PLEASE DON'T LIKE ME (Part Two)

In my prior post, I wrote about Damien, a resident in the building I’ve been living in since the start of the pandemic. We run into each other often at the small gym on the ground floor and, despite the fact he has a wife, I’ve gotten strange vibes he might be into me.

 

 

Damien mentioned we should go for a walk sometime. That made me somewhat apprehensive. What if he actually meant it? How could I sustain more than just three-minute chunks of chatter, especially after having not met anyone new since COVID came around? What if there was something to that still-nagging sense that maybe he was interested in me? I went out of town for a week, in part, to put off the possibility. Yeah, my social anxiety is that strong. Surely, he’d move on to other interests by the time I returned. 

 

Back at the gym, he brought up the walk idea again, but noted he’d be away for ten days, visiting the grandkids. “Okay, sure.” More delay, more hope this walking thing would go away.

 

Last week we walked. After we met outside the building and decided which direction to go, we headed off. There was immediately a silence that may have lasted beyond a full second. This activated the emergency warning system in my brain: 

 

MISTAKE! 

Must feign sudden ankle twist!

Feign fainting if necessary! 

Stop walking!

 

COVID saved us. Can’t we all fall into corona moaning at the snap of the fingers? Damned anti-vaxxers. Are you still masking in stores? When do you think we’ll be able to stop signing up for gym times and just show up? 

 

On steady ground. Maybe we could survive a walk around the block.   

 

Turns out we walked for two hours and had plenty to talk about. It was enjoyable. I’m glad we went. I went through the usual post-interaction self-evaluation, beating myself up for mentioning some anecdotes that I never finished, sharing too many embarrassing moments, not bothering to follow up on how he learned to speak Portuguese as the conversation drifted elsewhere and generally lambasting myself for talking way too much.  

 

In between bouts of critiquing my social incompetence, I went over all of Damien’s comments that had me continuing to wonder, “Is this guy gay?” Let’s look at the evidence, shall we?

 

·      He was in the seminary for a year with the intention of becoming a Catholic priest. (Such a classic hiding place.)

·      As a teacher, he taught drama.

·      His specialty was musical theatre. (Worth repeating: Musical theatre!)

·      He commented on the abs of a shirtless man who walked past us. (To be fair, they were as finely sculpted as one sees in magazines, the kind I tell myself are obviously photoshopped and cannot possibly exist in real life.)

·      He then proceeded to talk about a younger guy in our building with amazing abs who works out in our gym. (Why have I never seen him?)

·      He mentioned having parties in the tiny town where he lived, saying, “You find your people. Small towns have an underground, you know?” Actually, no. (This should have been a point to seek clarification, but I think I didn’t want to know more.)

 

I managed to bring the conversation around to his wife several times and, to be clear, Damien talked freely about her. I’m certain he loves her. He spoke of her as if they’re newlyweds which I thought was entirely possibly since I knew his children were from a first wife. Turns out, Damien’s been with his current wife for about thirty years. Still, If Damien’s not bi or gay, I need to Google where I can take my gaydar for a tune-up.

 

I figured that, if my conversational skills were as woeful as I thought upon (over)reflection, any liking Damien may have had would have been extinguished, stomped with army boots and hosed down for good measure. Let me be the impetus for Damien talking his wife into a ceremony to renew their vows. Glad I could help.

 

If, however, this had only been about a budding friendship, the fact it fizzled offered some relief, too. Sure, I could probably use more real friends instead of chatting up my Christmas cactus and the hosta I sometimes remember to water, but all the unknowns and uncertainties during the beginning stages are difficult for me. Really? You want to meet for coffee? Why? What the hell’s in it for you? Oh, self-esteem, you are an elusive one. Sorry, Christmas cactus, it’s still you and me.

 

A few hours after our walk, Damien texted: “What a lovely walk and talk. You are very funny! I had a good time. You make me laugh and our stories are worth sharing. See you soon.”

 

Hmm. I use lovely all the time, but it’s not in the straight guy word bank, is it? 

 

My reply: “I enjoyed the walk as well. Maybe next time your wife can join us.”

 

I glanced at my phone screen until “Delivered” appeared beneath my text bubble. Yep. Message received. I’d made things as clear as I could considering that nothing was actually out in the open.

 

The next morning, I got another message from Damien: “I rather enjoyed your company. A repeat soon. Xxo”

 

Um. What? First “lovely” and then “Xxo”?

 

Not clear at all. This is feeling even more awkward.