WARNING: Grumpy old-ish man post.
Sometimes I know I shouldn’t but I do anyway…
I suppose public displays of affection have always been a struggle for me. My family is repressed and I spent my adolescence and college years in Texas during the late ’70s and the ’80s. Gay. Closeted. Any public expression of affection—words, actions, the slightest glance—was not within the realm of possibility. Affection itself, even in private, was not part of my world.
I hated Valentine’s Day. Still do…especially after this year.
I think I’ve grown some. Seeing a couple hold hands as they take up the whole sidewalk is cute enough to keep my annoyance in check while stepping into the curb to pass them. They have a dog on a long leash and a baby stroller, too. Still holding hands. Kinda wow.
When it’s an older couple walking hand in hand, I’m even more touched. Maybe Martha and Richard are newly dating, having finally dumped their now-insignificant others, Henry and Betty, but I make the assumption they’ve been together fifty or sixty years. It makes the handholding more astonishing. Still connected, still loving each other, still able to amble about without compulsively checking phone screens to see the latest Facebook posts about grandchildren and Fran Hofstadler’s runner-up pickleball trophy.
Over the course of my relationships, I’ve learned to relax when a moment arises to hold hands, hug or even kiss in public. At first, it would only happen in the gay ghettos like West Hollywood and Vancouver’s Davie Street. Even then, there was an unspoken mutual agreement to let go if three or four straight-looking dudes approached. A hand felt nice, but the prospect of a punch made it prudent to create a bit of distance between us. Blame a strong survival instinct and a gut feeling I wouldn’t look so good with a broken nose.
In my most recent relationship, open affection was more common and most welcome. Still, I would occasionally flinch. A reflex. I’d spent a lot of time in my past fretting over being gay bashed. I was subjected to verbal hate, enough to make me ever-aware someone might take things to another level.
To be clear, physical touch is good. Let people be affectionate.
And you thought this would be a cranky post.
Ready…set…go!
PDA, okay. PPA, not so much.
What I don’t like are Publicized Pronouncements of Affection. On Valentine’s Day, why do people log into Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and every other social media account they have to post a photo of themselves as a couple or just a shot of their love bounty—a box of chocolates, some roses, maybe a new toaster oven? (Who am I to say what’s the right way to say, “I love you”? I am single, after all.)
I’ve said it many times…I don’t like obligatory expressions of love just because the calendar indicates it’s the 14th of February. I also don’t like how the day feels like a flaunting fest, the Haves triumphant, the Have Nots sheltering in place, ordering Domino’s and watching Netflix in a lamplit living room. Definitely no candles!
At least we Have Nots can anticipate all the love in the air. One day. A chance to binge-watch Project Runway or stream Ryan Reynolds movies. Maybe eat lunch in the car on the 15th as people compete/share what their amazing lovers did for them. (“He kissed me and then asked me to make him a panini in the toaster oven!”) By the 20th, the Have Nots can visualize roses wilting. Post a pic of that, people!
Valentine’s Day comes and, whew, goes.
It’s anniversaries that blindside me the rest of the year. I honestly don’t understand the public pronouncements about anniversaries. Maybe that’s rooted in lingering repression. Still, excepting silver and golden anniversaries, I always thought a wedding or relationship anniversary was intimate, something planned and shared for two. Dinner. Romance. Cards with beautiful words, handwritten rather than scribed by some guy in a corner cubicle at Hallmark headquarters. Thoughtful gifts that try to incorporate the year’s theme—paper (1st), tin/aluminum (10th, yeesh), steel (11th). No toaster ovens allowed.
So I don’t get the social media posts:
Happy 4th anniversary to the love of my life who
shows true love by watching all televised
golf tournaments with me.
It’s our 32nd! Through lies, affairs and that two-year
stint I had to live in the garage, we’ve exemplified
“for better or for worse.”
17 years ago, I met this man at a monster truck show.
It’s been a passionate love of trucks, tatts and each
other ever since.
Why?
Does the tweet or Facebook post excuse forgetting a card (and a gift)? Does the fact the post got 253 likes, with an especially strong pro-anniversary contingent from Tennessee, make one’s partner swoon? Is this what we’re calling romantic in the social media era?
Again, I do not get it. Growing up, my siblings and I didn’t buy anniversary gifts or cards for our parents (except for their 50th). We didn’t even say, “Happy anniversary!” It would have felt odd. It was theirs, not ours. I assume my parents exchanged the sentiment and did something. They didn’t make a spectacle of it.
I truly like the idea of an anniversary being private and intimate. A table for two. A dessert for two. A celebration for two, with personal expressions of love, door closed.
Why am I writing whining? Because it’s that “Mary Tyler Moore Show” song every single day, but in a bad way. Love Is All Around.
Yes, every single day someone on social media gets to gloat. Still together! Still in love! How true or deep it is happens to be irrelevant. It’s the unwanted blast of another seemingly successful love story that adds to the sting that I have failed. Over and over again. Never a tin/aluminum gift; no steel. Silver is becoming remote according to actuarial tables and gold is impossible.
It's not enough that I’m aware of all the anniversaries within my family—not necessarily the exact dates or number of years…thirty-something, almost twenty. Every day I’m blindsided by strangers. Ruth and Eddie together forever! (Sixty-five years is BEYOND forever.) Luke and Diego, 22 years! Sara and Samantha, 8!
Five times, I’ve been in love, but I never reached Sara and Samantha’s milestone. Gee, thanks for that daily reminder. Have your cake and eat it, too. Me, I’ll pull out a pint of Ben & Jerry’s, no sharing, no “Can I have a taste?”
No consolation.
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