MINDING MY MANNERS

It’s at least once daily that I catch myself. A surge of self-correction surfaces. This morning it had to do with how I held my laptop case as I walked to a café to write. I carried it with my elbow bent, the case tucked into my chest. It brought back an admonition of old: This is how a schoolgirl carries her books. Stop that! And so I did. I extended my left arm downward so the case was in line with my shorts. A manly pose. Or my attempt at such a thing. 

 

I stepped into a café and hesitated. Most of the indoor seats were taken. A large fan hummed but did little to address the heat that had already seeped in by ten o’clock. There were a few seats outside in full sun, not an option for me since I long ago battled melanoma and have no desire to get more chunks of skin cut out of my body. Scars don’t have the sex appeal of tattoos. 

 

I walked on, taking a shaded alley to another nearby café. But I found myself resuming the schoolgirl stance again. Another correction. Silly. The alley was empty. Any intonation I was acting girly was 100% self-imposed. Really though, that was a technicality, a literal reading of the scene. Others had gifted me this “girly” designation. I went through childhood, adolescence and even my twenties being ridiculed by schoolmates and strangers as a sissy, a fag, a Nancy. Back then, being gender-nonconforming wasn’t an option that came with a nod of approval or a mere shrug. It got noticed as fodder for taunting. 

 

In general, I got off easy. I had feminine behaviors, but others were easier targets. For them, self-correction wasn’t even an option. Their glorious selves were naturally effeminate. In some ways, I was grateful for them, just as I might be while assessing my chances of survival when encountering a grizzly on a group hike: as long as I could outrun one person, my chances of being attacked would be less. People like Jay, my first gay friend after coming out, must have had a brutal childhood. Still, if ridicule from others was less for me—and, surely, it was—I filled in the gaps, berating myself upon every effeminate posture, pose or voice inflection…at least when I noticed. There was no carrot for changing my behavior; it was all stick. This was about survival. I had to whip myself into a more masculine persona.

 

Masculine? 

 

Me?!

 

So laughable…and tragic. It was as futile a goal as virtually every New Year’s resolution I’ve ever attempted. My pinky has always been averse to making contact with a glass or mug. What was the point of ordering a bottle of Bud—in my mind, a manly grog—when my tiniest finger was always sticking out? I’m also seriously challenged with keeping my legs apart, both feet flat on the ground, while sitting. Inevitably, one leg yearns to cross over. I have no idea why. Even telling myself, This is how you get varicose veins, hasn’t been enough of a deterrent. I heard this once as a kid and I refuse to learn otherwise from a quick Google. I continue to do a seated dance—cross, uncross, repeat ad infinitum. (At fifty-seven, my leg veins appear unnoteworthy. Whew!)

 

As much as I bemoan the fact you can’t call up a friend anymore—alas, it’s text, reply, text, wait hours for another reply—there is one silver lining. I don’t get called ma’am as much. Most telemarketer calls I get now are automated and in Chinese. Still, whenever I do have to call a business or customer support, there’s a fifty-fifty shot I’ll be immediately misidentified as she/her. Back when calls were a regular part of life, I tried to have a Ted Baxter newscaster voice at the ready for phone calls. It was futile. I’d still get salespeople asking, “Are you the woman of the house?” It made hanging up on the caller slightly less guilt-inducing. Bad manners, but I hadn’t asked for the intrusion or the gender blundering in the first place. 

 

Such a stylish statement!

Once a sissy, always a sissy. At least, that seems to be my mindset. It’s utter nonsense that I continue to fret over my mannerisms. Every day, I see people who have no regard for gender norms. It’s glorious! The Jays of the world can just be. More than that, they can celebrate what diverges from tired gender-role expectations. Effeminate behaviors appear unbridled. Hear me roar (or scream)! Watch me flutter! Swathe me in bold florals! I assume every action comes with an exclamation mark and a desire to stand out. They want to be seen when all I wanted in my youth was to be unseen. I survived but now they thrive.

 

It's a simplistic view. I know people who don’t conform to expected gender mannerisms—and, yes, expectations remain, at least to many in society—are subject to putdowns and snarky laughs. But now there are allies, defenders and others who flaunt their true selves. (Imagine!) I’d love to let my pinky finger do whatever the hell it wants, my voice nest a half register higher and my legs flirt aggressively with the prospect of varicose veins. Maybe one day I’ll allow myself to just be. Maybe I’ll even paint my nails as half the guys under thirty seem to be doing. So brazen!

 

On the way home, I found myself walking with the laptop case tucked in high, up to my armpit, as one might carry a purse. Leave it, I told myself. And I did. For perhaps ten paces. Then, another self-correction. Times have changed, but I can’t seem to.

 

THE SWIMSUIT ISSUE, 2022

Sorry to disappoint. You won’t find a pic of Elizabeth Hurley here, rocking a bikini at 57. Google again. You’ll find her.

 

I’ve blogged about swimsuits before. One tiny article of clothing exposes so much in terms of skin and insecurities. They say fashion goes in cycles and I’m still waiting for men’s early twentieth-century swim apparel to return to vogue.  

 

Alas, we’re stuck with bare chests and bellies at least until Vogue taps Harry Styles’s shoulder for another buzzy photo shoot to offer an uptick in subscriptions. Until then, my dilemma continues. I love swimming, but I hate suiting up. 

 

Swimming has played a major part in my life. I grew up privileged with a pool in our backyard. My family spent spring breaks on the Gulf of Mexico in Florida where I’d splash about in the waves and didn’t think twice about combing the beach for seashells, no shoes, no shirt required. In summer, we’d spend weeks at our family cottage on a beach along the Ottawa River, where I’d join friends playing King of the Raft, canoeing and water skiing. I had a favorite Ottawa Valley shirt I wore too much, but most of the time I went around shirtless, my pale skin turning from the traditional first burn of the season—ouch!—to some shade of bronze, with ever-growing freckle constellations.

 

I was on swim team in high school, by no means a star athlete; it was my exit pass to get away from all the other uncoordinated geeks who weren’t on the football team, the basketball team, the track team, the tennis team or even in golf. After only a week of acculturation at my East Texas high school, I knew I’d face permanent ostracization if I stayed enrolled in basic P.E. Swim team was one small step above P.E. and it spared me from dreaded rope climbs and being full- or half-nelsoned on never-washed wrestling mats by sweaty guys who’d hadn’t been told it was time to start wearing deodorant. 

 

Throughout university, I lifeguarded during the summers. I worked at a pool operated by an association supporting persons with developmental disabilities and, after my first week there, I knew I wanted to become a special education teacher. So, yeah, swimming means a lot to me.

 

Somewhere along the way, I stopped being nonchalant about wearing a Speedo and letting my tummy catch some rays. I became aware of guys like Leif Garrett and Shaun Cassidy with surfer bods gracing teen fan magazines and Tom Selleck and Lee Majors captured in beachy shots for People. I’d glimpse at myself in the mirror—no chest, no abs, a fleshy midriff that couldn’t pass that dadgum Special K “pinch more than an inch” test…which, to this day, I believe damaged so many psyches. There have been class action lawsuits against tobacco manufacturers, but I’m still waiting to opt in on legal action against Kellogg’s.

 

I suddenly felt like I should cover up. It’s not like I lost confidence. I never had that in the first place. I just stopped being oblivious. I didn’t have anything to show off. It would be better for all if I shirted up. 

 

Photos of me in just a swimsuit after high school are extremely rare. I don’t ever give anyone the opportunity to snap a shot. I swim laps in pools where I’m 98% certain I will not run into anyone I know. At the cottage, I won’t swim in front of it if anyone else is there. If it’s unbearably hot, I’ll walk to the end of the beach—“It’s not as rocky there,” I say—and take a quick dip before covering myself in a towel which I always leave at the shore’s edge. I no longer get burns or tans or a single freckle much less a constellation because skin exposure is too brief.

 

There was one photo I actually allowed to be taken in late summer 2014. While flying somewhere, I’d picked up the airline’s magazine—remember those?—and read about swim vacations where people swim each day as part of their travel journey in Croatia, Slovenia or even in Lake Powell, Arizona. When I did the research back home, the trips turned out to be quite pricey, but I stumbled upon information about a monthly swim from Alcatraz to shore in San Francisco. I lived in a rural area on BC’s Sunshine Coast at the time and did a bit of open water ocean swimming to train for the event. A colleague who was in a paddling club volunteered to take me along with her outrigger team one Saturday morning, venturing farther out to sea so the I could jump in the water and swim along the craft, the outrigging crew serving as my guides. She snapped a picture of me with my shirt off just as I was about to jump in and took more photos as I swam alongside the boat. 

 

As it turned out, I rather liked the photo. I was in good shape, having lost weight during a hospital stay four months earlier and working out fanatically thereafter. I posted several of the shots on Facebook—a braver act for me than the actual Alcatraz swim. Unfortunately, a friend commented that from my position in the boat, it appeared as though the ‘iako (the wooden boom) extending from the vessel looked like a long appendage jutting from between my legs. Um, ew. And, yes, she had a point. My only swimsuit pic from the twenty-first century had the illusion of being obscene if one wanted to imagine me growing a wooden man-part. I was mortified!

 

It was a sign. The world would be a better place if I kept my shirt on. Indeed, I successfully swam from Alcatraz in a wetsuit for reasons unrelated to vanity. While a few participants swam in Speedos, the majority wanted more warmth as we navigated the colder waters in the San Francisco Bay. But, yeah, the day of flashing my belly was done. Silver lining: in the years since, I’ve surely saved a fair amount of money on sunscreen. Not enough to afford an extra trip to Stockholm, but surely a few lattes with Oatly from Sweden. Skål!

 

My partner, Evan, does not have body issues. He can be as self-conscious as any gay man, but it doesn’t get in the way of living life to its fullest. He’s an avid yoga participant, one of those nuts who insists on doing it in studios where they crank up the heat and the men don’t where shirts. Given the temperature setting, the mirrors everywhere, the abnormal stretching—I have zero flexibility or coordination—and the shirtless component, it literally sounds like Hell. He continues to pitch the idea of us doing a class together, but Hell will have to freeze over…or at least turn on the A/C before that ever happens. Even then, not gonna happen. If I attempted the tree pose, it would be “Timber!” after a mere second and the “downward dog” cue would have me glancing at the mats, hoping to spot an off-leash schnauzer. Sadly, I’m a tad rusty with my role in the “shake a paw” routine. Not yoga, but way more Zen.

 

Being as Evan’s apartment is two blocks from Lake Union in Seattle, we often walk down to have a picnic and watch for the resident beaver who’s as elusive as the Loch Ness Monster when I’m present. During my last couple of visits, we’ve gone swimming. If it were just Evan and strangers who are not my neighbors, taking my shirt off and wading in sloooowly wouldn’t be a big deal. But Evan’s way more social than I am. He invites friends. (The introvert in me thinks, Good god, who does that?! My logical mind butts in with the reply: Um…everyone but you. Damn.)

 

So I’ve had to appear normal, acting something possibly resembling casual as I lift my shirt over my head, turn away from the friends who are hopefully still distracted by my decoy blurt—“Was that the beaver over there?”—and wade in. STAT! You get used to the cold water once you’re fully submerged, right?

 

On my latest visit, I met Evan and his friend Ronald down at a dock after I spent the day café-hopping, writing in Seattle’s Fremont and Ballard neighborhoods. I hadn’t packed a swimsuit so I had to borrow one of Evan’s before heading over. The guy is even more of a clothes horse than I am and, as a former Miami resident, he had thirty suits to choose from. Unfortunately, as a former Miami gay, all of them were far skimpier than anything I own. Was this swimwear or fabric samples? Hell was hounding me.

 

Evan texted: “Where are you?” Then: “Hurry.” No doubt, he knew I was fretting. He knew I was two minutes away from a fashion crisis to eclipse any Milan runway meltdown or that Janet Jackson wardrobe malfunction at the Super Bowl. I slipped on a swimsuit, pulled my shorts over it and headed to the dock, trying to take deep breaths and going over my own calming script: “You do this and you get a double scoop at Salt & Straw.” Neither carrot nor stick will ever motivate me, but Freckled Mint Chocolate Chip has had encouraging results. 

 

The dock was crowded, mostly by thirty-something hipsters proudly exposing body tattoos. (If I’d been inked at that age, my body would be an ode to Ace of Base (central upper back), “No soup for you!” (scrawled upward, right calf) and a double nod to Angela Lansbury, as Jessica Fletcher (right forearm) and Beauty and the Beast’s Mrs. Potts (left ankle). 

 

No tattoos for me. Thank god.

 

After ten minutes of chitchat, Evan was ready for another dip in the lake. Ronald declined. That meant I could keep Ronald company or shed the shirt and go for a swim. Sometimes being an introvert is a motivator too. If Freckled Mint Chocolate Chip is my carrot, the prospect of continuing a conversation with someone I’m still getting to know is my stick. Shirt off. Hello, lake.

 

But I was too slow to the plunge. I heard Evan say, “Ronald, will you take our picture?” Some smiles are more forced than others. And prolonged. Ronald suddenly assumed the role of professional photographer. 

 

“Okay, look at each other.”

“Now one gazing out at the water. And another.”

“Come on, James. Smile.”

 

Not as bad as hot yoga, I told myself. But Hell-adjacent.  

 

At last, it was over. I went with cannonball instead of wading in. Sorry, Ronald. Did I get you wet? “Did the phone get wet? Is it damaged?” No, dammit, it was just fine. Stupid beach towels!

 

The swim turned out to be great fun. The two of us swam out to a mooring which I ascended, assisted by knotted ropes, something eighteen-year-old me wouldn’t have even tried. Maybe I wanted to show off for my boyfriend. He followed my lead and then came the inevitable quandary: how to get down. It was twist on one of my recurring nightmares where I’m standing on the edge of a high-dive, legs shaking, a crowd watching, a lineup of seven-year-olds waiting on the ladder, encouraging/taunting me with, “Jump!” and “Hurry up, old man!”

 

Evan called to shore, “Ronald! Take our picture!” In a sleep-time nightmare, you can will your eyes to open and be done with it. I blinked, but nothing changed. This was my comeuppance for showing off. “Let’s jump together,” Evan said. “On three…”

 

“I’m not ready,” I said while trying to retain my fake smile for the click-happy photographer on shore. Turns out that, as I’ve gotten older, whatever fear of heights I’ve had has gotten worse. I imagined the lake feeling like concrete when I hit it. I thought about my body submerging deep down in a thicket of slimy seaweed with prehistoric looking fish wondering if the mole on my back might be worth a bite. I wondered if one of the wine bottles on the dock might shatter as my scream hit the highest C-note on the way down. 

 

I could have stayed atop that mooring all evening. Eventually, I’d be able to wave down the Coast Guard. Perhaps a sea gull might take perch atop my head. (Snap that, Ronald.)

 

Evan only had to say “On three” a couple of dozen times. I feared Ronald was getting too many shots, my fake smile long-departed, my body far too exposed. “One, two—”

 

Down we went. Back to shore. Covered by a towel. (Me, at least.) It was as fine a time it could be, all things considered.

 

Mercifully, the pics of us on the
lake are distant and blurred. That's
Evan in front, me behind. I swear,
things looked scarier from up there.

Five days later, I allowed myself to remember the occasion. I texted Evan, asking if he could nudge Ronald to send along the photos. I was genuinely curious, gay vanity gaining the edge over body insecurity. It wasn’t long until my phone buzzed in rapid succession. Evan’s one of those who texts each thought separately. Photo after photo arrived on my screen. Aw, my Evan. So handsome. And I dared to glance at the ghostly white figure by his side. I didn’t see fat. I didn’t see anything particularly horrifying. I allowed myself to conclude my body was okay. Trick photography perhaps? I’ll take it. But, no, dear reader, I won’t post it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

IF NOT FOR YOU (My Tribute to Olivia Newton-John)

Well, this is a post I don’t want to be writing. Dear Olivia. She was such an influence in my life. Such a lovely human being in so many ways. 

 

She’d already released several albums before I started listening to pop music on AM radio stations at the age of twelve. In fact, my first purchase of her music was “Olivia Newton-John’s Greatest Hits,” a cassette bought at the long-defunct Sam the Record Man in Hamilton, Ontario in 1977. I never tired of hearing her sing “Have You Never Been Mellow” or “I Honestly Love You” or even lesser tracks like “Something Better to Do” or “Sam.” It endured longer than so many of the tapes I bought in subsequent years, many succumbing to tangled tragedies in cassette decks that suddenly turned from playing to eating my precious music. 

 

Years later, while I spent a weekend undergoing volunteer training at AIDS Project Los Angeles in 1991, my Chrysler LeBaron convertible passenger side window was smashed, the thief unsuccessful in removing my car stereo, having to settle with making off with the dozens of cassettes I stowed in the vehicle as a makeshift soundtrack for all the times I was stuck in traffic on the 405 or the 10. I was both relieved and insulted that the culprit made a point of rejecting a single item: Olivia’s hits collection was tossed back in the car, resting on the shotgun-side floormat. The criminal was clearly unworthy of Olivia.  

 

In time, I tracked down every single one of Olivia’s albums, finally stopping after acquiring 1989’s “Warm and Tender,” a pet project of hers. I figured after an artist releases a collection of lullabies for her daughter (and I buy it!), it’s okay to walk away. Fourteen studio albums, three soundtracks and two greatest hits collections—I don’t think I’ve ever owned more music from another artist.

 

I loved Olivia’s voice. It oozed warmth and sweetness. No doubt, the producers of “Grease” recognized the same thing in her—along with her natural beauty—when casting her in the lead role of Sandy. First time I saw the movie, I was a sheltered kid who was slightly disturbed to see her go from the goody two-shoes singer of “Hopelessly Devoted to You” to a permed-out vixen in tight leather pants—and smoking!—crooning “You’re the One that I Want” alongside John Travolta’s dumb jock Danny. I kept reminding myself it was just a role. Olivia wasn’t that way. If the film makeover seemed scandalous, it was on account of her acting. Such range! A singer AND a thespian! No Oscar nomination? Even more scandalous…to thirteen-year-old me. 

 

Exactly forty-two years prior to her death, Universal Pictures released “Xanadu” which critics savagely panned. A roller-skating musical with Olivia playing a muse and getting to dance and sing with Gene Kelly was perhaps an acquired taste. Most likely, sourpuss critics hadn’t rushed out like I did six weeks earlier to buy the soundtrack album, Side One consisting of Olivia’s songs and Side Two representing the contributions of the Electric Light Orchestra. I knew every song by heart before hitting the box office. My friends and I watched the movie twice on opening day. That’s the first and only time I’ve ever done that. Needless to say, we LOVED it!

    

Olivia offered more than just a soundtrack to my adolescence. She was my beard, particularly during my first year in college. Living in a dorm, I was a pimply, dorky sixteen-year-old whose only prior dating experience involved taking Lori Blakely to prom and feeling much relieved when she dumped me midway through the event, flitting off with equally dorky Jeff Hill whom I couldn’t compete with being as he’d been voted Most Likely to Succeed. Kudos, Lori! You saw your opportunity to socially climb and you seized it. I hadn’t yet come to terms with being gay, but I knew I didn’t want to date girls. I suppose I held out hope I’d suddenly wake up one day and realize the alluring appeal of breasts which had been eluding me. I wished for this almost as much as I wished my zits would disappear. 

 

Let me state the obvious: Wishing wells suck. I wasted so many coins!

 

My closest friends in the dorm were girl-crazy. Butch, who lived across the hall, was homesick for his high school sweetheart back in Peoria and dropped out after the first semester to be back with her. Herbert, one floor below me, was a pre-med student from Colombia, who fell hard for a girl from Montana and stopped going to classes to spend all his time with her. He got Fs in all classes except his P.E. course, tennis, and didn’t return in January. Michael, down the hall from me, was another pre-med student who kept falling hard for different girls each weekend and clearing his guilty conscience on Mondays by going to confession and being assigned a number of Hail Marys by the campus priest. I stayed loyal to Olivia. 

 

It goes without saying that I never dated my icon. Never even met her. But I talked incessantly about her the way my friend Laurie from Boston would bring every conversation round to Michael Jackson (and co-opt his one-glove fashion statement). I went to the record store at Fort Worth’s Hulen Mall and begged the manager to let me have the wall-sized Herb Ritts-photographed poster of her “Physical” album—a well spent $10!—which I tacked to the wall above my giant stereo system. I bought a ficus plant to green up my half of the dorm room I shared with an always smelly midwestern frat boy who regularly left me in the hallway as he messed around with his sorority girlfriend. (Did she not have the sense of smell?) I named the plant Aivilo…Olivia backwards. The message to all my dormmates: I wasn’t into dating girls majoring in interior design or economics; I was gaga for Olivia. Hopelessly Devoted to her, indeed. 

 

All through this time and beyond, I came to respect Olivia for her love of animals and her conviction to protect the environment. When she hosted “Saturday Night Live” in 1982, she insisted on doing a dead-serious political commentary on Weekend Update, railing against President Reagan’s Secretary of the Interior, James Watt. It was an awkward piece, so earnest yet so out of place on a show devoted to comedy. This was Olivia’s own moment to seize the opportunity and attempt to create awareness in a young, captive audience. Chutzpah!

 

In 2019, I bought her hardcover memoir, Don’t Stop Believin’. I looked forward to having her by my side again, in a new incarnation of my old dorm, this time my single room in the eating disorder wing at St. Paul’s Hospital in Vancouver. I knew I would face six or seven difficult weeks there, arguing with dietitians, fretting over being force-fed peanut butter and stressing over a coed bathroom where we weren’t allowed to close the door because the space was constantly supervised in an attempt to thwart the bulimics. (It didn’t matter that I’m anorexic and have never ever thrown up as a means of controlling my weight. The door had to stay open. It was mortifying.) I needed the comfort of Olivia once again, even if I felt the cover photo of the book was less than flattering. 

 

The book proved to be jarringly disappointing. It was a light read in the worst way. Olivia didn’t have much to say. There was no depth, no insightful commentary about her life’s experiences and most certainly no bite about any difficulties she experienced as a woman in the music and film business. I concluded that Olivia really was pure sweetness, through and through. She apparently ascribed to the belief, “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.” Great for life, not so great for creating a compelling read. She was a woman of principle, her heart consistently in the right place—love of family, of animals, of the environment plus a strong desire to fund cancer research and care—but her passions were expressed at a basic level. Dear, Olivia. Sweet yet simple. Lovely but perhaps not an interesting invitee to include at a hypothetical dinner party. Still, the world would be a gentler, kinder place with more Olivias.

 

Over the years, I read with great concern each time Olivia had a bout of cancer. She always came through, her sunshiny outlook seemingly keeping her in the right frame of mind to battle on. Only a week ago, a friend and I talked about Olivia while on a hike, noting that we hadn’t heard anything about her recently. I reminded myself of the adage, “No news is good news,” but I felt jitters inside. The adage has no application in the world of celebrities. Was she still having to bear down and fight or was she simply recovering and allowing herself quiet times with friends and family to appreciate life? As it turns out, maybe it was both.  

THE PRICE OF LOVE

I’ve always thought couples have a financial advantage. They split bills, hotels and can choose to file taxes jointly, presumably for some savings. If there is any advantage, I’ve yet to realize it, five months into my current relationship. 

 

Truth is, I’m spending more than ever. Having a steady partner is creating havoc with my savings. I keep reminding myself this is normal. This is still early going. Love is new and we’re taking in every experience that comes our way. “No” doesn’t come up in conversation.

 

Part of the extra spending comes with the fact this is a long-distance relationship. He’s in Seattle; I’m in Vancouver. Gas is at an all-time high. But it’s more than just the expense of filling up. Last week I flew home from Seattle instead of driving. That’s because I was returning from a longer trip with Evan—two weeks in Colorado and New Mexico. (More spending!) We flew back from Albuquerque and there was no connecting flight back to Vancouver until the next morning so, rather than fight traffic schlepping back to SeaTac Airport, I hopped a seaplane that took off only walking distance away from his place on Lake Union and landed at Coal Harbour in downtown Vancouver, a short walk away from my home. It was somewhat more expensive but much more convenient and, heck, so much more fun (and scenic) than boarding a 737 in a crowded airport. (Bonus: Upon landing in Vancouver, there were two border agents waiting to take the four of us on the plane through customs. Fastest customs line ever!) I didn’t fret about being extravagant; instead, my sparkly brain thought I should travel this way more often. 

 

Danger! 

 

I choose to ignore the alert, just like everyone does when a car alarm goes off. Seriously, can we nix the car alarms? How many thefts have actually been averted? How often is it the car owner who inadvertently sounds the alarm? Why not create a security device that sprays the would-be intruder with glitter? It’s silent and the petty thief will never be able to shake out the evidence prior to arrest. Plus, if the owner accidentally glitters himself a time or two, it’ll make him think more about when a security option should be activated.

 

Okay, I may have solved a noise nuisance, but my financial problems remain. 

 

This past weekend, Evan was in Vancouver to spend Pride with me. Normally, I would incur no extra expenses for the occasion. I bought a pair of rainbow Converse a few years ago that are as good as new since I only feel rainbow-worthy proud on the annual parade day. Not that I go to that (or any) event. I wear them to the grocery store, pick up my Sunday New York Times, then head home to kick ’em off and kick back for a leisurely day of reading and later biking (in my regular sneakers) to somewhere in the opposite direction of the parade route. 

 

Evan and I didn’t attend the parade, but we did attend a party Saturday night at Vancouver’s Chinese gardens and then saw gay country artist Orville Peck in concert on Sunday. In addition to the ticket costs, we shelled out extra bucks for event-priced food and drinks. We also bought new clothes and accessories for the Asian/Neon-themed Chinese garden party and to add a Western flair to our outfits for the concert. God, I feel like I’m twenty-two again.  

 

Orville Peck is not your average
country singer. Out and proud, 
he's known for his fringed masks
and artful costumes.

I’m certain neither of us would have shelled out money to attend either ticketed event this weekend if we weren’t together. I’d have been content to pass my evenings watching an episode or two of “Uncoupled” on Netflix, while sipping half a glass of wine. (You’d think I’d have learned after all these years to pour only a few ounces of Chardonnay but, no, I always pour a customary amount and end up dumping the most of it down the sink before I go to bed. Clearly I don’t have a drinking problem but, if there’s an alcoholic coho salmon in the Vancouver area, it’s my fault.) To be sure, we both loved the concert, even if we’d only heard a song or two by Orville Peck before buying tickets. The guy, whose crooning is reminiscent of Roy Orbison, Elvis and Chris Isaak, is an amazing talent who didn’t hit a wrong note singing live. We also enjoyed the event at the Chinese gardens which included dancing, drag queen performances, karaoke, poetry readings and food trucks. We took in all of it, except for the karaoke which featured two older gays loudly singing an off-key rendition of “I Got You, Babe” as we walked on by. I don’t think Evan—or the world—is ready for me to hold a mic and sing Herp Alpert’s “This Guy’s in Love with You.” I’d kill it…I mean REALLY kill it. The karaoke music for the tune would be banned forevermore.[1]

 

It was money well spent this weekend, but my credit card is still trying to adjust to other equally well spent expenses since we got together. We had a fabulous extended weekend in Manhattan which included hitting several art museums, having drinks on a fancy rooftop deck, going on a sunset harbor cruise and Evan paying WAY TOO MUCH on a romantic gesture to have us ride a rickshaw through Central Park. After I heard how much he had to pay the guy pedaling our cart, I made it clear that, in the future, walking while holding hands is romantic enough for me. We did split the hotel room, but Evan wanted to impress me so we stayed at an upgraded room at a trendy place we both love. Simple math: when you pay more than twice as much as you normally would on lodging, splitting the cost does not amount to a savings. 

 

We’ve also had weekend getaways in different parts of Washington and in Whistler, BC. The first time I stayed at Evan’s he prepared a homemade vegan Indian meal which I loved and we’ve made a couple of meals together, with me serving as a considerably challenged sous chef. Still, going out to eat remains the norm. Our wallets only get a reprieve when we order pizza at our favorite spot in Seattle, the leftovers accounting for two additional meals. While I can’t finish a glass of wine when dining home alone, I have a hefty bar tab from eating out. I’d forgotten how much I enjoy a margarita and Evan and I like to split a bottle of sauvignon blanc. (Again, the math: splitting a moderately priced bottle of wine is still far more than what I shell out when I tell the waiter, “I’ll just have water” or splurge on a lemonade.)

 

Then there’s the wardrobe additions. I’ve already blogged about how Evan’s convinced me that I can wear tighter fitting clothes. I buy more because I want to look good for him and he does the same. Moreover, we’re guilty of that weird couple phenomenon in which our closets are beginning to include styles the other one is more inclined to wear. Just please don’t let us get to the point where we head to brunch dressed as if we’re twins. No matching jackets, tank tops or shoes. I don’t even like using the same hair product. If we ever come off as twinsies, dear god, let our friends hold an intervention. 

 

Even when we’ve been apart, there have been extra expenses. Evan’s much more of a planner than I am so he’s had a few trips with friends and family that were booked before we met. I didn’t like sitting home on my own while he was on a yoga retreat with a bestie from college so I’ve since scheduled my own adventures to fill the gaps. A day trip to Whistler with friends was a tad pricey with the $85 cost to take the gondola to hike atop Blackcomb Mountain, but that was nothing compared to the thousands spent exploring Iceland and Stockholm for two weeks while he was visiting family back in Colorado. It’s true, the trip had been postponed from 2019 due to COVID, but rising prices and other factors made my bank account take a much heavier hit.

 

Evan incurred his own additional expense this past weekend, buying a road bike. It wasn’t an extravagant in and of itself. He searched online and chose a used bike after researching the make and model’s book value. But then there’s the fact he already has a bike at his home in Seattle. Why the additional purchase? His city bike has only three speeds while mine has eighteen. His bike has served him well for his rides around Lake Union. I’ve gone on many rides with him and the dude doesn’t coast it. He gets a good workout. Still, I ride faster so I have to ease up and follow him—not a bad thing, given the nice view. We make things work in Seattle. Evan’s BMW can’t fit a bike while, to the surprise of so many, my Mini Cooper easily stows mine. In Vancouver, if we want to go for a ride he’s tried the grab-and-go bikes you can rent anywhere in the city, but those things feel like you’re riding a tricycle. Now he rents from bike shops where he can choose a better bike, but it’s still not on par with mine. Hence the new purchase. In the long run—and, yes, let there be a long run with us—the new bike is a good investment. He’s already spent close to $200 on rentals during our Vancouver rides. We can have better rides, going farther and faster. I’m mentally preparing for the possibility that my in-shape boyfriend will be passing me on his new bike as he grins wildly and says, “Come on, keep up!” My ego will bruise, but again, I’ll be able to take in a great view. I’ll deal.    

 

At the rate we’re going, Evan and I could very well accompany one another as we make appearances in bankruptcy courts in our respective jurisdictions. Call it our very own International Bankruptcy Tour. Travel is becoming so niche. Having a judge take a pair of scissors to our credit cards might not be on anyone’s list of romantic things, even if the list were a drawn-out Top 100…or 1,000. But I could put one arm around him and hold his hand as the deed is done, then kiss away the tears on the steps of the courthouse. He’d do the same for me. 

 

And maybe that unceremonious, clunky landing after a wild freefall will be all we need to bond over the basics: a bag of Wonder bread and a jar of peanut butter, plus a single shared banana, sliced up to make a simple, yet tasty lunch, enjoyed on a minimally bird poop-splattered bench at a local park and washed down with a few gulps at the water fountain. One way or another, we shall have to come to our senses. 

 

 

 

 

 

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[1] As well, there’d be a court order, restricting any future karaoke urge I may have to another Herb Alpert chart-topper, “Rise,” which, if you’re too young to know, is an instrumental. It’s not even hummable.