Apparently, people close to me think I speak in code.
I’d posted some pics last week from a hike I did with “a new friend.”
WHAT?! This caused quite a buzz.
Granted, I’m quite the introvert. New friends don’t come my way every day. Or every year, I suppose. My life is not people-oriented. I write. I run and bike. I travel solo. I usually hike solo too now that my hiking partner moved to Montreal.
So, yes, my Facebook “friends”—somehow I have 98 of them…and I do know them all—were intrigued that I would have a new friend with whom I did something in person. The buzz wasn’t just about being social. People read what they wanted into “new friend.” They leaned into that as an old euphemism.
Hopes. False ones.
I think the inquiring minds wanted to see me moving on. Good news for a sad sack. I’d been dumped in February by the guy I’d felt certain I’d be with for the rest of my life. That dismissal remains a head-scratcher. I’ll never understand, but all I can do is move on.
True, I've been very happy with
dogs, but a schnauzer does not
replace whatever need there may
be for a boyfriend.
My friends really weren’t all that helpful after my breakup. My mother and sister, in separate communications, advised me to get a dog. They’ve been married sixty-three and thirty-eight years, but why should I still hope for finding a good man who might love me back? I was great with dogs. That’s where I’d find a nurturing relationship…as long as I supplied the pooch with ample treats and picked up its poop.
My tailspin since being dumped has been its own solo journey. I can’t snap out of it and people don’t mention it anymore. Despite my considerable mental health history, people don’t check in..
To be fair, people were engaged with the dumping story. Some version of it had to be shared. It naturally came out when someone would ask, “How’s ____?” (I don’t name my ex anymore. It’s not about pettiness. It just helps me detach.) Sometimes, early on someone would ask, “How was Denver?”, the place where my ex moved and where I’d flown for a two-week trip that was over in ten minutes. It made for a juicy story. Lots of exclamatory reactions.
“He didn’t!”
“No way!”
“Unbelievable!”
But after the good story—if only it weren’t mine—there was no more follow-up about how I was doing. Single once again. I remember NBC ran a sitcom, Undateable, for three seasons from 2014-2016. I never watched. It was during my own prolonged undateable period. I didn’t want to give the show a shot and conclude that, Undateable was too relatable…not funny at all.
I can’t help but think friends and family have given up on thinking I was date-worthy. Lost cause. He should probably stick with low-hanging fruit…or whatever is rotting on the ground. It’s probably the whole vegan thing. [I’m vegetarian but that doesn’t seem to be a thing anymore.]
And yet there was that hike with a “new friend.”
I got a text from eastern Canada. “Ooh! How was that hike?”
Maybe they just liked the photos, I thought. “It’s a beautiful one,” I replied.
And then: “How was the friend?” Really?
A friend from California wanted to FaceTime. “So…a new friend, huh?”
“Yes. New friend.” She waited for me to spill it. The more. Nothing. I felt guilty. Like she’d committed to a tasty FaceTime and gotten nothing but dry biscotti.
A call from my mother. We’d just talked days prior. This was unusual. As my parents are in their eighties and my mother had a hospital procedure the week prior, I felt instant panic. I answered first ring. She noticed. “That was fast.”
Yes, yes. How are you? How’s dad?
“I see you’ve got a new friend.”
Oh, my god. This is why I shouldn’t socialize. Or talk about it. I’d mentioned the “new” bit because my post had been about going on a familiar hike and seeing it through fresh eyes, appreciating more than I might have (although it is a favourite).
My mother, I suppose, was the most likely candidate to misinterpret things. My parents don’t talk about my gayness. They’ve regularly referred to my boyfriends as “friends.” Eventually, they skip the friend/boyfriend conundrum and just call the guy by his name. I hadn’t supplied that. I don’t tag friends. I don’t even know if my new friend is on Facebook.
It’s insulting people would think that, with me being a fifty-nine-year-old man in 2024, I’d still be talking about guys I date in code. No. A date’s a date. A boyfriend’s a boyfriend.
It’s true that I’m private and I’ve kept past boyfriends off my social media posts. This was partly to protect my partner’s privacy. My longest relationship—two decades ago—was with a business climber who was very closeted, very paranoid. My partner from Portland was one hundred percent anti-social media—no Facebook, no Twitter, none of the rest. He was usually anti-phone cam as well. What would I have had to post? As for my ex who now lives in Denver, I was tempted many times to make some sort of Facebook reveal…a couple selfies, the two of us beaming. Unlike Portland guy, he loved being in photos. That’s not a knock. I loved taking couples selfies.
If others think my dating record is pitiful—it always ends the same—I share the feeling. I didn’t want to change my Facebook status to “in a relationship” until I was really and truly sure I wouldn’t have to go back and change it again to “alone again, naturally.” I’d decided I would announce my status on our two-year anniversary. If we made it that far, we were solid. We would last.
The breakup came three weeks short of two years. Phew. (I guess?) No humiliating subsequent post, the equivalent to “never mind.” My private humiliation was enough.
To conclude, I have a new friend. We hiked. It never dawned on me that would be disappointing. And it’s not. I deserve a good thing or two. Even something that isn’t served up with an ice cream scooper…although maybe that’s something that can be factored in next time I see my new friend.
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