AGE ADJUSTMENT

As the decades pass, I keep shifting the bar regarding what is old. I’m closer to sixty-two than sixty-one and I know there was a time I thought sixty was old. I’m embarrassed to say that, in my twenties, I thought forty was old. Oh, to be so young again. (Forty, not twenty.)

 

Despite the fact I usually feel young for my age, I found myself doubting that this past week. Exercise at high altitude in the mountains can do that. 

 

For work purposes, Evan is moving to the Roaring Fork Valley of Colorado, a corridor that includes the ski areas of Aspen and Snowmass. We spent four days last week in Snowmass Village as he connected with colleagues, worked on new projects and looked for housing. (So expensive!) 

 

I used the small-but-good-enough hotel gym for one day’s workout but then did back-to-back days of biking roads and trails that run from Snowmass to Aspen and from Snowmass to Basalt. It’s the rides that had me feeling my actual age. 

 

Looking back, I would not say that my twenties were my fittest decade. I was still figuring things out. What were all those gym machines? Who were all those buff guys who seemed to have established routines and seethed with impatience as I worked with light weights on the cables? Why jog when it was such a sweaty experience? I loved tennis, but I struggled with back pain, popping Motrin and, on one occasion, lying on my office floor, door shut, unable to get up as I repeatedly called out to my admin assistant for help.  No, the twenties were plain awkward in terms of fitness.

 

It was during my thirties that everything clicked—in fitness, in work, in life. I wasn’t quite there, but I was beginning to realize I knew a lot less than I thought I did during the years from sixteen through twenty-nine. Not knowing brought on humility and a greater sense of relaxation—I didn’t need to know it all. I still found the gym intimidating, but I went more regularly and I knew which machines felt good with my body and which ones just made me look like a struggling fool. (Way too many mirrors!) 

 

From my forties until now, I’ve been relentless about exercising. I ignore the steroid-y dudes bench pressing twice my body weight and grunting loudly as they drop the barbell after a leg press set. (I’d say they grunt while sipping from their water bottle too, but I can’t confirm it…being as I’m ignoring them and all.) I still don’t like sweating while jogging and biking—especially when sunscreen seeps into my eyes—but I’ve accepted that it’s proof of exertion. I know that my form sucks, but I still swim laps at the pool, doing my own version of a flip turn, a roll that would make Michael Phelps and actual pool mates laugh. Despite all my workout flaws, I follow that old Nike slogan—Just do it!—and I even consider myself athletic, not just for someone who is sixty-something but even at a level for thirty-year-olds. Yes, I keep up!

 

But, oh, Roaring Fork Valley, you had me doubting myself. You humbled me. At the beginning on that first day when I set out on my bike to go to Aspen, the most exercise I was getting involved my hands as I kept squeezing the brakes on the curvy downhill route from the hotel above Snowmass Village. I might have even laughed if I hadn’t been aware that, as a cyclist going round trip, what goes down must come up. Yes, it would be a grind, but I told myself that’s what first gear is for. I would just make the adjustment and pedal my way back to the top, breathing evenly, keeping my head down so as not to be overwhelmed by how steep the incline was. 

 

There is always a learning curve in cycling a route for the first time. I don’t know what’s ahead and often find myself shifting gears too late as hills seem to rise out of nowhere. The road (and bike path) to Aspen were no exception. At one point, I had to dismount and walk my bike up one hill as I swear a couple of Steller’s jays laughed at me—loudly, too. (I reclassified them as mocking-birds.)

 

It didn’t help that, as a fair-skinned Canadian who prefers vacations in Iceland and Sweden, I was still adjusting to the Colorado heat, the temperatures above thirty degrees and I’d foolishly set out without a water bottle. 

Once I reached Aspen, I walked my sweaty, messy self into a bougie coffee shop and ordered a ten-dollar iced latte. (Oh, Aspen.) I knew I didn’t fit with the wealthy clientele so I grabbed my drink and walked my bike around town, window shopping at the Prada store and listening to a busker sing a cover of John Denver’s “Rocky Mountain High.” (Of course.)

 

Afternoon storm clouds nudged me to down my latte and get back on-trail to make the return trip. The overall distance was typical for me in summer though longer than what I’d been doing throughout the winter and spring. It was a decent challenge, the right stuff to shift me into summer mode. The return route provided a long, slow incline and my legs felt it enough so that I frequently shifted into lower gears, something I usually avoid doing for all but the most obvious hills. There was a switchback area behind the Aspen airport that had my mind flashing forward, fretting about how I would handle the mountainous stretch in Snowmass. One kilometre at a time, I reminded myself. Enjoy (or endure) the moment…

 

Instead of birds that mocked, I had to avoid cursing at the people on e-bikes who powered past, their legs opting for a pedal-free experience. (Eighty-five percent of “cyclists” were using e-bikes, half of them using them as nothing more than a sit-down version of an electric scooter.) 

 

When I reached the steep incline at Snowmass, I went easy on myself and the gears. I followed the plan. First gear, head down. Our hotel was above the village, where parking lots were numbered from one to our lot, lucky number thirteen. I made it to lot ten before I had to stop as a panted profusely. Even in low gear, I could not restart the pedalling effort, the hill being far too steep. I tried not to feel defeated as I walked up the final two hundred metres. I told myself the trek was not diminished by a short uphill stroll to the bike rack. I had done it. A good workout as my tight legs attested. 

 

I hadn’t planned to bike again the next day, but Evan needed the car for work and I felt restless after a short writing session at a café in the Village and staring at the partial view from the hotel room. I switched into my bike gear, slapped on the sunscreen and headed back down the mountain for a ride in the other direction to Basalt. It would be my longest ride in many months, but I told myself that, except for the final mountain ascent, the trail would be flatter. My still sore legs would appreciate a “lighter” workout. For the most part, the ride toBasalt proved to be a comfortable ride. Only one stretch looked like it would be a particular challenge on the way back before I had to tackle Snowmass Village. 

 

The temperatures were once again hot and, by the time I finally reached for the water bottle I’d remembered to bring, the water was warm. Once again, I stopped for an iced latte when I’d reached the turn-around point, this time in the charming, historic town of Basalt. My legs sent signals that they felt achy, but I did my best to prevent any whining from filtering up to my brain. I headed back, smiling proudly on account of the distance I’d travelled. I told myself that, worst-case scenario, I could take a slow but steady approach on the return leg, stopping all I wanted, refreshing myself whenever necessary by gulping down water that was now unequivocally hot. 

 

But as is so often the case, my mind went rogue, ignoring my legs, brushing aside any plan to be like the tortoise in that classic race against the hare. I knew I was in for a grind shortly after leaving Basalt when I took a wrong turn and dead-ended in a neighbourhood. To get back on-trail, I had to face an extra uphill segment that went on for half a kilometre. This was just the beginning of the trip back and, whoa, my legs were already protesting. 

 

Ignore, ignore.

 

There were distance markers I hadn’t even noticed along the bike path on the way to Basalt but now I found myself spotting each one and longing for the tiny, faded half-mile signs to show up sooner. So many to spot; so far left to go.

 

Once reaching the base of Snowmass and taking the tunnel under the highway, I had only four kilometres to go. I knew the last half (which had been part of my Aspen ride) would be difficult, but I didn’t realize how tough the first half—a sprawling meadow area with a series of smaller dips and rises—would be. Let the water breaks begin. 

 

In the end, I dismounted at the first lot instead of the tenth and walked my bike the rest of the way. My legs were pedalled out. My pride was severely bruised. I let my sunglasses mask much of the disappointment on my face. 

 

It’s been a couple of years since I last did the 140-kilometre, uphill/downhill roundtrip trek from my condo in Vancouver to Squamish, BC. My Snowmass experiences had me wondering if such outings are a thing of the past. Were my challenges just a sign that I was only at the beginning of summer biking season or had I gotten “too old”? Was an e-bike in my near future? I reminded myself that no one on a regular bike had passed me on my four-hour ride along the busier Rio Grande Trail to and from Basalt. I assured myself that I could still keep up with thirty-somethings. Alas, the assurances fell flat. I felt old. Sixty-one, if not older. 

 

Four days later, I am still shaken from the experience. Have I reached a tipping point where I am too old for more things than just rave events, rap music and TikTok? Is it time to take up pickleball? Lawn bowling? Bridge? 

 

In a day or two, I’ll get back on my bike and ride for hours along the flatter bike paths in and around Denver. I’ll tell myself I still feel like I’m in my thirties (maybe thirty-nine instead of thirty-six). Still, I can’t help but think the aging clock is ticking faster. It won’t slow down; instead, it seems I will. As that now-old movie from 1994 says, Reality Bites. 

HAPPY PRIDE

Another June, another Pride, another month of queer books, movies, history and people getting more of a spotlight. As I’m spending June in the U.S. instead of Canada this year, I know things will be slightly more muted due to less corporate sponsorship and more political on account of an administration intent on rolling back gains, tainting history and scaring its base in portraying trans rights as “threats.”

 

I am fortunate to be spending most of the month in Colorado which has a gay Democratic governor, Jared Polis, and two Democratic senators, Michael Bennet and John Hickenlooper. Polis has been married to Marlon Reis since 2021 and the couple has two children. 

 

Still, things feel very different from back home in Vancouver. Evan and I freely hold hands in Denver and he often moves in for a quick kiss—things I’d be far less comfortable doing in a red state—but I feel less at ease as we venture to more remote areas such as his family cabin and on hiking trails in the Colorado mountains. I have no stats to back me up but the more pickup trucks I see in a community, the more conservative it seems. Evan listens to NPR most of the day and, while it is purportedly a left-leaning news source, the station is fixated on Donald Trump. “Trump this” and “Trump that…” My mood drops as my level of agitation rises. Without fail, I find myself begging Evan to switch to a soft jazz station. He quickly honors my request, but I can tell he’s totally used to All-Things-Trump when I’m away. Such is the state of the union.

 

I expect a harsher political climate if I make a planned visit to see my parents in East Texas sometime this month. When I was there eight months ago, I stopped at sixteen gas stations, grocery stores and book shops on a Sunday in search of a New York Times. There didn’t seem to be a copy anywhere in Tyler, a city with a population of 115,000. My parents will sit for their daily dose of Fox News. Trump bumper stickers will be rampant. I Googled “Pride Tyler Texas” and the main event will not include something so public as a parade; instead, on Saturday, June 20, there will be food trucks, vendors and art displays inside a conference center, an event organized by Tyler Area Gays (TAG+). 

 

I can’t imagine what it would be like spending June or any month in many of the places I drove through in Southern Washington, Eastern Oregon, Idaho and Utah on my way to Denver. I would never want to return to the confused, lonelier, closeted existence I experienced while attending high school and university in Texas. All that was a long, long time ago but, aside from online connections, I don’t think I’d feel much better there in 2026. Life felt dramatically freer once I moved to Los Angeles in 1989.

 

I’d like to spend much of this month reflecting on the good fortune that has led me into a healthy, loving relationship with Evan, reaching out to the few gay friends who remain in my life and honouring those who died of AIDS and other causes. I’d like to ponder more about marrying Evan, a subject I didn’t even think possible when I landed in L.A. And I’d like to enjoy the two books I’m currently reading, Queer by Beatnik member William S. Burroughs and The Journalist of Castro Street, a biography of the late gay writer Randy Shilts (And the Band Played On; The Mayor of Castro Street).

 

Generally, during a day or month of celebration, it’s all about gratitude and festivities but in the eleven years that have passed since the U.S. Supreme Court affirmed marriage equality, there has been an alarming backslide in rights, in open expressions of queer support and in the movement toward understanding and accepting trans people and those who identify as one of the Plus groups under the LGBTQ+ umbrella. I continue to receive emails from and follow the website for Advocates for Trans Equality (A4TE) as a way to stay informed and to consider personal political actions. I check the Advocate’s website weekly for affirming stories while also reading about setbacks at the state and city levels that have slipped through mainstream media coverage. Basically, I continue to be on guard and to not take my rights and freedoms for granted. To do otherwise would be a manifestation of foolish Pride. Alas, this is not a time for complacency. 

 

To other queers and queer allies, enjoy the positive, fun activities scheduled for this month, but I hope you also find time for self-education and honing a reality check of where things stand in terms of LGBTQ+ issues in the U.S., in Canada and around the world. We are stronger when we stay informed and involved.

 

  

THE SEX MOTEL

For five nights, Evan and I stayed at the pricey, hip Ace Hotel just off Broadway in Manhattan’s NOMAD district. This is our fourth time together in NYC and we always stay at the Ace. We like its central location, the Stumptown café adjoining the hotel and I enjoy accessing the gym in the basement. Our visits begin with a sit-down session in the lobby’s photo booth for a half dozen tiny black-and-white photos. Our room typically has an unobstructed view of the Empire State Building. We’re close enough to walk to Times Square to catch a Broadway show but far enough away to have a healthy separation from the posing Elmos, the herds of people and the massive light displays that come from mammoth billboards. The Ace is our familiar haven to begin and end fully packed days in New York.

 

After yet another pleasant stay, we packed up last Tuesday and took a cab to LaGuardia to catch our Southwest flight back to Denver. Due to weather conditions, we taxied on the tarmac for almost four hours in an increasingly warm cabin until the pilot announced that we had to return to the terminal to refuel. 

 

At the gate, passengers were allowed off the plane to stretch their legs, keeping mindful about reboarding signage and announcements. An hour later, the inevitable happened: the flight crew timed out and the flight was cancelled. The LaGuardia departures board indicated a great many cancelled flights. Basically, no one was going anywhere Tuesday night.

 

Knowing that thousands of passengers were scrambling just like us to find accommodations, I hurriedly searched “hotels near me” while Evan called Southwest to rebook our flight which was not scheduled to depart until two days later. Flight and hotel booked, we headed out from baggage claim and grabbed a taxi. The hotel near me turned out to be nearly an hour away in The Bronx. 

 

When the cabbie finally pulled into the parking lot in the middle of nowhere around midnight, we knew we had left Ace standards far behind us. The two-story motel circled the lot, every room having a view of parked vehicles and red neon cherry tree installations. Pink, blue and white hexagonal lighting dotted the overhang on both floors and room doors were adorned with white and green vertical signage that alternated the words BLISS, MODERN, CHILL, RELAX, ENJOY, EXPLORE, REPEAT.  

 

My first impression was that the place was kitschy. Evan, however, through an oh-my-god-where-are-we laugh, managed to say, “We’re at a sex hotel.” 

 

I dismissed his comment as Evan being Evan and proceeded to roll my oversized suitcase to the lobby, a small room in which the reception counter was a fully sectioned off with protective glass. While I slide my ID and credit card through a metal slot, Evan told the man behind the counter, “We’d like a room for more than two hours.”

 

“Stop it!” I told him, tired from a long day of non-travel.

 

Grabbing the key card, we lugged our bags up a central flight of stairs and passed by the BLISS and EXPLORE signage to the end room. As I opened the door, Evan resumed his laughter while we surveyed the black-lit room that made the white pillows glow. A wall-sized mirror faced us from the far side of the room and, looking up, a giant mirror was mounted to the ceiling, fully capturing the king-sized bed which had a sheet but no blanket or duvet.  

 

“Sex room,” Evan repeated.

 

View from ceiling mirror

Even though the bed didn’t vibrate, the ginormous flatscreen didn’t play porn as a default offering and the vending machine sold soft drinks instead of condoms, I couldn’t argue. Yes, we’d checked into a sex motel.

 

Rather than think in terms of sexual things, we both thought about bed bugs and questioned how clean the room might be. Despite both of us being simultaneously amused and uncomfortable, we fell asleep in minutes, motorcycles and adjacent above ground subway trains rattling away throughout our two-night stay. 

 

In all likelihood, we’ll be back at the Ace next year but the sex motel will remain but a memory.

  

CAR ISSUES

Whew! It’s good to put the car in park. I just spent four days driving 2,700 kilometres from Vancouver to Denver, managing to fit in three morning bike rides and a couple of National Parks. 

 

A couple of decades ago, those would have been easy travel days. I once pulled three 17-hour days in the car to make it to the family cottage. Wouldn’t consider that kind of road trip schedule ever again. My back just can’t handle that long in a car seat. 

 

Instead of worrying about the possibility of hitting moose, elk or deer while driving at night, my primary concern now is about having car trouble in some remote area in Idaho or Utah. (Signs that say “No Services Next 42 Miles” are not comforting.) I drive a 2015 Mini Cooper which runs really well but, as I can personally attest, aging has its drawbacks. I sprang for an oil change the day before I left but said no to the other suggested work the mechanic pitched. (They always pitch other work, right?)

 

Everything was good until I pulled over to take yet another photo of yet another red rock formation in Arches National Park. An SUV pulled up beside me, rolled down the window and the driver said, “Hey…you’ve got something hanging low under the front end of your car.” I thanked him and he drove on toward a different pullout. 

 

I got down on my hands and knees, hoping to see maybe a plastic bag or a desert plant—I had a tumbleweed in my engine once—but, dang, it looked to be a dangling car part. Instead of hitting the road after the park to make my way to Denver I drove back into the town of Moab, Utah where I’d stayed the night before and pulled into the only autobody shop I could find. 

 

This was not going to go well. I imagined parts being ordered from Salt Lake City, taking several days to arrive, maybe having to fly out of Moab to Denver since Evan and I were due to fly to New York City two days later. I braced for being told I needed a new transmission or, hell, a whole new engine. I wondered how many thousands of dollars the repairs would cost. 

 

As soon as the prior customer paid his bill—good to see he wasn’t crying—I walked up to the counter and explained what I knew. Hanging part. The service guy then asked me a question. It might have been about a car part I’d never heard of. It could just as well have been something in Korean or Portuguese. 

 

This happens every single time I take my car in for a repair. The first question always feels like a test: How much does this driver know about cars? As always, I failed the test. The obvious implication is that the auto shop can run up the bill because who am I to argue? I know absolutely nothing.

 

On his computer screen, the guy started to create my customer profile. He went straight from name to zip code. Oh, no. Another big reveal. Canadian postal codes are a wonky mix of numbers and letters. I had to say, “It’s Canadian.” 

 

His next question: “So the plates are Canadian, too?”

 

My stomach sank and it had only twenty percent to do with the fact that earlier that morning I’d sipped one-fifth of the worst oat milk latte I’d ever had in my life before pouring the rest out. (WTF, Starbucks?) 

 

I leaned into that Canadians-are-so-nice schtick and hoped he would brush aside thoughts that a stranded foreigner was a cash cow for business.

 

“Have a seat,” he said. “I’ll be able to take a look at your car in about thirty minutes.” Before surrendering my key, I unlocked the car to take out a bag of Trader Joe’s chocolate-peanut butter pretzels which I stress-ate while the TV screen in the reception area blasted news about Formula 1 races. I was totally in foreign territory. I had no wi-fi on my phone so I edited my photos from Arches and Canyonlands National Parks, the whole time chanting in my head, Please don’t take advantage of me. 

 

Right on schedule, I was summoned back to the counter. The man smiled broadly. To my left, a rock. To my right, a hard place. How many days? How many dollars?

 

Apparently, the problems was the skid plate. Oh, yes. That was the Korean/Portuguese term he’d mentioned at the outset. “We just gave it a trim,” he said. “The dealer can get you a new one.”

 

Um, okay…

 

He printed out my invoice. Apparently, I was good to go. The damage to my credit card: $72.

 

I swear, I don’t recall the last time I paid so little for an auto repair. My oil change from days earlier cost two and a half times that amount.

 

Hello, early Thanksgiving. I was not taken advantage of. I did not have to book an extra night in Moab. I did not have to look into propeller airplane flights out of Canyonlands Airport. I was treated with the kind of respect I’m not used to when it comes to car issues. 

 

If you ever need a mechanic in Moah, Utah, give me a shout.

 

 

 

 

TOO MUCH TRAVEL?

I’ve long said that travel is the best antidote to the up-and-down swirls I feel due to mental health challenges. A quick trip to Whistler or Seattle can calm my nerves, lift my mood or just provide a preventive booster to keep me on track. 

 

I’m not sure how I’d feel about travel as part of work, the kind where you check in to one hotel after another and spend 9 to 5 in one office tower after another, then unwind in a bar seven floors down from your room. That seems like travel without the experiences that make being away from home so special. No matter how luxurious they may be, I don’t want to sign up for what are basically hotel room tours. A successful trip involves as little time in the room as possible (and time in an office cubicle doesn’t count at all). 

 

Still, I’ve often thought that, if I could land a kind of job where I’m paid to venture to cities and countries and hop on trains or roam in a rental car from city to beach from art museum to funky café, I’d have found my sweet spot. Bring on the next destination!

 

Lunenburg, Nova Scotia

But here I am, momentarily between trips, three days at home after being away most of the past month and heading out again for two more months. So far I’ve covered Taos, Denver, Halifax, Prince Edward Island and Cape Breton. Upcoming: Portland, Canyonlands National Park, Denver, New York City, Dallas, Aspen and another stint in New Mexico along with a few places that haven’t been slotted in yet. 

 

To be sure, I am lucky. Privileged, in fact. I’ve loved going to each place up till now and I have no doubt I will thoroughly enjoy the places to come but these three days at home aren’t so much about rest but instead are filled with preparation for the next two months: a bike tune-up, an oil change, a laptop repair, a volunteer shift, a mortgage renewal, medication refills, a library stop, an insurance appointment, a meeting with a writing colleague, unpacking and packing, hotel bookings and loads of laundry among other things. No doubt, there is an item or two I’m forgetting. It feels like a lot.

 

I’d be okay with it—I think—if one item weren’t left off the list: writing. I define myself as a writer. Writing essays, outlining a new story and revising a manuscript bring me joy. I don’t have the time or the focus for these tasks right now and they fell off my radar during the most recent week of travel. As I take to the road for another extended period, I don’t see a time in the near future when I can fit in a few decent writing sessions. 

 

That boost I feel from travel is taking a hit from the absence of writing as my passion. I just can’t balance the two at present. It’s put me in an unfamiliar sort of funk that is clouding the glory of travel adventure.

 

Writing just doesn’t fall off my agenda.

 

Even during my first stint in a psych ward, when they took away all my possessions, including my backpack with a writing notebook, I found the fortitude and the supplies—a single sheet of white paper and one of those teensy pencils they give you at miniature golf—to write. I wrote my ideas in the tiniest print possible, filling up every inch on both sides of the paper. In my deepest ever depression, writing was what gave me hope that I could continue to be something once discharged. 

 

It’s scary to not be writing. What if ideas and inspiration don’t come back when I’m ready to slot in more writing time? What if this unprecedented break just keeps going?  

 

I have four days by myself on the road beginning tomorrow. I have a pad of paper, pens and pencils always placed in the driver’s side door pocket. As I navigate some of the less scenic patches of highway, I hope to be that guy talking aloud to himself as speedier drivers pass. Let the ideas flow again. I don’t care whether they’re about a current project or something entirely new. Let me start thinking like a writer again. Let the ideas feel so urgent and compelling that I find myself pulling over at rest stops or even the road shoulder to scribble my thoughts on that pad of paper. I normally enjoy the quiet time but I’m hoping, as this trip begins, there will be a lot of noise inside my head. The good kind. The kind that affirms that, yes, I am still a writer.

 

     

 

  

TRAVEL WITH AN EATING DISORDER

I pack my laptop, my hiking boots and, yes, my eating disorder when I travel. Really, it would be nice if I forgot that last thing but it insists on tagging along everywhere I go. This time, I’m in Canada’s Maritime provinces: Nova Scotia, New Brunswick and Prince Edward Island. 

 

Usually when I’m visiting other places, food is not a highlight. Being a vegetarian, I won’t be sampling the local seafood on this trip. I probably won’t be hitting restaurants at all. The first half of my adventure, I’ll be on my own and, although I prefer solo travel, I’m not a fan of solo dining. I tell myself I don’t mind the spectacle of appearing like some lonely soul. That’s an extrovert’s POV. As an introvert, it’s nice not having to respond to small talk about how big my meal is. A seemingly innocuous comment about portion sizing is dangerous territory for people with eating disorders. An offhand remark about my meal (e.g., “Are you gonna eat all that?”) means I’ll feel obliged to eat even less than I intended. Any joy in eating will be lost. 

 

My hangup over eating alone in a restaurant is that I intone judgment from the server. I’m taking up a two-top so the check will only come to half of what a couple orders—less since I don’t order alcohol, an appetizer or dessert. I’ve eaten enough times on my own in restaurants and the server consistently offers minimal service. Maybe they sense I want to be left alone. The weird thing is that, rather than try to rush me out so a couple will be seated in their section, it’s almost always a chore to flag down the server so I can pay and leave.

 

When I book my hotel, I always ensure there’s a mini fridge. I’m good with picking up yogurt and cold brew coffee at the grocery store. I like eating in the room while surfing on my laptop to get directions to activities I want to do during my stay. I like that eating takes five minutes and then I can move on to more exciting things.

 

My eating disorder is a bigger focus on this particular trip. I’m attending a conference put on by the Eating Disorders Association of Canada (EDAC). For two days, I am sitting in on keynote speeches and breakout sessions from academics talking about what they are learning from professional studies about People Like Me. 

 

My fear is that the presentations and discussions will mostly be about People Like Me Who Are Happen to Be Women. (Yes, so far, that is the case.) Although I’ve read that men make up 25-40% of those with eating disorders, that has not been my experience in hospital or in outpatient treatment. Often, I am the only guy in the room. Where is everyone else?

 

When going to a conference, I seek to be validated and to connect. Regrettably, that doesn’t seem to be happening. Whether I am in the ballroom for keynote speeches or in smaller rooms for breakout sessions, men are an underrepresented minority. To emphasize, the conference is targeted to researchers and service providers, not people with lived experiences in having an eating disorder. Most of the therapists, dietitians, nurses, occupational therapist and other professionals who have worked with me in the past nine years since my official diagnosis for anorexia nervosa have been women and the vast majority of the people in group sessions have been women. I wonder how many men have backed away from support after continually walking into rooms and not seeing themselves represented.

 

I feel it is important for me to be a participant…a face. I want to remind academics and service providers that, yes, there are men with eating disorders and, yes, there is a greater likelihood they are not seeking treatment. This trip has me feeling more agitated about being a guy with an eating disorder. It’s unexpectedly triggered more food restriction and a sense of disillusionment. What’s wrong with me? Indeed, sometimes I wonder if that 25-40% figure about the proportion of people having eating disorders being men is inflated. Sometimes it’s another reason for me to wonder, Why can’t I be more like other guys? If I could, I might deal with feelings of anxiety and alienation by hitting up a convenience store and washing down a family sized bag of Doritos with an extra-large cup of Coke but, no, that’s just not me. Most of the time travelling solo just means I’m on my own but, on this occasion, it does feel lonely. 

SO FAR AWAY

I often say a long-distance relationship suits me. I like my time with my partner, but I also value time on my own. As an introvert, I can never seem to get enough quiet time to myself. 

 

But having returned from Evan’s home in Denver three days ago, I haven’t settled in the way I usually do. I know a big part of it has to do with the fact I’m flying again at the end of the week to Canada’s East Coast for a conference that I’ll stretch into a week of travel. So, yes, the suitcase only gets a brief period in my closet before another round of packing. Vancouver doesn’t feel like home at the moment; instead, it’s a pit stop. 

 

But backing things up a bit, I didn’t want to fly home from Denver in the first place. I’d been there three weeks which is about as long as any of our visits, but there was nothing beckoning back in Vancouver. Even my introverted ways were subdued rather than begging for respite. 

 

I suppose that means our relationship is continuing to grow after four years together, always living in different cities with Evan first in Seattle, then Denver. Each time I visit, Evan says, “I wish you weren’t going. Can’t you change your flight?” This time, instead of saying no, I offered an alternative version of yes. I might drive back in a couple weeks’ time with the intent of staying for two months. 

 

Big step.

 

Of course, there’s the obvious—it would be our longest time together. But a two-month stay also changes the dynamics in terms of what is legally permissible. I am only allowed to visit the U.S. for a day less than half the year and a two-month chunk all at once eats up a lot of visitation time, frontloading the year. I’ve already been in the U.S. for five or six weeks so more than half of my year’s allotment will be eaten up after this extended trip. It means we’ll have to plan more carefully for the second half of the year. It’s like eating too much pie all at once and then having to spread out and savour the last bites, although not to such an extreme.

 

Evan can, of course, visit me in Canada as well, but he’s just started a new job and can’t get away as often or as long. Again, his trips, when even possible, will need to be thoughtfully scheduled over the rest of the year. 

 

It’s not a bad problem to have. Four years in, we want to see more of each other. We want to see how we handle being together for a longer chunk of time. In the meantime, it feels like I’m stationed in Vancouver, feeling like it is but a stopover, trying to make the most of my normally coveted downtime. 

 

My, how a relationship changes everything!