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.

 

PLEASE DON'T LIKE ME (Part One)

If awkwardness were viewed as a skill, I’ve reached mastery. Top of the résumé.

 

I’ve spent a lifetime wishing certain guys were gay. Now I’m hoping one isn’t. It’s a guy I met at the gym. Not some big, cruisy fitness sweatshop where guys take videos of themselves bench pressing the equivalent to a minibus and where guys nonchalantly linger in the locker room, wrapped in a towel, needing other patrons to notice them. (Oddly, this seems to be a straight guy thing.) I ran into Damien in the convenient little gym in my building, max three users at a time during COVID. 

 

I regularly sign up for the 2:00 p.m. slot, handing off the relay baton to him at 3. Due to the time of day, each of us typically gets the space to himself. (I suppose that would make it easier for me to take regular pics of me doing bicep curls and whatnot in hopes of three or so “likes” on Instagram but, even with no one else present, I’d feel selfie-self-conscious, three-quarters of that sweaty sheen on my body coming from embarrassment rather than exertion. Besides, my whatnots are performed with weights more the mass of a minibus of the Matchbox sort.)

 

The first relay pass was a clear failure. I dropped the baton. I’d said hello and he said nothing. A total shunning. It may have had to do with his earbuds, but I took it as attitude, the kind I got so much of at those cruisy gyms. Why are you even here? He was very fit for his age and it felt like I was being dismissed by one of those older gay men I used to see gathered around little round bar tables, sipping martinis and holding on to superiority so that irrelevance didn’t slip in. No room for me at a regular gym and a misfit at this boutique training room. I wiped down the exercise bike, took my water bottle and left. 

 

For weeks, we’d encounter one another, a silent shift change. He’d stride straight for the StairMaster and I wouldn’t look his way. Ha! Now who’s shunning who? As I sprayed down gym equipment, I’d glance at the TV screen in front of him and be glad not to have to make small talk with a guy who always changed the channel to “Gunsmoke.” Or “Ponderosa.” Or “Bonanza.” Or one of those old Western series where the colors seem to have faded and be a hue or two off what their supposed to be, rust instead of red, skies an unrealistic robin’s egg blue. Really, who the hell books their gym time to coincide with “Bonanza” reruns? This was not someone I needed to know.

 

Then one time as I surrendered the gym to him, he introduced himself and said something innocuous like, “I guess we both like our afternoon gym times.” That made for an awkward pause where I was supposed to say something even though he didn’t give me much to go on. I suppose I could have said, “My endorphins love a post-lunch release” or “This is the one time of day when I’m not Zooming with incredibly important people.” Instead, I’m sure I said, “I like it when no one’s here.” And, due to that patented awkwardness of mine, it would have come off with the tone of, I’m no good at sharing. I basically hate people. I’d really settled into our not-talking thing. 

 

As I left, I managed to recover and say, “Nice to meet you” and “Have a good workout,” but Damien had his earbuds in, not listening to BTS or Chance the Rapper, but some ominous dialogue between Lorne Greene and James Arness about how the cattle needed more hay (or whatever they eat). Riveting stuff, you know.

 

Over time, we got into a groove of sticking to script with our baton-passing exchange. Sometimes he’d get my name right, sometimes he’d have the nerve to shorten it, sometimes he’d be completely off. Perhaps Gordon is the name of a cowboy on “Gunsmoke.” Hard to stick to real-life conversation when a chance to view some jaw-dropping lasso maneuvering awaits. My lines were always, “Hi Damien” (with an occasional “Hey” subbed in to prove I could ad-lib a bit). Then, after he’d acknowledge me with some sort of name, I’d say, “See ya. Enjoy your workout.” It got so I didn’t even feel awkward. Like everything, practice makes perfect.

 

But then one day, Damien said, “If it weren’t for COVID, I’d have you over for coffee.” Um, well. Welcome back, awkwardness. Coffee at a stranger’s home? No, no, no. That would require a whole lot more conversation. Out of desperation, I might ask something stupid like., “Don’t you ever get bored on that StairMaster?”  I wouldn’t mean to be rude. I’d just blurt it to fill a fraction of a second of dead air in order to quell a rush of panic and self-loathing. Man, I’m pathetic. Why can’t I have a simple chat? Why is it that, knowing basically nothing about this person and knowing, therefore, that there is a completely wide-open slate of topics to choose from, I can’t think of anything? 

 

“I guess you like ‘Gunsmoke,’ huh?” Dear God, no. There could be no coffee. Saved by COVID!

 

Over time, there was more to talk about at the gym. It was nice to have time parameters on it. I noticed that if he arrived a couple of minutes early, it was an opportunity to comment on that chitchat go-to, the weather, or that newer addition to Chitchat 101, the coronavirus. These masks make me sweatier. I wonder when we’ll ever go back to letting more than two people on the elevator. Have you gotten your shot yet? If Damien didn’t enter until three or a minute after, our exchange was pared down to a simple “Hi” and maybe a wave with his back to me as he went straight for the StairMaster. “Gunsmoke” was calling and how does anyone compete with that?

 

At some point, a couple signed up for the two o’clock spot and that had me fretting so

I signed up for Damien’s three o’clock time, guessing—correctly—that he wouldn’t be doing weights after the StairMaster. He did lots of stretching instead. He was chattier while getting into stretchy, yoga-ish positions…hang dogs or camels or frozen chickens. (Apologies to yoga devotees. I know nothing about it. I respect your choice of activity even though I’m certain I will never try a session since of have the flexibility of a cement pillar. I might stay for the warmup if the instructor played “Vogue,” but I’m guessing they don’t take requests. Please continue striking your animal poses.) Damien and I exchanged basic information: where we’re from, the importance of keeping in shape, what our wives do. 

 

Wait. What? You’re married? To a woman?! Please, mask, cover my shock. Please, eyes, focus on blankness…like Keanu Reeves in every movie role. 

 

Seriously, a wife? Shock. And relief. 

 

I’d gotten some vibes that maybe Damien was into me. There was never anything vague about me being gay. Generally, I figure, Just look at me, people. What could possibly make you unsure whether I’m queer? At the gym, my face mask highlights the statement, in bold and underlined, all caps, 24-point font. I wear the same face mask every time because it’s the most breathable. I bought it at what used to be Vancouver’s gay bookstore and now, sadly, is where you browse for sex toys. My mask has rainbow hearts all over it and the message, LOVE IS LOVE. Yep, I’m gay. Despite this whole wife revelation, I still couldn’t shake a suspicion Damien was gay and I couldn’t dismiss a sense he might kinda sorta maybe like me in that most implausible of ways. He’d mentioned my fitness and my toned body a few times. Nice to hear for a deeply insecure guy like me, but I’m not used to people noticing things like that. My exes certainly didn’t. 

 

I did my best to accept this husband-wife thing as totally legitimate and not some immigration scheme. I talked more freely after convincing myself Damien couldn’t possibly be interested in me. Turns out our backgrounds are in teaching, both of us becoming principals. When teaching is the topic, I don’t even have to think about what I say. It comes naturally. He talked about his children and grandchildren. I made sure

to always ask about his wife. It seemed like she really and truly existed…from South America. Hmm. Nope, not a scheme; all perfectly legitimate, right?

 

My little COVID-approved life was intact, safely single, completely unencumbered. How nice to begin getting to know a clearly attached straight man.