SELFIE-STEEM

Our ‘90s selves would be appalled by our post-millennial selves.

Or at least mine would.

Seriously? You take pictures of yourself and post then on the Internet? Why the hell would you do that? And what do you mean everyone’s doing it? Don’t f*^k with me. What has gotten into you?

‘90s me is rightly shocked and horrified. I used to be so skilled at ducking out whenever anyone someone started to fiddle with a telephoto lens attachment or set up the tripod. (Back then, there was sufficient warning to make my getaway.) I’d lock myself in the bathroom and say something about an eggplant allergy to the person banging on the door. Yep, that kept them at bay. Click away! By the time I re-emerged, they’d have used up their roll of film and we could go back to casually debating whether Madonna was becoming irrelevant—Who invited the straight guy?—or discussing which “Friends” character was the funniest. (Please. It was always Phoebe.)

Never wanted any photographic evidence of my physical existence. Big nose. Hair always overdue for a cut. Bulging eyes. Stick figure arms. A gut that screamed for a massive diet to lose ten pounds. (It was always ten pounds and it was always an extreme diet.) Excessively wrinkly elbows that should always be concealed by long sleeves. Retro WHAM! t-shirt…What was I thinking?!

‘90s me would never have imagined that I’d post goofy selfies on Facebook. People “Like” this sort of thing? Mercy likings, no doubt. Surely they were forced to dim their screens. There’s no way those elbows improved.

And ‘90s me would have me committed—okay, re-committed—for having the gall to post a shirtless selfie. Not just once. What are you trying to do? Incite politicians to make selfies illegal? When did you become an activist about world issues? Shirtless?! An extreme activist. It’s mind boggling.

Truth is, I’m not so far evolved from ‘90s me. I can still pick apart my physical state. And yet, the selfies are not so horrid. My body seems to have finally bulked up a tad. The gut doesn’t look as large. (I’ve downsized to the eternal quest to lose five pounds. Dieting is a way of being.) Still, that dang phone camera is never far away. Every time I’m in a hotel room, I snap a shirtless selfie.

Why? It’s hard to chalk it up to vanity when I am only mildly less repulsed by my looks. It’s part of an evidentiary expedition. Frankly, I don’t believe all the other shirtless selfies. They don’t look half bad. Everyone can get one good photo, maybe two. Trick mirrors, no doubt. I have to keep testing things. I need to return to sanity and that solid sense of unworthiness. I snap. I’m not appalled. Sometimes I’m almost satisfied…but for the five pounds and those freaky elbows.

Posting shirtless selfies?! Not as an activist statement? Not as an act of terrorism? (Okay, to be accurate, ‘90s me wouldn’t have mentioned terrorism. It wasn’t such a buzzword then. We were too concerned about the fact that Backstreet Boys may have actually nailed a couple good tunes. Boy band credibility threatened to upset the entire social order.)

Sorry, ‘90s me, I can’t really explain it. At least, not in a satisfying way. I post selfies. And, yes, even, shirtless selfies. Surely, there are selfie self-help groups, but I live in too remote an area. (Yeah, ‘90s me would shake his head at that, too. You moved where?!)

I’m selfie-aware enough to sense that I am seeking superficial validation. I’m stuck there. Not because I want to dwell on that. Believe me, I’d love to get past obsessing over physical imperfections. (At 50, I know they are cropping up with greater speed! At my most recent appointment with my skin cancer doctor, I kept pointing out questionable blemishes. “Age spots” was her declaration for each and every one. I should be glad be glad she didn’t say “melanoma” and I was, albeit taken aback nonetheless. Age spots are the new acne.) Like everyone else, I post selfies to fictionalize my life. Look at all the fun I’m having. Look at how great I look. (Never mind that I had to delete another ninety-nine less appealing, more true-to-life shots.) I need people to throw some “Likes” and some “Favorites” my way. Self-esteem has evolved to selfie-steem.

I’d love someone to know me more intimately, to see the humor, the kindness and perhaps the intelligence…when it comes to subjects other than posting selfies. Still, for now, surface “Likes” are all I can garner.

This is chronic adolescence. Low-level validation means far more than it should. But that’s the window. That’s the first impression. Disappointment in that domain means there is no second look.

Note to selfie: I’ll be glad when you’re gone. And as for you, ‘90s me, I’d love for you to stay in the archives as well. (Can’t believe you put a Backstreet Boys earworm in my head.)

Maybe the next time I book on hotels.com, I’ll request a room with no mirrors. That will be the new trend. It’s only a matter of months before more of us enter selfie-recovery.

INAPPROPRIATE POKING

Ever since my mother friended me on Facebook I’ve stopped posting. Yep, even though we live in different countries, she still has too much control over my social life.

I’m a Facebook voyeur now. I check out the awesome art that Cassie, my former roommate when I lived in Dallas, is now working on in New Mexico. I find out every notable achievement of friends’ children in Ohio and Florida—aced a spelling test (woo hoo!); made his own grilled cheese (that explains the fireman photo); went a whole week without wetting the bed (apparently there are other mothers who fail to grasp boundaries).

I keep my Facebook “friends” to a minimum, believing that, even in the virtual world, the word has meaning. Yes, there are many people I know whom I don’t confirm as friends. If you could Acquaintance someone on Facebook, I might welcome them. But then again, how many photos of unknown families do I need to see posing awkwardly in front of Brooklyn’s Newtown Creek Wastewater Treatment Plant? (The tour got 4.5 stars on Yelp, a compelling reason to question why people rely on online reviews of any sort.)

Last week, I found a different function for Facebook. I used it as a dating tool.

It started when I showed up for the Wednesday night Frontrunners run along the beach in Santa Monica. For the most part, it was the same crew as the previous two weeks, but one regular, Nicholas, suddenly caught my eye. New haircut, I think. I was more than attracted; I was smitten.

That’s the way things work with me. I can recognize attractive men, but most do not do a thing for me. “James always had high standards,” my friend Benny informed his husband as we met for drinks last week. “And he never lowered them.” Sounds like a compliment, but it stung. How much of being single is my own doing?

That is why swooning over Nicholas caught me off guard so much. As we began the run, he took the lead, going solo. My running partner, Josh, and I followed. It is shallow to objectify a man, but as part of a first impression, I was quite happy to ogle the back of his 6’2” frame. The man was clearly in good shape but not in the overly buff West Hollywood way. To me, that’s a very good thing.

Josh started to pick up the pace and I told him to go on. He caught up to Nicholas while I trailed. Sure, it would have been nice to chat with Eye Candy, but the sea breeze had gotten into my nasal passage and, well, things weren’t looking pretty. If I’ve learned anything, it’s never try to woo a man while you have snot smeared all over your face. Call it a hunch.

I ducked into a public washroom to clean up before joining Josh and Nicholas back at the starting point. I figured we had about fifteen minutes to chat before everyone else got back. Naturally, I leaned over the railing and stared at the gorgeous ocean view. Breathtaking scenes of nature are so much easier to behold.

This is what I always do. When I am extremely attracted to a man, I cannot speak. High Standards/Extreme Pickiness + Non-Communication = Chronic Single Status. I know this, I know it’s a guaranteed losing tactic. Still, it’s what I do.

But there was an urgency to the situation. I had two weeks left in L.A. What if this trip was about Finding Nicholas? Isn’t this why I’ve sat through so many romantic comedies? Maybe this was my Meg Moment!

And so I took one more look at the sailboats on the ocean before turning around and facing destiny. Or instant rejection. I don’t know how I did it, but I initiated a conversation. And I am certain I was completely coherent. I am confident I didn’t say anything stupid.

Turns out Nicholas doesn’t live in Los Angeles. He lives out in Palmdale, a good distance from the city. He travels in on Wednesday nights to foster some semblance of a social life. I related immediately. And from my observations, he is about as socially (un)savvy. He drives an hour and a half to join the running group, runs solo for the most part and then passes on dinner due to the long drive home. Sometimes you can’t make lemonade. Sometimes lemons are just lemons.

Like me, he grew up in Texas. He went to high school in the same city where I went to university. He too avoids returning to Texas. I didn’t need to ask why. Like me, he is entertained at home by his dog and he is a professional, an aerospace engineer in fact. (Take that, all you Los Angeles models/actors/waiters!)

Our conversation wound down as the group rejoined us and I headed for dinner while he headed for his home far, far away. Whatever the term is for “beyond smitten”, that’s what I was. (Űber smitten?) Was it mutual? Well, he certainly did not send any overt signals. He seemed reserved, socially awkward. But then again, he could simply have been disinterested.

That night I went on Facebook. I recalled he had been at a Hollywood Bowl event, the campy, entertaining Brooke Shields-directed performance of “Chicago” that I’d been invited to by another Frontrunner whose friendship I’d accepted on FB. (This trip is all about going beyond my comfort zone.)

Sure enough, I found Nicholas, tagged in some of the Hollywood Bowl photos our mutual friend posted. And that led me straight to Nicholas’ home page.

Stalking is so simple.

It is also fascinatingly creepy. I learned that his birthday was the next day and I calculated that he was three years younger than me. Our musical tastes differed, but I was undeterred. He’d posted several adorable shots of his dog and, yes, of himself. Triathlons, marathons, a dedication to fitness that I found enticing. Of course, if he’d posted pictures posing with his porcelain doll collection, I’d have still found it endearing. Love is blind. So is infatuation.

Gawking was not enough. I messaged him, apologizing for the apparent stalking and asking if he wanted to meet for dinner.

And then I waited.

According to my FB message board, he’d read my note at 4:25 the next morning. His birthday. Well, of course he’d be too busy on that special day to reply.

I waited more. What else could I do?

But then there comes a point when even the most optimistic/desperate person realizes the waiting is over.

Before going to Frontrunners this week, I bought a new jogging outfit. Not for him, for me. Well, mostly for me. At least 60% for me. I’d considered not showing up, but I needed to be a big boy and smile on. I needed the new outfit to look my best, to feel confident.

By the time I arrived, everyone was already gathered in a circle for pre-run announcements. I squeezed in, smile glued to my face, and slowly dared to make an eye tour of the group.

No Nicholas.

When you live an hour and a half away and you are a freakin’ aerospace engineer, there are umpteen reasons why you might not make it for the weekly run. Still, I felt awful, not about the rejection—I’ve been getting plenty of that in writing and in dating—but about the possibility that I had interfered with Nicholas’ main social outlet of the week. I had intruded on Facebook and kept him away. All temporary, of course, with my imminent return to Vancouver, but still, a highly unwelcome poke. Yes, I still retain some of that junior high brain whereby other people’s actions are entirely based on me.

Sorry, Nicholas. As indirect as I may have been, there wasn’t time to let things play out naturally. The internet provides us a false space. If people can have 900 friends on Facebook, why can’t they hope for more?

Alas. Wasn’t meant to be.

Regrets? No. I tried as best I could under the circumstances. On Wednesday, I’ll arrive home and, with luck, I will fit in a run along the deserted road that leads to the pulp mill. At roughly the same time, Nicholas will venture back in Santa Monica, getting his social fix, running alone on the beach. Parallel lives, a thousand miles apart.

I think I’ll steer clear of Facebook for awhile. No big loss. I don’t need to know what my mom cooked my dad for dinner. I don’t need to see the jumbo binder somebody bought her kid for the new school year. And I don’t need to get any more crazy ideas about finding a shortcut to love.

CHICKEN SQUAWK

I received considerable feedback on Twitter and on the blog after posting “A Game of Chicken” on Friday.  The comments are so greatly appreciated as I have had no one to talk with about this issue.  I invite you to read the post, but here it is in a nutshell: 

I learned from a Facebook entry that my brother’s family attended “Chick-fil-A Appreciation Day” and I wondered what my response should be.  Ultimately, I decided to leave well enough alone.  I would not be able to enlighten them and my mother, caught in between, would be the one to internalize the family rift.  Not worth it.

I thought blogging about the matter would help me move on.  How naïve.  I let things fester.  Ignoring the issue was not the answer.

I logged back into Facebook.  Foolish move.  Like peeking under a Bandaid to be icked out all over again.  My chest tightened again.  My sister-in-law’s previous entry was a call out for chair donations for her church.  I thought of writing, “Ask Chick-fil-A.”  It made me smile, but I refrained.  I returned to the inciting entry:  “only too happy to support them again today!” 

Enough! I thought.  I have put up with this for twenty-four years since my brother met this woman and he became an extreme Baptist.  My family has quietly tiptoed around my brother and sister-in-law all this time.  My mother gets mad when I count the “God” references in their annual Christmas newsletter.  (I am not exaggerating when I say God makes dozens of appearances.)  We all felt homeschooling their children would create a sense of isolation and deny the kids chances for social interaction, exposure to diversity and opportunities in sports.  (My niece knits.  My nephew plays piano.  They both participated in State Bible Drill competitions.) 

I once tried to bond with my sister-in-law, striking up a conversation after seeing her reading a book.  “Christian mysteries are my favorite,” she said.  Yes, apparently it is a genre.  I suppressed a wave of sarcastic thoughts and poured myself a rum and Coke as my mother frowned at me.  We’re not supposed to drink in front of them.  Don’t let them think of our Episcopalian family as heathens.

But, the thing is, we are heathens in their eyes.  I am, for sure.  Any recitation of my good deeds would be pointless.  Hell awaits.

Why is it that they can live so openly as they believe and I, to spare the family, must shield them from a basic part of who I am?  Family harmony is a complete sham.  I have avoided contact with my brother and his family.  Maybe I am being unfair.  I have made my own assumptions.  I have withheld the truth.

I typed a Facebook reply:  “This hurts so much.”  I stared at the screen, hands shaking.  Yes, I can be very melodramatic.  I erased the words.  Why make a public statement on my sister-in-law’s account?  Instead, I emailed my brother.  The text follows:

Hi Brother’s Name,

I read sister-inlaw's Facebook post about going to Chick-fil-A and I am shattered. To be fair, I have never officially come out to you, but it should come as no surprise. That your family should be against gay marriage is also no surprise.
 
Sometimes I think things were much better before the days of Facebook. I do not need to know certain things and I didn't feel you needed to either. After reading the comment, however, I cannot let you pretend that you do not have a gay brother. So sorry that I do not fit within your "family values", but I am who I am. I do not need your prayers or any talk of loving the sinner, hating the sin. I got enough of that living in Texas and that's a big reason why I left.

The rest of the family knows I am gay. You should, too. However you choose to regard that is your own decision.
 

The message was sent Friday afternoon.  More than forty-eight hours later, I have received no reply.  I don’t expect one.  Still, I am glad I spoke up.  I am tired of assumptions and censoring myself.

I did not attend Pride celebrations in Vancouver today.  I don’t need to.  A stronger sense of pride lives within me.