsXu-xmt47HsVlFpOyp4ea6m_PjyFDcdQzuJh-wjlJqJHZwtCCJqKZz_vaulwuOtucS8oAkPOhIQboGvHsi1Ij263Z9W0bCOdB24nPxY/s260/Unknown-21.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="260" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7gKEvhlNtT-F0rDkHHnf9IElrZGkd_B0IFFzsRNEDaZ4-CNO64kXgoNHh9N7Z4-WYnelYPKaWzw4PAMVcCkWTsXu-xmt47HsVlFpOyp4ea6m_PjyFDcdQzuJh-wjlJqJHZwtCCJqKZz_vaulwuOtucS8oAkPOhIQboGvHsi1Ij263Z9W0bCOdB24nPxY/s1600/Unknown-21.jpeg" width="260" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />I’d never bought a leather jacket or, god forbid, leather pants. These were style statements that didn’t fit my clean, conservative look. I would never make a transformation like Olivia Newton-John’s Sandy Olsson in <i>Grease. </i>I would never get a leather sofa or buy a car with a leather interior. All these things involved too much (dead) cow. But I’d told myself leather was unavoidable in some contexts. Belts. Watch bands. Shoes. I could not live in flip flops and running shoes. Neither option was professional, even for teachers. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I couldn’t shrug things off anymore. My fashion would have to take a hit. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiChZOTK-kkJrJMrfbdXBfO_ouel2ESbJrb0KXVmK0mS5tp5ckzZdYe90ft2v7negKwlJYVlzpw8gswioEWo843XeV8L55RH6_e9HAp23iJdWymsyE0iL4_O6nyNbqoBpHalmF3Bjn7G5KJj7J4r2FNWny_lL3UQRpAn_KwRJe_H9h3Xhu2xZhkXpH60I0/s275/images-15.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiChZOTK-kkJrJMrfbdXBfO_ouel2ESbJrb0KXVmK0mS5tp5ckzZdYe90ft2v7negKwlJYVlzpw8gswioEWo843XeV8L55RH6_e9HAp23iJdWymsyE0iL4_O6nyNbqoBpHalmF3Bjn7G5KJj7J4r2FNWny_lL3UQRpAn_KwRJe_H9h3Xhu2xZhkXpH60I0/s1600/images-15.jpeg" width="275" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Fun but never sophisticated.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br />I gave away the Guess watches. (The brand was out of style anyway.) I found an online company and ordered vegan belts—not some hippie-dippy kind, woven from hemp and dried corn husks (relax…I made that up), but pleather, available in only black or one shade of brown. I bought a few pleather dress shoes as well which came off as much like the real thing as vegan cheeze. (Not that well at all.) I started my Converse shoe collection which now stands at thirty-six pair. I love ’em. They make me happy. But they don’t signalize <i>classy </i>like my dearly departed Cole Haans or Kenneth Coles or other treasures I must overlook at Nordstrom. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">So there it is. I live a more authentic life. My values are better aligned. But there’s a reason my Instagram is all about mountain hikes and quirky urban discoveries and not my outfit du jour. My quest to be a gay fashion icon got short-circuited by marinara pizza—all tomato sauce, Kalamata olives, basil and, hopefully, a damned good crust. I don’t freak out if the sauce splatter on my clothes. It is, after all, just a shirt. </span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>Aging Gaylyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09886888900957765438noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7857795538755708479.post-75014465442312473092023-10-24T15:54:00.001-07:002023-10-25T07:18:03.272-07:00KNOWING<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRN6hZSCTRz62qQWEiYd02R7NTRBVT4d_wfXLVw8QM0wi285hvFkBA2khMSoGm0sbjpSad-QmQZ0Ih5F37a__i45tp2TNFgtsooA-d7K3q8fTbpDtaTQEImex1bqQdHMRJU1LSVr1u_yf4xdQxcjhRx8aTa-kmRGE5oT_SB5drDPaJDJdyTjjk8BMwdIo/s235/images-3.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="235" data-original-width="195" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRN6hZSCTRz62qQWEiYd02R7NTRBVT4d_wfXLVw8QM0wi285hvFkBA2khMSoGm0sbjpSad-QmQZ0Ih5F37a__i45tp2TNFgtsooA-d7K3q8fTbpDtaTQEImex1bqQdHMRJU1LSVr1u_yf4xdQxcjhRx8aTa-kmRGE5oT_SB5drDPaJDJdyTjjk8BMwdIo/s1600/images-3.jpeg" width="195" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I’ve always been an avid ABBA fan. Even during the ’80s and ’90s when disco supposedly sucked and a Swedish pop group was deemed too sugarcoated compared to Morrissey and, later, grunge, I had ABBA tunes bopping about in my brain. While songs like “Mamma Mia” and “Take a Chance on Me” were happiness injections, “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3h1Gyqkaju0" target="_blank">Knowing Me, Knowing You</a>” had a jarring sadness, a reminder that sometimes a crash follows a sugar rush. The song is especially melancholic for me because, in 1977, I heard a Toronto radio station play it immediately after breaking the news that Canada’s Prime Minister Pierre Elliott Trudeau and Margaret Trudeau were separating.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0cm 36pt;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><i><span style="background-color: white;">Knowing me, knowing you,</span></i><i><br /><span style="background-color: white;">There is nothing we can do;</span><br /><span style="background-color: white;">Knowing me, knowing you,<br />We just have to face it, this time we're through.<br />Breaking up is never easy, I know, but I have to go.<br />Knowing me, knowing you, it's the best I can do.<o:p></o:p></span></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background-color: white;"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL_u1031yLNA0phZUJknbuvwRs9akevoGzdc3nUrVoujzrnqnuqnBno0kgSxCwVc9Zo1HVBp5pttix87R9LYV8Nc365K6ZV6fpl0PmlJU272UKJF9NhqxSlm0cBnTmB7wo6SU6fmRPa3u-vhc45SUAYoTeSRwXq3zS3glnnAOtjg-Jdim39tKt4jsQqDw/s290/images-7.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="174" data-original-width="290" height="174" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL_u1031yLNA0phZUJknbuvwRs9akevoGzdc3nUrVoujzrnqnuqnBno0kgSxCwVc9Zo1HVBp5pttix87R9LYV8Nc365K6ZV6fpl0PmlJU272UKJF9NhqxSlm0cBnTmB7wo6SU6fmRPa3u-vhc45SUAYoTeSRwXq3zS3glnnAOtjg-Jdim39tKt4jsQqDw/s1600/images-7.jpeg" width="290" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />For me, there’s something that gets lost in translation regarding the lyrics. Based on my many trips to Sweden, it’s clear the Swedes are remarkably proficient in English, but Duolingo has also led me to believe they’re also big on melancholy. When introducing vocabulary for feelings such as happiness (lycka), anger (ilska) and sorrow (sorg), the language app makes sure a beginning language learner knows “det svenska vemodet” (the Swedish melancholy). I’ve practiced the phrase so many times online but, fortunately, not during visits. If it’s truly a Swedish thing, I suppose that explains why knowing one another can be construed as a sad endpoint.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background-color: white;"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Not being truly Swedish (despite my wishes), I quibble with the sentiment. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="background-color: white;"><o:p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIBboIho1_lI9q91NSLAAjMGnHtVUxJdWFciobkIphicFj3n0gjpFMmNv_hjsQj8D4zL9Gq3AfTkI-pp9oDScesdxF5t-WiZJHL8bfjSqu2c1B6uHfPIogApA1mNmZIZt20hDOnbedGFxaCSCghHxZezHobQVfxXzGzMEOeZ-45iCAhlECZUENhuGE0Uo/s275/images-9.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIBboIho1_lI9q91NSLAAjMGnHtVUxJdWFciobkIphicFj3n0gjpFMmNv_hjsQj8D4zL9Gq3AfTkI-pp9oDScesdxF5t-WiZJHL8bfjSqu2c1B6uHfPIogApA1mNmZIZt20hDOnbedGFxaCSCghHxZezHobQVfxXzGzMEOeZ-45iCAhlECZUENhuGE0Uo/s1600/images-9.jpeg" width="275" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />Yesterday I woke up, got dressed and grabbed lattes for Evan and me at the café on the corner. The barista was cheery, her tone giving me a lift equal to the anticipated double shot of espresso. I returned to Evan’s home and joined him on the bed, the two of us grabbing our phones to check news, messages and pics of acquaintances posing by Trevi Fountain, smiling while having a pint at a pub or showing the carnage remaining from a chew toy a beloved pooch destroyed in record time. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Monday, Schmonday. It would be a good day.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Then I saw the subject line of an email from a family member and I knew the good in the day was gone. I read the email aloud and Evan knew this too. He hugged me, he helped me take regular breaths. Deep breathing wasn’t possible, but the goal was to guide me past an anxiety attack when air seemed entirely unavailable, when crashing to the floor and flailing would scare us both. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">It doesn’t matter what was in that email. What matters is Evan knew why it would be so significant. He knew his steadiness would help see me through. He knew what to say, what not to say. He knew me.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">The previous morning, he’d awakened to his own uncertainties, his mind stuck in the clutter. I listened as he unpacked many topics. I listened and waited for my moment. I empathized. I related my own connections. I offered what I could in terms of hope, encouragement and maybe a small step or two forward. It helped him recall one of his favorite expressions: “You eat a whale one bite at a time.” (Never mind that I’m a staunch vegetarian and the image can be rather frightful; I imagine an extra-large bowl of fettuccini with marinara sauce. Yes, then, one bite at a time.) He startled me later that day when he thanked me for being there and being a support. It had all felt so natural. I guess I just knew what he needed.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">After twenty months together, we’ve reached a state of knowing one another. We’ve experienced challenges as a couple and as individuals who can lean on and learn from one another. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Once I’d tackled the initial drama from the email, Evan listened to a phone conversation while in another room. When it ended, he was by my side again, listening, validating, just checking in. I’m an exercise fanatic and Monday is the day I allow my body to recover, but he said, “You need to go for a run.” My mind might have spun more on the email, on the subsequent conversation, on the possible future dramas that could play out in the coming days, weeks and maybe—dear god—years. He knew that sort of “spin class” could wait.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdJyykwcvJV6U4TwF6lFydDEmUHGu2z5zud7nn1f9JMUWJGK-0N6tThWEn-brWWIECEkd26RtsL6k97Rw_aV1-bbP5E9v7MPkWVrHRyz9WsAkDe_WWnAUQU3vXaSVnEiEXeuh_D5Px0eA6tFXJig1kIAv5YfnuwsWws-_xOY43B4S0EKEw4bWlyUqBrWA/s300/images-8.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdJyykwcvJV6U4TwF6lFydDEmUHGu2z5zud7nn1f9JMUWJGK-0N6tThWEn-brWWIECEkd26RtsL6k97Rw_aV1-bbP5E9v7MPkWVrHRyz9WsAkDe_WWnAUQU3vXaSVnEiEXeuh_D5Px0eA6tFXJig1kIAv5YfnuwsWws-_xOY43B4S0EKEw4bWlyUqBrWA/s1600/images-8.jpeg" width="300" /></a></span></i></div><i><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />Just run. <o:p></o:p></span></i><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><i><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">One of his favorite observations: “You’re always happier after a run.” (No carnivorous reference in that statement, whew.) <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I ran; he did yoga. Then he made a gourmet lunch—<a href="https://cooking.nytimes.com/recipes/1014721-shakshuka-with-feta" target="_blank">shakshuka</a>, his plate with an egg on top, mine without, everything flavored with the right spices and the perfect heat level. It was another form of knowing, our sit-down meal as intimate as anything we’ve experienced together.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjVbD8_VU7WqfGPlwPJYzYi9-qSuoh9yK1E9zaCBEh8Nv8pFmxS3gKpx6NM-E-hXhyrLMXN_g1pIhu3Zq3INr1w5q9Ji56KsDwP1gcVFwEk2XkXXfaGsxYAfGVfrIh6PtgT5Yym99QoWEY5bpKYiIU9Ka32ipptfrQ_WUVEeijaLEaqpzyTqc-QlJcUYY/s225/images-2.jpeg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjVbD8_VU7WqfGPlwPJYzYi9-qSuoh9yK1E9zaCBEh8Nv8pFmxS3gKpx6NM-E-hXhyrLMXN_g1pIhu3Zq3INr1w5q9Ji56KsDwP1gcVFwEk2XkXXfaGsxYAfGVfrIh6PtgT5Yym99QoWEY5bpKYiIU9Ka32ipptfrQ_WUVEeijaLEaqpzyTqc-QlJcUYY/s1600/images-2.jpeg" width="225" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Sorry...I can't explain it.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br />It was clear the day was a write-off in terms of my writing goals. I packed up my car and made the three-hour drive back to Vancouver which always takes me between five and six due to fuel stops (gas and caffeine) and grocery searches for items I can’t get in Canada. (Bean dip is a guilty pleasure dating back to days of watching televised football games in Texas. (Everything about the preceding sentence sounds so foreign!)) <o:p></o:p></span></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">When I walked in my condo, there was a message from Evan, checking in, and then a FaceTime call so he could see me and confirm I was all right. Yes, the guy knows my fake smile, knows when my voice inflections are off and knows how the slightest diversion of the eyes belies any indication of thumbs up. I’ve always known I have no poker face but, damn, that guy has a way of going beyond calling my bluff.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Yes, he knows me. I know a thing or two about him, too.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">When I hear that ABBA line, <i>“Knowing me, knowing you, it’s the best I can do,” </i>I feel that’s the ultimate. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Melancholy, schmelancholy.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><i><span lang="EN-US"> </span></i><span lang="EN-US"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> </span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>Aging Gaylyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09886888900957765438noreply@blogger.com0