WHOSE ANNIVERSARY IS IT ANYWAY?

WARNING: Grumpy old-ish man post. 

Sometimes I know I shouldn’t but I do anyway…

 

 

 

I suppose public displays of affection have always been a struggle for me. My family is repressed and I spent my adolescence and college years in Texas during the late ’70s and the ’80s. Gay. Closeted. Any public expression of affection—words, actions, the slightest glance—was not within the realm of possibility. Affection itself, even in private, was not part of my world.

 

I hated Valentine’s Day. Still do…especially after this year. 

 

I think I’ve grown some. Seeing a couple hold hands as they take up the whole sidewalk is cute enough to keep my annoyance in check while stepping into the curb to pass them. They have a dog on a long leash and a baby stroller, too. Still holding hands. Kinda wow.

 

When it’s an older couple walking hand in hand, I’m even more touched. Maybe Martha and Richard are newly dating, having finally dumped their now-insignificant others, Henry and Betty, but I make the assumption they’ve been together fifty or sixty years. It makes the handholding more astonishing. Still connected, still loving each other, still able to amble about without compulsively checking phone screens to see the latest Facebook posts about grandchildren and Fran Hofstadler’s runner-up pickleball trophy.

 

Over the course of my relationships, I’ve learned to relax when a moment arises to hold hands, hug or even kiss in public. At first, it would only happen in the gay ghettos like West Hollywood and Vancouver’s Davie Street. Even then, there was an unspoken mutual agreement to let go if three or four straight-looking dudes approached. A hand felt nice, but the prospect of a punch made it prudent to create a bit of distance between us. Blame a strong survival instinct and a gut feeling I wouldn’t look so good with a broken nose. 

 

In my most recent relationship, open affection was more common and most welcome. Still, I would occasionally flinch. A reflex. I’d spent a lot of time in my past fretting over being gay bashed. I was subjected to verbal hate, enough to make me ever-aware someone might take things to another level. 

 

To be clear, physical touch is good. Let people be affectionate.

 

And you thought this would be a cranky post.

 

Ready…set…go!

 

PDA, okay. PPA, not so much.

 

What I don’t like are Publicized Pronouncements of Affection. On Valentine’s Day, why do people log into Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and every other social media account they have to post a photo of themselves as a couple or just a shot of their love bounty—a box of chocolates, some roses, maybe a new toaster oven? (Who am I to say what’s the right way to say, “I love you”? I am single, after all.)

 

I’ve said it many times…I don’t like obligatory expressions of love just because the calendar indicates it’s the 14^th of February. I also don’t like how the day feels like a flaunting fest, the Haves triumphant, the Have Nots sheltering in place, ordering Domino’s and watching Netflix in a lamplit living room. Definitely no candles! 

 

At least we Have Nots can anticipate all the love in the air. One day. A chance to binge-watch Project Runway or stream Ryan Reynolds movies. Maybe eat lunch in the car on the 15^th as people compete/share what their amazing lovers did for them. (“He kissed me and then asked me to make him a panini in the toaster oven!”) By the 20^th, the Have Nots can visualize roses wilting. Post a pic of that, people!

 

Valentine’s Day comes and, whew, goes.

 

It’s anniversaries that blindside me the rest of the year. I honestly don’t understand the public pronouncements about anniversaries. Maybe that’s rooted in lingering repression. Still, excepting silver and golden anniversaries, I always thought a wedding or relationship anniversary was intimate, something planned and shared for two. Dinner. Romance. Cards with beautiful words, handwritten rather than scribed by some guy in a corner cubicle at Hallmark headquarters. Thoughtful gifts that try to incorporate the year’s theme—paper (1^st), tin/aluminum (10^th, yeesh), steel (11^th). No toaster ovens allowed. 

 

So I don’t get the social media posts:

Happy 4^th anniversary to the love of my life who 

shows true love by watching all televised 

golf tournaments with me.

 

It’s our 32^nd! Through lies, affairs and that two-year 

stint I had to live in the garage, we’ve exemplified 

“for better or for worse.”

 

17 years ago, I met this man at a monster truck show. 

It’s been a passionate love of trucks, tatts and each 

other ever since.

 

Why? 

 

Does the tweet or Facebook post excuse forgetting a card (and a gift)? Does the fact the post got 253 likes, with an especially strong pro-anniversary contingent from Tennessee, make one’s partner swoon? Is this what we’re calling romantic in the social media era?

 

Again, I do not get it. Growing up, my siblings and I didn’t buy anniversary gifts or cards for our parents (except for their 50^th). We didn’t even say, “Happy anniversary!” It would have felt odd. It was theirs, not ours. I assume my parents exchanged the sentiment and did something. They didn’t make a spectacle of it. 

 

I truly like the idea of an anniversary being private and intimate. A table for two. A dessert for two. A celebration for two, with personal expressions of love, door closed. 

 

Why am I writing whining? Because it’s that “Mary Tyler Moore Show” song every single day, but in a bad way. Love Is All Around. 

 

Yes, every single day someone on social media gets to gloat. Still together! Still in love! How true or deep it is happens to be irrelevant. It’s the unwanted blast of another seemingly successful love story that adds to the sting that I have failed. Over and over again. Never a tin/aluminum gift; no steel. Silver is becoming remote according to actuarial tables and gold is impossible. 

It's not enough that I’m aware of all the anniversaries within my family—not necessarily the exact dates or number of years…thirty-something, almost twenty. Every day I’m blindsided by strangers. Ruth and Eddie together forever! (Sixty-five years is BEYOND forever.) Luke and Diego, 22 years! Sara and Samantha, 8!

 

Five times, I’ve been in love, but I never reached Sara and Samantha’s milestone. Gee, thanks for that daily reminder. Have your cake and eat it, too. Me, I’ll pull out a pint of Ben & Jerry’s, no sharing, no “Can I have a taste?” 

 

No consolation.

 

  

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.