MIND THE GAP

Riding The Tube in London, I love the familiar recording, advising riders to “mind the gap” between the platform and the train. It’s as if the automated voice knows how much of a klutz I am, never mind that the message is repeated even when I’m back home on another continent. A gap can cause a stumble.

And so it goes with dating. This “mind the gap” message plays in my head whenever I have a decent first coffee with a guy and my travel or his travel creates a delay in a follow-up dinner—a real full-fledged date. It’s just as stumble-prone.

I recently had a wonderful introductory coffee with Chris, a soft-spoken, family-oriented gentleman. He showed up in a tank top—hey, it was a warm evening—and it took sustained effort on my part to maintain eye contact. His biceps could have been separately named entities: Hulk and Bulk. I managed. Barely.

I’d like to think that if he’d shown up in an extremely loose fitting turtleneck, I’d have left with the same sense—Let’s get together again. Let’s see where this goes. Yes, a fine man who just happened to have great arms. 

He liked me, too. I could hear it in the nervousness of his voice. I could see it as he was fully invested in the conversation. I could feel it as he apologized for unknowingly choosing a café far closer to his place than mine. Chris, at last, represented promise.

I’m so reserved that I had to push myself to hug him on the sidewalk as we parted. No hand wave or handshake this time. I made it clear that I’d love to see him again and he echoed the sentiment. But then I was leaving the next day for a getaway on Vancouver Island. Dinner would have to wait.

The dreaded gap.

The next day, we exchanged messages, each of us reaffirming how nice the coffee chat had been and expressing an interest in getting together again. I’d email him once I returned from Victoria and then we’d figure out what came next.

Email sent.

Silence.

Chris, like so many men, vanished. Fell through the gap. Ouch.

Of course, I’m the one who felt like he’d fallen. I brushed off the superficial wounds—okay, maybe there was some internal bleeding, too—and did what I tend to do as part of my recovery: I messaged someone new online.

Travis and I met for a drink at a trendy bar in my neighborhood that I’d been wanting to try for a couple of years. It’s always coffee on the first meeting, but I felt I needed to shake up the routine. We each ordered a fancy cocktail, a “cardigan daiquiri” for me, a “cucumber twist” for him. Tasty!

Travis is 40 while I’m 53 so I’d prepared myself for the fact this would be a go-nowhere meet-and-greet. Still wounded from Chris, I made sure my expectations barely registered. And yet Travis and I really seemed to connect. Smiles, laughter, common interests. He commented a few times on my apparent fitness and at one point I totally let my guard down and said, “I’m sorry,…I find you so attractive I’m getting a little distracted.” Truth. I figured he’d either flee instantly or he’d be flattered and not have to second-guess what I thought.

He stayed. A lot longer. When we left the bar, I walked him to his car and the sustained hug he gave me was one of the best I’ve ever had. Text message exchanges that night made it clear that both of us wanted to see each other again. 

Alas, though, another gap. Travis left the next day for Bermuda where he grew up and where much of his business is based. It’s a week. But then I’m away for almost a week thereafter. It’s likely that the gap will be more than two weeks. Despite how great I felt after our bar date, I’m all too aware that a couple of pricey cocktails and one (really, really nice) goodnight hug might be all we ever share.

Damn gap. Sorry, I can’t sound as polite as that lovely London Tube recording. If only the gap could be as inconsequential as the one in transit. For once, let this time be stumble-free!

THE DEVOLUTION OF THE TELEPHONE

I have love-hate relationships with my phone and social media. I’m a Luddite at heart who begrudgingly attempts to keep up with the times, albeit forty paces back.

To be sure, I don’t miss the old landline phone. Gave that up back in 2005. Nice not to have to untangle myself from that coiled cord anymore. But I could have stuck with my old cell phone. No camera for all those selfies people post online. Hangover selfie. Underwear selfie. No underwear selfie. It’s become an exhibitionist’s world.

The thing I liked best about my first cell phones is that they made texting inconvenient. I don’t fully recall the process, but the numbers each represented three or four letters. Press 7 three times to get a “P”, 2 once for “A”, 4 thrice for “I”, 6 twice for “N”, 3 thrice for “F”, 8 twice for “U”, 5 thrice for “L”. Yep, PAINFUL. It was the perfect excuse to actually call people and have a live, spontaneous conversation with normal pauses and real laughs instead of LOLs.

The phone as just a phone. Damn, I miss that. Nowadays, when my phone buzzes, it’s a telemarketer. Or someone calling for Irene, the person who apparently had this number before me. Or my mother. Whichever scenario, I let it go to voicemail. We don’t use phones to talk anymore.

I don’t like it. I still think a quick phone conversation is more efficient than an entire string of drawn out texts when planning when and where to meet for dinner, but I’ve accepted the fact that phones are for texting, Googling and posting all those redundant selfies on Instagram and Twitter.

Sigh.

Occasionally, I FaceTime with a friend. Back when I was seeing a guy in Portland, we FaceTimed nightly. I’m still uncomfortable with my little image in a corner of the screen, but it’s nice to see a real person as we talk, even through all the shaky Blair Witch moments as he moves incessantly in the kitchen, mushroom-spinach frittata in progress. I’ve Skyped a few times too, but I’ve conveniently forgotten how. Yep, more Luddite than your grandma.

I miss the ol’ days when I’d call friends long distance, often waiting until after 5 p.m. or for the weekend to get a cheaper rate. I know, it’s all free with FaceTime, but those monthly phone bills made a statement. I had a souvenir to prove I chatted with my friend in Boston or Boise.

Ah, memories.

Oh, Boise. Richard’s home. We met in 1991, back when we both lived in Los Angeles. One of my closest friends. We’d hit the gay bars to dance and be thoroughly ignored by the other patrons. We’d regularly go out for dinner or catch a movie. While I studied for the bar exam, the jewelry story where he worked was only a block away. I needed lots of breaks and popped in often.

Everyone has a friend like Richard. Dependable. Loyal. Someone you take for granted, someone you should expressly appreciate more. Sometimes you take advantage of all that loyalty.

I moved first, in 1994. I was burned out from some of the harsher elements of L.A. I was tired of being ignored in the gay bars. I wanted out of my nascent law career. Fleeing seemed like the easiest way to start over.

Richard and I kept in touch. Monthly phone calls and a couple of nights at his place in Venice whenever I’d go back for a visit. But then Richard moved to Boise, of all places. His family moved there first and he followed. Boise of all places! Middle of nowhere! On my one visit, I freaked out over the gun stores. The strong presence of Mormons made me feel uncomfortable even when I felt no overt hostility. I suppose it was more me than them.

Eventually the phone calls became less frequent. And then Facebook took over.

Never the selfie sort, Richard’s profile pic was a rotating selection of stylized Rs, presumably since his initials were RR. While updated photos of him were hard to come by, those Rs may have made a greater impact. I’d be out walking, see an R on a sign or a baseball cap and snap a pic—with my handy phone. Sometimes I’d send them, sometimes I’d forget. Sometimes he’d use them, sometimes he wouldn’t. Still, any capital R would remind me of Richard. Trust me, there are a lot of capital Rs out there!

Our main direct communication became the Like button on Facebook. So easy to click, so meaningless compared to our phone calls of yesteryear. We’d exchange birthday wishes—thanks to an assist from Facebook notifications—and every so often I’d add a comment to one of his posts or send a “just checking in” private message. Brief exchanges.

A couple of months ago, Richard posted a distressing message on Facebook: “Cancer’s back, had a heart attack, lost my job.” A kitchen sink of horrors. A decade ago, I’d have picked up the phone and we’d have had a chat to make sense of each part of that triple whammy. Instead, I hesitated. I questioned the post. He’d had brain cancer a year ago and posted a few things with regard to that. I’d messaged, but he seemed tight-lipped about it. One of those Facebook mysteries. Share to the whole group, but don’t get specific. I figured he was busy recovering or trying to not dwell on the bad. I respected his privacy, even if it came after a public post. The trifecta of tragedy seemed too much. I’m embarrassed to admit that, without any elaboration, I questioned the veracity and the motive. That’s what happens when communication gets whittled down to next to nothing.

After a few hours, I kicked myself for doubting things and sent a heartfelt message, wishing him well and some good luck. He responded simply with the Facebook “Love” heart. Message received but presumably too much on his plate to say anything more.

And then nothing. Six weeks went by without another post. I’d wonder and worry, but always at a time when it wasn’t conducive to reaching out—on a bike ride, in the middle of the night, in a support group. At last, I finally held onto the notion long enough to actually message him when I got home. “Hey, Richard. I haven’t seen anything from you on Facebook. Getting a little worried. How are you?”

A week passed. No Like, no heart, just more nothing.

And then I Googled his name and Boise. The first thing to pop up was another damn social media creation, a closed Go Fund Me account created by his brother-in-law. The family had sought money to cover the costs for Richard’s cremation.

Absolute shock. A death learned by Google. The devastation was instant, but my fingers would not leave my laptop. I needed to know more. There was no obituary. Instead, I went back to his Facebook page and clicked on his niece’s account. The immediate posts were about a concert she’d attended. I scrolled back. And back.

Pictures from a Celebration of Life on June 8^th. Shit. If I’d have known, I’d have driving to Boise. No question about it. I’m not working; it would have been easy. It would have been what my heart needed and wanted. But I didn’t know.

I scrolled back further. Back and back. My god, when did he die? Turns out he went into a coma three days after he sent the Facebook Love heart in response to my first thinking-of-you message. Two days later, he died. Fifty-eight years old.

It’s been a week and a half now. I’ve gone through denial, anger and depression. Acceptance is creeping in. What else am I to do? It’s been a lonely process. He’s from my L.A. days. Without a service, I have no one to commiserate with apart from another Facebook contact. We exchanged messages after I learned the news. It was news to her as well.

A great deal of time has been spent projecting my anger at this new texting/Facebooking world. We’ve become less personal, even with our best and longest friends. Or, at least, I have. I resisted texting and then finally caved to it. I acquiesced to phones not being for phone calls. I let the quality of a dear friendship slip away and succumb to today’s social conventions.

So now I’m using another device, the blog, to continue my well-meaning advice that may come off as a rant. Think about those close friends of yours who live afar, the ones with whom it seems like only a day has passed whenever you finally get together in person. They’re the ones you take comfort in knowing that the silences between visits diminish nothing. But, please, don’t take a Next Visit for granted. Book it. Or, at the very least, pick up that phone, not to text or Like some post of your friend’s dinner last night. Call him or her. Have a real conversation. And feel fortunate that you still can.

Thank you for reading this and, if you do reach out to a friend, it would warm me to know you did. Maybe that will be part of Richard’s legacy.

THE SHAKY FOUNDATION

I’ve gone on so many coffee dates. 

You’d think by now I’d switch to tea. Or vodka. 

But I still like my coffee. The dates? Not so much.

Many guys don’t call them dates. In the past, I’ve referred to them as “go-sees”, like the models who make the rounds on “America’s Next Top Model”. Show up, even though most of them aren’t going anywhere. It’s what you gotta do.

So, yeah, another coffee interaction a few days ago. For some reason, I woke up feeling exhausted and especially anxious. Part of it, no doubt, had to do with the fact my mouth throbbed for hours in the night. My dentist did some work recently and noted that I might have nerve damage that might require a root canal. I don’t like the sound of that. Particularly because, when he did the most recent dental procedure, the freezing didn’t work. Well, it froze my lip but not much else. I squirmed and flopped about like a fish on the deck of a boat. I’m pretending my teeth are fine, eating on one side of my mouth, hoping the pain will get bored and go away. Because that’s how dentistry works, right?

Okay, I’ve meandered from the main topic. The coffee date. It’s sad when a possible root canal is more exciting. As I was saying, I woke up with high anxiety. Possible root canal and coffee go-see notwithstanding, I’ve been experiencing lots of anxiety in recent months. It ambushes me and sweeps over me every time. 

I still had three hours before meeting Mick. I tried to fall back asleep. Not a chance. I got up, showered and walked to the store to get The New York Times. Figured a few articles about how messed up things are with U.S. politics would settle me. (Ha! And I think I’ve got it bad!)Alas, I mainly read headlines and flipped pages. I could have just done that with USA Today. 

I scrubbed the tub. And the toilet. Swept, mopped, checked the expiry dates on the items in the back of my refrigerator. (Sorry, red pepper hummus.) 

Still anxious. I thought of canceling, but I didn’t want to be a flake. I checked online, hoping he’d flake first. Nothing. I mindlessly surfed the web. (Yes, sometimes Facebook has a purpose.) I changed clothes three times. Anxiety produces pit stains.

Now let me clarify, there was nothing about Mick’s profile that had me in some state of heightened expectations. There was no he-could-be-The-One spark toying with my brain. A guy. A coffee. Go. See. Go home. Nothing to be anxious about. But still anxious.

I arrived a little early, with The New York Times in hand. Figured I could give reading another try. I had already browsed any and every possible site and app on my phone. As I read about Wimbledon, a body slid into the seat across from me. I looked up.

“Mick?”

Yep. The nod said so, even if the face and body didn’t. Dammit. I blogged about this last month. The mathematical deceivers. He was at least a dozen years older than what he stated on his profile. The photos? Well, I don’t even know if they were of him. Not from this decade, maybe not from this century.

Normally on these coffee “dates”—yeah, now I really need to throw quotes around the word—I can have a pleasant enough conversation with a guy, even if it’s clear from the start that we’re not a match. Be civil, maybe even enjoy meeting someone before we wish one another a pleasant life. It often goes on for forty-five minutes to an hour and before the best wishes, take care and all that.

I couldn’t do it this time. I was peeved. I’d gotten all anxious for this?! He’d misrepresented himself. Lied! Pinocchio! Pants on fire! When he said he needed to re-park the car in a free parking lot instead of at a meter, I stuttered and lowered my head, unable to be frank. But it worked. “I think I’m going to go now,” he said, and he slipped away as stealthily as he’d arrived. 

Phew!

I forced myself to sip my coffee and finish reading the article. Yes, I can have my own experience at this café. I’m fine with the empty seat across from me.

But still, as I walked home, I felt like the bad guy. He was the one with the dishonest dating profile and yet I felt shallow to dismiss him so quickly. 

My anxiety skyrocketed anew and rattled me for the rest of the day to the point where my heart seemed to race, I developed a fever and got chills. Summertime and I was wrapped in a blanket whenever I wasn’t flopped out on my bed, wishing to sleep off the agitation. I tried crosswords, TV and more cleaning (there’s always more!). I cooked (but didn’t eat). I bargained with myself to go exercise, but I couldn’t leave my condo. It took almost eleven hours to calm down. (Thank you, Amy Schumer’s “Trainwreck”. You had me at, well,…the title.)

This morning, I went back on the dating site. I clicked on a few profiles. Two out of three had photos that seemed to span two decades of the guy’s life, the amount of hair decreasing as the body weight increased. What’s going on, guys? Save your “Throwback Thursday” pics for Facebook. Please, oh please, just show your current photos. From the last year or two. Keep it updated. It’ll make coffee so much more palatable.