PERSON TO PERSON

With the rise of social media and phones seemingly affixed to the palm of the hand, alarmists are quick to say that the art of meeting people face-to-face is fading. I don’t know about that. But then I’ve yet to stand on a street corner with a placard proclaiming that the world is ending on a particular date in July. Hell, I didn’t even foresee the end of “American Idol”. But it does seem that dating without any social media impetus is becoming a thing of the past. And this is cause for concern.

Around Valentine’s Day, as the Haves were posting pics of their chocolate and flower haul on Facebook and Instagram, articles popped up on the internet for the Have Nots. The basic message: doom. Dating connections that arise from online dating sites are less likely to endure than relationships that form from introductions orchestrated by friends and family or that develop simply from knowing one another in a common setting. I don’t know if any research was necessary. It makes common sense. And yet more and more people are putting their hopes on websites with a catalog of thumbnail photos of hypothetically single people who are hypothetically seeking a relationship. (You might hypothesize that this writer is a tad jaded.)

I am one of the site seekers. There is no alternative. I cannot recall the last time I had a date that did not arise from a dating website. I’m thinking it was Arnie Jones, a guy from the gym eighteen years ago. We spent six months smiling at each other across the gym floor before my friend John had had enough and made us have an awkward conversation on crowded Denman Street in July. He served as negotiator. Would you two like to go out? Yes! About time. Unfortunately, I was heading to Ontario the next day for an extended summer holiday. Arnie and I got our date at last at the end of August. A lovely dinner and conversation and a commitment to play tennis together next. Unfortunately, there was a circuit party in Vancouver over the Labor Day weekend and Arnie became smitten by a party boy from Chicago. And that was that. My difficulty in landing a second date goes way, way back.

I would love a date that arises from a chance encounter while sizing up bananas at the grocer or that results from being squeezed together during rush hour on Skytrain. It could potentially come from a ride up the elevator in my condominium. There are twenty-eight floors. You’d think there’d be an available guy or two, but no one talks in the elevator. Everyone stares at their phones, the equivalent to invisible electrical fences to keep person-to-person contact at bay. What amuses me is that we don’t get reception in our elevator. It seems there are more socially insecure people than me.

A work colleague could set me up, but my sexuality is never discussed. Everyone knows but I’m the boss in a unionized environment. People only get so close. Perhaps I could be set up with a friend of a friend. Unfortunately, my list of friends has shrunk dramatically and they’ve heard plenty of my dud and thud first dates. It is reasonable to think I am the problem. Why would they wish that on their other friends?

So, as much as I bemoan my online experiences, they are the only realistic option. Chances of success are slim. An internet article even says so! Still, I go through the motions. (Drat. The humorous kale lover on OkCupid has not responded to my message. Apparently bonding over kale quips is a longshot. Now I know.)

Sometimes, I still get hopeful. I haven’t allowed the odds against being published again to deter me from writing and dreaming. I shan’t let the odds push me out of the online dating market either. Sometimes I even buy a lottery ticket. I’m just an against all odds kind of guy.

Or maybe it’s just that I don’t know what else I’d do. That Candy Crush game thingy is out. I don’t even know how to download an app. And, truth be told, I’ve always been a bit afraid of cats. I’d suck at taking up knitting as a hobby.

Sigh.

I log in and slog on.

HEART IN FACE

Oh, here it comes again. Valentine’s Day. My local drugstore had the displays up on New Year’s Day, but the holiday is officially in my face when my Starbucks cup has a big red heart on it. Somehow the brew seemed bitterer as I drank it. (Seriously?! Bitterer is a word? My Microsoft grammar check prefers it to more bitter. Alrighty then.)

Yes, I am not in love with Valentine’s Day. No surprise since I am not in love at all. I don’t need a day to separate me from the haves. I can feel it every day If I want to. True, this day is not about me at all. The have nots simply need to find other things to pass the day. Sudoku. Oven cleaning. Old episodes of our hero, “Mary Tyler Moore”. (She still rocks those bell bottoms.) If you’re in love, lucky you. You don’t really need a day to tell your partner how you feel, but throw in your support for Hallmark, Hershey’s and other providers. No doubt about it, I would too.

My disdain for the day came relatively late in life. Back in elementary school, I had teachers who admonished students and parents that all children in the class had to receive cards or Be Mine heart candies. Or both. My teachers taught me that Valentine’s Day is for everyone. Liars. They also colluded with my parents in feeding me lovely ideas about Santa, the Easter Bunny and that creepy bedroom imposter, the Tooth Fairy.

In high school, I learned the truth. V-Day is for the select few. In Texas, the girls who already flashed their boyfriend’s class ring and wore his letter jacket received roses, mums or balloons. Public displays of affection became more obvious as the couples took over the courtyard benches for hand holding, hugging and kissing. It was just as well that I was sexually confused back then. I didn’t stand a shot at enticing either gender with my overly enthusiastic case of acne and my white boy afro. I had a pick that I kept in my back pocket to poof it up several times a day—big on big hair. (Maybe I was harkening my inner Janis Ian as I wallowed in the words of “At Seventeen”.)

Even when I fell in love for the first time, Valentine’s proved to be a disappointment. Before going for dinner, John handed me a wrapped gift, eager for me to open it. I tried to follow mature unwrapping etiquette, tugging at the taped folds instead of savagely ripping the wrapping to examine my first ever V-D present. John beamed with anticipation. Look at him, I thought. He truly loves me. At last, Etta, at last.

I pulled back a corner of the wrapping to reveal the back of a picture frame. Yes! I’d finally reached Have status. A photo of us I could proudly display in my apartment! Uh, no. As I flipped the frame over, it was just John in the pic. In drag. From a time before we were together. Hmm. He laughed with glee. What a drag indeed.

I have only a week to wait out the holiday. There will be no online messaging, no coffee dates during the awkward interval. You don’t start something right before Valentine’s. Truth be told, holding off is not a sacrifice. It’s just part of my V-D whine.

I’ll get through it. Always do. Janis Ian, Jann Arden and Adele can keep me company. And tomorrow I’ll be ready. I’ll remember to bring my plastic mug to Starbucks and pass on the paper cup with the heart. It’s better for the environment. And my psyche.