SOMETHING NEW

Sometimes a routine becomes a rut. I mix up my exercise options to include hiking, biking, swimming, jogging and gym workouts but, still, things can feel stale. Especially the gym workouts.

 

It being the New Year and my partner visiting from Denver, I decided to do something different. I took advantage of a cheap one-week pass at a Vancouver yoga studio and took six classes. 

 

Vancouver feels like one of the world capitals for yoga. It’s where Lululemon was born. It’s where women wear yoga pants to, well, anywhere and everywhere. It’s only a mild surprise that buses don’t alternate their Route 99 signs with a NAMASTE message. Even so, I’d sworn off yoga until Evan entered my life. 

 

During our first two years together, I held up a strong resistance. “Want to join me? I have a buddy pass.” 

 

“Um, no thanks. You be you.” He’d go do hot yoga and I’d jog, bike or hit the gym.

 

I have good reason to swear off yoga. There is not a single part of my body that is flexible. Not only did I know I wouldn’t do it right, I was certain I’d throw off and/or annoy the yogaphiles or even the instructor. 

                  What the hell is he doing?

                  Is he even trying?

                  I’m afraid he’s going to fall over and 

                  knock me down in the process.

 

Maybe I'd have done
better if I imagined
it was like Twister...

Me, too. Me, too. 

 

But sometime over the past year, I let down my guard. Every so often Evan would ask and I would cautiously say, “Okay.”

 

A class here, a class there. Would a full week make a difference? Would I finally figure out the happy baby pose? Would I stop wondering why they have a downward dog but not a flamingo? Would I gain enough balance to reduce the wobbles?

 

I’ll cut to the chase and say I’m not a yoga convert. I suppose that was never going to happen. But I got used to the hot yoga studio environment. I didn’t complain that my shirt was dripping wet—halfway through class. I may have even come up with a (semi-) fierce warrior pose.

 

Still, it says something that my favourite part of class at this studio was when the instructor would make their way around the room at the end of a session and pass out cold lavender facecloths. Yes, a little relief from that hot room, a little something to at least stop the sweat from my brow. 

 

Cold lavender facecloths are the best.

 

And so it should be no surprise that I did not sign up for a year’s membership or even ten new sessions. Pass on passes. But a break was nice. 

 

It’s back to my familiar routines. The gym can still feel like a rut but maybe I’ll mix things up and go to a city gym every so often instead of using the same old machines in my building. Maybe we’ll get another winter stretch with no rain (and, alas, no snow) and I’ll fit in some bonus bike rides. Maybe I’ll add my very own flamingo pose to my pre-workout stretching exercises.

 

Who am I kidding? Maybe not. 

RESOLUTION RECKONING

For those of us who even bothered, we’re all given a free pass on any resolutions we set for 2020. Heck, pardon us all. (Pardons are apparently all the rage right now.) How were we supposed to accomplish some lofty goal of quitting smoking or starting an epic exercise regimen or posting daily shirtless gym selfies when a pandemic came along and f#!ked up everything?

Okay, the shirtless selfie guys adapted—no gym, but bathroom pics were just as good for generating desperately needed likes. (I refused to indulge on the principle that it encouraged shallowness. If they’d added a Shakespeare quote—the naked bard—I might’ve caved.)

While I continue to contend that 2020 wasn’t as bad as popular opinion makes it out to be, it was the kind of plot twist none of us saw coming on January 1^st as we pondered self-improvement. To be sure, carrying on with my resolution would have landed me in COVIDIOT territory with such unsavory villains as Walmart Karen, Kirk “Singalong” Cameron and virtually everyone working in the White House. (For that last cluster, coronavirus idiocy was only one subcategory of an all-encompassing, hall of fame buffoonery.)

Let 2021 be a year of healing...in oh so many ways.

What was my sidetracked resolution? I feel my cheeks reddening.

I boldly announced it in this blog and it turned out to be my most-read post of the year...by far. I figured if I blogged my resolution, it might hold me more accountable. It also might make for other interesting posts as I provided updates. Not surprisingly, I didn’t get to my bold announcement until the twelfth paragraph of that particular post, from which I quote: “My New Year’s resolution is to find sexual liberation.”

Ahem. The fact that I’m blushing is proof enough that such liberation did not come to be. When I wrote my post, three days into the New Year, I was on track. One, um, episode. And then, nothing. I lost my resolve.

Really, I hadn’t thought things through before announcing my pursuit of sexual liberation. What was that supposed to look like? How frequent were my escapades supposed to be? To bring out the tired, old baseball lingo, how many bases was I expecting to get to on a particular hookup? (Baseball has to be the absolute worst sports analogy for anything. It only makes me visualize men congregating in a dugout, spitting chewing tobacco. Not sexy; just gross. Also, it brings back nightmares from childhood, with me standing far, far out in left field, away from all the action, my teammates betting that no one will hit a ball out that way; of course, it happened at least twice every game and then I’d witness every player on my team abandoning their positions—even the back catcher, for god’s sake—as they ran toward me, showing a collective lack of faith that I’d be able to catch the ball or retrieve it and throw it with enough force to come near another player. Just because their vote of no confidence was soundly grounded in reality didn’t make this panicked display any easier to observe. Yeah, so baseball as a subject for alluding to sex? Um,...only if I wanted to talk about impotence.)

I suppose I could have messaged Darian again, the young, eager first sexual partner of the year. The sex had been as disappointing and one-sided as ever, but maybe that was something to work through. If we hooked up again, I’d be more assertive. But then I thought that might just set me up for rejection. Sorry, man. I have to be more into a guy for that. Oh. I see. Yes, of course. Let me just get dressed in the hallway.

I’m really good at imagining worst-case scenarios.

Besides, I now knew that Darian was in a relationship and, while that didn’t matter in the sense I was definitely not looking for that sort of thing, it made messing with him again feel icky. His choice on cheating or maybe it was something they’d agreed to, but I wasn’t so comfortable with whatever that made me. I suppose I wanted to achieve sexual liberation while having standards. This was getting mucky.

I realize that, if I pinpointed January 3 as the day my resolution ended, I couldn’t blame the coronavirus. We were still weeks away from lockdown. At that point, I’m not sure a medical outbreak that seemed limited to another continent had even registered with me. Still, it’s established practice to blame everything bad about 2020 on COVID so I’ll say that my resolution wasn’t kaput; rather, it was on hold.

A month later, I met another guy through the hookup app. But we didn’t hook up. We wound up talking in a cafe, then walking our separate ways and, thereafter, dating. Curses to you, 2020! That was not part of the plan.

Five months later, it was over. I can say that sex happened. You might think it would be titillating if I wrote about it, but you’d be wrong. Sex had not improved. More to the point, I suppose I hadn’t either. Whoever came up with the expression, “better than sex,” curses to you, too. That should have been mine! Under that nifty little heading, I’d list some of the usual players (ice cream, pizza, a dog’s waggy tail), a few items particular to me (hiking for hours and running into no one or getting published in The New York Times as a 2020 silver lining) and a slew of things that would make better sexually adjusted people go, “Seriously, dude?” That’s right, dude. The Sunday crossword, reruns of “The Mary Tyler Moore Show” and the final two bites of a two-day-old buckwheat cherry scone I’d forgotten about. Better than sex.

Maybe even a bag of rice cakes. Yeah, that bad. That sad.

Single again, I technically still had half the year to slog away at sexual liberation. This is the point where the pandemic ruins everything. This is where I can say abstinence had nothing to do with fears of serial killers, guys slamming the door on my face and walks of shame home with me once again saying to myself, “That was it? Huh.”

The coronavirus makes for a nifty punching bag. I should be sexually liberated by now. All your fault, COVID!

Throughout the summer, I told myself that a hookup was irresponsible. Anti-maskers infuriated me. Hordes of gays flocking to Fire Island got me all riled up. I refused to be part of the problem. It’s true that one well-intentioned, progressive Canadian doctor acknowledged that sex is healthy and suggested people wear a mask while engaging, but I knew following that recommendation would only result in a longer better-than-sex list. (A stray Tic Tac, found in a coat pocket, popped into my mouth after wiping off the lint? No!)

Sex and that ensuing liberation thing would have to wait. I made things clear on my hookup profile, leading with the following:

Note: Think I'll wait for the coronavirus numbers to settle back

down again before considering any kind of in-person introduction.

That means I probably won't respond right now to local messages.

People looking for "right now" tend to get upset and label me a

time-waster. I don't need another label. You be you; I'll be me.

Stay safe!

Every now and then, I’d log in. Boredom. Annoying U.S. election commercials. A crossword puzzle impasse. Curiosity.

Usually, no messages. How many men had been overcome with mad rushes of lust and desire, only to click on my profile and read the note? Dozens? Three? Egad, a clip from “Ferris Bueller” comes to mind. We’ll never know.

In October or November, as coronavirus numbers in my province began surging upward again and more restrictions and recommendations came forth, I got a message from a very good looking guy in an open relationship who splits his time between Alberta (a province with an even higher surge) and British Columbia. He wanted to meet. I presumed he didn’t read my note—perhaps reading can ruin a lustful moment—so I messaged back that, politely letting him know that, considering COVID stats, I wasn’t meeting up with anyone for the time being.

My politeness didn’t go over so well. To twist and contort a common expression, apparently it’s a thin line between lust and hate. I blocked him so I’ll have to paraphrase his wrath. I was “one of them,” a dutiful sheep who can’t think for myself. I could go stick something up my ass but it would never be anything coming from him.

Well, okay then. Seems some of my fears about who I might meet from the internet aren’t entirely irrational. Some COVID Karens are actually Kens. I don’t log in these days. I’m not so curious anymore.

And now hello, 2021. Resolution time again. I’m still nowhere close to being sexually liberated and, really, that was probably never a reasonable goal. So much interaction, so much effort.

I’ve lowered the bar considerably. (I could flip that and say I’m setting myself up for success.) Still, it’s a tad scandalous, too. I have decided to finally set aside what my mother and my elementary school teachers advised. I’m going to talk to strangers.

Well, I’ll say hello, at least. Just that. Nothing epic like a Lionel Richie “Hello” or an Adele “Hello” or a grab-the-tissue-box “Jerry Maguire” hello. A simple hello. Saying it to someone on the elevator or a grocery clerk doesn’t count. They’re stuck. They have to say something back. (Well, some don’t. I’ve had many uncomfortable elevator rides. I should really look for apartments closer to the ground floor.)

During 2020, I went on more hikes than ever. I’d get up before sunlight, drive to a trail that was open and set out. As I came across other hikers, I always said hello and they said hello back. Even though we were socially distancing, we were sharing a glorious moment, appreciating nature. It lifted my mood. Maybe it made them feel good, too. Through trial and error, I’ve learned that it only works in the mornings. For some reason, the friendliness wears off around noon. People stop pausing from the conversation with their hiking buddy or they look down at their hiking boot laces. A safety check, no doubt.

I’ve tried saying hello to people in Vancouver’s parks. It’s not the same as on the hiking trails. The return hello can sound begrudging. One older woman just looked at me, frowned and looked toward the sky. We don’t say such things in these parts. If I were a dog, my tail might have stopped mid-wag. My mother was onto something. Talking to strangers can be risky business. But I have my resolve. For now.

Day one is of the New Year is in the books. I got up early and walked in the drizzle along empty sidewalks. Finally, I came to a homeless woman who’d stopped to reorganize her wares in a grocery cart. “Good morning,” I said.

“Good morning,” she replied. No eye contact, no warmth, but it was something. Had she ignored me or said something hostile, that would have been okay, too. This is about me stepping ever so slightly out of my tortoise shell. Who knows? If I keep at it, I might find that hello is yet another thing that’s better than sex.

Happy New Year!