LONG DRIVE, SHORT JOG

I’ve enjoyed my first month at the family cottage. For the most part, it’s just the dogs and me. And a chipmunk that loves to scamper across the deck and ruffle the dogs. My exercise regime has been excellent as I rotate my workouts through going to the gym in town, swimming, cycling and jogging.

As a jogger, I go for consistency. I’ve never tried interval training, speed drills or other structured sessions. When I go for a run, it’s always the same: ten kilometers—no more, no less.

Last night, I did something completely different. For starters, I picked a different venue. I drove into downtown Ottawa (about an hour’s drive), parked the car and met a group of Frontrunners, a gay running group, outside city hall. That’s a huge change. I’m not a social person when I exercise. While some may get hot and bothered over guys working up a sweat, I just think people in a sweaty, stinky state should be left alone. (Of course, there is an exception for shirtless hunks, but they’re the ones who think I should be left alone in any state.)

There were five people clustered near a side entrance when I arrived. The group leader immediately introduced himself and the woman by his side. I then said hello to a guy standing near them. He looked startled to be acknowledged, his eyes popping out like a deer in the headlights. (I’ve been told many times that I have a knack for portraying the same deer.) The other two guys, while aware of introductions, kept to themselves carrying on their own conversation. Even in a group of five a clique exists! Ten minutes went by and I awkwardly stretched and looked around while people chatted two by two. The deer stood on his own, our talk ending after about sixty seconds of in-depth dialogue.

My idea of getting “out there” to meet other gays was a bust. I was ready to bolt and do my own run. My complete lack of any sense of direction stopped me. Running along a country road is simple: run 5K one way and then turn around. In a city I don’t know very well, I would never be able to get back to “Go” on my own.

A few more people arrived, the leader facilitated introductions, shared some announcements and advised folks to look after the new people—myself and Bambi.

And then we were off. Immediately, I was on my own. Hello?! New person! Who’s looking out for me? People were running different distances and the route involved crossing over a series of bridges from Ottawa to Gatineau, Quebec. I followed a couple of guys in front of me as they ran and talked. I felt like I was eavesdropping or being an annoying shadow. Moreover, the pace was too slow.

I became bold. I ran ahead and joined Jean-Marc, a regular in the group who was running on his own. Perhaps I was intruding on his private workout, but I was desperate, already confused as to our starting point. Maybe Jean-Marc feared I was a stalker because in the first minute of our conversation, he threw out the “WE” twice, as in “We live near here”, as in I am taken so back off, horn dog!

Good to know. Not at all unexpected. If there is a group of gay guys, ninety-nine single and one taken, I always find Mr. Married. Call it an inner safety mechanism or a subconscious desire to flog myself. I didn’t expect to hook up with my future life partner based on one outing, but there’d been a faint hope. If it’s gonna happen, it has to start somewhere. Not here.

The run was terrific. It was a sunny evening and the temperature was comfortable for running. The pathways along waterways and the views from various bridges were spectacular. I absolutely loved it! As for exercise, things came up short. The pace was a tad slow and the course was only 7K. I put a positive spin on the fact that I want to go farther and faster. My fitness level is as good as it’s ever been.

The group met for coffee after the run. Normally, I’d zip home, shower and change first. Not an option when “home” is an hour away. So I sat there, sweaty and aware that my big hair was now frizzy, humongous hair. I tried to get into the conversation, but it’s tough when you don’t know anything about the group. Should be easy, shouldn’t it? A blank slate. Unfortunately, small talk has never been my thing.

Two guys talked about telephone technology for about five minutes. No point of entry there. The one guy’s phone tracked is distance and speed during the run and broke things down into intervals. I don’t even know how to initiate a text message. (I can reply; just can’t start it. Story of my life, really.) Then a guy started talking about sugar sculpting. What? Actually, it was interesting, but once again, I nothing to contribute. Posed a question or two at least.

When someone asked where I was staying and I named the local town, the reaction was typical. “Did you drive in just for the run?” Yes. Does that make me desperate? Somehow that’s how it felt. I see it as being pragmatic. A flock of gays isn’t going to land on my dock, ready for a tea party. I have to put myself out there, even if it requires a tank of gas.

I could feel myself getting antsy. Ready to return to my remote den with the dogs. Thankfully, conversation wound down and my exit coincided with the group’s full dispersal. It was dark on the drive home and I had no choice but to shift from any woe-is-me, forever-single thoughts to full attention to the road. I’ve seen too much roadkill since I’ve been here and the local skunks, raccoons and porcupines deserved my focus.

Will I drive in again for a short jog? Perhaps. I now know what to expect. And what not to expect.

HAIR CRISIS

It’s been seven weeks since my last haircut. I usually get it trimmed every four to five weeks. I’ve reached the crisis stage.

This is what happens when I leave home for a couple of months. I’m completely out of my comfort zone. A haircut from a new stylist is a stressful thing. Right up there with moving, job loss and breaking up, isn’t it? The bond we form with our stylist is strong. It goes beyond the trust we put in them to snip away freely at our coifs. I talk more frequently to Kaley than I do to some of my closest friends who happen to live in other parts of the continent. She’s the only one who knows I watch “America’s Next Top Model” and “The Bachelor(ette)”. And she hasn’t once threatened blackmail.

Have you ever broken ties with a hairdresser? It’s a tough thing. For two years after moving to the nether-lands, I continued to take a ferry into Vancouver each month to get an appointment with Christina. I’d still be doing that but she moved to Vancouver Island. Two ferries and about seven hours round trip. I do have limits!

When I lived in Malibu, I went to this fortysomething volleyballer who lamented giving up beach time for more appointments since he knocked up his girlfriend and had to deal with new responsibilities. The cuts were perfectly acceptable until one day, for reasons still unknown, he took a shaver to the back of my head and gave me a half-bald buzz. Pre-Britney. I was horrified and hid for days. (If only I could pull off wearing a baseball cap.) Well I went back the next time, for reasons still unknown. I explicitly told him not to repeat the look from last time, he nodded and proceeded to give me the same shocking butcher job. It was more than a sign; it was a clear statement. I had no choice but to move on.

Salon chairs always remind me of the dentist’s chair. Not a good association. When I am forced to go to a new stylist, I sit nervously, sneaking peeks at that oh so deceptive mirror and tensely gripping the arms of the chair. He/She who wields a sharp pair of sheers holds all the power.

So why have I delayed? Is it fear or a longing for Big Hair of the ‘80s? I’ll admit I wanted my hair to grow out a little. And fear of the unknown resulted in my relying exclusively on a recommendation of a stylist who works out of her home. It’s mayhem, with kids and a dog running about and the occasional heated argument with her couch potato husband. Ten bucks, no tips. Yes, I know. There are some serious red flags. But my cousin drives an hour each way from Ottawa for an appointment. It’s not the money, but the cut. Better than any of the top stylists in the city. Or so I’m told.

She took last week off. Hence, part of the delay. Today was the day, but it’s not to be. Apparently the kids are ill.

And so I wait. And the hair grows on. When some kid in town shouts, “Hey! Ronald McDonald!”, I’ll be forced to take a shaver to myself. If that’s what comes to be, I can console myself in knowing I won’t need another trim until I’m back in Kaley territory.

From AVOID to A VOID

Never make a decision about moving after major breakup. No one ever says that. I guess that’s because you have to make a decision when you’re living with the person. Maybe the rule should be, Never make a decision to relocate from the city where you live.

When I made my exodus from Vancouver, there were sound financial reasons for doing so. The city is the most expensive in Canada—or at least second to West Vancouver. And I stubbornly refused to downsize from house to condo. I put a ferry between me and civilization, telling myself I enjoyed my time alone and had no interest in getting involved in another relationship.

Idiot. That was my Avoid Period. Leave me alone, everyone! Nothing wrong with that when it’s a phase. I made it a lifestyle and it’s been going on for four years now. Somewhere along the way, the Avoid Period mutated into A Void Period. I go back and forth from feeling frustrated to bewildered. I have not felt attracted to a single gay man in years. I don’t even see gay men. I don’t think my gaydar is on the fritz. It just can’t pick up a signal in remote regions.

PREPARING TO MEET AN ULTIMATE FIGHTER

Okay, I know nothing about Ulimate Fighting. (Is it even a proper noun?) Well, I remember Courtney Cox’s Monica dating an ultimate fighter played by Jon Favreau on an episode of “Friends”. Yet it’s coffee with a gay ultimate fighter tomorrow. Way to shatter the stereotype, man! (Last guy I had coffee with was a hairstylist.)

Keeping an open mind…

Apples for Apples

Well, I’ve struggled to retain and experience any gay part of my identity since moving to a rural area in British Columbia nearly four years ago. For unrelated reasons, I’ve taken a leave of absence from my regular job and I’ve traveled to a new place for a two-month sojourn to pursue creative projects. So where did I go? New York City? Chicago? Montreal? Tokyo? A rural area on the Ottawa River in Ontario. Ottawa is an hour’s drive away.

As with my home, the family cottage where I’m staying has a water view—only closer and better. The closest town is about ten minutes away. The services there are similar, sans the Starbucks (alas). A pulp and paper mill is one of the biggest employers in both areas. Things are remarkably similar. Why did I trade apples for apples? And why did I drive 4,600 kilometers to make the trade?

This cottage is what I retain from childhood. This is a place where I am able to think differently, possibly sparking new creativity. Here is where some of my most profound life decisions have gotten sorted out.

Will any part of my being gay further develop here? It’s unlikely. I have switched over my hometown from Vancouver to Ottawa on an online dating site and changed the “seeking” option from dating to friendship. I’m not looking for a long-term relationship or even a fling (though stumbling into either wouldn’t be so bad, would it?). Simply connecting with another gay person would be welcome. While I had many friends here as a child, it’s been almost thirty years since I’ve seen any of them. I’m a tag-along at social outings with my relatives and their friends.

I’ve been here four days and things are as quiet as they are at home. I am making progress with my writing so the primary purpose for being here is coming to fruition. I’ve had a couple of Ottawa guys indicate they’d like to meet for coffee. Neither would be a dating candidate and I’m not even sure that there will be anything on which to base a friendship. (One guy’s subject header read: “Yo!” Are there pirates in these parts or is this a middle-aged gay man who really thinks he can pull off an urban gangsta persona? His interest in Ultimate Fighting also baffles me. Random Michael Jackson quote: I’m a lover, not a fighter.) But I’m going to try to remain open, parenthetical thoughts notwithstanding.

I also have my aunt and cousin trying to play matchmaker. Super. I need the help. But I get the feeling their efforts are misplaced. It seems one of my childhood friends is single (though he has a child), attractive, in good shape, has a dog and likes running and biking. On paper, they’ve got checkmarks in each box for both of us. I’m trying to remain sensibly cautious (negative?). For a match, at least three things need to be: (1) He has to be gay; (2) He has to be single; and (3) He has to be interested in me (and I in him). Three big hurdles and I’ve never been much of a hurdler.

At this point, I remind myself that I’m here for my writing. Anything else is a nice distraction and a bonus. Of course, who doesn’t like a nice bonus?

Up in Smoke

While I have no statistical evidence, it seems that cigarette smoking is less common as one heads west across North America and as one ventures into more urban areas. I can't get much farther west where I live unless I go to Vancouver Island. I only know one person in my broad social circle who smokes. I suppose I take it for granted that people I'm in contact with in Vancouver will be nonsmokers.

Maybe that explains my failure to read the not-so-fine print in the online profile of someone who sent me a message of interest. We exchanged several messages and had two positive dates. It wasn't until I picked up Hal at the ferry terminal that I smelled smoke. Even before the hug, the scent hit me from his shirt. Turns out Hal is a smoker. It was stated in his profile--I later went back and read that he had indicated "Occasionally" beside the "Smoker?" line. How stupid that I missed that!

Should smoking be a big deal?

Fifteen years ago, I tried being flexible and I dated a smoker for a year and a half. I resented the fact that a cigarette was the first and last thing to touch his lips each day. I hated the interruptions during arguments when, due to the stress, my ex had to take a smoke break on the balcony. A warm embrace never felt so good with my head buried in his smoke-scented jacket or shirt. I never got used to riding in his car, trying to draw my breath from the air coming in through the rolled down window.

Compromise is necessary in any relationship, but being with a smoker simply made me feel badly about myself. I have honed a healthy lifestyle focused on regular, intense fitness and a vegetarian diet. I have heeded every directive ever given by a doctor. Being with a smoker didn't--and doesn't--jive with how I want to live.

With the third date altered at the moment of greeting, I found myself struggling to get through the long visit. There were many positive things about Hal and yet I started picking out the negatives--the louder than normal speaking voice, the style of his clothing, the nose from side profile--as if to give me more reason to end things beyond the fact that he smoked. I was also hard on myself. Had I read closely, a first date wouldn't have even occurred. I am certain of this because I reviewed this dilemma with another online messenger who contacted me at the same time as Hal. (When it rains, it pours. I know to expect an online drought next.) As much as I appreciated Chris' wit, his love for animals and his positive attitude about life, the smoking shut down any chance for a first date.

After Hal caught a later ferry home, I continued to question myself. Am I being too picky? The last four guys I've dated have all been interested in me and I've said no to each on the third or fourth date. Am I like the characters on Seinfeld, grasping for any reason to dismiss a budding relationship? When I'm single and seventy, will I look back and still think I made the right move in dumping a funny, attractive, caring man--who happened to be a smoker--when he clearly wanted a longterm relationship? I'm telling myself I'd have no regrets, but hindsight doesn't come after a day.

Coincidentally, when I reread Hal's profile to confirm that he had indeed stated he was a smoker, I clicked on one new profile. The guy included the following as part of his statement: Not particular on ethnicity although smokers (and yes even those "quitting") must EXIT here. The guy was far younger than I, yet much clearer on what he didn't want. I don't like sounding negative, mentioning what I don't want, but I see that being direct might make things much easier in the long run.

[Incidentally, the model in the first ad, Alan Landers, died of cancer at 68.]

Am I Proud?

It’s Gay Pride Week in Vancouver. I won’t be attending any of the festivities this year. I seem to keep the parade on my own Olympic schedule. I don’t need an annual parade booster shot to be proud. The drag queens, the dykes on bikes, the club boys who dance on floats in their underwear, the PFLAG contingent, the multicultural organization participants, the handshake happy politicians,…I hope they have a great day. And put on sunscreen so as not to ruin the fake bake tans. Gotta protect the investment!

I got to thinking, am I proud? And, if so, is that pride at least connected to being gay? Proud is defined in my trusty Random House College Dictionary as “1. thinking well of oneself because of one’s accomplishments, possessions, etc. 2. feeling honored, as by a distinction conferred on one. 3. governed in one’s words or actions by self-respect.” Other definitions are provided. Blah, blah, blah. Top three is good enough.

One of the great things of accepting oneself is being able to look at the self as a whole. Back in my awkward coming out years (and painful NOT coming out years), the gay thing consumed me. It labeled me—er, branded me—, particularly during my years living in Texas where so many people lovingly said, “Love the sinner, hate the sin.” Ick. The sentiment still smacks of self-righteous ignorance. As a nascent drama queen, I’d written a couple of suicide notes and sat in the darkness of my room, bottle of Tylenol at my side. (Not even sure you can OD on headache medicine, but it was all about making a personal statement: I hate myself because I’m gay.

I’m definitely NOT proud of that period in the late Seventies and early Eighties. That dark period reminds me of why it is so important to have official Pride events: to break that feeling of isolation, to laugh amidst the frivolity, to find strength in marchers pushing for equality.

Thankfully, I moved to Los Angeles and had an opportunity to start over. Away from a smothering Baptist, conservative culture, I could go to a gay club without fear that I might be bashed in the walk to or from the car. (I remember the shocked reaction when I called a gay helpline in L.A. “You’ve been here two months and haven’t met a single gay?!” He regained his composure and pondered which club to recommend. Naively, or perhaps to amuse himself, he asked, “Well, what’s your scene? Do you like leather?” Ultimately, he directed me to something basic. Making that phone call was huge for me and it changed everything.)

I had my years where I oozed gay pride. I was gay, first and foremost. I clubbed regularly, volunteered with AIDS Project Los Angeles, joined a gay gym and took to the streets for several days in a row when Governor Pete Wilson vetoed Bill 101 which would have banned workplace discrimination against gays and lesbians. Aside from school and work, my life was all gay all the time.

Naturally, when I moved to Vancouver, I settled in the gay ghetto, the fabulous West End. But I got tired of ironing my shorts before going to the gym and primping my hair before dashing out to the grocery store to buy another tub of frozen yogurt. Moving out of the West End helped me balance my life. I could be gay. And I could be more than that.

The pendulum is always swinging. Now living in a rural area, you might need an X-ray or blood test to detect the gay gene in me. The too-short shorts and tattered t-shirt I’m wearing at the moment don’t help matters. I haven’t even showered yet today. Gasp!

But am I proud? Do I feel a sense of self-respect? Do I feel a sense of accomplishment—without complacency—over accepting and embracing my gayness. Absolutely!

Happy Pride, Vancouver!