TO "SIR," WITHOUT LOVE

No Sir, please & thank you.

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?

 

I have the same feelings about sir. I hate it. In customer service, it’s often used to placate me. Deferential may be the intent but it sounds condescending. 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.’ 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 ma’am 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.) 

 

Not even on my Top 10 of wish
list of celebrity séances.
 

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?) 

 

I shall never be Sir Gregory. I’ve come to terms with that.

 

Okay, the promo bit atop the
movie poster may be a tad dated.

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, “To Sir with Love”? 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…)   

 

I’m age-sensitive. I don’t seek to define myself in any way based on age. (Ask me later—much later, I’ll say—when I qualify for senior discounts. 10% of Metamucil on the first Wednesday of the month at Safeway? Score!) 

 

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. 

 

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 early?—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 yesterday.) 

 

No makeup...and real
eye brows, too.

We seem to be riding another of those waves where people use their age as an excuse to post selfies. Show us twenty-year-old you, and a pic of yourself at your present age! Or just a current shot with your age!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!) 

 

In the past week, it’s been more of a Twitter guessing game. Without saying your age, tell us the year you were born with a movie or a fad from that time. Do people really respond by Googling Gone with the Wind, Sixteen Candles or Frozen. (Shut up! You were not born the year of Frozen. 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 Sixteen Candles all of a sudden.)

 

WHY?!

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—Does it go back that far? Damn box with a “required” asterisk! What does my date of birth have to do with ordering a pair of jeans anyway? 

 

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.

 

 

WHAT WOULD CARLY SAY?

In January 1973, Carly Simon hit #1 on the Billboard Hot 100 with “You’re So Vain.” 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. 

 

As a young kid growing up in Hamilton, Ontario, I loved the fact the song had a Canadian shout-out: You flew your Learjet up to Nova Scotia to see the total eclipse of the sun. Of course, there was so much more, with a guy wearing an apricot scarf, his hat strategically dipped below one eye 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—clouds in my coffee—and had no remorse, cozying up to some underworld spy or the wife of a close friend.   

 

The cad!

 

Still, of all the lyrics, the line that’s appalled and amused me the most is in the chorus:

You’re so vain,

You probably think this song is about you.

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?

 

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? 

 

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.) 

 

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.

 

No one cares anymore. 

 

WHAT?!

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 The Masked Singer. (I had to look up that last tidbit. Have never watched an episode. Ten seasons?! What the hell is that all about anyway?) 

 

If we applied 1973 standards to 2023, most of us would warrant a VAIN 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!

 

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!

 

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.

 

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 racist, woke, Boomer and socialist along with forkfuls of mashed potatoes at one another. 

 

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. 

 

(Remember that awful phase when everyone was digitally adding bunny ears? Yeesh.)

 

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.”

 

We’re always ready.

 

It’s too much but it is what is. 

 

Yep. Guilty. I tell myself it's different
because I "blendie." I try to find a
matching background. Maybe you
can't even see me.

I selfie, too. (My Word doc didn’t even question my use of selfie 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. 

 

Weekend blendie. Lines on face
unintentionally adding to the
blend effect. Ack!

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?) 

 

Another blendie. Sunglasses
are so forgiving!

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).

 

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? 

 

When did I start relying on a “like” count to decide whether I should go the rest of the day with a baseball cap?  

 

When did I start relying on a “like” count for anything?

 

Please “like” me. Retweet? [Why would anyone do that?] Like me! Comment?

 

It goes on and on...

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. 

 

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!

 

It doesn’t stop. Neither the rain nor the selfies. 

 

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.

 

 

 

 

A QUESTION FOR YOU

In 2019, it was they.

In 2018, justice.

2017: feminism. 2016: surreal. 2015: -ism.

We’re not quite four months into 2020, but does anyone doubt that Merriam-Webster’s word of the year will be coronavirus? Perhaps that’s too on the nose. Maybe they’ll go with isolation or fudge things a little with two words: social distancing. (Look at 2015, people. They picked a suffix. Sacrilege.)

With the only true choice already so obvious, I’d like to move on and ponder what may be the question of the year. My nomination: So how are you holding up? Other queries that might appear on the final ballot might be, How’s the curve looking today?, Who else will Trump try to blame? and Where am I supposed to store all this toilet paper?

But seriously, how are you holding up?

Never mind the ocean views. 

Look at me!

For some, life chugs along, fears of some pesky virus swooping in and making every breath a struggle barely registering. Indeed, I don’t have to look far to see signs of “normal”. On my Monday jog around the seawall, I saw a shirtless twenty-five year old up ahead, holding his phone out in front of him, trying to get the perfect daily (hourly?) shot for his Instagram feed. By the time I passed him, he was leaning against a tree trunk, phone still outstretched, his muscle definition not suffering from gym closures, his facial expression decidedly serious. Taking a selfie takes utmost concentration. I managed not to stumble on account of the temporary distraction and jogged on, coming upon clusters of couples on beach towels at Third Beach, each pairing duly spaced out at least two meters from their neighbors. It took great effort for me to suppress a cough as I took in a breath. (Is there a more alarming sound than a cough these days?) I don’t like encountering any kind of smoke when I’m exercising and I was taking in a heavy dose of marijuana mixed with an even more offensive minted cigar, if there’s actually such a thing. Only after I rounded the corner and cleared the human-generated fog did I realize it was April 20^th, enthusiastically celebrated in Vancouver as 4-20, a chance to publicly toke en masse, the occasion switching from a demonstration to a celebration last year after pot became legal across Canada in October 2018. While important things must clearly (hazily?) go on, the scale has been dramatically reduced.

So there you have it, people. My highly unscientific observations of what remains regular. Selfies and public toking gatherings. I hope that offers you (or someone) reassurance.

But if you’re not concerned with selfies, how your abs change in definition every five minutes or the fact that smoking pot has changed from being an act of defiance to being a mild irritant to middle-aged joggers, I ask again, How are you holding up?

Are you bending the rules? Are you absorbing fumes from toxic permanent markers while making posters to attend a rally—with proper social distancing, of course, contrary photo evidence be damned—demanding that nail salons reopen? Or are you hunkered down at home, waiting for the next Amazon package to arrive so you can restock your cupboard with hand sanitizers and cans of Lysol? Admit it, the lower hinge of the cupboard door came off two days ago from excessive opening and closing.

My boyfriend Daniel—okay, maybe I was just looking for an excuse to type that—is an extrovert and he religiously checks our provincial COVID-19 numbers every day, squinting at the charted data, as if he can blur things enough to see that elusive flattened curve. I don’t have to tune in. He gives me the full report. (Alas, a summary would suffice.) Unlike me, he’s an extrovert. I’ve learned through him that “essential travel” is entirely subjective. While his favorite coffee place temporarily closed up a month ago, Daniel and his coffee mates have found a worthy substitute six blocks away. Every morning he heads there for it’s nine o’clock opening. (Are you finding business hours wonky these days? During any other time, what cafe could possibly survive, opening so late?) Daniel and his friends form a sidewalk circle that expands and contracts over the course of an hour as people come and go, the two meters apart rule always in play. I once made the comment that his daily coffee outing could not be construed as “essential” in the eyes of our provincial coronavirus expert, Dr. Bonnie Henry, a woman Daniel reveres. I felt his side-eye stare digging into me. Those were breaking up words I’d dared to speak. He kept silent.

It’s not just the coffee talk that compels Daniel to get out and immerse himself in public each day. There’s always a food item that he can’t delay having at once. Yesterday it was walnuts. And he can’t resist a daily browse in at least a couple of four drugstores to see what he can add to his collection of disinfectants. (I’m pretty sure his supply has gone beyond just one cupboard. He may soon have turf some of his hoarded supply of dried pasta just to make room.) While I’m a classic procrastinator, Daniel must have or do something the moment it enters his mind. While my list of what’s essential might take up two lines, his fills pages and continues to grow.

Ah, COVID-19, 2020. Crazy times.

And yet, for me, things are still normal or, at the very most, normal with an asterisk. To be sure, I “miss” going to the gym.

As a gay man, I felt I was compelled to say that.

Damn. I must be doing something wrong.

Who isn’t pining to get back into a heavily mirrored space to sweat and grunt in baggy shorts and tees—they’re supposed to be form fitting—as buff guys with the middle name Narcissus restrict their gaze to themselves in the mirror as they do bicep curls with dumbbells that exceed our own body weight? I worry too that I’ll lose my patented glare that I cast on oblivious dudes sitting on benches and machines, scrolling through their phones as I’m waiting to work out some body part. A wrist maybe or surely I can bulk up my elbows. For now, I make do with increasing my runs and bike rides, searching YouTube on off days to follow along to routines that have me doing stretchy things with elastic thingies, breathing in, breathing out, hoping this rubber band play will retain whatever muscle tone I have left.

I won’t get into it again—at least, not in consecutive posts—about how badly I long for a professional haircut. I’m making do, covering my bathroom mirror with a sheet and trying to summon up the gumption to “own it” as I step out on rare public appearances with my big ’do. The sky has not fallen, nor has my hair even brushed up against the lowest cloud.

The hardest change for me is that I can’t sit in a local cafe at seven each morning to begin my writing. My Bodum at home works perfectly fine. I’ve adjusted. Other than that morning start, I’ve worked from home for the past two and a half years. In that time, I’ve learned to bat away (most) urges to waste time reading my Twitter feed and I’ve never ever used cleaning my place as a writing distraction. I’ll spare you the current proof, a pic of my kitchen counter. It’s proof on steroids. In the spirit of stay-at-home recommendations, I’ve reduced the number of times I trek down to my building’s utility room with bags full of recycling and garbage. I’m a filthy slob, but a very compliant one.

Okay, let’s shake off that last couple of sentences. I have to admit that there are parts of this new normal that I quite like. I’ve been practicing a form of social distancing all by myself for most of my life. I’ve mentioned many times that I’m an extreme introvert. Add to that a diagnosis (one of many) of social anxiety. In the past, my anxiety hit most often in grocery stores. Maybe it’s the tall shelving on other side of me in any aisle. Maybe it’s all the food items I forbid myself from having (due to another diagnosis, my recalcitrant eating disorder). Maybe it’s too many people in a confined space, people rushing to fill baskets before the dinner hour chimes. Too often, I’ve found myself shaking, wiping an unwelcome tear from my cheek and fighting an irrational notion that I must immediately fall to the ground and curl up in a ball. I feel eyes on me, people thinking, “What’s with that guy?” Nowadays, I take my place in line outside the store, no one too close in front of me nor behind me. When I get inside the store, there is room to roam. Inevitably, I’ll find myself “stuck” in an aisle, someone gazing too long at ketchup brands. I feel a surge of anxiety—do I wait politely or do I hold my breath and quickly violate social distancing recommendations to pass by them? I feel relief, knowing this isn’t one of my quirky dilemmas but something almost everyone is facing. My god, I am normal in a grocery store! It’s exhilarating. I line up to check out, once again completely at ease with no one piercing my bubble. We all have bubbles now.

I write. I read. I run. I bike. I play with elastic thingies. I keep my Netflix to an hour or less. (No thank you, “Tiger King”.) Life goes on, relatively cough-free. It’s good.

So, really, how are you holding up?