THE PRICE OF LOVE

I’ve always thought couples have a financial advantage. They split bills, hotels and can choose to file taxes jointly, presumably for some savings. If there is any advantage, I’ve yet to realize it, five months into my current relationship. 

 

Truth is, I’m spending more than ever. Having a steady partner is creating havoc with my savings. I keep reminding myself this is normal. This is still early going. Love is new and we’re taking in every experience that comes our way. “No” doesn’t come up in conversation.

 

Part of the extra spending comes with the fact this is a long-distance relationship. He’s in Seattle; I’m in Vancouver. Gas is at an all-time high. But it’s more than just the expense of filling up. Last week I flew home from Seattle instead of driving. That’s because I was returning from a longer trip with Evan—two weeks in Colorado and New Mexico. (More spending!) We flew back from Albuquerque and there was no connecting flight back to Vancouver until the next morning so, rather than fight traffic schlepping back to SeaTac Airport, I hopped a seaplane that took off only walking distance away from his place on Lake Union and landed at Coal Harbour in downtown Vancouver, a short walk away from my home. It was somewhat more expensive but much more convenient and, heck, so much more fun (and scenic) than boarding a 737 in a crowded airport. (Bonus: Upon landing in Vancouver, there were two border agents waiting to take the four of us on the plane through customs. Fastest customs line ever!) I didn’t fret about being extravagant; instead, my sparkly brain thought I should travel this way more often. 

 

Danger! 

 

I choose to ignore the alert, just like everyone does when a car alarm goes off. Seriously, can we nix the car alarms? How many thefts have actually been averted? How often is it the car owner who inadvertently sounds the alarm? Why not create a security device that sprays the would-be intruder with glitter? It’s silent and the petty thief will never be able to shake out the evidence prior to arrest. Plus, if the owner accidentally glitters himself a time or two, it’ll make him think more about when a security option should be activated.

 

Okay, I may have solved a noise nuisance, but my financial problems remain. 

 

This past weekend, Evan was in Vancouver to spend Pride with me. Normally, I would incur no extra expenses for the occasion. I bought a pair of rainbow Converse a few years ago that are as good as new since I only feel rainbow-worthy proud on the annual parade day. Not that I go to that (or any) event. I wear them to the grocery store, pick up my Sunday New York Times, then head home to kick ’em off and kick back for a leisurely day of reading and later biking (in my regular sneakers) to somewhere in the opposite direction of the parade route. 

 

Evan and I didn’t attend the parade, but we did attend a party Saturday night at Vancouver’s Chinese gardens and then saw gay country artist Orville Peck in concert on Sunday. In addition to the ticket costs, we shelled out extra bucks for event-priced food and drinks. We also bought new clothes and accessories for the Asian/Neon-themed Chinese garden party and to add a Western flair to our outfits for the concert. God, I feel like I’m twenty-two again.  

 

Orville Peck is not your average
country singer. Out and proud, 
he's known for his fringed masks
and artful costumes.

I’m certain neither of us would have shelled out money to attend either ticketed event this weekend if we weren’t together. I’d have been content to pass my evenings watching an episode or two of “Uncoupled” on Netflix, while sipping half a glass of wine. (You’d think I’d have learned after all these years to pour only a few ounces of Chardonnay but, no, I always pour a customary amount and end up dumping the most of it down the sink before I go to bed. Clearly I don’t have a drinking problem but, if there’s an alcoholic coho salmon in the Vancouver area, it’s my fault.) To be sure, we both loved the concert, even if we’d only heard a song or two by Orville Peck before buying tickets. The guy, whose crooning is reminiscent of Roy Orbison, Elvis and Chris Isaak, is an amazing talent who didn’t hit a wrong note singing live. We also enjoyed the event at the Chinese gardens which included dancing, drag queen performances, karaoke, poetry readings and food trucks. We took in all of it, except for the karaoke which featured two older gays loudly singing an off-key rendition of “I Got You, Babe” as we walked on by. I don’t think Evan—or the world—is ready for me to hold a mic and sing Herp Alpert’s “This Guy’s in Love with You.” I’d kill it…I mean REALLY kill it. The karaoke music for the tune would be banned forevermore.[1]

 

It was money well spent this weekend, but my credit card is still trying to adjust to other equally well spent expenses since we got together. We had a fabulous extended weekend in Manhattan which included hitting several art museums, having drinks on a fancy rooftop deck, going on a sunset harbor cruise and Evan paying WAY TOO MUCH on a romantic gesture to have us ride a rickshaw through Central Park. After I heard how much he had to pay the guy pedaling our cart, I made it clear that, in the future, walking while holding hands is romantic enough for me. We did split the hotel room, but Evan wanted to impress me so we stayed at an upgraded room at a trendy place we both love. Simple math: when you pay more than twice as much as you normally would on lodging, splitting the cost does not amount to a savings. 

 

We’ve also had weekend getaways in different parts of Washington and in Whistler, BC. The first time I stayed at Evan’s he prepared a homemade vegan Indian meal which I loved and we’ve made a couple of meals together, with me serving as a considerably challenged sous chef. Still, going out to eat remains the norm. Our wallets only get a reprieve when we order pizza at our favorite spot in Seattle, the leftovers accounting for two additional meals. While I can’t finish a glass of wine when dining home alone, I have a hefty bar tab from eating out. I’d forgotten how much I enjoy a margarita and Evan and I like to split a bottle of sauvignon blanc. (Again, the math: splitting a moderately priced bottle of wine is still far more than what I shell out when I tell the waiter, “I’ll just have water” or splurge on a lemonade.)

 

Then there’s the wardrobe additions. I’ve already blogged about how Evan’s convinced me that I can wear tighter fitting clothes. I buy more because I want to look good for him and he does the same. Moreover, we’re guilty of that weird couple phenomenon in which our closets are beginning to include styles the other one is more inclined to wear. Just please don’t let us get to the point where we head to brunch dressed as if we’re twins. No matching jackets, tank tops or shoes. I don’t even like using the same hair product. If we ever come off as twinsies, dear god, let our friends hold an intervention. 

 

Even when we’ve been apart, there have been extra expenses. Evan’s much more of a planner than I am so he’s had a few trips with friends and family that were booked before we met. I didn’t like sitting home on my own while he was on a yoga retreat with a bestie from college so I’ve since scheduled my own adventures to fill the gaps. A day trip to Whistler with friends was a tad pricey with the $85 cost to take the gondola to hike atop Blackcomb Mountain, but that was nothing compared to the thousands spent exploring Iceland and Stockholm for two weeks while he was visiting family back in Colorado. It’s true, the trip had been postponed from 2019 due to COVID, but rising prices and other factors made my bank account take a much heavier hit.

 

Evan incurred his own additional expense this past weekend, buying a road bike. It wasn’t an extravagant in and of itself. He searched online and chose a used bike after researching the make and model’s book value. But then there’s the fact he already has a bike at his home in Seattle. Why the additional purchase? His city bike has only three speeds while mine has eighteen. His bike has served him well for his rides around Lake Union. I’ve gone on many rides with him and the dude doesn’t coast it. He gets a good workout. Still, I ride faster so I have to ease up and follow him—not a bad thing, given the nice view. We make things work in Seattle. Evan’s BMW can’t fit a bike while, to the surprise of so many, my Mini Cooper easily stows mine. In Vancouver, if we want to go for a ride he’s tried the grab-and-go bikes you can rent anywhere in the city, but those things feel like you’re riding a tricycle. Now he rents from bike shops where he can choose a better bike, but it’s still not on par with mine. Hence the new purchase. In the long run—and, yes, let there be a long run with us—the new bike is a good investment. He’s already spent close to $200 on rentals during our Vancouver rides. We can have better rides, going farther and faster. I’m mentally preparing for the possibility that my in-shape boyfriend will be passing me on his new bike as he grins wildly and says, “Come on, keep up!” My ego will bruise, but again, I’ll be able to take in a great view. I’ll deal.    

 

At the rate we’re going, Evan and I could very well accompany one another as we make appearances in bankruptcy courts in our respective jurisdictions. Call it our very own International Bankruptcy Tour. Travel is becoming so niche. Having a judge take a pair of scissors to our credit cards might not be on anyone’s list of romantic things, even if the list were a drawn-out Top 100…or 1,000. But I could put one arm around him and hold his hand as the deed is done, then kiss away the tears on the steps of the courthouse. He’d do the same for me. 

 

And maybe that unceremonious, clunky landing after a wild freefall will be all we need to bond over the basics: a bag of Wonder bread and a jar of peanut butter, plus a single shared banana, sliced up to make a simple, yet tasty lunch, enjoyed on a minimally bird poop-splattered bench at a local park and washed down with a few gulps at the water fountain. One way or another, we shall have to come to our senses. 

 

 

 

 

 

---

[1] As well, there’d be a court order, restricting any future karaoke urge I may have to another Herb Alpert chart-topper, “Rise,” which, if you’re too young to know, is an instrumental. It’s not even hummable.

PRIDE CALLS

I’m in between Prides. I joined Evan at Seattle’s celebration a month ago and he’ll be here for Vancouver’s parade this weekend along with another Seattle comrade and his best friend from Miami. Why anyone would in Miami would make Vancouver’s Pride part of summer vacation plans is beyond me, but then it often seems like too much of a trek for me attend events when I’m a only half hour’s walk away. I dump on Pride a lot. It’s habit. But I’m working on my bad attitude.

 

One of the things that stood out for me last month in Seattle occurred on the Sunday evening, after all or most of the official celebrations. I’m sure some event planner was still collecting ticket money for a Drag Hangover Gala and clubs were continuing to rake in price-gouging cover charges—Pride and greed can coexist—but Evan and I were done. Enough people, enough sun, enough of the too-short, too-tight clothes we probably had no business wearing. We ate nachos and drank margaritas at a Mexican dive in his neighborhood and then walked with a friend, Ronald, down to Lake Union to enjoy some quiet moments before looking ahead the coming week, the reality that resumes after the rainbow. 

 

The conversation turned reflective, as we considered how we got through our most difficult years coming out and handling homophobia. I’ve only known Ronald four months—he’s a close friend of Evan—but we hit it off from the start when we learned that we’d both gone to high school in East Texas, about thirty miles away from one another. I survived, he survived. Part of that may be on account of both of us having left the Lone Star State. On this warm June evening, Ronald talked about how his mother never wavered in loving him and in speaking strongly and proudly about him despite living in a judgy small town where Baptists regularly reviled homosexuals and, in the name of God, took pleasure in saying the gays would face eternal damnation, burning in Hell. Ah, yes. A loving god with righteous followers. 

 

“I wouldn’t have made it if not for Myrna,” Ronald said. As I glanced at him, I saw tears streaming down his cheeks. It startled me because Ronald is characteristically a strong man, an army vet who can be very sarcastic. 

 

Evan, in turn, talked of his own mother who had him at nineteen—her second child—and raised him as best she could, mostly as a single parent. She still had her own growing up to do and she made her mistakes, but her love was a constant. She too did all she could to accept and support Evan when he came out during his teens in small town Colorado where he faced relentless bullying and found his own ways to act out. She wasn’t just a parent; she was an ally.

 

I didn’t have my own stories to share about family or friends helping me as I came out. I stayed closeted much longer than Ronald and Evan and I can’t nod to a family member or friend for helping me get through the years I hid or the years I found my way forward. It was my new gay friends who supported me. The people who helped me most were Jay, a rail-thin drag queen who taught me to just be myself—that’s an ongoing exercise—and Richard, an older, far more experienced man who found constant amusement in my shocked reactions to all the gay things I didn’t know. 

 

Listening to Ronald and Evan led me to thinking about a missing component of Pride celebrations. Let the drag performances, dance parties and parades continue and please let there be art exhibitions and author talks for those of us seeking a quieter, more introspective Pride booster, but I believe it’s time we added formal expressions of gratitude to the yearly event. 

 

Are you listening, Hallmark? It’s your chance to profit with a new collection of splashy greeting cards. (Please, though, no sparkle glitter inside.) I have no interest in Hallmark’s bottom line, but I think we should begin a practice of formally acknowledging and thanking the friends, family and mentors who supported us and helped us get through the more difficult times when we struggled with our identity and worked through things in messy, imperfect, even embarrassing expressions of queerness. For most of us, there were people who loved and accepted us when we weren’t evolved enough to fully love and accept ourselves. We owe them an annual shout-out for helping us reach a point of genuine pride. 

 

Now that Pride has stretched from a parade to a weekend to a month to, heck, a long summer if you choose to plan an international Pride circuit, let there be a day we set aside to thank our loved ones. Most of us didn’t get through trying times alone. We have Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, Grandparents’ Day and Ice Cream Day. It’s time we had a day for Pride calls and cards to annually thank the people who made our lives better. Call it Partners in Pride Day or Pride Ally Day. 

 

What do you think? Who goes on your thank you list?

 

   

DRESS YOU UP

Like most people, my body image affects the way I dress. I have an eating disorder so I’ve been plagued by seeing fat on me that may not actually be there. It’s like I have my own set of funhouse mirrors that reflect the cruelest images. 

 

Because of this, I hide under my clothes. The eighties were great years because the fashion of the day rebelled against the skin-tight jeans of the previous decade—Brooke Shields: “Nothing comes between me and my Calvins”—and welcomed pleated pants, shoulder pads, baggy jeans, loose-fitting Guess sweatshirts and parachute pants. The bigger the better, including the hair. 

 

Where is the eighties revival?

 

In truth, I’ve long since stepped away from clothes that could comfortably fit me and three other people. Loose clothing had its own triggering risks. I panicked whenever I viewed the ripples from excess fabric as my own layers of flab. Logically, I knew this was not the case, but I still felt I projected the image of a fat man. 

 

Nowadays, I wear more appropriate-sized clothing. Things fit me well enough. Still, whenever I’m in a relationship, my partner wants to see me in new clothes. It’s never been a reenactment of “Pretty Woman” with a Richard Gere doppelgänger loading me down with shopping bags full of the latest designs in Beverly Hills. I have a modest income as do the guys I date. But every guy I’ve been with has wanted to tweak my wardrobe. It’s not so much about fashion choices. I have a decent eye and I splurge on nicer items rather than sifting through sale racks at outlet stores. It’s the sizing that my boyfriends think I get wrong. 

 

I buy clothes that fit me, but my boyfriends want clothes that flatter me. Daniel, a guy I dated at the beginning of COVID, wasn’t so nuanced with words but he meant it as a compliment when he repeatedly said, “You look much better with your clothes off.” What he was trying to say was that I was in really good shape and no one could see how much so based on the clothes I wore. 

 

Every single boyfriend has steered me away from size Large. It makes me uneasy. I’m 6’1”. I don’t want to walk down Davie Street with people eying me for all the wrong reasons. Did he buy that ensemble at Baby Gap? (Matching bib and booties in the backpack.) 

 

My Portland boyfriend got me down to Medium in some brands. It always takes a lot of coaxing to get me to step out of the fitting room and stand in front of a full-length mirror while a salesperson says, “It looks terrific!” I’d take her word for it more if I knew she weren’t on commission. Sure, she could cross her fingers, thinking I’d still buy the shirt if I retreated behind the curtain to try on one size larger, but she must know of studies that show that, the more thinking time a patron puts into an apparel purchase, the less likely it is going to happen.[1] Don’t we all have a shelf in our closet with impulse buys we’ve never worn?

 

I will admit that it feels sexy going into clothing shops with a boyfriend and trying on clothes for one another’s appraisal. I hope that never goes away. I don’t want to try on items, tentatively step out of the fitting room and have my guy gaze up momentarily from his phone, only to shrug and say, “Yeah. Get it if you want,” before looking back down at his screen and pretending he understands what TikTok is all about.[2]

 

Evan has taken the whole clothes shopping event to an entirely new level. He’s been setting aside the Large hoodies I reach for and handing me the Small version instead. 

 

Small?! 

 

It’s part of an odd ritual that works for us. I hold up the garment, roll my eyes and say, “You’re kidding.” Evan points to the fitting room and says, “Go.” At least half the time, the thing seems to fit. (The rest of the time, it’s enough of a horror show for me to retain my knee-jerk eye roll reaction. So far, I haven’t needed a salesperson or EMT to cut me out of any item of clothing as I struggle to take in air, but maybe I’m pushing my luck. That’s the kind of happening that will make the evening news, thanks to store security camera footage.)

 

If I’ve gone down two sizes in shirts—at least sometimes—things are even more dramatic with pants and, egad, shorts. My latest purchases are down by three, even four, inches in the waist. In my sized-down pants, I can fasten the top button without gasping or cramping. I can even carry on a conversation with my normal voice instead of with some breathy, helium-tinged tone. And, better still, rolls of flesh don’t hang over the belt. This is not on account of rapid weight loss due to some COVID-activated banana bread diet. I promise. In fact, I don’t eat that stuff. Bananas, good. Bread, better. Banana bread? A tragedy. 

 

According to Evan, I now have a butt…or at least a mirage of one due to the denim fit. In my twenties, I was desperate for butt implants so, if he likes what he sees, I’m not going argue the point. I can save my plastic surgery fund for my eyes, neck and some especially alluring elbows. 

 

I’m most shocked by the shorts and swimsuits Evan’s had me try on. I now own a pair of $95 short shorts that make me seem 6’10” in photos, the legs looking like they belong on a gazelle instead of a pasty Scottish/English guy who must apply gobs of SPF 70 sunscreen to skin that hasn’t seen the light of day in decades. I have worn the shorts on a few occasions, but never in Vancouver where I live. Let the people of Salida, Colorado and Taos, New Mexico get all worked up over the need for new dress codes for daring Canadians ambling along downtown sidewalks. 

 

While it’s true I was on swim team in high school and wore Speedos for practices and swim meets,[3] I’ve reverted to a more modest look with age. I prefer loose, long trunks that look like basketball shorts with the hemline covering the tops of the kneecaps. Most often, when Evan dangles a swimsuit for me to try on, I hold up my hand, giving him my best traffic cop “stop” signal. “Not enough fabric,” I say. He can’t argue the point, but he’s persistent. The dude lived a few years in Miami and I swear it’s skewed his entire perception of what is acceptable to wear in public. I have one new swimsuit. What it lacks in material it makes up for in brightness, a rainbow of sherbet colors, with two hues missing. You can only get so much on a small swatch of fabric, after all.

 

I’m not entirely uncomfortable with the way I’ve been dressing. Sometimes it even feels good, especially since I have a boyfriend who appears so dazzled when I wear more formfitting clothing. Still, I can only hope that Marc Jacobs, Mr. Turk and Tom Ford will unveil new cloak collections for Summer 2023. Hell, it might be an act of charity for them to bring back parachute pants, too. The world has surely seen more than it ever wanted of this fifty-something body.  

 

 

 

---

[1] Full disclosure, I don’t know if there are any such studies with such a conclusion, but this is the internet. There’s a low threshold in terms of how much backing I need for anything I declare. While I’m at it, I’ll posit that studies have shown that people with any sense of taste abhor cargo pants and Crocs. Stop resisting, guys. Throw those things out!

[2] For me, Tik Tok will always be a Kesha song. That’s as hip as I need to be. And I’m self-aware enough to know I can never attempt to “randomly” fit the lyric, “Po-Po shut us down” into a conversation.

[3] It helped that we all wore Speedos. The only way to survive a public appearance in unflattering clothing is to have an entire herd similarly garbed. See also, bridesmaids.

GAZING INTO MY FUTURE: A GAYBORHOOD WITH A PRUNE JUICE BAR & ORIGAMI CLASSES

During my first years in Vancouver, I bonded with a straight woman and two gay men. She was a step instructor at the gym and we three gays attended her classes religiously. The four of us often grabbed coffee at the gay hub of the time, Delany’s on Denman Street, sometimes staying in to sip and chat, other times, heading to the seawall to sit on a log or walk along the water. The laughs were big, the talks often going from light to profound. 

 

As each of us was single, there was much talk about our futures and how those futures might play out should our single status hold. (None of us seemed to have many prospects to change that status.) We joked about growing old together, three bitter gays and our peppy fitness instructor, changing gears to lead us through wheelchair aerobics and cane jousts. We envisioned ourselves adding dazzle to our nursing home, downing our morning prune juice in the dining lounge while decked out in rainbow beads and high heels which would be much less hazardous to traipse about in given that our electric wheelchairs did all the movement.  

 

At some point, the jesting took on a more serious tone. What would eighty-something really be like if we were single and not as independent? What if we had to live out our golden years not as Golden Girls but back in the milieu of one-of-these-things-is-not-like-the-others, our Pride flags burned by the resident arsonist with Alzheimer’s? What if we each had to sit down to three o’clock dinners—Yorkshire pudding, again—at a table for one, all the straight seniors shunning us?

 

I’ve never looked forward to growing old, but the prospect of being the lone gay in a nursing home only seemed to make that future worse. We began to talk more seriously about an LGBTQ seniors community, little cabins along a pristine lane, a larger assisted living chalet at the end. What a difference it would make to not have to go back into the closet, to not worry about intolerance from another resident or a caregiver. 

 

I’ve held onto that idea, even as our fabulous foursome is very much in the past—a falling out with one, losing touch with another and one I only see once or twice a year when he swings back into town from Prince Edward Island. We won’t be roomies or neighbors in our utopian queer community for the aged, but I’d love to have a place like that to live should I need eldercare or want ongoing social connections as old friends die off or move to Winnipeg or Saskatoon to live with a daughter or the nephew who drew the short straw. 

 

I was both heartened and surprised to stumble upon a CBC news article last week about Toronto’s “Rainbow Wing,” billed as North America’s first-ever dedicated queer living space in a long-term care facility for seniors. It’s not an entirely gay nursing home, but one section consisting of twenty-five beds is for LGBTQ residents. The facility is operated by Rekai Centres whose executive director, Barbara Michalik, stated, “We can’t just slap a sticker on a door. We can’t just do one education during the month of June for pride. It’s continuous. It’s a feeling of culture when you come into that home [and] safety. It’s really constant reinforcement of welcoming.”

 

A quick Google Map search shows that the home, Wellesley Central Place, is only a block and a half away from Church & Wellesley, the hub of The Gay Village in Toronto. This allows residents to easily venture out by foot, walker or cab in a familiar area they may have lived in or at least spent significant time visiting. It seems ideal to remain in a place one knows instead of being transplanted to a suburban neighborhood where residents have no ties. For seniors experiencing some form of senility, a better sense of place may help them remain grounded in reality, past associations and connections being regularly triggered. 

 

I’m not sure the claim that it’s the first-ever such nursing home space in North America holds true. Within the past year or two, I read about Stonewall House in Brooklyn, not a nursing home, but billed on its website as “LGBTQ+ elder housing.” The seventeen-story building has fifty-four studio and ninety-one one-bedroom apartments. Stonewall House appears to be a place for seniors who continue to live independently so, while it doesn’t offer care, it provides connection and safety for queers as they grow old. Sadly, the site states in bold, “Our building is fully occupied. We are not accepting applications at this time.”

 

Clearly, there is a need for more LGBTQ spaces offering independent, semi-independent and nursing home environments for seniors. Not every queer person would seek out such a living community, but the demand still far exceeds what is presently available. Indeed, the CBC article mentioned a small survey of LGBTQ people aged fifty and older in which 94% of respondents favored opening a space like the Rainbow Wing. 

 

More seniors identify as queer, having grown up as LGBTQ rights gained traction and acceptance increased. Let more safe spaces—day centers and residences—become established for older gays to consider spending time in their later years. Many, like me, won’t have family networks looking out for them. I hope I can consider accessing such options if and when it seems appropriate.    

  

MY FIRST PRIDE IN SEATTLE

 At Pride, there's no such thing
as too much color. 

I survived Pride, Round One.

 

Okay, that sounds like there was suffering involved. I suppose that’s my default view of gay events with too much hoopla. It wasn’t that way this time. 

 

Did I thrive? Um, that’s overshooting a bit. 

 

I took it in and I got something good out of it. That sounds right. And, from my perspective, that means my Pride weekend in Seattle exceeded expectations. I wasn’t insufferable and neither was it. We coexisted gaily enough. 

 

Evan and I spent part of the hot Saturday afternoon on Capitol Hill, first meeting his friends for brunch and then walking along the closed off blocks on Broadway where temporary outdoor stages on each block featured drag queens lip synching with painted on smiles that belied the fact they must have been battling heat exhaustion under heavy wigs and layers of garments, outer leather jackets and faux furs shed not soon enough at the midway point of Lizzo’s “About Damn Time” and Whitney Houston’s “So Emotional.” Pride is prime time for any and all LGBTQ performers. Heck, even the local men’s underwear store had a go-go boy dancing on tiny platform. He went largely unnoticed, his belly larger than what would earn him a gig in a club that evening. I always feel badly when a performer can’t sustain attention, but he didn’t seem to be feeling anything at all. He didn’t need my pity.

 

I took in much of Saturday from my boyfriend’s point of view. Evan loved it, not showing a trace of my cynicism or reticence. After a couple of years without a robust celebration due to COVID, he relished the resurgence of a festival-like atmosphere. Several times, he told me the parade used to be on Capitol Hill, only being relocated to 4^th Avenue in downtown Seattle as corporate sponsorship swept in. Capitol Hill meant something to him as a gay man; 4^th Avenue did not.

 

We began Sunday as we often do, grabbing lattes at the café on the corner, biking around Lake Union and then going through the paces of an online workout led by Heather Robertson. I tried to bat away the feeling this was the calm before the storm. I’d survived Saturday’s big Pride event which was essentially a very slow walk winding through a crowd of people, rainbows everywhere. Sunday’s events would drag on longer, the sun even hotter. The only chance of cutting things short would be if I suffered heat exhaustion and wound up under a first aid canopy, as had been the case so long ago for eight-year-old me at the Toronto Zoo at the peak of a heat wave. My mother had stayed with me while the rest of the family trekked on in pursuit of bears and dik-dik. Classic case of déjà-vu: same but different.   

 

I felt relief when Evan restated last night’s decision: we’d skip the hours-long parade and hang out at Seattle Center where the parade ends. I’ve walked around the area countless times during my solo trips to the city. It was the site of the 1962 World’s Fair and the Space Needle, the monorail and a huge fountain remain, with the Chihuly Gardens and Frank Gehry’s colorful slabs of warped metal making up the Museum of Pop to keep the grounds interesting. Seeing the area awash in the colors of the rainbow would add an entirely new association. 

 

There may have been more flashes of skin than splashes of red, indigo and violet. I imagine queers are especially grateful that Marsha P. Johnson and other patrons of the Stonewall Inn rioted in late June instead of on some cold night in January. What would Winter Pride have looked like? Would Pride organizers in the early days have adhered to calendar-authentic snowman building contests and drag queen snow angels? Somewhere in northern Finland, there’s an alternate reality coat maker with patents on beer- and snow-resistant rainbow parkas ruing what could have been to the unsympathetic glances of a herd of reindeer.

 

Yes, Sunday was hot. It was the perfect excuse for the first immodestly dressed attendee we spotted as we locked our bikes: an overly tanned Batman, baring a large chest and chiseled midriff, rendering any fake muscle suit utterly unnecessary. The look wowed Evan but made me cringe. Please don’t let the afternoon devolve into a display of gym gods. My body’s fine for the moment, but I still feel I could work off the extra cinnamon buns I indulged in while in Sweden earlier in June. I’m trying to avoid one of my full-on eating disorder panic diets. 

 

As it turned out Batman was an outlier. I can’t recall seeing other caped crusaders or superheroes. While there were plenty of shirtless men and women and a number who opted for full nudity, with or without body paint, these were normal bodies, unwaxed and perfectly imperfect. Thirty years ago, I’d have been bothered by so much exposure, but the displays seemed utterly ordinary. I didn’t read anything provocative into anyone’s state of undress. Instead, it seemed to fit within a broader theme: be Proud, whoever and however you are. 

 

I’m sure they were there, but I can’t recall drag queens strutting around the grounds. What stood out for me were all the people comfortable in their own skin and in their own clothes which defied traditional gender role stylings. This may have been progressive, but I felt a little old-fashioned—in a good way—thinking about Marlo Thomas’s “Free to Be…You and Me” album and book of the early seventies. Surely she’d be aglow gazing at this crowd of people boldly expressing themselves without a worry…on this day, at least. 

 

As Evan and I stepped into The Armory to give my slathered-on layers of sunscreen a break from fending off the sun’s rays, we drank margaritas and people-watched anew. Seattle Center being a tourist attraction on any given day, I asked him, “What percentage of people walking through here just happened upon all this?”

 

“Five percent,” he posited. Maybe so. Maybe it was ten, but Ned and Shirley from Wichita turned away, deciding to watch an encore of the fishmongers at Pike Place Market. I can’t even look at those beautiful fish on display, pulled from a seabed, now relegated to a bed of crushed ice. To each his/her/their own.

 

Without the nudists traipsing through—perhaps there was a No Shoes, No Service sign on the door—I watched an impromptu parade of people shuffling toward restrooms and the Frappuccino line. I noticed the contented smile of an older man wearing a straw hat covered in rows of shimmering rainbow tiles. I checked out the nail polished fingers of so many people half my age. Boys? Nonbinary? Didn’t matter. I saw a six-foot-seven figure peer over everyone’s heads while donning a formless frock splattered with flourishes of rainbow tie-dye. More people free to be.

 

So many in the crowd were of college age and much younger. They didn’t show the shock I probably couldn’t hide during my first Pride more than three decades ago. They’ve grown with many of the same struggles and much of the same hate, but they’ve had plenty of outlets at school, on social media and on streaming channels to encourage them to explore all facets of who they are, to absorb the pervasive message that Love Is Love and to find their people. They appeared totally at ease here. Happy without having to edit their mannerisms, their attire, their ways of interacting. 

 

In all, I felt awe. It helped to be alongside Evan, who took in the surroundings and fed off what he too observed. I’ve passed on so many Prides since 1990. My weekend in Seattle reminded my why it still matters to others and, yes, by golly, to me as well.

 

So there it is. Happy Pride. Call it a wrap.

 

Now let me catch my breath before Round Two four weeks from now in Vancouver. Yes, okay, I’m Proud. But this introvert is worn out, too.