HOLOGRAMS, SNEERS & DEAD FISH

The city just ran out of men.

That’s right,...Vancouver.

The whole “raining men” thing was just a strange phenomenon from the ‘80s. The eighties, for god’s sake. And here I’d spent all but the last four months of that decade in the closet with my tossed-on-the-floor acid-washed jean shorts, collar-less Girbaud shirts and pleated baggy pants.

Doesn’t matter now. The men are gone. I’ve stepped into some Wonder Woman land. She may be fierce but frankly she doesn’t do a thing for me.

I should be like that guy who married a hologram. 

Of course, then I’d have to decide between Fred Jones from “Scooby Doo” and Hermey the Elf. Longstanding crushes. I used to be partial to blonds. I guess I’d pick Hermey. He’s got to be a dentist by now, right? My mom would be so happy. “Oh, son, you picked such a sweet, well-mannered hologram groom. And successful, too.”

Seriously, how did thirty-nine people show up to a hologram wedding? Did they miss Barbie and Ken’s big event? Did they actually buy gifts from the registry? Yeah, I should definitely marry Hermey the Elf. But first I’d have to propose and, well, he’d likely say no. He’s probably more the Big Daddy type, all that time spent around Yukon Cornelius.

Fred would turn me down, too. Nothing personal. I just don’t get the sense he’d want to share his cravat drawer.

Dammit. I can’t even get myself a decent hologram.

There’s some urban legend going around about some gay man meeting some other gay man by happenstance, out in public, in person, a random encounter in a rom-com come-to-life. I don’t see that happening for real. I sit and write in cafes and in libraries, looking up every now and then in case someone wants to make eye contact. Nothing. Just some guy one floor below me at the central library, constantly clipping his toenails. (Eye contact?! How could I compete with foot care? And I’m not the foot fetish type. Nothing romantic about what goes in a sweaty sock.)

I go to the grocery store. Not a look there. I have to decide if the avocados are ripe on my own. (By the way, here’s how.) Even when I try to cruise the Mr. Clean bottle. Worst kind of gay. He’d go home with anybody.

I go to the gym, too. There is ZERO eye contact there. Everyone wears earbuds and stares down at their phone screen during the long (LONG!) delay between sets. I’m not my best self at the gym. If anyone glanced my way, I’d make a bad impression. Part of it is the gym t-shirt and shorts which show off, well...nothing, but it’s mostly the cranky face that would put people off. I get impatient waiting to use the leg press machine. Not that it does anything for me. But it’s part of my routine and it stands between me and going home. Can’t you step aside while you scroll Facebook, check out a Kardashian Instagram account or text Aunt Rue?

So, yeah, that notion about meeting a real guy in a regular setting has been put to rest. Pure myth. That then leaves online dating options. I say that as if any are truly viable. Plenty of Fish is dead water. Same tiny pool, exact same profile photos I saw ten years ago. As if we’re all ageless wonders. OKCupid is an even smaller collection and Match.com isn’t even a blip in the Vancouver market. That leaves the penis and ass pic sites. Call me old-fashioned, but I just don’t feel comfortable messaging a penis. I can’t imagine a relationship growing from “Nice scrotum.”

So that brings me back to holograms, Wonder Woman and cruising that floozy stud, Mr. Clean. Please say yes, Hermey.

HO HO HUM

I made it through.

That’s what Christmases have become. Surviving.

Not in the way the couple that I encountered on the elevator Christmas night did. I heard them before I saw them. They’d parked their SUV just as I was taking out some trash and my presence sent their Chihuahua into a protective “Back off!” bark-off. “Shut up!” the man said from behind the open car door. “I’ve just about had enough of you.”

Yikes. You get a little dog, you more than likely get a yapper. (I’ve had two schnauzers. I know.) I held the elevator for the couple and the now-quiet dog. They were loaded down with bags and bags of gifts. “That’s quite a haul,” I said, hoping to get the man to chill out so as not to unleash more stress on his pooch.

They laughed. (Thank goodness.) “You don’t know what—what’s it been?—twelve hours of family can be like!”

No. I don’t. But I held off my sad-sack persona and spent the rest of the ride up praising the “Good dog!” My attempt at brainwashing. I wished them a good night as I exited the elevator and the man offered a “Merry Christmas” with the oomph of at least two out of three Hos.

If only I could have brainwashed myself. Christmas. Just a normal day. Same number of hours as any other. You can do it!

Of course it’s not the same. Except for a few Starbucks, nothing is open. Maybe the movies were on but I couldn’t even think about going by myself to see something seemingly drab and depressing like “Welcome to Marwen” or another depiction of a queen being beheaded by her beloved sister. (Imagine their family Christmases!)

Normally I plan for Christmas. The main objective is to create time-sucking distractions. Three years ago I painted my bedroom. Two years ago I holidayed in Venice, California where the freak show boardwalk maintained its “normal” jittery overdrive for the senses. Last year it was back to the paintbrush as I gave the bathroom a new look. This year, nothing. No trip, no painting project. (If I were handier, I could have added a backsplash to the kitchen or at least re-aligned the sagging pots and pans drawer below the oven. I know my limits.)

I went down to my storage locker and retrieved a jigsaw puzzle—a Times Square night scene with brightly colored Neon pieces and not too much sky. Edges first, signage next and then all those darn yellow cabs and red buses. Yes, a day filler. And no one to jam pieces in the wrong places or drop them under the sofa. If this were a sick day instead of Christmas, it would have been perfect.

At eight in the morning my closest friend in Vancouver texted to say he and a friend were going for Chinese food for lunch. Did I want to come? I haven’t liked Chinese food since I became a vegetarian thirty-five years ago. There was a time when I loved sweet and sour pork or barbecued pork; bok choy, water chestnuts and chow mein sprouts just don’t do it for me. And something about Chinese food on Christmas would likely make me feel gloomier. I passed.

Somehow I’d managed to check out twenty-five books from the public library. My holds all became available at once! I book-hopped between David Sedaris’ Calypso, Rainbow Rowell’s Fangirl, Isherwood on Writing and my own copy of Art & Fear by Bayles and Orland. Voilà! As much distraction as my reading eyes could handle.

Mid-afternoon, I set out on a scenic seventeen-kilometer jog, taking in water views while dodging the clumps of clueless family walkers. Somehow the experience was less satisfying than usual. Don’t people become semi-comatose on their sofas after the turkey dinner anymore? The obstacle course of people only made me more aware that I was alone.

On Christmas Eve, I’d rushed out and bought all the ingredients for a lasagna recipe that somehow took me six hours to make last time I made it two decades ago. But then I remembered I’d bought a Tofurky a couple of weeks ago, something I’d never tried. I opted for the oversized fake meat ball thingy. (It just wouldn’t make sense eating it in the middle of January or, well, any other time.) I hoped the product was infused with fake tryptophan too, something to induce an early sleep.

More puzzle, more books. I finished off the night watching the last half hour of “The Holiday”, lusting over Jude Law’s then-plentiful head of hair, wondering how much Kate Winslet got paid to be in such an ordinary movie and scratching my head over how Cameron Diaz ever became a star. (Yes, it took three nights for me to sit through the whole movie. This is why binge-watching the day away was never an option.)

I did it! I survived my very own on-my-own Christmas. I can tell myself how glad I am that I didn’t have to spend twelve hours with family and how nice it is not to have bags and bags of things I don’t need or want. I can remind myself how much I like to be alone...on every other day of the year, at least. But, as much as I try to deceive and distract myself, I know something’s missing. As a kid, I loved the holiday. The first job I ever wanted was to be an elf. (Yes, I thought there’d be nothing greater than making toys for other kids and having year-round candy cane breaks. I planned to sneak into the living room, wait by the fireplace and beg Santa to add me to his sleigh one Christmas Eve. Alas, I slept right through that night.)

The truth is, Christmas will always be a chore for me. I’ve spent it alone for the last fifteen years. Maybe next year I’ll finally go to Prague or decide to get rid of the custom-ordered Belgian wallpaper the previous owner put up in the living room.

For now, I’ve got to come up with a New Year’s Eve plan.

SILENT NIGHTS

“It’s a dead zone.”

That’s how I described the Vancouver gay dating scene to a friend yesterday as we chatted over coffee. Might not be dead for everyone, but there aren’t any new prospects for a guy in his fifties. All the online profiles are the same. Even the photos haven’t been updated in the past five years. (Okay, ten years. I’ve been single, of and on, for ages.)

I’m okay with the quiet. I knew I was stepping back into a dating black hole when I broke up with Lance. It would seem sadder to stay with a guy just because there’s nothing else out there.

Usually when a relationship ends, I am eager to date again. Rebounds to affirm I’m an okay prospect. Maybe a few moments of fluttery nervousness before meeting someone new. It’s exciting to feel there is new potential. Maybe I can fall in love again.

When I do remember to check the dating sites these days, it takes half a minute to log in and out of both. No messages, no desire to browse profiles. I’m even enjoying the silence. I don’t feel any sense of doom that time is running out. I don’t have any regret that perhaps I’ve been too picky. (Others can make that judgment.)

I’m appreciating how simple my solitary life is. I can meet with friends once or twice a week. Or I can let the days go by. It’s an advantage of being an introvert that I can experience extended periods with almost no social needs—alone without being lonely. ‘Tis the season for silent nights, after all.