NO TIME FOR ROMANCE

We all know someone who persistently proclaims, “I’m not looking for anyone. I’m happy being single.” And yet, after a glass of wine, that same person is bemoaning the fact there aren’t any decent guys out there to date.

That’s me on a good day. Usually I skip the opening declaration of denial and launch right into a whine before the wine. Nobody on the dating sites. Lame messages if anything (“how r u”). Zero returned eye contact in any venue. If you’ve read my blog at all, you’ve seen the posts, so often a slight spin on the same old pity party.

Sorry about all that.

My formative (non) dating years were spent watching and rhapsodizing over Meg Ryan movies. (I really miss her.) And just when I’d finally gotten past repeated plays of Eric Carmen’s “All by Myself”, Celine Dion went and remade the friggin’ song. When audiences turned their backs on romantic comedies, Mindy Kaling masterfully paid homage to them with “The Mindy Project”.

There’s always been something to stoke my everlasting aching for a love of a lifetime. Even now, the only series I’m regularly watching on Netflix is an Australian import called “Offspring” that I’ve heard absolutely no one talk about. It seems that main character Nina Proudman’s anxieties and fumbling and bumbling over dating are solely for my benefit. (The show has seven seasons and, as I am apparently the only human on the planet who lacks the binge watching gene, I’m now tortoise-ing my way through season two. Plenty more bonding fodder to come.)

But last night, as I drove into the suburbs on my way to my first Swedish language class in hopes that I’ll one day have a larger vocabulary than this guy, I realized that I was feeling less burdened, less edgy even. No, it had nothing to do with a little something that happened last week. (Pshaw! I don’t think I’ll ever know what people are talking about when it comes to endorphins.) It’s just that I can truthfully say for only the second time in my adult life that, yes indeed, I have no interest in a relationship for the moment and, by golly, that “moment” is going to last at least three to six months.

The first time I felt this way was back in 2004, after I’d ended a seven-year relationship and had to wait many months for housing renovations to be complete before we could finally sell the house. Once a SOLD sign appeared on the front lawn, I fled to rural British Columbia to be free at last.

Single and free.

I wanted desperately to find myself again. I wanted to go back to doing things that interested me and me alone. I’d like to think I had at least a year before the pining started anew and an oldies ditty by The Osmonds started dancing about in my head. (Yep. The “Geek for Life” sticker belongs smack on the back of my black pleather jacket.) In reality, my sabbatical might have only been a few months. What I’m clearer on is how refreshing it was to completely step away from all thing pertaining to romance. There was a strong sense of self-satisfaction and a near giddiness, the kind I only thought came with, er...love.

I didn’t give up on relationships immediately after visiting Toronto in August and deciding that I would make the move come the spring of 2020. In truth, I wasn’t terribly excited about it. I was simply being pragmatic. Things weren’t working in Vancouver; twenty-five years is long enough to give a city a shot. Being bound to Canada and knowing that I need to live in a large city, Toronto was basically the default option. (Je suis désolé, Montréal. If only my French were better.) With the move still months away, I told myself to remain open to something coming my way in Vancouver.

Indeed, I looked at my dating profiles again. I updated photos. I did online searches each month. I took prolonged pauses, carefully reading profiles before ultimately deleting rare messages so succinct they were tantamount to a beer belch. “Hey.” “Nice profile.” Wassup?” (I’ve gone ahead and inserted capitals and punctuation just to keep my brain in check.)

There was a moment in November when I thought those romantic comedy writers in the sky—Is that you, Nora Ephron?!—were actually throwing me a bone. I’d exchanged a couple of messages with Peter, a relative newcomer to Vancouver (from Toronto), and we agreed to meet on the seawall, by what I referred as The Happy Statues. I could use a good omen, after all. The installation is actually called “A-maze-ing Laughter” by Yue Minjun and, as I arrived early, I read the accompanying message etched in stone: “May this sculpture inspire laughter, playfulness and joy in all who experience it.” Yes, please. Let that vibe rub off on me. I was relaxed and smiling before the date even began. As I turned away from the sculptures, there was Peter with a broad smile and gorgeous blue eyes, his arms outstretched for a warm opening hug.

“Shit,” I thought. “This could change everything.”

For the next four hours, we walked and talked and then sat and talked back at his place. To be sure, he talked far more than I did. He seemed to be a blurter, sharing all sorts of things that are no-nos in the First Date handbook. At first, I attributed it to nervousness, then I figured that was just his way. As I finally walked home after declining his offer to whip up a vegan dinner, I realized his oversharing had exposed a lot of red flags but, more than anything, I was amused. I sat up late that night, sitting in my darkened living room, staring out at the Vancouver skyline, the lights having an extra twinkle as if to say, “Not so fast.” Maybe my life would actually play out like all those romantic comedies, Mr. Right appearing in the eleventh hour. Yes, I decided. I’d be open to it.

Alas, over two more long dates, Peter verbalized more and more red flags. It began to feel not like a romantic comedy but one of those “Candid Camera” gag shows. Watch the unsuspecting listener squirm with each outrageous statement. After the third date, I was again up late in my living room. I couldn’t put aside our fundamental differences, not just in terms of politics but regarding morals and ethics. How quickly I’d gone from smitten and amused to disappointed—repulsed even. I didn’t want to date this guy. I didn’t even want to offer the “Let’s be friends” tag while ending things. If this was My Life as a Romantic Comedy, I was seeing what happens after the final credits roll. Boom!

If that was the eleventh hour, this now feels like the twenty-third hour. I’m in no mood for anything to mess with my plan to move on. I fly to Toronto next week to explore various neighborhoods to see where I may want to focus on finding an apartment after my condo sells. I have a growing To Do list for winding down and wrapping up my Vancouver days. Even if I should face plant while running on the seawall and Ryan Reynolds’ doppelgänger comes to my rescue, I’ll simple accept his hand as an assist to get up, thank him and then brush myself off, turning away from that glorious smile and limping in the other direction. Wrong time, wrong place.

I parted with the final wisps of hope for some sort of Vancouver-based relationship during my three-week solo road trip across the western United States in December. In many ways it turned out to be a tortuous farewell to three decades of living on the West Coast (adding in my five years in Los Angeles). Lots of hopes, dreams and relationships that failed or fizzled. Too much time with nothing but the car radio and the local station of the moment playing Maroon 5’s taunting “Memories” yet again. Right up until

the penultimate day, I was filled with woe. At long last, I thrust my free hand forward toward the windshield and shouted, “Move on!” The past had been agonizingly processed, a virtual memory box of sorts, plenty dinged up and dented.

Life is on hold for now. Perhaps this is a welcome breather. The future starts in six months. When July comes around and I say that I’ve had no dates this year, there won’t be a trace of sadness. I’ll be able to say, in my lame Pee-Wee Herman voice, “I meant to do that.” Maybe Pee-Wee comedies should have been my cinematic fare all along.

NO GAYS AT THE GALLERY

Damn you, Nora Ephron. You and all the other romantic comedy writers have led me to believe you can stumble upon the love of your life in a bookstore, in a sleepy airport bar or at a busy intersection on a rainy day when you forgot the umbrella in the car. As maddening and improbable as the scenarios are, I keep renting the movies or catching them on TV. Most recently, I got to see Julia Roberts meet Javier Bardem when she rode her bike and he ran her off the road. No helmet protecting her beautiful mane. In the movies, the damsel lands in a soft bed of grass, her leg wounded, but the face unscathed.

Yesterday, I was headed to the Vancouver Art Gallery to activate some thinking for a new writing project. As I took the ferry in, I had enough time to think about maybe. Maybe my Ryan Reynolds would chat me up as we quizzically stared at old newspaper ads taped to a wall. Maybe my Ryan Gosling would look as embarrassed as I while attempting to be ponderous over the black-and-white nude female fondling her finger on a small-screen TV. Maybe my Seth Rogen and I would share a laugh, trying to get the docent/guard in the corner to crack a smile or even make eye contact. (Yeah, Seth Rogen. Even a fantasy should be tinged with a little reality.)

It turned out to be a slow day at the gallery. I don’t know how it is even possible, but I did not spot a single gay man. There was a German couple, a few moms with remarkably restrained children who didn’t try to change the TV channel (they probably don’t know how without the remote) and a hopeless middle-aged man looking to jump into a rom-com. Yeah, me.

No romance. No comedy.

I did get my work done. A lack of distractions can prove conducive to something at least.

So Mr. Right, next time I’m in the city, I’m sure the rain will be back. Look for me at that street corner. I never have an umbrella.

KILLING ME SOFTLY WITH ROM-COMS

Curse you, Meg Ryan/John Cusack/Renée Zellweger/Marisa Tomei/Joseph Gordon-Levitt.

You’ve misled me.

You made me believe I could exchange a flurry of written communications (then, letters; now, emails) and then meet my pen pal atop the Empire State Building to begin a life that will undoubtedly be wedded bliss. I could hold a blast a love song on a boom box outside Mr. Right’s home and not only avoid neighbour/police intervention, but also win his heart. I could have a weight problem, a few addictions and constantly embarrass myself and still end up with Colin Firth!

Oh, how you taunt.

I know it’s all a ruse and yet I fall under your deceptive spell over and over again. As recently as last night, in fact. Yep, I rented Love Actually. Third time—and that’s not a charm, it’s a strikeout. Watching you, I learned that love is all around. Whether you’re a porn actor, a person who cannot speak the same language as people in your environment or an eleven-year-old kid, love is right in front of you. Just take it! It’s yours!

Curses, curses, curses. (Portuguese translation for Colin Firth’s character: #%!*, ^$#*, */!#.)

I resolve to go a whole month without watching a romantic comedy. I shall chuck my Sleepless in Seattle, When Harry Met Sally and About Last Night tapes behind the stacks of boxes in the closet in the basement. May mice poop all over you! I shall resist seeing any movie starring Jennifer Aniston. I shall not sit through even five minutes of ABC’s “Bachelor Pad”. (Okay, that part is easy. It’s like swearing off fruitcake when starting a diet.)

In a week or two, I will feel my life changing. I will no longer pivot after passing a beautiful man, expecting to see him looking back with longing. (That whiplash issue involving my neck will be resolved, saving me hundreds of dollars in chiropractic bills.) I will not expect Prince Charming to shelter me under his umbrella during an unexpected downpour. And I will come to accept that the adorable, brainy guy behind the counter at the bakery will never memorize my complex drink order (large of the dark blend), much less learn my name and chat me up about the poetry of Emily Dickinson, Anita Baker’s best songs or Vancouver’s “bummer summer”.

Yes, I shall be free. Free at last!

At least until mid-September.

STILL?!

I wasn’t always single. My longest relationship lasted seven years and ended five and a half years ago. There’s a clichéd response I’ve heard from some: Seven years, eh? So who got the seven-year itch? No one. Had I been stronger, it would have ended after nine months. I know the moment when the relationship jumped the shark.

While I don’t live with regret, I’m not proud of prolonging that partnership. At the time, I didn’t want to be the flake. There was that phrase, “for better or for worse”, that kept nagging at me—not that we were married or even could have been married back then. (At any rate, I should have distinguished that language from “for better or for worst”, but didn’t.) More than anything, I didn’t want to be single again.

It came with tremendous relief when I finally and firmly announced I’d had enough. No need for specifics here. We’ve moved on. Any belatedly bashing would be tacky.

So a couple of text messages I received last night baffled and frustrated me. Both from The Ex, of course. I’d just picked up the dogs after he’d looked after them for the weekend and I was shorter and colder with him than usual. I could blame it on standing out in the rain waiting for the doggy changeover or a lack of sleep after spending two nights on my best friend’s too-short sofa or the fact that my ex tried yet again to pass off the dogs early yet again despite the fact I was at a conference. Who am I kidding? The faint sound of a siren twenty blocks away can make me cranky in front of The Ex.

When I realized I had a couple of messages—I’d shut off my cell as it was running out of power—I knew whom they were from and didn’t bother to read them until this afternoon. First message, sent right after the drop off: “I still love you!” Okay that could be read any number of ways—as an in-your-face way to rile me, as an apology for throwing off my schedule, as, um, well okay, I’m searching here.

The second message came an hour and a half later, after opportunity for reflection, clearly not an impulsive statement: “You need to know that I still miss being with you, you have to know that.”

What?! Five and a half years later?! Got me an Urban Cowboy, looking for love in all the wrong places. What am I supposed to do with that? I’ve always hoped he’d find someone new sooner than I. Why hasn’t that happened? Okay, I can think of lots of reasons, but he’s supposed to be A Catch to all those window shopping single gay men. Damn.

I’m tired of things being awry in my life. Where’s the kismet?

I really have to stop watching romantic comedies.