A MOMENT FOR MATTHEW

It would have been easy to drive straight from Moran, Wyoming, a stopping point between Yellowstone and Grand Teton National Parks, to Denver in a day. Evan and I took turns driving so the nine-hour day wouldn’t have been too much of a stretch, especially with extended hours of summer light. But our journey along Beartooth Highway and through Yellowstone had gotten us in the habit of making frequent stops, to snap pics for social media or, more importantly, to actually savour a moment just for the sake of it being one to share. 

 

Let it take two more days to reach Evan’s home. I wanted more leisurely stops in Grand Teton and we both enjoyed taking in the bougie cowboy vibe in Jackson. More importantly, I knew we’d be passing through Laramie, Wyoming and that was a required stop.

 

In truth, I only knew one thing about Laramie. Prior to our road trip, it was one of only four towns in the state I could name. Laramie will forever be familiar to me as the place where Matthew Shepard was attending university and where he was beaten outside of town on October 6, 1998. He died in hospital on October 12. A stop in Laramie was a must. I wanted to go to his memorial even though I didn’t know for certain that one existed or what it looked like. I just expected one.

 

Thankfully, Google and Google Maps filled in the gaps. On a quiet Sunday morning, Evan and I wound up wandering the impressive campus of the University of Wyoming, first trying a divide-and-conquer strategy for reading plaques on park benches and statues. 

 

Not Matthew. Not Matthew. Not Matthew. 

 

I felt silly and awkward. So focused was I on finding Matthew Shepard’s memorial that I didn’t care in the least about these other people who’d had a bench dedicated to them. No wink, no nod, no calculation for how long they’d lived. 

 

Sorry about that.

 

Evan used his Maps app to get us warm and then warmer. The blue dot on his phone screen took us to a treed lawn on the other side of the building we’d parked in front of. We went from “warmer” to spotting the likeliest spot, a park bench adorned with all sorts of items. As we neared, rainbow stripes came into view. 

 

Once in full view before us, Evan and I marvelled at the collection of items left as part of a makeshift tribute. Multiple paper flags representing different versions of Pride. An oil painting of the rural Wyoming landscape. Bundles of flowers, now dying. A rubber duckie (just because?). A “Say Gay” sticker. A pink unicorn. Candles. Miscellaneous items to represent et cetera.

 

Our visit was on June 22, well into Pride Month so I don’t know if all the decorations were part of marking the larger occasion or if the memorial bench is decorated with items year-round. I choose to believe the latter. I’d like to think there are others who make a point of coming here when life takes them somewhere near Laramie.   

 

While we visited Stonewall Inn in May, the Matthew Shepard memorial may have been more moving, more personally relevant. I was four at the time of the Stonewall uprising. I would have been preoccupied with spying on my sister and her friends playing with dolls (all they had to do was ask me to join) and settling for playing with a collection of animal figurines. I did not hear any news about Stonewall until well over a decade later. But I was thirty-four when Shepard was beaten and left to die. I remember the news. I recall the sadness, the anger, the revulsion. I know his death in Wyoming had a chilling effect on me 2,100 kilometres away in Vancouver. Was I being alarmist and melodramatic thinking something heinous in a small town could happen in progressive Vancouver? Not at all. Two years later, Aaron Webster was beaten to death in Vancouver’s Stanley Park. That only added to fears for my safety. Could I be openly gay anywhere?

 

1998 was a vulnerable year for me. I was becoming more and more open about being gay. For the first and ONLY time in my educational career, I was out to staff. It was not on account of bravery on my part. There were three other gay teachers at the school. Being closeted wasn’t even possible. Oh, how the freedom made for so many laughs during lunch in the staffroom! When I transferred to another school after six years, I went back to being closeted. I told myself I wasn’t hiding anything; rather, I was tired of coming out declarations. I can see now that was bullshit.

 

I can’t adequately explain the fear. It’s an accumulation of life’s experiences: of elementary and high school taunts about being a fag; of my best friend outing me in twelfth grade when I still hadn’t come to terms with sexual identity myself; of fears I’d lose my job teaching in Catholic schools if parents or the nuns found out; of more taunts from carloads of dudes cruising down gay villages because The Gays needed to feel insecure even in their own ghettos; of a total lack of bravado. What happened to Matthew Shepard stoked the fears already within me. 

 

Being gay was unsafe, be it in the form of a certain voice inflection, a limp wrist (both of which were natural mannerisms for me) or when expressed through holding the hand of a boyfriend. Aside from a six-year career blip, being fully out has only been a relatively recent thing. I knew not to dare express myself freely. Twenty-seven years after Matthew Shepard was murdered, I’m letting down my guard, most of that thanks to Evan who has long refused to suppress or edit himself. 

 

I am thankful my visit to the Matthew Shepard memorial was with Evan by my side. We held hands. We hugged. I liked that. I think Matthew would have, too. He’d brought us to the University of Wyoming in a state that, due to lack of familiarity, probably has a lower tolerance for queer identities than the national average. But I’d like to think that, over time, Matthew has come to empower and embolden us. 

 

Like Stonewall. We will not be silenced. To remain more fearful would only be a nod to the people who killed Matthew, instead of a tribute to him.

 

 

 

  

AD APPEAL

I’m not a TV watcher. Not having a television will do that. The old habit is gone. When I check in to a hotel, it doesn’t even occur to me to turn on the flatscreen. Thus, I’m not up to date on all the latest TV commercials. Does that insurance company still use the gecko mascot? What’s the latest McDonald’s jingle? What is the most commonly advertised prescription drug in the U.S. and which side effects sound the worst? 

 

These are not burning questions.

 

Nowadays, my ads are limited to the annoying interruptions on YouTube. I abhor the bank ads. I quickly close the informercial that villainizes bananas. And I will never ever have anything to do with Grammarly due to their overly long ads. (What could they possibly teach me about editing?)  

 

It would be odd to say I miss commercials. Still, I can look back and recall some memorable ones. As a kid, I liked the seasonal Coke commercials that included the song “I’d Like to Teach the World to Sing.” The animated Tang commercials with Martians spark nostalgia. As well, the Wendy’s “Where’s the Beef” commercials with Clara Peller were amusing.  

 

Some commercials caught my eye because of the guy featured in them. A dozen years ago, I blogged about how I crushed on David Naughton when he was the dancing-singing spokesperson in Dr. Pepper’s “Be a Pepper” ads. More than that, I ogled Lucky Vanous in the Diet Coke commercials at least as much as the women who objectified him. 

 

In the late ’80s/early ’90s, another series of commercials proved ogle-worthy due to the models in them. The ads for C & R Clothiers, primarily a men’s suit chain, were must-see worthy. Typically, they featured impossibly hot men, the kind with chiseled faces and bodies that were GQ cover-worthy (before the magazine went with celebrities). As the song “What a Difference a Day Makes” played, a model would be featured first in a work uniform or casual attire looking sumptuous enough. Then, he’d don a suit, supposedly looking hotter as a well-dressed man. 

 

The ads may have been thirst traps but they didn’t seem to help C & R’s business which went into bankruptcy, then folded as some stores were taken over by Men’s Wearhouse. How could the ads have not led men to go into a suit-buying frenzy? How could C & R have not overtaken Brooks Brothers? 

 

I would posit that C & R had the wrong target audience. Sure, gay men like me took notice when the commercial aired but the ad would have otherwise appealed to women. A hot man like Lucky Vanous might boost diet soda sales as women are more prone (and pressured) to try diet products, but the homoerotic suit dudes may have, in fact, turned men away from C & R. I suspect that another problem was that the models looked equally hot in the “before” (non-suited) image. Hot “before,” then hot “after” shots just meant the featured dude was a hot guy. A guy watching at home in an undershirt, boxers and flip flops would have enough sense to know that wearing a suit would have inherent limitations in improving his appearance. While ZZ Top might be right that “every girl’s crazy ’bout a sharp dressed man,” a C & R suit would have no greater impact than a suit from any other men’s store.

 

Alas, the ads are long gone, along with the company. How nice that I can still find them on YouTube… after I close that dang Grammarly ad.

 

 

 

 

THE TENNIS CLOSET

Nothing against Joâo Lucas Reis da Silva but he’s not exactly a household name. As Wimbledon gets underway this week, he is the only active male tennis player to ever come out as gay. Six months ago, Reis da Silva made headlines, The New York Times asserting he was “the first out gay active professional male tennis player.” He’s not in the Wimbledon draw. He did not even compete in the qualification rounds. 

João Lucas Reis da Silva

Based on a quick Google, the twenty-five-year-old has never competed in a Grand Slam (Australian Open, French Open, Wimbledon, U.S. Open) beyond the level for juniors. This week he is tied with his highest ever ranking at Number 250 in the world. Not bad. He’s currently the sixth highest ranked Brazilian player in singles. Still, I wonder where all the professional gay players are in the upper echelon of tennis. Why are they closeted?

 

I don’t watch tennis the way I used to, now that I can quickly check scores on the internet and especially since I no longer own a TV after my flatscreen smashed three years ago. I still glance at scores on a daily basis and follow Canadian players in particular, many of whom are ranked lower than Reis da Silva. I haven’t played in five years after hitting the court with an ex and finding the strain too much on my back and entire lower body. (Very humbling.) Nonetheless, I am familiar enough with tennis to think it is not the sort of sport where a he-man, ultra-masculine straight image is required to withstand locker room harassment and taunts from numbskulls in the stands. I don’t even see coming out as hurting sponsorship deals. Can’t Nike or Wilson tolerate having a gay player wear their brand? I would posit to say there are plenty of gays who enjoy casual play on local tennis courts.

 

So where are all the gay professional tennis players?

 

Daria Kasatkina

Many women have come out as lesbian or bisexual, including Billie Jean King, Martina Navratilova, Amelie Mauresmo and active player Daria Kasatkina (currently Number 18 and previously 8^th in the world). While it’s easier to be a queer woman in sports, I find it hard to believe the taboo is too great in men’s tennis in 2025. 

 

Rafael Nadal

When I was a more avid tennis fan in the 1980s, I often admired the legs of male players but the sport never struck me as requiring loads of muscle. Jimmy Connors and John McEnroe almost seemed scrawny and Petr Korda was wiry at best. Even Ivan Lendl, while fit, did not seem brawny. While Rafael Nadal more recently liked to show off his guns wearing sleeveless shirts, he is known for his biceps, in part, because his body seemed to be the exception. I say all this only to make the point that men’s professional tennis needn’t be caught up in some hetero conception of uber-masculinity. 

 

Bill Tilden

A century ago, Bill Tilden was the number one tennis player, winning three Wimbledon and seven U.S. Open titles. It wasn’t his reputed gayness that was problematic so much as his having sex with minors, for which he was twice arrested and incarcerated after his professional career was over. Despite off-the-court behavior, Tilden is regarded as one of the greatest tennis players of all time. And still, a hundred years after his heyday, Reis da Silva is the only out male player. 

 

I really don’t get it.

 

Stefan Edberg

To be sure, there have been many players I have crushed on but, alas, Stefan Edberg never registered on my gaydar. Same for his compatriot, Anders Järryd. (I’m partial to Swedes.) Fabio Fognini and Grigor Dimitrov are also easy on the eyes. Again, no gaydar signals. I no longer need a gay crush; It would just be nice to know that a few gay men are succeeding on the tennis court and don’t feel their gayness is cause for shunning or shushing. Let them have their boyfriend or husband cheer on-camera in the stands, not as a “hitting partner” or “trainer” but as their current significant other. Let single elite gay tennis pros be able to have a normal life in public. Let them, however quietly, serve as role models and/or at least tennis players who can be as open on social media and in life as their straight competitors.

 

Will somebody else open the closet (or locker) door?

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

A SPECIAL CANADIAN PRIDE

Justin Trudeau, Mark Carney
and that other guy

When Justin Trudeau stepped down as prime minister of Canada, there were concerns. Actually, my concerns began last summer, Trudeau’s popularity fading fast, which tends to happen when a particular party is in power for what some feel is too long. There are always pendulum shifts. 

 

The leader for the Official Opposition, Conservative Pierre Poilievre, smelled opportunity. He’d already been campaigning hard for over a year and kept going on about how Liberal Trudeau should dissolve parliament and call an election. Had Trudeau done so in late summer or sometime during the fall, I’m certain Poilievre would have won. 

 

Poilievre’s campaign consisted of nasty soundbites, lots of criticism, little in terms of his own proposals. Like all Canadians, he was aware of American politics and saw how being Mr. Nasty worked so well for Trump. I was shocked it was working so well in Canada, too.

 

This is not the Canadian way, I kept telling myself. I still believe Poilievre didn’t need to go low as he smelled blood and could almost taste power as prime minister. Trudeau had done what he could as leader and Canadians were tired of him. A rational, positive campaign by the Conservatives would have been just as potent, even if it generated fewer headlines. But Poilievre chose his path. 

 

Everything went wonky once Donald Trump returned to the Oval Office. Right away, he announced tariffs, specifically targeting China, Mexico and Canada.

 

What? Canada?! It felt like an affront to begin his new term by lumping Canada with China, a traditional “enemy” and Mexico, the country from which the bulk of illegal immigrants were entering the U.S. 

 

It’s no secret that Trudeau and Trump have never seen eye-to-eye. With Trudeau still not relinquishing power, Trump’s attack was supposed to bring Trudeau to his knees. But, no. Suddenly, Canadians clearly had someone to hate more than Trudeau.

 

Making matters worse, Trump talked of Canada becoming the 51^st state, an appallingly aggressive and/or belittling way of relating to the country that has traditionally been the United States’ greatest ally. Canadians boycotted travel to the U.S. and American products. While Trump continued to talk tariffs and refer to Canada as the 51^st state, all-things-Trump were reviled by Canadians. 

 

That included Pierre Poilievre’s campaign style, a carbon copy of Trump’s. Suddenly, the shoo-in next Canadian prime minister saw his popularity plummeting. When Trudeau stepped down as prime minister, all the hate for Trudeau had no place to go. Mark Carney became the interim PM with an election pending. Carney was respected, knowledgeable and, if a tad overly confident/arrogant, he was immensely more likable than Poilievre who had never campaigned on likability. 

 

Poilievre was caught off-guard by Trump’s antagonism and the ensuing backlash. Suddenly, his whiny, pit bull persona proved unpopular. The Conservatives never recovered. In fact, so sure they were of ascending to power—all those months of Poilievre calling for an election—they didn’t even release a party platform until the last days of the campaign, after so many Canadians has shown up for advance voting. 

 

In what no one would have predicted in the last half of 2024, the Liberals held onto power and Carney had his position as prime minister affirmed.

 

As a queer person, I am relieved. While some provinces have jumped on anti-gay and anti-trans initiatives that copy Republican-led American states, things remain protected at the federal level. A week ago CBC News ran a story with the headline, “Carney laments Pride ‘backlash’ and rolls out money to make 2SLGBTQ+ parades safer.”

 

Carney is quoted in the article as saying:

One of the strengths of Canada is recognizing that 

people can be who they want to be and love who they 

want to love. The federal government—we are the 

defenders of those rights.

 

Unfortunately, around the world, there’s a backlash

struggling against the progress that has been made. In

this time, Canada will always stand up for the 

vulnerable and the equal rights we cherish. We can 

take pride in how far we’ve come but we should also 

recognize there’s far more to do.

 

Trump’s aggressive, antagonistic tactics toward Canada have allowed the Liberals to hold onto power and keep LGBTQ protections in place, helping extend rights and normalize them with the Canadian public. During Pride month, I’m particularly proud of Carney’s leadership in affirming our equal rights.

  

 

 

GRINDR KILLED THE GAY BAR

In the book Gay Bar: Why We Went Out (Back Bay Books, 2021), author Jeremy Atherton Lin says, “Perhaps the bars were only ever meant to be a transitional phase.”

 

Certainly, that seems to be how it has turned out. The same seems to be the case with gay neighborhoods. Vancouver’s Davie Street and the slightly broader West End aren’t nearly as obviously gay as they were when I moved to the area three decades ago. 

 

Part of the evolution has been on account of queer people feeling more accepted in greater society—although current anti-trans actions are huge setbacks. As the “community” has dispersed, gay bars have a significantly smaller walk-in clientele. Uber provides another responsible option for a night out but it comes at a cost as well. With gayborhoods less apparent, gay bars were bound to take a hit in terms of business. Grinder, however, has gay bars on life support. 

 

Yes, as Lin suggests, we’ve been transitioning away from the bars.

 

For me, I have not been a regular gay bar patron since about 1998. I got in a relationship and both of us considered it a relief to no longer have to go to the bars, getting looked at or, more commonly, being ignored. I saw no reason to be in a cruisy bar when I had a partner. We got dogs and a house (beyond the gayborhood). The focus changed. Domesticity felt so much better than that depressing walk home from a gay bar far too many nights.

 

When I was single again in 2004, I didn’t run back to the bars. Instead, I ran farther. I bought a home for myself and the dogs on B.C.’s Sunshine Coast, a ferry ride away from Vancouver. Any gay connections all but ended. Gaydar did not extend that far.

 

I first saw for myself the decline in gay bars during the summer of 2014 when I spent a month at an Airbnb in West Hollywood. I went out one night with my former Santa Monica roommate and his husband, first grabbing a drink at The Palm in Beverly Hills, then heading to a gay bar, The Abbey, in WeHo. 

 

As I sipped my Tom Collins—too much ice, as always—I looked around to see if anyone was looking my way. It was a clearer than ever no. Having been out of the scene for so long, the difference in gay bar culture in sixteen years was striking. The fact no one was checking me out was same old, same old. But no one was checking out anyone. The people who weren’t talking to friends had their heads down, all of them looking at the palm of their hand—or, more specifically, the phone in the palm of their hand. Even my monogamous(?) married couple friends would look down at their phones. 

 

“What is going on?” I asked as the naïve, out-of-touch person I was. 

 

But my friends were preoccupied. Someone was 250 feet away. Someone else, 300.

 

When they finally explained that they were identifying people as gay with the Grindr app, I thought I was stating the obvious: “But it’s a gay bar.” Why should anyone need a phone to do the communicating? We were all right there. (Some of us without the dang app.) 

 

In time, the reverse of what I thought would happen occurred. People didn’t quit Grindr when they were in gay bars; rather, they quit gay bars. Who needed them when you could Grind at home… or in a restaurant… or wherever the hell you were at any given moment. No more faulty gaydar. The gays in your area—the ones who had the sense to download Grindr—could be tracked based on distance and private photos. Hot… hotter… HOTTER! 

 

It all left me cold.

 

When Jeremy Atherton Lin wrote, “Perhaps the bars were only ever meant to be a transitional phase,” I’d hoped the next phase might be something else. We’d come out of dark spaces with booze spilled on the floors. We could socialize in the open. Queer Meetups, maybe. Connecting based on common (non-sexual) interests. Zoom chat rooms perhaps—a singles social. Better yet, speed dating at the library. Maybe with the decline of bars, alcohol would be less of a problem in the community and we’d meet like other people do at park potlucks, softball games, arts performances. We’d remember each other’s names. We’d have conversations. We’d connect… or realize we didn’t. Real experiences IRL.

 

Alas, no. Like the gay bar, I too have been phased out. Person-to-person meet-and-greets? WHAT?! Too old-fashioned. 

 

Everything now fits in the palm of one’s hand. Our phones own us. Is this progress?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

FLAG FLAPS

It’s June again. Pride month. Thirty days to celebrate but also to irk certain people. I’m not talking about the obvious homophobes. I think they’re irked year-round. A decade after the right for queers to marry was affirmed by the U.S. Supreme Court, there are plenty who grumble amongst their group while sampling cheddar at Cracker Barrel, eating sandwiches at Chick-fil-A or letting their eyes wander at Hooters. Instead, I’m thinking about people in our own ”community” who can’t process—or even actively reject—all the progress in terms of queer culture this century.

 

I’d like to think they’re not selectively homophobic; rather, they’re stuck. They like and accept what they were familiar with during their twenties and thirties. More recent changes in queer culture are too wonky for them. They don’t understand how evolution continues without them on board. This is old-person thinking. Sometimes it can feel challenging to keep up with the times. 

 

I recently finished reading Jeremy Atherton Lin’s GAY BAR: WHY WE WENT OUT (Back Bay Books, 2021). It was a slow read. There were several thought-provoking comments which I flagged with Post-its near the beginning and the end, but it would have read better and had greater potency as an essay instead of a book. Still, I plan to write about a few of the Post-it posits in a few blog posts over the summer. The comment I thought about as Pride month begins is as follows:

The closing gay bars had me thinking about the finitude of gay… By 2018, an opinion piece in the Israeli newspaper Haaretz declared, “Being Gay Is Passé.” A few years prior, one poll showed half of young people in Britain were identifying as not completely hetero, with most of those placing themselves in a nonbinary area on a scale of sexuality. So, not completely gay. I came across a statement online by a woke young person expressing his consternation that cis gay males remained the most culturally validated type of queer. 

 

This, to me, feels like the latest incarnation of a tale as old as time. There will always be a generational divide—a gap, if you prefer—where younger people bemoan dominate culture, i.e., that established and/or embraced by an older generation. Why should it be any different among queers, especially when identity is what defines the group in the first place? Younger people are fighting for their place, trying to dissociate with older folks, agitating for changes to ways of being they perceive as stuffy, stifling and just outdated. There will always be a push and, in turn, the older set will often push back, sometimes mocking or dismissing change initiatives as pious, naïve or, to use an aging term, tomfoolery. 

 

I can readily embrace the term nonbinary in terms of my own gender identity. Still, I rarely use it and I won’t wave a nonbinary flag at any Pride events this year or, likely, any year. (The flag, FYI, is comprised of four coloured stripes: yellow, white, purple and black. Yes, I had to Google.) I’m good with the flag. Let whoever wishes wave it, fly it from a pole, tack it to a wall so as to conveniently cover a persistent, undefined smudge. Let it be present in Pride parades along with a range of other flags associated with specific queer identities—aromantic, pansexual, transgender and many others. 

 

All these flags get a lot of my queer contemporaries in a tizzy. I’ve sat through many a brunch listening to them grouse about the proliferation of flags, most consisting of different stripes for different types. The argument I hear the most is, “Why do we need more on the flag? Why do we need new flags? The rainbow includes EVERYTHING.” For these gay men, it’s a one-flag-fits-all stance. They truly believe it to be the case.

 

However, I think it’s important to consider when the flag came about and what identities were commonly recognized at the time.

 

My own perception of the dominant queer community when I was coming out in the mid to late ’80s was that the two main categories of queer were gay and lesbian, defined by one’s birth gender. Bisexuals were doubted with derisive comments about “wanting it both ways” and having “one foot in the closet.” Transgender existed but the numbers seemed too small to have much of a voice at the table. Then, as now, some gay men saw trans issues as a distraction or even a liability to making inroads regarding gay and lesbian acceptance. To deny this would be to whitewash queer history, painting a false image of a community united—happy happy, forever and always. 

 

The rainbow flag came into popularity in the late ’70s. The familiar flag, created in 1979 with six coloured stripes—red, orange, yellow, green, indigo and violet—is not, however, the original incarnation.  In 1977, activist Gilbert Baker had created a flag with eight coloured stripes, hot pink on top and turquoise wedged between green and indigo. I point this out to emphasize that the six-striped flag so many traditional queer people accept was itself a modification. Yes, folks, that flag is not the original just as the Starbucks people line up at across from Pike Place Market in Seattle is not the original café. (It was in a building that was demolished. As well, a few other locations opened and closed before the 1976 location was established.) The rainbow flag was subject to change from the outset. Love the flag. See yourself in it if you will but recognize its an adaptation from the original.

 

At the time both these rainbow flags were created, they represented identities encompassed, at best, by the LGBT acronym. No extra letters or numbers. 

 

Since then, queer identity has not been static. Neither has broader society. At some point a flag may become universally accepted, but there has been rapid change in defining queer identity in the decades since. Flags change over time. The American flag is not what it was in 1776. The current Canadian flag only dates back to 1965. Moreover, more than one flag may connect with a person. (In terms of where I live, I recognize both the Canadian flag and British Columbia’s provincial flag.) 

 

A rainbow flag may be perfectly fine for gays and lesbians but it is entirely possible—probable, even—that some queer people only see the L and G in it. The don’t want to be included as part of “et cetera.”

 

If the six-coloured rainbow flag doesn’t connect with you, embrace another… if flags have any importance to you at all. 

 

Fly your own flag, I say. Fly it with your own sense of pride. And, when my contemporaries insist on one flag and only one, keep calm. Some fuddy-duddies just like things simple…the way they were in one particularly heyday.

 

  

GNARLY NAILS

Oh, such beautiful toenails.
Not a fetishist; just envious.
(But don't those clippers look like 
they're for pruning roses...or
cutting through wire fences?)

In general, my body is holding up well for sixty. No arthritic joints. No unusual aches and pains from my runs and bike rides. (There will always be normal aches, won’t there?) I have dark rings under my eyes which have been there since I was twenty. Not an age issue; just a bad sleeper. Even my hair has (mostly) hung around with grayness confined to the neckline and sideburns. I’m a lucky man.

 

But then I look down at my feet. Egad! Put some socks on.

 

Why did the generations before me only speak of sore joints, receding hairlines and expanding waistlines? (Do senior men drink more beer, move about less or is there a natural aging process that makes six-packs pack up as a rising midriff plateau moves in?) These are legit topics that bring humility to aging, but I could have used some forewarning about toenails. Mine have gone from toppings on “little piggies” to ghastly beasts in and of themselves.

 

Good grief! Is this
my new beach look?

Will I ever wear sandals again?

 

As I began to type in my Safari search window, it quickly autofilled: “toenails old people.” A-ha! So it’s not just me (and my Dad). It’s a thing. Those dang toenails change. Yes, I’m putting this topic front and center. We need to talk toenails.

 

I skipped over the AI response. As a writer, I have a hate-hate relationship with AI. No thanks.

 

Instead, I clicked on a report from the U.S. National Institutes of Health. Much better than scary YouTube videos which I’m sure are out there. Nope. I shall not watch zombie movies, slasher flicks, anything with Tom Cruise or clips about toenail fungus. Like I said, I’m already a bad sleeper.

 

Here’s a little reading material from the NIH:

 

Older people are at an increased risk of nail alterations, including normal age-related changes and disorders that more commonly affect this specific population. Secondary factors are important contributors to pathologic nail changes, including impaired circulation at the distal extremities, faulty biomechanics, infections, neoplasms, and skin or systemic diseases with nail manifestations. These factors can affect primarily the nail plate or involve other components of the nail unit such as the matrix, nail bed, hyponychium, or nail folds with secondary abnormalities in the nail plate. These nail changes can either cause serious symptoms, impairing the daily activities of this older population whose activities might already be restricted, or be asymptomatic but associated with substantial cosmetic problems, leading to negative psychological effects. 

 

Okay, enough of that. Gross. And tragic.

 

By far, not the worst
Google Image pic.

Next, I did a Google Image search: older toenails.

 

I lasted seven seconds. Some version of my big toenails was there. Thicker, hardened nails. Chipped. Slightly gray and/or yellow. 

 

I took solace in seeing much worse. Much, much worse. 

 

If a zombie ever comes for me, I shall take off my shoes and socks, stand on one foot and flash him my particularly creepy big toenail on my left foot. Back, zombie! If my toenails are this bad, imagine how unappetizing my brains and flesh are. Go track down a thirty-year-old with regular toenails. Yummy.

 

The NIH report was written with family doctors in mind. It anticipates that patients will seek medical advice from their doctor. It stresses the importance of early intervention, possibly involving referrals for specialized care. Is this within a podiatrist’s domain? Yeesh. I thought urologists had it bad. 

 

I have not mentioned my toenails—or exposed them—to my family doctor. He’s retiring. I don’t want the poor guy to end his career with frightful images of my toenails. The new guy doesn’t know what he’s in for. I will NOT make a good first impression.

 

Something I didn’t know about aging toenails is they seem to grow slower, too. I suppose that’s handy once your ninety and bending over to clip them feels as strenuous as running a marathon but, for cosmetic reasons, I’d like my nails to speed up their growth.

 

Not my actual foot. But the
purple part bears a resemblance.

As a regular hiker, especially in summer and fall, I hit the trails often. In hitting these trails, I repeatedly hit exposed tree roots and small rocks with the toe of my hiking boots. This happens more often in the final hour or two of my longer hikes. Presumably my feet are as tired as my legs. I must not pick them up as much. Bash. Bash. Bash! My toes, especially the two longer ones on both feet, take the brunt of it. Purple crescents emerge at the base of the nail on both my big toes, presumably something to do with bleeding or bruising. (I’m not Googling that. Anything blood-related makes me prone to fainting.) 

 

Gradually the purple part of the nail grows out. When I say “gradually,” I mean slooooooooowly. In the past few years, I finally get to clip off the purple bits in June, just as I’m hiking again, working on a new purple formation at the base of the nail. With June nearing, the purple splotch has only moved halfway to the nail’s edge. This is proof my nails are growing even slower than last year. As long as I hike, I shall have some part of my already gnarly big toenails that is purple. It’s a little off-putting but the least, I suppose, of my toenail angst.

 

Perhaps the only useful part of this week's 
blog post: long-handle toenail clippers. 
(I fear I would sustain significant injuries.)

I’m glad I never was a foot fetishist nor have I ever dated one. My toes shall not be sucked. Not back when I was twenty and most definitely not now. How does such a person handle this phase of life? Maybe there’s a support group. I’m not Googling. I’ve Googled enough.

 

In fact, I’ve written enough. If you have aging toenails that are a tad wonky, I commiserate with you. If you’re older and have perfectly okay toenails, I’m totally jealous. I may send the zombie your way. If you’re younger, consider yourself warned. Love your toenails as you clip them at regular intervals. You are blessed.