LOOKING FORWARD

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

What are we? 

 

How are we supposed to make our international relationship work? 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Peas and meatballs, it turns out pair well together. 

 

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

 

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

 

We go forward.

 

 

 

 

  

THE FLASHER

There’s a time and place for nudity. Stepping into the shower after a morning jog. Yep, soap up all those sweaty bits. At the doctor’s office when that dreaded part of the physical comes up where he has to check for lumps on the testicles and give the “all clear” regarding the prostate (while I ramble on about a hike I did near Whistler—not that he’s interested; I just need to normalize an awkward situation). Sex, I suppose…if keeping a shirt on feels stuffy and the belly isn’t still showing off last night’s dinner. (Why did I eat the entire loaf of sourdough?)

 

For me, that’s it. I’m out of nudity scenarios. I don’t vacuum naked. I don’t plop my bare ass on the sofa while watching Jeopardy. I don’t skinny dip in the river at the cottage. (Lurking somewhere near the bottom are really big fish called muskies with countless teeth. I don’t want them mistaking anything for a worm.) 

 

I like clothes. 

 

Not long after arriving at the family cottage in Ontario, I got a message from Farmer Luc on the only dating-or-whatever app I still have on my phone. A polite, if say-nothing note: “Good morning.” Farmer Luc was the same age as me and apparently eleven kilometers away. That’s basically next door when you’re in rural surroundings. I noticed he’d actually bothered to fill out parts of his profile with words—sentences! Sounded like a normal guy. I’m done with dating, but I thought I should be neighborly. I good morning-ed back.

 

Your move, Farmer Luc. Now maybe you’ll really have to say something.

 

He fired off three thousand words. Or the equivalent if you ascribe to that notion that a picture is worth a thousand. 

 

Farmer Luc doesn’t like clothes as much as I do.

 

The fly buzzing around in the cottage may have noticed my eye roll. I had deleted Grindr. I thought I’d put an end to unsolicited nude shots. Clearly, Farmer Luc was intent on bucking that stereotypical image of farmers in overalls, a strand of hay dangling between front teeth. (It’s true. The hay thing would have been a turn off. I’m not a dentist so no bonus points are awarded for creative flossing.)

 

Farmer Luc had nothing to be embarrassed about. Apparently he could resist whole loaves of bread on one go and something about the daily tasks in tending to cows and chickens had flattered his biceps. Maybe it was all that manure shoveling.

 

I am rather certain Farmer Luc hadn’t wanted me to visualize manure shoveling when he sent me three thousand words. 

 

After making sure my eye roll registered with the fly—a genuine protest—I messaged back: “Happy to meet for a coffee in town if you’re interested.”

 

Like a GPS recalibrating after going too far, he replied. “So sorry if I was too forward. Yes, coffee would be nice.”

 

All right then. We met a few days later at a café. He showed up fully clothed—shorts and a polo shirt that still showed off his biceps which still made me think of shoveling manure. (I can fixate on things…often the wrong things.)

 

The conversation was fine. Nothing kinetic. I’d mentioned I was dog-sitting while my aunt and uncle were on a cruise and he shared about his first cruise last year. 

 

A gay cruise. My nightmare, being stuck at sea with too many attention-seekers. 

 

A nudist gay cruise. Okay, my worst nightmare. 

 

I withheld judgment. I conjured Lady Gaga and maintained my best Poker Face. I nonchalantly asked him about food and ports of call. 

 

Presumably, he poker faced it too instead of revealing what a prude he may have thought I was. Why hadn’t I asked any titillating questions? In my twenties and early thirties, I went to many coffees—and yogurt shops when in L.A.—to hear other gay guys offer retellings of their sexcapades. (No surprise, I had none.) The whole kiss and tell thing just feels passé. 

 

Yes, I know. Prude. Once and always.

 

Ten minutes into my ride back to the cottage, I had a message from Farmer Luc. I did not check it while driving. The non-cruise part of the coffee conversation had revealed a sense that he might feel somewhat isolated as a gay man in rural Ontario. I presumed the message would be about arranging another coffee, maybe dinner. I figured I’d be fine with that. Since I come here every year, it would be nice to develop a new friendship.

 

Once back at the cottage, I checked Farmer Luc’s message. Five thousand “words” this time. A different kind of invitation. 

 

Maybe the poker face response had been a bad call. Somehow none of my prudishness came through or, if it did, all his isolation made him rusty on social cues (and non-cues). 

 

I countered with another offer of coffee. He responded with a day that looked glitchy for me. He must have viewed this as playing too hard to get…not that I was ever to be gotten. I didn’t hear back again. Lots of tasks to tend to on the farm, I’m sure. 

 

Just as well. My biggest work-around during our single coffee outing had been avoiding a certain conversation-killing question: “What are all the cows for?” As someone who has been a vegetarian for forty years for humane reasons, I could have accepted “dairy” as part of the response but he’d mentioned “selling the cows.” That had been an answer, hadn’t it? 

 

Farmer Luc and I were never going to be anything regardless of the size of his biceps or anything else, no matter if we found common ground for ongoing conversation. Eleven kilometers between us…so close in one context but still worlds away. I will most definitely be keeping my clothes on.

 

 

  

BATTLING BOTS (Damn Scams - Part 2)

First time for everything. Today someone accused me of being a robot. Not, in person. That would be particularly awkward. Online. On the most popular gay “dating” app. 

 

I’ve been back on dating sites for a couple of months now and, boy, my age is playing more of a factor than ever. I’m 59. I don’t lie. I see guys who do—they say they’re 48—and the photos either look to be from the previous century or they show someone who is pushing 70. In no world—including the virtual version—can they pass for 48. Not even close. Shave a couple years if you must, but lopping off decades is never going to lead to anything in your favor. I’m not trying to be mean. Aging is humbling to me, too. But some of my contemporaries need a good head shaking. 

 

In fact, just state your actual age. Why start something, however casual, by being dishonest? Let Pride extend beyond just being gay or queer. If we’re supposed to be accepted for being ourselves that includes as our older gay selves. Ageism exists in the real world and it seems more brutal in our “community.” It needs to be confronted, but it starts with older gays being real with themselves.

 

There. Said it. Will say it again, no doubt, but for now I’m stepping down from my soapbox, no cane required, no sudden calf cramp. 

 

I’m finding that a number of guys considerably younger than me are sending messages. This is highly suspect from the start. Why is somebody a quarter of a century younger sending me a message? I mean, 35 isn’t exactly young but, dammit, it’s a long, long way to 59.

 

What happens is these guys will send a little, meaningless text. Actually, meaningless texts seem to be the opener for virtually every message, regardless of age, motivation or the number of framed degrees one has stuffed in the back of the hall closet. (The movie Bros keeps this as a running joke with “Sup?” supposedly sufficing as a conversation (or something else) starter.) 

 

Unfortunately, I—one of those idiots with degrees in the closet—have no clue how to respond to a meaningless text. No momentum from the outset. It exasperates me. This is lazy. This is communication diluted to the tiniest puddle, the kind that’s easy to step around or over and get on with the day. Words mean so much to me. As an introvert, I have little tolerance for idle chitchat. These lame openers aren’t even that. They aren’t even “chit.” 

 

I don’t play by the rules. I text full sentences, a whole string of them even. I try to add a question at the end to offer the person something of substance to respond about. Nothing seeking opinions on what’s going on in Gaza or even thoughts about Dua Lipa’s new album. Something “lite,” connected to their profile if at all possible. (Please write something in your profile. Anything.) Here you go, I’ve given you a topic. Go with it.

 

I’m not meant for Grindr. It may have nothing to do with age.

 

But back to bots…

 

There’s something distinctive in the meaninglessness of the texts from these young ’uns. The messages, while generic and saying absolutely nothing, have just enough beyond lazy-boy “sup” and “how r u” to stand out in their similar formality:

                   Hello, how are you doing today? 

                   hey how are you?

                   Hello, what are you looking for?

                   Hello, how are you doing

                   Hello, how are you doing today?

 

Three texts in a row:

                   Hello, I hope you have a nice day.

    Hello, I hope you have a nice day.

    Hello, I hope you have a nice day.

 

The photo—always just one—shows a pretty/handsome Asian man. Exceptionally so. I can tell even as I adjust my glasses, lean in and squint at the thumbnail pic. He looks like he could be in a high fashion print ad. Decades younger, gorgeous and he’s messaging me. Well, isn’t this flattering!

 

Louis was my first. He texted within twenty-four hours of my opening an account. 

The bot welcome wagon. Oh, Louis! Wowza!

 

Thirty-five…hmm. 

 

If I were a narcissist, I might have nodded my head, smiled and thought, “Yep. I’ve still got it.” 

 

But I’m not. And I never had it.

 

Still, I was feeling mighty bruised about being summarily dismissed by my ex who happened to be four years younger than me. Couldn’t I be gentle with myself? Couldn’t I always for the possibility that another younger guy might see something in me? MUCH younger, true, but, feeling fragile, I thought I should accept validation even if it came from a handsome young man who had lost his way. I even tried to self-talk myself into believing Louis wasn’t lost. If I wear sunglasses, I look young for my age (or that’s what my best friend and my aunt say). 

 

But 59! It’s right there. Large font immediately below my profile pic. Oh, Louis…

 

I immediately thought about the stereotypes of older white gay men with significantly younger Asian men. There is a basis of truth in many stereotypes, including this one. Who pursues who? Why would handsome, twenty-four-years-younger Louis message me?  

 

I stared at the message:

Hello, how are you doing today?

 

So formal. Punctuation at the end. Very appealing. Even as a newbie, I knew this was exceptional.

 

I decided to respond. I figured just saying, “Fine” or, going for extreme positivity, “Doing great!” wouldn’t be enough. 

 

As someone who knows a little something about how conversations are supposed to go in the non-app world at least, I needed to ask something in return. But, with a blank profile other than the single pic, age, height and weight stats and Grindr indicating he was six kilometers away, there wasn’t anything to go on. I winged it with something lame—“What have you been up to today?”—but, yes, something. 

 

Too much thinking time for this kind of app. He’d probably moved on. So many thumbnail photos to click on. (Oh, to be twenty-four years younger, have rapid fine motor skills and not have to squint through glasses!)

 

A reply:

                   What are you looking for?

 

Gee. Gosh. Was this a sex question? Was this about race? Marriage? One vague question was making me sweat. Validation wasn’t supposed to come with anxiety. 

 

I dodged a bit. I don’t like online messaging with strangers. This exchange was already affirming my opinion that they rarely evolve, they fizzle out and then, well, what was it for? Even the validation would fade out.  

 

“What area do you live in? Maybe we could chat over a coffee.”

 

A reply. But nothing about where he lived. Flaky or avoidant. Young ’uns. I let it go. 

 

Midway through the next day, my phone vibrated. Louis again.

 

                   Hello, how are you doing today?

 

Persistent. Wasn’t that a plus? But the same opening. Groundhog Day. I knew nothing more than the day before. This is what I hate about online conversation. It’s typically too lite. This wasn’t even that. 

 

And then it dawned on me. He’d looked familiar but now I realized we’d had some sort of go-nowhere message exchange last time I was single. Same name, different pic. A headshot instead of this side profile. I’d had enough validation—from Louis, at least. I pressed: “Haven’t we chatted before on a different dating app?”

 

I waited. Waited a little longer. No response. I looked at the app. The message was gone. So was Louis. Familiarity breeds contempt, I guess.

 

Later in the day, a message from Xaio, another very handsome Asian man—model-caliber. A single photo. A barebones profile. Thirty-four. Seven kilometers away. 

 

Wasn’t feeling as validated. 

Wasn’t feeling young for my age. 

Felt like I was being played because of my age.

 

Scams can attempt to dupe anyone but older people are prime targets and, on a gay dating app that isn’t niche like Silver Singles (been there; nothing but crickets), I’m about as old as it gets. Prime target.

 

                  Hello, what are you looking for?

 

Still hadn’t figured that out myself, but I had a hunch what Xaio was looking for. A sucker…and not in any sexual sense. I cut to the chase. “Hey! Thanks for the message. What part of the city are you living in?”

 

Xaio vanished. Abracadabra! Profile gone. Message gone. 

 

I always sensed I had a talent for making men disappear but it was becoming my super power on Grindr. While I didn’t know what I was looking for, I was certain this was not the place I wanted to hone my magic act…unless I could pull coins from behind my ear. Gold ones. Lots of ’em. Not to be.

 

More Asian models with just one pic and barebones profiles appeared, each reaching out with a bland, respectful opening message. It was like Whac-A-Mole. One would pop up, I’d “hit it” with a question and—BAM—back down the hole, the mole-bot tunneling toward a new possible opening on someone else’s game player…er, cell phone.

 

I extended the chat with one—Lin—to see what would happen. I answered as vaguely as him. I’d ask where he lived in the city. I tried to get something specific. What’s your favorite spot to grab a coffee? And then I turned the tables, so to speak. “I’m considerably older than you. What are you looking for?” 

 

He said he was new on the app—duh…VERY new—and was going to be leaving it. Because that’s what new folks do. 

 

Exit Lin.

 

Maybe Grindr will get wind of me. These aren’t bots. I’m scaring off hot young men, real profiles people actually want to view. Maybe my account will be suspended. Maybe I am the one who has to disappear.

 

Maybe not.

 

Louis became Mark.

Louis showed up again when I was in Washington, D.C. Same image. Different name though. Is this what younger people were doing these days? This week call me…

 

I’m thinking of trying out Bartholomew. Seven days, that’s all. Fun! I’ll switch before people started getting too familiar, calling me Bart. I have never aspired to share my name with an animated Simpson. Next nametag: Hello, My Name Is Scooby. Animated dogs are cooler. In general, I like dogs better than people anyway. So loyal! They don’t break up with you. They don’t ghost you.

 

I went so far as to contact Grindr, a challenge in and of itself. I kept landing on pages where I could pay for upgrades or pay to have my profile boosted, but report something? Complain?! Grindr didn’t want to encourage that sort of thing. I abandoned my efforts the first two days I tried but then I’d get another message—

                   Hello, how are you doing today?

 

Bots kept pushing my buttons so I kept pushing Grindr’s. Finally found a spot to report a problem. An open text box! I told them what I presume they already know. But, just as old folks are targeted more for scams, where known to get cranky and air our grievances. Another stereotype. I’m becoming the truth behind that one. 

 

That was two weeks ago. No response from Grindr even though I mentioned I wouldn’t be renewing my subscription. (I’d paid for some sort of upgrade. I still haven’t figured out what I got for what I shelled out since I am invited every time I’m on the app to pay more. Is it a symbol of Pride or shame to be a Gold Member on Grindr? Platinum? Kryptonite?) 

 

My term ends soon. I will vanish, too. No one will miss me. Not even the bots.  

 

I THINK MY PHONE HAS AN S.T.I.

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 getting 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. 

 

Hours after sitting through my closure call with my ex and hearing Taylor Swift in my head, summing up his point of view—"We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together”—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 Friendship, Relationships, Dates before adding Random play/NSA. (NSA=No Strings Attached=hookup.) 

 

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, Yeah, he’s okay. Not worth a message or anything but, I’m here and woofs are free. That’s right, I’m craving virtual barks from humans. 

 

The world gets weirder.

 

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. 

 

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.

 

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!) 

 

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 Fargo. Not kidding. That’s where my head went. This app is going to grind me down.

 

Lordy lord.

 

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, FLEE! 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. 

 

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. 

 

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. 

 

Grindr scares me. Most of the messages I’ve received are mind numbingly lite, a mere three letters—hey or sup. 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 hey is safe, at least. Not scary. I just delete it or, once or twice, I’ve hey’d back. It’s a dare. Message me again. More letters, please. 

 

People don’t like dares.

 

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”? 

 

“Sorry, man. You’re screwed. No antibiotics for that.”

 

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 Halloween 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. 

 

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. 

 

“What damages would you allege?” Thomas Buckingham Lowden III, Esq. would ask.

 

“My phone has gonorrhea! And I’m going to be single forevermore!”

 

“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.”

 

I hate lawyers. (I can say that. Used to be one.) No validation from the legal system.

 

*Logs in* 

 

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.

 

SOMETHING ABOUT MARY

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, You have reached your destination. Please, no. But the voice didn’t relent and say, Recalculating. This was it. Hello, humiliation.

 

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. Yes, I thought. Just get me home. ASAP. Let me crawl into my own bed and fall apart. 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. 

 

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(?). 

 

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. 

 

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.

 

The city came through. Thank you!

 

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? 

 

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 West Side Story on the plane when I can’t lipread?  

 

I don’t know if West Side Story 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.

 

My Mary! In a true moment of need.

 

I can’t fully explain it, but no TV series has had a bigger impact on who I am than The Mary Tyler Moore Show. Sure, I adored St. Elsewhere, I longed for a house like Hope and Michael had on thirtysomething where friends always popped by—ditto an apartment complex like 28 Barbary Lane in any incarnation of Tales of the City—and I have often wavered on who best represents me on Sex in the City (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 joie de vivre while the busy-ness of life surrounds me.

 

I’m not overstating this. I’ve read my hardcover copy of Jennifer Keishin Armstrong’s engrossing Mary and Lou and Rhoda and Ted (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 (“Love Is All Around”) 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 here.)

 

I could elaborate but I think I’ve said too much already.

 

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. 

 

Just as captivating as Laura Petrie
on The Dick Van Dyke Show.

Immediately, I plugged in the earphones and began watching Being Mary Tyler Moore. 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.) 

 

Back to Mary (and a fairly decent audio!).

 

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 Ordinary People (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 icon!).

 

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.