A SIGN OF PRIDE, FARTHER AFIELD

 

I keep my eye out for gay things when I travel in more remote areas. No, not gay people. I’m oblivious in that regard. Mostly. I people watch as I do anywhere, but I focus on clothes, hair and the interactions (and lack thereof) between people. Sexual orientation is rarely a factor, particularly when I’m in a relationship. There’s a gay guy! Um, so? Handsome, too! (Sorta.) Again…so? To the extent that I do any people sorting, it’s not gay versus straight; it’s local versus tourist. What is it like to live in this small town? If I see a rainbow flag or some other queer-positive symbol, that’s when I amend my primary ponderance: What is it like to live as a gay person here?

 

I was heartened to see a sign about Pride while walking through the old streets of the town of Visby, Sweden (population 24,000). My instinct was to snap a photo, but part of the sign had been torn off which made image appear less prideful. Who had torn it? Was it an act of hate, some individual’s effort to create a backlash? If I were a queer kid in Visby, what would I take away from the image? First, I suppose there would be a sense of belonging. I’m not alone. I can be myself here. But then what to make of the tear? Maybe I can’t. Maybe it’s still not safe.

 

The circumstances in Visby are more complicated than in other small towns because there isn’t a big city an hour or two away. Visby is on the island of Gotland (population 58,000) in the middle of the Baltic Sea, a three-hour-fifteen-minute ferry ride away from Nyäshamn (13,000) which itself is an hour away from Stockholm. 

 

In places like this, Pride is even more important, not as a spectacle with drag queens and shirtless go-go boys, but as a means of networking and finding allies. A boyfriend? The chances are as remote as the area.

 

I Googled “Gotland Pride” and was somewhat relieved to discover that the celebration occurred three weeks prior—over the course of four days even. Old signs get torn for an assortment of reasons. I dislike seeing dated notices and have been known to remove such items from bulletin boards. Maybe someone else who likes to keep things current tried to take down the poster and didn’t realize how much adhesive had been applied. But then maybe I’m being generous. If I lived on Gotland, I’d try to put all my thoughts into coming up with plausible, non-hateful explanations for the bulletin’s damage. 

 

Too much thinking about a single sign? Sure, no doubt. But then, it was the only one I saw. (The others were surely removed in a timely manner.) Gotland Pride may have been in May, but June is Pride month most everywhere and I’ve seen recognition of this in shops in both Göteborg (605,000) and Stockholm (979,000). I now take these visuals for granted, along with considerable skepticism, when I spot them in cities. Is a business making a strong statement about LGBTQ rights or is it just another business decision? Welcome, gays! Buy a trendy new blanket here. And socks. (If I ever open a shop of my own, I’ll stock socks. Even if it’s a vacuum cleaner store, I’ll sell socks, too. I’m getting excited thinking about the uptick in sales. 🤑) 

 

When I started this blog, I too lived in a remote area. The only public building in my community was a small elementary school. No bank, no café, no mom-and-pop convenience store. The closest town had 4,000 people and, along the entire eighty-five-kilometer stretch of coastline, residents totaled 30,000. It wasn’t an island but, due to mountains and water, the area was only accessible by ferry, other boat or seaplane. These figures are smaller than those that pertain to Gotland, but the ferry was only a forty-minute journey, with Vancouver (675,000) another twenty minutes away on an exceptionally good traffic day. Many posts I wrote while living there addressed finding a natural paradise and a haven for writing but also teetering from the bliss of being alone to a vulnerability in feeling lonely due to the isolation. My home would have offered the foundation for an idyllic lifestyle had I been in a relationship, but as a single gay man, it nearly did me in. Indeed, several medical professionals finally implored me to move. 

 

I made that doomed decision to move to a remote place as an adult out of freewill and fanciful thinking. I feel the pain for other single gays and lesbians living in remote areas. Maybe they choose to be hermits. Maybe they are more extroverted (most everyone is). Maybe they don’t entertain any desire to be partnered. Maybe they moved there as a couple and then the relationship fell apart. Even for couples, it can feel isolating. I recall one gay couple I met early on who hosted a party which turned out to be a last hurrah of sorts. After five years living in the nearby town, they’d had enough. They were returning to civilization. 

 

I feel even more concern for queer youth growing up in these places. Not their choice. Sure, there’s the internet now to connect with like-minded people but that’s not always positive either and it sure as hell doesn’t make up for in-person friendships and relationships. 

 

I perused the Gotland Pride page on Facebook and came across a video of people marching for Pride. The post included a comment that they’d hoped for fifty and, instead, hundreds turned out. (Really, from watching the clip, maybe just one hundred. It’s not just an orange-haired ex-president who has a way of inflating crowd sizes. But I shouldn’t quibble. If a Gotlander wishes to interpret it as a show of hundreds—hell, let’s round up to a thousand—so be it. But numbers games can be empty exercises.) The posted video would surely be a nice sight for queer Gotlanders and a nice event to experience, but that’s still a small pool of people. How many were actually queer and how many were allies? (In recent years, Vancouver’s Pride parade has felt like a big event for straight people to attend, not entirely unlike everybody being Irish at the pubs on St. Patrick’s Day. Who doesn’t love a party?)  

 

In truth, I didn’t venture much beyond the medieval walls of Visby’s tourist draw to see how the majority of Visby residents live. I recall seeing a trans/gay rainbow flag hanging from an apartment balcony, but that may have been in another town. In two weeks of travel in Iceland and Sweden, it’s been a different place to stay every night. As just a visitor, I rented a bike for my twenty hours on the island and, when not gazing up at the ruins of so many churches, I headed to beaches and shorelines deserted by all but swans and sea gulls. Now that I have a city to return home to and am in a relationship, I crave spaces away from people altogether. For me, it’s a choice and luxury.

 

   

IN A RELATIONSHIP, TRAVELING SOLO

A dear friend of mine is a seasoned international traveler. She and her husband are both teachers and they take every fifth year off to see the world. (Oh, what a luxury: job security!) Her adventures are documented through professional-caliber photos and enchanting blog entries. She has a way about her that allows her to connect with virtually anyone. Even close to home, an ordinary stop in a bookstore becomes a meant-to-be interaction with a stranger, both of them clearly benefiting from the experience. We could visit the same place in the world, one of us starting out five minutes ahead of the other and we’d have entirely different experiences, mine fun but ordinary, hers a captivating tale. (I keep telling her she’s got what it takes to be published as a travel writer, but she’s a humble soul, quick dismiss my praise.) 

 

One of the things I admire most about her and her husband’s travels is that they spend much of their travel year apart. One year she chose to see India while he headed for Peru. At some point, they met up in Costa Rica. I’ve always loved that they can be happily married—which has always been apparent—and yet they can maintain an individuality, nourishing their own curiosities, continuing to grow alone while ultimately thriving together.

 

I want that.

 

At least, that’s what I’ve always told myself. 

 

The biggest obstacle has been obvious. Oftentimes, I haven’t had a partner with whom to travel separately. Hey, fictional boyfriend (who, as a fictional image, I’ll say is a doppelgänger for Ryan Reynolds), enjoy your three months in South Korea while I’m in Slovenia. Meet me in Morocco. Alas, I waited and waited for days in Marrakesh. My Ryan was a no-show.

 

Another obstacle has been that travel has never gone well when I’ve had a partner. Weekend in San Francisco? Disaster. Nostalgic visit to Dallas and Fort Worth where I lived for eight years? Our “special” dinner after hours of bickering in the rental car which didn’t seem to have functioning headlights? Subway sandwiches, for god’s sake. Road trip to L.A.? He wanted to head home without me.

 

So, yeah, maybe just the travel alone while in a relationship. I’ll “like” each of your Facebook pics from Cleveland, Doppelgänger Ryan, if you “like” each of mine from Budapest. (Yes, I’m damn well going to have a better trip than Ryan.)

 

I’m in a relationship now. (Hallelujah!) Evan and I have traveled well together so far. Our second date was an entire weekend in a quaint rural part of northwestern Washington. We’ve spent another fabulous weekend together in central Washington and had a romantic four days in New York City. The blips have been few. One, maybe two. I swear I cannot even recall what they were about.

 

At the moment, we’re both traveling but in separate places, an ocean between us. He’s visiting parents and friends at his Airstream trailer in Taos, New Mexico while I’m spending two weeks in Iceland and Sweden. His trip had been planned months before we met. His parents duly booked a nearby Airbnb. He likes schedules and looking far ahead. Evan’s joked about merging our calendars—okay, I don’t really think he’s joking—but I keep saying my calendar is always blank. I’m perhaps an anti-planner. Whims work. I didn’t start looking into my trip until two weeks beforehand and was still making reservations while at the airport in Vancouver.    

 

So there it is. I got what I asked for. A guy in my life and a trip on my own. Healthy. Enlightened. Far from codependent.  

 

And yet it’s glitchy. We’ve only been together three months. It should be merely a slight extension of the reality of our relationship. Time apart is something we deal with on a weekly basis. We live in different cities. There is already an international border between us. That sounds more dramatic than it is. Seattle and Vancouver are three hours apart when the traffic flow is good and the border wait isn’t so bad. Things have evolved into us having long weekends together such that we see each other four days a week. 

 

The gayest part of my trip has 
been taking a photo of Rainbow
Street (which is not much more
than a crosswalk) in Reykjavik.

Instead of three days apart, it will be nineteen. That’s a big chunk in a new relationship. I think we feel as secure as we can be with this early test of time and distance. Still, there are what ifs. We’ve given each other plenty of reassurances. For my part, I’ve made it clear that dashing to a city’s gay bar or cruising locals on my phone has never been my thing. When I travel, I go to art museums, I map out scenic runs and bike rides, I search for quirky local color and I set out to find the best pour over coffee. Basically, I seek solitude. I love the fact that everyone is a complete stranger and the introvert in me recalls what my parents and teachers instilled in me when I was five: Don’t talk to strangers. Yes, I know I’m missing out on fascinating interactions that my teacher friend falls into but, even if I were to engage in talk, it would only make me break out in a sweat and I’m already stressed over the fact that public laundromats are nonexistent in Iceland and Sweden. The most engaging conversation I had during my six days in Iceland was with a couple of sheep that wanted their picture taken. (Apparently, they haven’t mastered the selfie.) 

 

View from walking along the crater
of Hverfjall in northern Iceland.

I’m still enjoying my adventures. I’m thankful that no one is saying, “How ’bout sleeping in tomorrow?” or “Let’s make today all about Vikings” or, gasp, “ABBA is overrated.” I only have myself to blame over getting sick immediately after eating the dal plate at that vegan restaurant in Reykjavik and no one had to bear my frequent wincing the evening I injured myself in a poorly laid out hotel bathroom in Akureyri. Again, my choice of accommodation. No finger pointing over the broken toe. But Evan comes to mind frequently each day. Swans! (Evan loves swans.) Lilacs all over Visby. (Evan loves lilacs, too.) He’d have loved hiking along a volcanic crater (though maybe not four of them; Iceland is teeming with them). Oh, how we’d have laughed at the room I booked on a ship in Stockholm. The boat was more like a tin can that floats (for now, at least) and the room felt more like a dog’s crate. 

 

He would have laughed, wouldn’t he?

 

I’ve been sharing pics. It’s not the same. I miss the guy. 

 

Atop another volcanic crater, this one 
Eldfell on Haiemay Island off the
southern coast of Iceland. Windy 
conditions and, when going solo, 
I didn't have to fret about 
every hair being in place.

The time difference makes communication challenging. I have photos and texts awaiting me when I awake each morning and the same goes for him. We’ve tried a daily FaceTime chat but the connection has been spotty and, for the last two days, nonexistent. It’s rare that I look forward to a trip ending, but aside from giving my credit card a rest, there’s a silver lining in going home. I’ll have one full day to recover in Vancouver before another weekend road trip to Seattle. It will take more discipline than usual to stick reasonably close to the speed limit.

 

It's less than a month before the next trip. Colorado. Both of us. Together and apart. Weirdly, my sister’s home and his family cabin happen to be only thirty minutes away from each other. We may spend a day in separate spaces but, compared to the distance between Gothenburg and Taos, or even Vancouver and Seattle, it’s like we’ll be neighbors. We may even run into one another in the cereal aisle at the grocery store. Time will tell how we’ll negotiate travel. I foresee more solo treks but, I suspect it will be easier once our relationship is more firmly established.

 

The bike I rented, propped up
against the charming hotel I
stayed at in Visby on Sweden's
Gotland Island in the Baltic Sea.

For now, I’m in transit to Uppsala, Sweden and thankful no one is tapping my shoulder, trying to persuade me to venture five kilometers out of the city to see the site where humans were sacrificed in pagan rituals of the 11^th century, their bodies left hanging and rotting in trees. Nope. Not a chance. I’ll be at the botanic gardens (Linnéträdgården) instead. I prefer trees adorned rather basically…leaves, maybe a lovely little nest. And for dinner, I’m good with picking up knäckebröd (crispbread) and cottage cheese at the ICA two blocks from the hotel. Sometimes I think Evan’s rather relieved he’s not traveling with me.

 

 

 

 

 

  

IN A TIME MACHINE, I JUST MIGHT CHOOSE THE YEAR 2020

Read an article last week about breaking up during the pandemic. I’d provide a link, but when I Googled the subject, there were too many matches. Maybe the pandemic shattered more relationships, all that claustrophobic time together and all. Or maybe breaking up is just such a common thing, no matter the time. Does that help people?

It’s not you, it’s a slew of folks.

Anyway, the article talked about how the isolating nature of this coronavirus interlude prevented the writer from receiving comforting hugs from friends, from going out to dinner or a club just to take her mind off the dumping and from getting back to it again and seeing who else is out there. The regular post-breakup channels were not in service. True enough.

It’s been six or seven weeks since I ended things with Daniel and I’m welcoming the COVID-19 barriers to normal recovery. Granted, as I’ve noted before, being single again doesn’t necessarily feel as painful to the person who calls things off. I wasn’t the one who was blindsided. Ostensibly, I’d thought about the repercussions of being single again before I ever had The Talk. Even if there were no pandemic, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be soliciting hugs or crying into shared Nachos Supreme plates as a friend tries to artfully dance around pained queries of “What’s wrong with me?” and, cue Linda Ronstadt, “When will I be loved?” I’m not much of a hugger or a sharer (including oversized appies).

I will admit that, while I’m not missing Daniel—it was the right decision—I’ve had to play a few rounds of the Whack-a-Mole game as nagging questions of self-doubt and self-criticism pop up:

Why isn’t it ever enough?

Is this about being too picky?

What makes me think I deserve better?

You know Ryan Reynolds is straight, right? And married...

Should I just settle?

Is this the end of dating?

Am I too old to fall in love again?

For me, a coronavirus gift—a dating consolation prize, if you will—is that I can stay in a state of inaction. I can just be.

That’s always been a challenge for me. Many years ago, a close friend of mine said, “You can’t ever just sit, can you? You’re always doing something.” He didn’t mean that I had ADHD; rather, I always had a To Do list, every day, every hour.

It startled me because I’d thought of myself as a laid back. Not quite as chill as a surfer dude (and that’s not just a stereotype; I had a surfer roomie for eight months when I lived in Malibu), but something chill-adjacent at least. But then I started monitoring myself...my evenings, my weekends, my vacations. Damn, I was intense. And if the task at hand wasn’t too taxing, I was multitasking. If I allowed myself to watch an episode of “Seinfeld,” I had an article in my lap or a crossword at the ready for commercial breaks. Even downtime had to be productive.

Normally, my approach to dating is just like my quest for getting a novel or essay published. When an editor or agent rejects my writing, I let my shoulders slump momentarily, whisper a profane word or two and then start preparing my next query, newly fired up, believing this editor/agent is even better. The perfect fit! Similarly, when a coffee date goes bust or a relationship ends, I log back into dating sites, I search and search, trying to find a profile I somehow overlooked and I send a new message, sure to impress with my use of full words, complete sentences and proper punctuation. (That’s what gay men are looking for, isn’t it?)

But this time around, I’m in a prolonged state of pause. The dating sites that I made inactive at the beginning of the year remain so. I haven’t once been tempted to log in again. It’s pointless. Even if there were a right guy, it would still be the wrong time.

I know people are getting back out there, returning to schools and offices, dining in restaurants, leaving their colorful rainbow masks on the kitchen counter. Heck, my octogenarian parents in Texas just hosted an indoor dinner party for friends in their complex, no one donning masks. “We get lonely,” my mom said. “We miss our friends too much.” It’s yet another example of how this apple fell oh so far from the tree. I’m pretty sure I’m an altogether different fruit.

Five months in and I’m still loving my solitary time. I feel no urgency to get back in the saddle again to see if I can rustle up a new boyfriend. It’s not like I’m spending an inordinate amount of time reflecting on why I suck at relationships...or at least why they always seem to be with neither Mr. Right nor Mr. Clearly Wrong but more like Mr. Woefully Askew. I know my dating strengths and weaknesses and, during this latest go-round, I made great gains in clear communication which had been the downfall of a prior relationship.

This time of not looking, of not even considering, has been so freeing. The coronavirus seems to be what I’ve needed to give myself permission to shelve thoughts of future dating (and fretting about not dating). While I’ve seen, heard and read about how others have resisted The Grand Pause, it’s been a great relief to me. Some greater force tapped me on the shoulder and calmly, yet decisively said, “Not now.”

Why, thank you!

It’s reminded me that being single ain’t so bad. I know that when I lived ten years on my own in a rural area, it almost destroyed me, but that was before I was ever handed my nifty portfolio of mental health diagnoses and it was during a time when my self-hate was savage and unrelenting. I still have to watch for mood dips—and there have been some this year—but generally the pandemic has lifted me. Weird, I know. This greater force has allowed me to be unapologetically, guilt-free me. I love my Me time. There is invariably a moment that comes when I’m out with a boyfriend or a friend and, no matter how nice the experience may be, my mind says, I’m done. Enough socializing. I need to be alone. ASAP.

That’s why writing suits me so well. No one questions all my time in solitary, developing stories that may never find an audience. You’re so disciplined, people say when I talk about my strict writing routine. I’m just doing what I love and it seems to come off as more palatable than the guy who spends equal amounts of time on video games.

While I hear people saying they just want 2020 to be over with, I’m savoring these days. (Let’s be clear though: I want the cases and the deaths to stop. Bring on the vaccine!) I write. I read. I work on my French and my Swedish. Depending on the day, I head out to hike or cycle or run. Days can go by without me contacting anyone else. I can feel like such an outlier in normal times but, thanks to a pandemic, I’m now a model citizen.

Single and satisfied.

JUST ME

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It’s not like I crawled in a hole. (Think I did that earlier in the fall.) I just wanted to get readjusted to my reality before blabbing about it. Single again.

It’s fine.

I’m good with it.

It’s true that I’m the one who finally ended it but what does that matter? People always ask. As if it’s easier to be the “breaker” instead of the “breakee”. Sometimes I guess, particular if the “breakee” is blindsided and/or delusional. Not the case here. In reality, I’d say we worked in tandem over the final few months to chip away at what had initially shown so much promise. The fact that we’d each attribute the demise to different things only underscores how we’d drifted apart. Through a series of actions and inactions, the relationship imploded.

A year. More when you consider how deeply we’d communicated online during the prior year while having an occasional lunch or dinner as friends when our sensibilities told us a Vancouver-Portland romance was out of the question.

We risked a solid friendship in deciding to try for something even greater. I have no regrets about giving it a go. I did fall in love. Not everything comes with a happy ending.

In the days that followed, I struggled to adjust to the shock of The End. Did that just happen? What now? No panicked regrets,…I think it was the right thing to do, even if we could have gone on for months and years in a less than happy state. People do that all the time.

Reverting to Party of One, the practical side of me truly wanted to know what to do next. Would it be different? Could it? Or would I fall back on going through the motions of living.

It’s always unsettling to be alone again, especially after feeling so sure I’d found The One, a partner for life. Being alone is familiar territory. I’ve lived it. In fact, I’ve often craved more of it. But there’s a fine line between being alone and being lonely, and I need to consciously and consistently track which side I am on.

My favorite photo from my time in Stockholm, taken during

a solo morning jog just after a fresh dusting of snow.           

To be honest, at 53, there is also that nagging fear that being alone may be a fixed status. I don’t entertain any fancy notion that there are desirable single gay men in my area looking to date an old (or is it ancient in gay circles?) fellow with mental health problems. If you’ve read a post or two of mine from October, you know that I am dealing with depression again with some slightly different flavors added to the diagnosis. I’m Bipolar II, which means I am prone to milder states of mania (hypomania) along with episodes of crushing depression. I don’t know how to twist and contort all that into sounding like a good thing.

Still, it’s not all gloom and doom. Last month, I flew to Stockholm for a week. Just because. No one else’s whims or schedule to negotiate with. I have a strong urge to go back. On my own again.

For now, it’s the clear preference.

NOT A WILD LIFE, BUT WILDLIFE

After a productive writing session, I called my dog and off we went on a car ride, my schnauzer’s head sticking out the back seat window, taking in all the glorious rural scents.  It was 7:30 p.m. and I wanted to snap a few view shots I came across during yesterday evening’s bike ride.  With all my griping about being stuck here, I thought I needed to balance things out with a series of pictures on the blog to show the natural beauty that lured me here in the first place.

Seven kilometres up the road, I’d come across a new road leading to a proposed development that would become two dozen luxury lots with ocean, forest and mountain views.  I’d dismounted my bike last night to get better glimpses of the water views in particular.  If I win the lottery, I thought.

Returning by car, I got three-quarters the way up the biggest hill and stopped the car.  On the side of the road seventy feet ahead of me were a mother bear and her cub.  The cub was oblivious to the new intruder, but Mama looked my way.  I cut the engine and rolled up the windows.  Seeing that I was not advancing, Mama refocused on the cub who kept circling Mama and pawing her.  The two drifted to the gentle, foxglove-covered hillside that edged the road.  It proved a much better play area for the cub who kept tumbling before getting back up and trying to goad Mama into a play fight.  Mama even fell on her back twice, paws flailing in the air momentarily.  She pawed back at the young ‘un who showed no sign of slowing down.

After ten minutes, the duo drifted ten feet uphill, the curve in the road and tall grasses obstructing most of my view.  Then I saw Mama raise her head, looking further ahead.  The cub scurried up a tall pine and Mama sauntered over for guard duty at the base of the tree. 

For a moment, my mind envisioned a worst-case scenario.  Could there be some numbskull hunters round the bend, the dolts who shop at that cursed hunting supply store I pass every time I drive into town?  I cracked the window to listen for a car motor or a sound more ominous.  Nothing, thank goodness.

Five minutes later, as I strained to make out the cub high in the tree, a movement made me turn left.  On the hillside directly beside the car was a deer, the likely impostor who’d likely disturbed the bears’ play.  Another gorgeous creature, so gentle, so curious as our eyes met.

I waited until the deer moseyed another twenty feet past the car before starting the engine and turning the car around, heading for home with a sense of utter calmness and satisfaction.

Do I have any pics to document my nature sightings?  No.  The bears looked like brown blobs through the lens of my cheap digital camera.  I didn’t bother to click.  As for the deer, there was too much of the car in the frame.  I didn’t wish to stick my head out and startle the creature.  Respecting the animals was more important than having my perfect photo op.  I am completely satisfied with the images that will stay in my mind.

Yes, this is why I moved here in the first place.  At times, bears worry me.  When I moved in, my neighbor to the left told me his dog was killed by a bear two years prior.  My neighbor to the right told me his schnauzer also succumbed to a bear attack at some point before my arrival.  I have seen a bear once a bike ride and a few recently on the roadside while driving into town, but until tonight, that’s all.  (This is my first ever cub sighting.)  The deer are more commonly spotted in my area at dawn and dusk.  Two nights ago while out for our last walk, I scooped up the dog so as not to spook a deer on our street.  If anything, it’s the coyotes that make me the wariest.  I’ve seen them many times as darkness falls when I’ve been out walking the dog or make the trek back from the ferry.  One chased my dog down our street a year ago.  My schnauzer wisely yelped frantically to get my attention and ran right into my arms.  Assuming my own Mama Bear persona, I stomped and hollered until the coyote retreated into the bushes at the top of the hill.  On warm summer nights when I leave the window open, I am sometimes awakened by the coyotes' pitchy choir practice not too far off in the woods behind my house.  Personally, I prefer that din to the early morning howls of the neighbors' kids.

Nothing much happens here.  No White Parties.  No drag shows.  Not even a gay sighting at the gym or, well, anywhere.  Sometimes the sense of being all alone overtakes me, disheartens me, leaves me longing for anything and everything that the city—any city—offers.  But for tonight, I am completely content. 

Well, almost.  There’s the matter of What-the-Dog-Brought-in while I wrote this.  A few days ago, he discovered an animal bone somewhere in the neighborhood.  It’s given him oodles of pleasure as he scurries in and out to scoop it in his mouth, wandering the back yard in search of the perfect hiding spot.  Turns out that spot is the carpet in my living room.

A huge animal lover, I like them alive and intact.  The bone?  It would be irreverent to chuck it in the trash can so back to the yard it goes.  If only my dog could learn to dig in the ground instead of atop my chairs and on the rug.  Some beasts have become too humanized.

QUESTIONS

Nothing new in this post. It’s just me spinning in the same old spot.  

In my twenties, I thought I knew it all. Even though, deep down, I knew I didn’t. There were many adult things I did not want to grasp. Stocks. Home ownership. “Murder, She Wrote.” Still, I had a clear sense of how to foster a loving relationship. Even if said relationship was only a hypothetical. I did not date ANYONE until I was twenty-five. 

In my thirties, I may have actually known it all. Seriously. Everything clicked. Real relationship with a seemingly perfect partner. Heritage house. Pet. Job with growing leadership responsibilities. Potential everywhere! I was set for life. 

Or at least until my forties. Relationship? Gone. Not a single hopeful sign in that area. House? Got one, but it’s a dead weight that I cannot seem to shake. It’s like the Hotel California: You can check-in anytime you’d like, but you can never leave. Job? It’s gruelling and utterly thankless. There is no time to savor a moment of success as more crises demand URGENT attention. Crises that began from the actions of others. I am the professional sanitation worker, expected to clean up everyone else’s mess. Pet? One of my beloved dogs died in March and I still miss him terribly, but at least I have my other one to be nonjudgmental, to pretend I am the greatest thing since sliced bananas (his fave), to get upset when any other dog seeks my attention. (Yes, dogs dig me. Gay men? Not so much.) 

 Life is now as much a puzzle as it was in my teen years. I am left with a long list of questions, but at the top of the list is, What happened?! 

I know I have many changes to make, but the waiting is maddening. When will my house sell (if it sells)? When will I be approved to return to the U.S. (if at all)? What kind of peon job will I get while I strive to make it as a writer? And will I make it? Will all the changes turn out to be foolish in retrospect? If there is someone for everyone, where is my guy? What if he has lost his way due to the ex-gay movement? What if I leave Vancouver when he was here all along, always walking the seawall ten minutes before or after me? What if he’s in L.A. and settles for someone else before I get here? How long will I have to sigh longingly as moviemakers lead me to believe Mr. Right is a fender bender away? What if there really isn’t someone for everyone? Why shouldn’t I be one of the have nots? 

No more questions, please. I have enough uncertainty despite decades of experience. To modify a common expression, the more I live, the less I know.

ONE IS (SOMETIMES) THE LONELIEST NUMBER

Took the ferry in to do some writing at the downtown public library in Vancouver yesterday. It wasn't as productive as usual. Got stuck sitting beside an acquaintance on the bus ride from the terminal to downtown. He was running on about his business pitch. My eyes glazed over and I never fully recovered. My brain lacks the capacity for power tools, technology and business. Makes me not a very practical guy. Should have been a trust fund baby but, alas, that didn't work out. Now all hopes are on the lottery.

Of course, having a partner might offset my deficiencies. He could install the new light fixture that’s been sitting in my closet for two years and I could…well, I could thank him. And maybe that glaring imbalance helps explain my recent stretch at being single. What’s it been now? Six years and counting, I think.

Since February I’ve been emailing a fellow from Toronto. There seems to be some potential, but that may be because we haven’t met. He had a birthday recently and I didn’t hear from him for the next ten days. Seems being single and fortysomething put him into a funk. (I’m not a fan of birthdays. Too many of us mark it as an artificial point in time—like New Year’s—in which we reflect on growing older and what we have (not) accomplished. Reflection can be constructive, but when it hits at a time we’re supposed to feel celebratory, it can be destructive.)

When he finally resurfaced, he started opening up about feeling alone. He talked about what having a partner would mean. I especially liked his comment about two people being at a function and mixing with other people at opposite ends of the room and yet still being "together". Lovely thought. I'm a sucker for romantic comedies, even the terminally bad ones, and I even found myself watching "The Bachelorette" Monday night. (Shame.) I take comfort in knowing that others are out there (supposedly) looking for love.

When I can avoid wallowing in my single status, I am able to remind myself that there have been times when I was with a boyfriend in a crowded room and the space wasn't big enough, he couldn't be far enough away. I can remember pulling up to our house and breathing a sigh of relief when his vehicle wasn't parked out front. I recall hanging out at the UBC library until 11 p.m. closing time because the character house that I'd dreamed of no longer felt like home.

I know some couples that should no longer be together. I've sat through many a meal as the third wheel with my head down, staring intently at my mashed potatoes as they tensely discussed a trivial matter, behaving as best they could with a (reluctant) witness present.

I still long for a partner to share my life, to respect and support, to laugh with me when I bang into the cabinets (again), to console me after a bird hits the guest bedroom window—as happened this morning—and maybe even to figure out how to program my DVD—not show me, just do it for crying out loud!

At 45, there are many days when an irritating voice in my head tells me I may have missed out. Sometimes that voice from when I was 15, the one that said I nothing but a repulsive misfit, joins in and says, "I told you so." There are days when, even eating alone, it's best to just stare at my mashed potatoes. Or take the dogs for a longer walk in the trails. Or listen to En Vogue and Alanis tell off the guys that never looked my way in the first place.

Sometimes coping isn't pretty.

Fortunately, that 15-year-old voice doesn't come around much. It's probably off tormenting confused teens in a nearby high school. I no longer ask, "What's wrong with me?" Part of my being single is my own doing—my career, my isolated home environment, my inability to make eye contact with anyone I find remotely attractive. But then part of it is about things just not lining up right. I may think many of the good ones are taken, but they may be bores or brutes in their seemingly blissful longterm relationships.

I can obsess over being single. Heck, when I was 6, I thought I'd be settled down at 20. Didn't happen the way I'd planned/dreamed. My life is different. But it is what it is. I make the most of it. I can get exceedingly frustrated, but most of the time I can find something to laugh or at least smile about.

As I write this sentence, I turn and see one of my dogs, looking up and wagging his tail. It’s a reminder that to him, at least, I’m special.