CLARITY IN THE RADIO STATIC

As I got in the car, I wasn’t in the mood for news radio so I scanned the dial and came upon an oldie, Air Supply’s “Lost in Love.” It’s from my high school years—I’m an oldie, too. I’d only gone a block when the station drew static. I wasn’t willing to lose the song. I listened as it came in and out. I made it to the end and then flipped to another station.

 

The song—it’s memories and the way it played this most recent time—was perfect for my current melancholic state. I’ve been thinking about love a lot lately. Just like the first time I heard “Lost in Love,” it feels like I know nothing about it. And, just like then, I cannot fathom falling into it. 

 

Back then, I was overwhelmed by the East Texas high school social scene where I felt unseen. I envied the popular people. I wanted their clear skin, their confidence, their gift of walking down hallways with exclamation marks always in tow. Everything they did or said stood out for reasons that didn’t make sense. That’s just what status does. 

 

I went to high school dances. Why so many? I didn’t go to the keg parties in the woods or at people’s houses after the dances. I didn’t know about them. I was honestly shocked to find out a couple years later that there were so many of them, too. I suppose people kept that sort of thing tight-lipped to keep the quality factor up. Isn’t that nonsensical? Unpopular people crashing hip high school parties only happens in movies, right? Why would I want to be ignored more? Why would I want beer which I still find gross unless I squeeze in a half-dozen lime wedges? I didn’t know about fruit beer back then and I suspect these weren’t the kinds of parties that had sliced fruit beside the keg…or anywhere.

 

Love was not conceivable in high school. Not with my zits. Not with my chicken legs and bicep-free arms. Not with my unruly red curls. Not with my utter confusion over my sexuality. I had “tendencies” but they needed constant quashing. This was the Bible Belt. This was the Land of the Southern Baptists. This was Hell. 

 

But on the radio, Olivia sang that I had to believe we are “Magic,” Diana Ross declared, “It’s My Turn” and The Manhattan Transfer harmonized over “The Boy from New York City.” There was hope, wasn’t there? There was something after high school.

 

Still, I subjected myself to deep inhales of Air Supply. Torture, some people would say, then and now. There was something lush in the vocals and dramatic in the way each song built to a crescendo. I sang along to every song on their albums, always hitting the high notes, just like co-lead singer Russell Hitchcock. (Back then, American Idol and William Hung hadn’t entered pop culture. I may have doubted many things about myself, but I had no reason to believe I might have been tone deaf. Ignorance, in that case, was bliss.) I sang along cluelessly to tunes like “Every Woman in the World,” “Even the Nights Are Better” and “Making Love out of Nothing at All.” Still, “Lost in Love” was my number one. 

 

SIDE NOTE: My first ever concert was seeing Air Supply on the Stephen F. Austin campus in Nacogdoches, Texas. (I was never going to be popular.)

 

Then, as now, song lyrics could be garbled, not all of them as much so as, say, “MacArthur Park” (Who leaves a cake out in the rain?!), but, oh, how I’d love to give so many pop tunes a quick edit. If I’d actually been in love when I first heard “Lost in Love,” I’m not sure it would have given me any tips. 

         I realize the best part of love is the thinnest slice

                                [Is this about cake, too?]

         And it don’t count for much

         But I’m not letting go

         I believe there’s still much to believe in.

 

So lift your eyes if you feel you can

Reach for a star and I’ll show you a plan

I figured it out

What I needed was someone to show me.

 

"Mockup" or mockery?

I re-searched those lyrics. He does not pass on the “plan” he’s shown. I blame Air Supply for keeping me lost in love whenever that feeling finally did occur.

 

And still I listen, then and now. Air Supply 4ever! This is just like me in love. Always loyal. Always the fool. 

 

So, yes, bringing matters to the present, the zits went away, the concept of popularity stayed back in high school (since I had no interest in entering politics) and I got myself far, far away from the Bible Belt and places with more Baptist churches than banks and gas stations combined.

 

I fell in love five times. And, remarkably, each of those times the guy loved me back as much as he could. I can go to a Love Anonymous meeting—I think I just made that up; don’t Google a local chapter—and I can stand up and say, “It’s been almost six months since my last love.” No doubt, there would be knowing nods. Translation: Yes, yes. We’ve heard your story. Not again. PLEASE! 

 

Okay, no story time. I’ll just say not every story has a happily ever after. (Do you hear me, romance writers and readers? WAKE UP!)

 

I can lean into another Air Supply song, their follow-up to “Lost in Love”: “All Out of Love.” Yes, well sequenced. First “in love,” then “out of love.”    

 

I can’t be sure, but I think that’s the way things will stay for me. I’m not being dramatic…though I will be next time I hear “All Out of Love” on the radio, Hitchcock pulling vocal gymnastics again to a crescendo that consists of a four-peat of “What are you thinking of?” Frankly, I’m letting all that go. Whatever my ex is thinking of, it’s certainly not me. 

 

Not in the cards...

I’m settled again, a single man. Five times in love feels like an awesome record for a guy like me. Not as awesome as one time in love that lasts forty years and still ticks on but, with an assist from hindsight, that was never going to happen. I think love has run its course. I’ve spent too much time hoping for it, looking for it, saying I’m not looking for it and hoping then it will come my way just like people say. Mathematically, I’ve longed for love longer than I’ve been in love.

 

Dating sites today are empty shells of what they were. I’ve had a baffling five months of  Grindr and Scruff, apps that are reputed to be more about Right Now than Mr. Right but for me have been about guys who are too afraid to post a picture much less say something.

 

I’m not going to hang out in gay bars. I’ve learned and relearned that I really don’t want drinking to be a cornerstone of any relationship.

 

I’m all out of love in terms of opportunities. I’m okay with that. Part of growing older is coming to terms with some of our dreams and aspirations not coming to fruition in the way we imagined. 

 

I do like my time to myself. I want to focus on some friendships I value. I want to explore more of the world. I want peace of mind. I’ve been muddling with all this quite a bit. Leave it to Air Supply to help me reach a crescendo and then let things fade out. 

 

It all feels right. Time to switch the radio off.

 

 

 

  

ORDINARY WORLD

Calendar says March 6. I don’t have anything marked on my iCalendar app. It wasn’t like I was going to forget the significance of the date. Now, I only wish I could.

 

Two years together. Happy Anniversary!

 

But we didn’t quite make it. We flamed out three weeks beforehand. I’d bought the card. I knew how else I’d mark the occasion, with him in Denver and me in Vancouver. A special day, but it didn’t seem essential we’d be physically together on the actual day. Such is the nature of long-distance relationships. I always knew there’d be more. 

 

Scratch all that. I’m the fool. I fully believed we were on solid ground. We’d worked through our differences as they came up. This was the one relationship where I didn’t hold on to things said and done in past conflicts. I seemed to blank on them immediately after the fact because the particulars didn’t matter. We’d gotten through. I felt secure enough to stay in the present. 

 

When enough time passes, I’ll be able to finally look back. When people ask how long it lasted, I’ll unequivocally say, “Two years.” The three-week deficiency won’t matter. Mathematically, it’s a no-brainer case of rounding up. 

 

Today, of course, rounding is a faulty exercise. It stings.  

Generally speaking, I’m not a fan of special days on the calendar. I never have announced my “balloon day” on Twitter. I see how these posts generate lots of likes, but I don’t need that. It’s not an achievement when I have another birthday. "Still here." 

Technically, I did a few things right to still be around. I regularly look both ways before crossing the street. I wash my lettuce (or, more accurately, because I’m lazy, I rarely buy the stuff, even as a vegetarian). Skydiving will always be a firm, “Hell no!” I made it through the AIDS crisis. Doctors successfully removed my melanoma thirty-five years ago and it hasn’t come back (that I know of). I haven’t fainted upon seeing a grizzly while hiking. (Worst fainting injury: broken foot—in my home, not on a trail.) 

 

So birthdays…meh. Call me a humbug—it fits—but I don’t get excited about getting drunk on New Year’s Eve. (Do I even have to finish the obligatory flute of champagne?) Easter? I’m not much for chocolate. Pride? Too often it feels like people wanting to call maximum attention to themselves wearing as little as possible instead of a rally to consider what rights need our vigorous support locally, nationally and globally. Thanksgiving? I do love a pumpkin pie and I always make one sometime within a six-week window of the holiday, but it’s rarely on the designated day. Christmas? Yay, “Rudolph.” Yay, shortbread. But, personally, it feels like the loneliest time of year. 

 

I prefer ordinary days. Basically, I do better on days like May 17 and November 3, random squares on a desk calendar. Maybe it’s National Pizza Day somewhere or Polka Dot Sock Day. I prefer randomness and quirkiness to obligatorily hyped days laden with expectations. Let me make something of May 17. Let me occasionally make ordinary extraordinary, all my own doing.

 

This is also why I don’t like Valentine’s Day. Hallmark, the flower industry, chocolatiers and primary school teachers have done a masterful job grooming us to acknowledge the day. Considering what happened to me this Valentine’s, I like the day even less.

 

But an anniversary has always seemed to matter to me. It’s not just the passing of time that makes an anniversary happen. This milestone is a result of commitment, communication and doing the hard work that allows a relationship’s continuation. There are lots of perks, of course—support, feeling seen and understood, sex, spontaneous laughter, truly connected conversations, a companion to do things with you wouldn’t do for yourself like make pasta from scratch or splurge on a stay at a magical hotel in a national park, someone to nudge you out of your comfort zone, getting you to ride a roller coaster or go to an EDM concert. An anniversary is a celebration of the work, the joy and connection that two people are invested in. 

 

Today was supposed to be a genuine day of pride, not just Pride in the LGBTQ sense but PRIDE, all-caps, and appreciation of all we had experienced and an excitement that much more was to come.

 

Not to be. 

 

This March 6^th represents failure in the absence of a card or call. My parents have been married for sixty-three years, my sister for thirty-seven, my brother for thirty-four. Once again, I didn’t make it to two. And that’s not even counting time from the point of a ceremony. Weddings aren’t a marker for me. I didn’t even have the right to marry in a place where I lived until I was thirty-eight. It wasn’t a part of what I envisioned as a long-term relationship. I don’t need the hype of it. It’s not a must for me. Right now, of course, that prospect feels as ludicrous as it did when I first came out and was trying to find a relationship that stretched past two weeks.

 

I long ago stopped counting my relationships in two-week intervals, but now it’s two years that feels woefully short.

 

So today is just March 6^th. An ordinary day. Cue Duran Duran. On any other day, ordinary would be just what I asked for. But on this day, it’s not what I want at all.

 

 

 

  

BONJOUR, MONTRÉAL!

Well, here’s a surprise [Quelle surprise!]:

 

I’m moving to Québec. 

 

It seems I must. If I want to find love, or at least go out for a coffee with a guy who decides my profile pic is decent enough for him to be seen in public with—the bar keeps getting lower—I must pack my things and find an apartment in Beloeil or Vaudreuil-Dorion or Prévost. These are the places where the guys are. 

 

Guys who (presumably) aren’t married.

 

Guys who are my age-ish.

 

Guys whom Silver Singles has decided are my matches. One-third of my sixty-three matches thus far live in La Belle Province. Only eleven live within a two-hour drive of me. (To clarify, I live 4,550 kilometres from Montréal and 4,800 kilometres from Québec City.) 

 

Au revoir, Vancouver.

 

I don’t speak French. It may be reputed to be the language of love, but I have a hunch it’s a barrier when one is not doing love-y things. How many times am I allowed to say, “Ooh la la,” before a guy shows me la sortie? 

 

I realize that most French-speaking residents of Québec can also communicate fluently in English, but there’s a measure of respect that comes with speaking the language that is the mother tongue for a majority of citizens in the particular province where you live. Plus, I want to be able to eavesdrop on what my guy is saying about me on the phone or across the table to his friends and Maman. 

 

The sad thing is that I’ve spent many years purportedly learning French. My level plateaued in ninth grade. (This comes after only beginning French studies in sixth grade.) My family moved to Texas during the summer before I started grade ten where most students learned Spanish as their foreign language. My level of French was “advanced” by East Texas standards. This was not high praise in a place where English sometimes seemed to be a foreign language. My father required us to act as interpreters whenever a server took our order at a restaurant. (He’s since adapted to the drawl, even adopted some of it.) My classmates thought my Canadian “accent” was British. Needless to say, I was never going to read Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables in its original language. (At 1,462 pages, it’s doubtful I’ll read the English translation either.)

 

I’ve been learning French on Duolingo. I’m on a 930-day streak. That’s something, right? 

 

Apparently not much. I recently decided I need to take an intensive French course, something more immersive than twenty-item exercises from a green owl (une chouette verte). I took an online test through Vancouver’s Alliance Française and then attempted to engage in a brief conversation on Zoom with an instructor. My French level was assessed as B1 which basically means I can use my skills to order poutine, complain about the weather and identify the colors on the Pride flag. It also means that if someone actually attempts to engage me in a real conversation in French, I’ll put my head down and cry. 

 

Maybe Frenchmen in Québec find communication issues and crying attractive. Maybe my go-to “ooh la la” will never cease to be amusing and sexy in a Je ne sais quoi kind of way.

 

Pierre: Regardez. Un bus.

Moi:    Ooh la la!

Pierre: Aimez-vous les beignets?

Moi:    Ooh la la!

Pierre: Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?

Moi:    Ooh la la!

 

Maybe I should have moved to Montréal long ago!

Ah, but then again, maybe not. Maybe Silver Singles will just have to do better in the matchmaking biz.    

 

 

 

  

HERE I GO AGAIN--Part One (Glass Half Empty)

You don’t procrastinate doing things you really want to do. Two months ago, I blogged that, now fully vaccinated and perhaps staying in Vancouver for the indefinite future, I was teetering toward possibly reactivating my online dating profiles. But I didn’t. It became a “chore,” on my To Do list, a Post-it that no longer registered with my brain even though it was slapped right next to the handle on my fridge. It joined “mop under sofa” and “figure out how to put sliding door back on to cover laundry area.” Important, perhaps, but these are the kinds of things I rely on someone else to nag me about until one or both of us screams, “I’ve had it!” Prepare to die, dust bunnies. 

 

Days passed, then weeks. Did I really want to look at thumbnail pics of men again? Did I want to get rattled by the site’s less than genuine declaration that it sought to bring together people for healthy, happy relationships? Why then, dear Cupid, would the screen page default to “You might also like…” after I send someone a message? Are you telling me I aimed too high in writing a clever little note to VanMuscleMan? Don’t you just want me to click, click, click so you can show advertisers how heavily browsed your site is? (As a writer, specificity adds character to a piece, but I can’t recall a single advertiser and I’m not about to log in to peruse ads. I have better things to do. Like mopping under the sofa.)

 

On Sunday, I took a corner table at a café and finally logged in again, first having to tell OkCupid I’d forgotten my password and then surprising myself that I breezed right into Plenty of Fish. Oh, POF, if only we could break up for good. 

 

When I first joined these sites way back when I could still call myself middle-aged, it was all free. All my clicking presumably brought in enough income. Over time, the sites wanted my credit card deets in exchange for “highlighting my profile” with a gold star or maybe dancing pickles above the header. Very suggestive, right? I passed. I’m desperate enough to still be on your site but, dammit, I’m not $10.95 per month desperate. And the reduced rate if I go for the annual plan only admits the sad reality that, yes, I’m a likely candidate for site surfing into perpetuity. Hope and denial prevent me from making an economically savvy decision.

 

I updated my pics. I tweaked the paragraphs in my bio. I added and deleted interests. Seems I like the idea of kayaking more than actually going for a paddle. (But I’ve added it to my To Do list.)

 

I browsed. POF flashed the message “Someone Likes You” a few times. I would have to pull out my credit card to find out. No thanks. As I clicked on profiles, parts of each were cut off. Again, the site interrupted my search, imploring me to grab my VISA to “read Leif72’s full profile.” I was tempted. Leif is such a great name. So Nordic! I’m partial to all things Scandinavian. Leif and I could fika on the first date. (Don’t be sleazy, Dear Reader. Fika may be a four-letter f-word, but it’s perfectly acceptable to do in public, even with Granny Eriksson watching.) Still, I resisted the expenditure. I also made a note to revisit my profile to make sure my first paragraph, in particular, popped.

 

It turns out there was a legitimate reason for my procrastination. The catalog of men underwhelmed on both sites. OkCupid was especially chintzy in letting me browse for free. They’d made it so I could only see one profile at a time and I would have to do the equivalent to swiping left or right as a rash judgment for someone before I could see the next person at the mercy of my click finger. Four or five no’s and I had to stop. It felt harsh and dismissive, which it literally was, at least as to the latter part. I logged out. I haven’t gone back. It’s time for me to accept, once and for all, that OkCupid and I are not a match. All the best to you in your future pursuit of desperate men’s cash.

 

Plenty of Fish and I have a much longer previous relationship, albeit often acrimonious. Once I’d navigated around all the attempts to rob me of my meager funds, I took a deep breath, entered a search and looked at the results. After five minutes, I knew I needed an attitude adjustment. I was reacting with horror and hostility to many of the profiles. So many guys with the same photos I’d first seen years ago. It seems these guys don’t age and/or they don’t know how to take a quick selfie on their phone. While I think I could connect with another tech-challenged man, I’m turned off by the clear lack of effort here. 

 

Scroll, scroll.

 

More agitation. When you create a profile, you have a chance to show your best self. Unlike all the dreadful annual school photos, YOU get to choose the pics. Snap, delete ad infinitum until--Wow! This one’s not bad. Almost looks like me even after cropping, editing and choosing a “Dramatic Warm” iPhone filter. I’ve been deceived by a profile photo a time or two. But many of these Fishermen didn’t seem to get the art of self-promotion or even the concept of giving a damn. 

 

One guy posted a single photo, blurry, mostly of an indistinct background wall. (Sir, please go to YouTube and type “how to crop a photo” in the search window. Even easier, use the crop feature that POF provides before you post your pic.) 

 

Scroll.

 

Another guy who ascribes to the One Photo Is Enough school of thought posted a shot so dark that I wasn’t sure if I was looking at his face or a fire hydrant. Another man included several pictures, but I’m not sure what he was going for. One consisted of his feet and a shadow on the ground. Another had him holding up a barbecued rat (squirrel?) on a skewer. I don’t know about the others. The rat was enough of an unwelcome surprise. 

 

SCROLL!

 

Another guy demonstrated a knowledge of cropping skills, showing one shot of his abs--um, no complaints--and a second of him standing in gym attire in a locker room, his baseball cap and its shadow covering his face. What’s there to intuit? See me for my body, not my face.

 

The next profile featured a stunning photo of a camel. The guy was there too, kneeling behind, most of him obscured by said camel. So, he’s portraying himself as an adventurer. He went to Egypt, I presume, but why is my eye drawn to the camel? To be perfectly clear--and this is essential--I’m not into camels, but there’s a rule in acting that kids and animals will upstage you every time. Same for dating profile photos.

 

Scroll, scroll.

 

One guy added a caption under his photo: “danceing Through the Tulips”. 

 

You have no idea what kind of a battle Autocorrect and I had over that one. It got quite heated and the barista told me to quiet down or I’d have to leave. Here’s a partial transcript immediately after I first typed the tulip dancer’s photo caption:

 

                        Autocorrect:   Whoa! You’ve been drinking ciders 

                                                again, haven’t you?

                                      Me:    Have not.

                        Autocorrect:   Whatever. There. Fixed.

                                      Me:    No! It’s supposed to be that way.

                        Autocorrect:   Hell, no! Allow me to show you how 

                                                it’s supposed to be.

                                      Me:    I know that! I know how it’s supposed 

                                                to be. But I want it to look wrong.

                        Autocorrect:   Good god, don’t be daft. There. 

                                                Fixed again.

                                      Me:    Stop that. I need it to look exactly 

                                                how someone else wrote it.

                        Autocorrect:   That’s just mean. Surely, he’d want 

                                                things to look proper.

                                                That’s my raison d’être.

                                      Me:    Apparently not. I’m thinking he 

                                                turned you off.

                        Autocorrect:   The fool! Who would do such a thing?

                                      Me:    Exactly. So, it’s staying as is.

                        Autocorrect:   This is painful.

                                      Me:    Agreed. Let’s move on.

                        Autocorrect:   Yes. Let’s.

 

You’ll be happy to know the barista didn’t kick us out, but he looked at me oddly when I said my friend and I wanted to apologize.

 

Another gentleman claimed to be sixty-one. I double-checked that. Huh. This is one of those guys who thinks, I’ll just subtract ten, maybe fifteen. My friend Norma says I look young for my age. Dude, Norma was being nice. Be you. Be your age! I’ve heard men lament that no one will look at them if they give their real age. Hell, that’s MY lament. But it’s the reality. What are you going to do when you meet for coffee? Borrow that baseball cap from Mr. Abs?

 

AAAAAAAAH!

 

There is only one possible explanation for all these ill-advised, low-effort presentations: My mom made me create a profile. Well, Mom should have had a peek before you pressed the save button.

 

Plenty of Fish and I are all caught up. I can’t say it’s good to be back.

 

         UP NEXT: After regrouping, it seems I’ve got a date lined up.  

DATING INDIFFERENCE

At the very beginning of 2020, before the Great Lockdown, I snoozed my profiles on traditional online dating sites. I was moving. I most certainly did not want to start a relationship with someone in Vancouver. In a post from that time, I’d explained that I wanted to do some sowing of my wild oats which I never did in my teens or twenties. When I came out in my mid-twenties, AIDS seemed to be wiping out the gay population and I didn’t think sex with a stranger was worth it. I had enough fear about being gay in the first place—possible bashing, losing my job (I worked with nuns), losing friends, being disowned by family (which, in retrospect, might not have been so bad). Back in the ’80s, “out and proud” was perhaps an aspiration for others, but I was just looking to survive. I never was one for setting lofty goals.

 

Okay, so back to 2020. MY mission: makeup sex, in the sense of experiencing a little of what I missed. I opened a profile on a hookup site and wound up meeting one guy who wasn’t a hook up at all. We dated for five months. It was nice as a casual yet close connection. When lockdown forced me to postpone or abandon travel and moving plans, I suppose the stakes became higher. I had to assess whether this guy, who was comfortable to be around, was long-term partner material. He wasn’t. Nice guy, but we had some fundamental differences in terms of values. 

 

I’ve been single for a full year and off all online sites for seventeen months—I closed down my profile on the hookup site when I the supposedly casual five-month relationship began. (I’m even worse at juggling than I am at setting lofty goals.) To say it’s been good to be single and off the dating scene is an understatement. 

 

So many of us who are single spend too much time thinking about relationship possibilities. We pine. We whine. We flirt. We get hurt. (Okay, my flirting is infinitely worse than my juggling or my goal setting. Call it nonexistent. But others, I’m told, flirt.) Our friends, particularly those who are coupled, say well-intended, but unhelpful things like: It’ll happen when you stop looking. Don’t try so hard; Maybe you’re being too picky. (Um, so are you saying I should lower my standards? Hello, rock. Wanna go out?); and You need to put yourself out there more. (Sure, let me simply turn off my lifelong INTROVERT button and suddenly become a different personality.) 

 

I can be quick to put myself down, but I know I did a lot of things right when I was on the dating scene. I had many odd or bad coffee dates that made for good blog posts, but I also had many occasions where the conversation flowed and things extended to a walk or dinner before I got told I was a really nice guy, but I didn’t set off any fireworks. (My fireworks skills? You guessed it. Not even worth buying bottle rockets or Roman candles. I’ve been afraid of fire ever since a sparkler boo-boo when I was five. Can’t even light a match. I will not be putting on a fireworks show for anyone.) I suspect some of this fireworks nonsense may have been on account I didn’t give off any pressing Let’s Have Sex vibes. I’m the quintessential guy next door. 

 

When you have a lot of WTF go-nowhere dates, you can either torture yourself with What’s Wrong with Me thinking, adopt a Screw You All, Shallow Gay Men stance or just wave a white flag and choose to knit an afghan or set off in search of a rare Light-footed Clapper Rail. (That’s a bird. Frankly, if I were a bird and I knew humans called me a Light-footed Clapper Rail, I’d go into hiding, too. Because clearly humans are weird.) I’ve swum in the What’s Wrong and the Screw You sewers more than a time or two, but I’ve yet to take up knitting or birdwatching. (I can only imagine the dangers that would come with me holding knitting needles and binoculars just bug my eyes. Hmm…I’m beginning to see why guys might quickly decide I’m not such a catch.)

 

For a year now, the self-criticism has been next to nil. Whining and pining? Wasted time. (Ryan Reynolds doesn’t count. I’m abundantly aware that he is still solidly straight…and married.) 

 

Lockdown and a global pandemic have made it a no-brainer to forgo dating. (Yes, this generously assumes I have much of a say in the prospect of dating.) I’d read how one of Canada’s top doctors encouraged sex with masks, but I was having enough challenges just putting on a mask so it didn’t cover up my eyes. (I know, I know. Such a catch!) I couldn’t get my head around the thought that the sweatiness under my mask would complement the sweatiness of sex. Different things. I’d also read a New York Times article about casual sex during coronavirus, but it just made me think people had their priorities out of whack. Perhaps I defaulted to some version of AIDS-era sense of caution. I wasn’t terribly fearful of getting COVID, but I didn’t want to be the one to pass on the virus or have it passed on to me and then to have it get passed on to someone far more vulnerable. For me at least, any personal agenda needed to be put on hold to give that “We’re All in This Together” mantra some weight instead of merely being a sign people post in windows.

 

I’ve come to realize I am happy being single. I’ve always known I enjoy time on my own but, just like 98% of us, I was raised to believe that becoming a couple was one of the milestones that made your life well-lived. As a man, bachelor has never sounded as judgemental as how women are labeled: spinster or cat lady. Still, this bachelor wasn’t ever going to be called a playboy and I’d had my wedding song picked when I was six. (“We’ve Only Just Begun” by The Carpenters, natch.) 

 

Being on my own does not make me a Have Not. I don’t need to be defensive about it just because others may project a void in my life. We have different life paths. One is not necessarily better than another. It’s what you make of the path you’re on. That’s as Oprah as I’ve ever sounded, but all this quiet time has allowed me to get more comfortable with where I’m at. The quiet has also reduced any tendency to compare myself with others I see going about their daily business since there was less of that going on in public. I stopped inferring some sense of happiness in couples I passed on the sidewalk (instead begrudging the fact they rarely walked single file for two seconds to allow more space as we came upon one another). I didn’t have opportunities to view a person having dinner alone in a restaurant as someone warranting pity. I have done this. I have felt this. I know I’m not the only one.

 

Things are opening back up again. For now. Who knows what may or may not happen when winter approaches. I’ve had both my vaccination shots. I know I can reactivate my dating profiles. It’s crossed my mind a few times over the past couple of weeks. It goes on my to-do list, but I don’t do it. It stays there along with Fix Closet Door and Clean Car Interior (so much coffee spillage).     

 

Yes, I can date again. Chat over coffee. Walk away with a funny or a maddening anecdote. Maybe even experience a firework-free spark. Maybe more. All I have to do is press one button on a dating site to make my profile public again. I can easily update things with some recent, acceptable photos of me looking smiley and sporty. It’s painless. The problem is, I haven’t figured out why. What do I want now, if anything? Is diving back into dating—or the possibility of it, at least—just a fallback habit? Gosh, it’s what I’ve always done. It’s what I’m supposed to do to “fix” this “problem” of being a single guy. 

 

I’ve had a good thing going for the past year. As an example, I just had a great weekend that had me smiling as I retired to bed Sunday night. When. I thought back on it, I realized I’d spent it entirely alone. I’d exchanged texts with some friends, three in Vancouver, one in Boston. I’d gone on a ten-hour solo hike, ascending two mountain peaks, I’d started my Sunday walking three hours in the rain and seeing how much an old neighborhood where I’d lived had changed. I read, I wrote, I watched a movie. I felt content the entire time. Not once did I think something was missing.

 

I don’t think this dating ambivalence arises from a sense of safety and I know it’s not fear that’s holding me back. Without the slightest bit of bitterness or drama, I wonder if I might just be done. I’ll give it some more thought, but I know that, for now at least, I’m happy being single. That’s a pretty wonderful takeaway from one odd year.

THE CALL OF THE MARMOT

Every so often I have to remind myself about the story of a single gay man who moved to an idyllic setting only to suffer from years of isolation. True story. My story.

Maybe it’s a gay thing. We like pretty things. Why else do gay men continue to post daily shirtless selfies, always drawing hundreds, if not thousands, of likes? The abs haven’t changed overnight. And yet this is the gay version of feeding the needy while getting a little pick-me-up ourselves. Ooh! So pretty.

I know, I know. I should step away from Twitter more. If it’s not pec flaunting, it’s Trump taunting. It’s one of the reasons my all-day hikes—without connectivity—have been so restorative this summer. Which brings me back to my own version of pretty things: mountains and lakes. (A stunning pic I tweeted from yesterday’s hike got only two likes, one from a likely bot.)

I’m in Whistler again. My epicenter for pretty. And, like every time I come here, I’m fighting romanticized notions of moving here.

For some people, Disneyland is their happy place. For others, it’s Vegas. (Went last year. I don’t get it.)

Whistler is pristine perfection. I rarely visit in winter since I don’t have snow tires and accommodations are triple what they are the rest of the year, but I know I’d be thrilled to live here in the snowy season. Snow makes me giggle. Seriously. I’ve never let go of that seven-year-old inner child who relishes the crunching sound of boots marking a new path in a blanket of white. I love to make a snowball in my gloved hand, if only to drop it a few seconds later. (Never had a throwing arm.) I still delight in lying down and making a snow angel—it’s the limit to my ability to create art.

During the rest of the year, Whistler feeds my hunger for all kinds of outdoor activity. There are extraordinarily maintained trails for jogging and biking. The curvy up-and-down Sea-to-Sky Highway is great for road cycling. There are multiple lakes for swimming. Challenging hiking trails lead to soothing waterfalls, glacial lakes and views of snow-capped mountains. Tennis courts in mint condition are set against backdrops that make me feel like I’m at a resort. (Oh, yeah, I am.) On rainy days, there’s a great pool where I go to swim laps and, if I ever crave more variety, I suppose I could have a go at the local axe-throwing establishment. (Yes, axe-throwing is having a moment. I first discovered such a business in Provo, Utah last December. Mormon axe throwers. Maybe it’s good they have that commitment to no caffeine.)

I am well aware that the pedestrian-only core of Whistler Village isn’t really real. No graffiti, no trash, everything Instagrammable. Lots of shops cater to tourists with too much money to drop. (On the way down from yesterday’s hike, I came across a woman starting out too late to reach the summit but she looked content fitting in some forest time while donning a baseball cap with an all-caps CANADA and four or five hearty dips in a glitter bowl. It will wind up on the top shelf in her closet, next to her Mickey Mouse ears.) Still, there are enough quality clothing stores here that I wouldn’t have to make regular shopping trips to Vancouver.

I’m certain the locals have a love-hate sense of all the tourists. All the tourism fuels the economy, but I read reports each year of hard-core partiers causing havoc—The noise! The drunken shenanigans! If only there were a way of screening vehicles twenty miles up the highway.

“What is the purpose of your trip?”

“Drunken madness, sir.”

“Very sorry. You’ll have to turn back. But thank you for thinking of us.”

I like the idea of living in a place that other people visit and admire. Living in Whistler would be vastly different than my hometown of Hamilton, Ontario, a chronically economically depressed blue-collar steel factory city peppered with red-brick buildings long ago coated in soot. How novel to live in a place that instills a tinge of local pride.

I enjoy hearing so many different languages spoken in the Village and hearing someone take my coffee order in a thick Australian accent. (While Israelis are required to serve two years in the military, Aussies must spend at least two seasons snowboarding in Whistler.)

This is a place where I’ve spent plenty of time writing. I used to hang out in the local library when it was just a portable building, before it became a comfy, sleek building with an espresso machine next to the periodical section, amply stocked with an array of outdoor magazines. There’s an annual writing festival each October, one that includes a Friday night “literary cabaret” with jazz artists creating a score to author readings and a Sunday morning lake walk with more authors readings at various scenic stopping points. Yes, even writing is lauded here.

I tell myself I could live like a regular, not just like a frequent tourist. It’s possible. But then it’s also possible it would be déjà-vu all over again. The Sirens lure; tragedy ensues. (Here, the Sirens take the form of cute little whistling woodchuck critters, marmots, upon whom the town is named.)

That’s the curse of being single and gay. At the moment, I have zero urge to date. Gosh, that’s the same sentiment I had fifteen years ago when I moved to another gorgeous, relatively remote setting in British Columbia. (I was coming off a seven-year, abusive relationship. Of course I yearned for Me time.) Last night I did a quick online dating search for gay men within fifty miles of Whistler, no other filters to narrow things down. Two men. That was all. Grim.

The lesson from my last stint in Eden was to consider living in such a setting only if I was already firmly coupled...or firmly done with contemplating coupling. I’m single and satisfied as such. For now. If I could formally commit to a life of being single the way someone else ascribes to a wedding vow, I’d contact a Whistler real estate agent and see if there’s an off-the-grid garden shed in my price range. (Eden’s expensive.) Alas, I can’t risk ruining another happy place.

Turns out Whistler isn’t any better than those gay guys who barrage the internet with shirtless selfies. Pretty, but never mine. Never mind.