FLUNKING SCIENCE

I hate when I flash back to my teen years. All that awkwardness, all that angst. Somehow John Hughes managed to capture it so well in “The Breakfast Club”, making entertaining what, in reality, was anything but. I don’t have recurring dreams about myself in adolescence (thankfully!), but sometimes life has a way of bringing me way, way back.

The morning after my second coffee with Craig, he sent a follow-up text, just as he’d done after the first. I was in a meeting and I only had a moment to glance at the name of the sender and to register that it was a long one. I smiled. Clearly he’d gotten over that jolt that I was friends with his ex. I knew he had a busy week so I assumed he was offering a couple of openings when we could meet. Maybe he was even apologizing for the sudden shift in the tone on our walk after I accidentally mentioned Jay. Vancouver is such a small town, ha ha.

It was an intense day at work but I slipped into my office for a moment at lunch to read the text.

Thanks again for the coffee and walk yesterday. I enjoy chatting with you, and would like to continue getting to know you. I’ve had a chances to reflect and I think what I’m feeling is more platonic…Blah, blah, blah.

Shit.

It happened again.

Two steps forward. Two steps back.

I was (mercifully?) called out of my office immediately and didn’t have another moment to reply until I got on the ferry that evening and headed home. Sometimes being busy after a pinch of rejection is a good thing. No rash text response. No wallowing. Just keep going with the routines that make a day pass. But I was bugged. Craig strikes me as a kind person and someone who, like me, is precise with his words. The blah, blah, blah had been about wanting to develop a friendship and to have more coffees and chats, but my hunch had been that everything was fine—great, in fact—until we stumbled on the realization that his ex was my tennis bud. Even though they broke up a year ago, I sensed I’d inadvertently scratched a scab off one serious wound. That bugger risked getting infected all over again. I wanted Craig to admit as much. This was about his continuing struggle to right his life, post-Jay. This was not about me at all. And so I texted—How did you determine this needed to go down the platonic path? Own up. Mention Jay.

But I didn’t get what I wanted. Not Craig and not the explanation. You and I presented (I would say) fair and honest pictures of who we are to each other. It comes down to chemistry and I have to go with my gut. My gut says, “great guy! Good possible friend!” I can’t explain but, it’s in that hard-to-point-to place called “This is what it feels like.”

Shit.

It is me.

F#*kin’ chemistry. Yet another reminder that high school is nothing like the real world. In eleventh grade, I made As in Chemistry. One semester I even got 100%. I had this science down to an art!

It was only two coffees, one more than I usually manage. It’s no big deal. I know this. If Craig texts sometime in the next month and wants to go for a platonic coffee and a platonic walk, I can do that. I can smile and be genuinely invested. I need more friends.

But I’ve spiraled downward in the days since. It’s not about Craig. It’s about the message, not the messenger. I’m a great guy. Super nice. Gosh golly swell. But whether the guy calls it chemistry or the elusive spark, I don’t have it. I’m not date-worthy.

Yep, I went there. When you hear the no-chemistry/no-spark line enough times, it sinks in. Hello fifteen-year-old me. I’m right back to What’s wrong with me? WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH ME?! Teen Me thought everything would be better if only the Clearasil could just ward off the blackheads and if I just committed to using the weight set in my room. Coax some semblance of a bicep to make an appearance. And stop telling people Air Supply is my favorite music group.

I need to snap out of it. Reverse the numbers in 15 and act my real age. At 51, I’ve got a lot going for me. The pimples are long gone. The muscles finally showed up. I’m incredibly fit. I still have a full head of hair (I think. I make a point of not looking in any hand-held mirror at that point at the top of my head where I had a cyst removed.). I’m regularly told I look much younger than my age. I’ve earned three degrees. I’m a leader at work. I’ve got that Sally Field factor: people like me; they really like me.

But not like that.

I want to scream. I want to blame someone. Damn single gay men. Flakes, all of ‘em. I could call up my 60-year-old single gay friend, John, and meet him for coffee. He’ll commiserate. Yep. They’re all fucked up. Flakier than a chocolate croissant. (And then our bitch session would take an intermission as John goes back to the coffee counter and gets that last croissant, the one that’s distracted him repeatedly during our conversation. He’ll return saying the calories will go straight to his belly. Not that it matters. Flakes!)

So here I am after all these years, still wondering what’s wrong with me, still trying to improve myself, still not being enough. What does it take to have real-world chemistry? How do I radiate a spark? Where the hell do I buy myself a warehouse of figurative fireworks?

The truth is I always hated Chemistry.

SHAKING OFF THE FLAKES

It’s getting cold out there and apparently the forecast calls for flakes.

A good friend of mine in Vancouver asserts that gay men are flaky. I’d love to refute the claim, but it’s challenging, at least with regard to single gay men. He says it’s universal and retells a story of being in Prague and hearing a gay man on a rant about wanting to move from Transylvania. “Why?” his café companion asked.

“The gay men there. They’re all flakes.”

Gay friends in L.A. say the same thing. (Okay, some of my L.A. friends don’t say it; instead, they show clear signs of flakiness.) Same with my friend in Boise and a fellow my cousin connected me with in Ottawa.

If it’s not universal, it seems to be common enough.

Or maybe the reality is that single gay men become increasingly bitter and fail to recognize their own contribution to being chronically single, deflecting any accountability with a convenient everyone else is flaky shrug.

As for myself, I think I do a commendable job of pointing out my flaws. There are plenty of reasons for men to reject me. Even so, it does get bewildering how so many promising starts fizzle so fast. (Last weekend’s disappearing act by the guy in Seattle is the latest case in point.) The Flaky Hypothesis does seem to have some merit.

And I have to admit that it is somewhat satisfying—even vindicating—when a flake resurfaces, suddenly expressing renewed interest. In the past week, a couple of them have made their presence known. Both are guys with whom I had decent first dates. I expressed interest in another date with each of them. One shot me down—something along the “no chemistry” (aka no attraction) line of thought. The other sent me some flattering texts before he became a lovely but doomed assistant for a Houdini wannabe—vanished and never reappeared.

Michael started viewing my profile multiple times on Plenty of Fish and OkCupid. He upped his passive expression of interest on one site by starring my profile, which officially means “He Likes You.” On the other site, he clicked a “Yes” button for “Wants to Meet You.” I knew this meant one of two things: (A) I was so utterly forgettable that he fails to recall our first date from a few years ago; or (B) The fool has reconsidered after seeing a shirtless shot on my profile. When I failed to Like him back, he viewed my profile several more times before finally sending a message.

Turns out he does remember me…and my dogs..and my career…and where I live. So he doesn’t have a flaky memory. But to tell me he wasn’t interested and now change his mind? Forget it. Apparently I carry a grudge. Call it self-preservation. Call it dignity. I’ve sworn I don’t need to convince someone I’m worth it.

The second guy has been less assertive. He has just tried to Friend me on Facebook. This is a guy who was very sexy, very charming before and during our date a couple of years ago. I clearly remember the long, warm bear hug from when we said goodbye. I thought for sure there was a mutual attraction. He confirmed as much, texting about how kind, intelligent and sexy I was. And then absolutely nothing. A big tease? Maybe. A flake? Certainly. It’s easy for me to ignore Friend requests. I keep my Facebook group to family and friends with whom I go way back.

It seems I’ve weathered the flakes just fine. Now bring on the real winter weather. I’ve got my new ski outfit and I’m anxious to look forward instead of backward.

 

  

WORTH IT?

Okay, so my latest relationship didn’t even get through summer. I invested lots of time and thought in it. The result is nothing to cheer about. At face value, it’s a failure. So was it worth the bother?

Yes.

I purposely posted the Poor, Poor Pitiful Me pieces because those of us still involved with the dating scene know the process of working through the rejection. It includes a generous wallop of wallowing before we get so fed up with our woeful state that we decide it’s best to move on. And I’m almost there.

It was worth it to go out with Tim. Eighteen years ago, when I first saw him, I’d have never had the guts to ask him out. (Online dating sites weren’t a standard form of interaction back then. Admittedly, sending a message is easier, but I’d have never done that. I wouldn’t have done it six months ago.) On our first date, Tim said that the people we seek reflect our own self-worth. I found myself nodding. It’s probably why I stayed in a relationship with an alcoholic and followed that up with an abusive man. I didn’t feel good about myself. But I also found myself smiling. I’ve come a long way. The past is not my present. I viewed Tim highly and I knew I was worthy. I stand by that, even if there are a few ego bruises that I need to attend to. In short, my initiating a relationship with Tim reflected a more positive sense of self. I am fully confident of the qualities I have to offer. I know I am right up there with the best of them. That’s something I wouldn’t say before—not without a self-deprecating side remark. I am a quality guy. No asterisk.

I discovered early on—okay, there wasn’t technically a later on—that I could communicate clearly with Tim. I was expressive and complimentary, speaking without filters. I gained a sense of empowerment. Any failure would not be the result of things I left unsaid.

I also got a glimpse of what I want in a relationship. The playful banter between us proved to be the most electric part of the dating experience. It was natural and my part in it came from a confidence I didn’t realize I could draw upon at an early stage. My robust laugh triggered on the first date and never waned. I acted myself without a multi-date warm-up. That’s huge progress.

Where did I falter? I continue to lack confidence with my exterior. I have overplayed the Bashful card. Tim said he’s never met a shyer person regarding physical interaction. My knees shook on our first kiss and several after that. Yes, literally. My head glanced at the ground, pre- and post-kiss. That takes away from the chemistry that comes from looking in each other’s eyes. Surely, his face was more interesting than my shoelaces. I must conquer this quirk.

Body image has been a struggle for forty years. I still need work. The difference now is that I no longer think the work needs to come from working out. As a new friend and I made dinner this weekend, I said that my body wasn’t perfect but it was exemplary. I’ve never said anything so positive about my looks. And I didn’t water it down. I think the situation is like an obese person who sheds a hundred or more pounds: it takes time to grow into our new bodies. We have perceived ourselves in a particular way for so long that the adjustment into a new image requires some work as well. Yes, this is really me.

I am getting there. While dating Tim, I had no hesitation in wearing shirts that showed off my physique. (Normally, I’d wear something baggy and just focus on matching the shirt with my eyes.) Tim noticed—and squeezed—my “guns”. (No one was ever linked guns and me in the same sentence! But he was not the only one to comment on my biceps this summer.) He mentioned my chest, he talked of imagining what my abs looked like under my shirt. I accepted the compliments instead of reverting to my lifelong habit of brushing off any flattering remark. I am coming closer to seeing what others see. Not entirely there, but closer represents astonishing progress. Only four months ago, despair and low self-esteem sent me to hospital.

All this talk about the physical me is, in itself, superficial. Oh, how I know that! Yes, indeed it’s what’s inside that counts. I’ve noted that I am quite content with that inside. My feelings about my appearance created a barrier. I am not worthy. I am the guy who used to drive out of his way so as not to swim in a pool where I might run into an acquaintance—gay or straight. Must not be seen in a swimsuit! And now I am okay. I am comfortable, even proud of how I look.

Never ever thought I’d get there.

I have regained a confidence and a commitment to going through the dating process. An hour before my first date with Tim, I was wrapping up a session with my psychologist. “I’d be surprised if anything happens,” I said, recalling another classic cartoon character, Eeyore. “He’s way above me. He’s never even noticed me.” She stopped me and asked why I would even bother meeting up with him. Why bother, indeed! Together, we shifted my thinking. It may be a sign of weakness but I did need some validation. I rode with it instead of dismissing it. I walked into the café determined to put my best foot forward, (semi) convinced that I deserved to share a table with Tim. His warm hello hug certainly helped but we clicked from the first sentence. I realized that dates over the past year in particular had gone flat. I’d gone flat. I was content to sit down to an interview instead of putting myself into a genuine conversation. I think I can carry forth from this point. I look forward to testing this out.

It is hokey but I need to start thinking about some daily affirmations. It makes me think of those silly Stuart Smalley affirmations on “Saturday Night Live”, but that’s okay because, by golly, I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and doggone it, people like me! I can find the process amusing even as I go through it, knowing it is necessary, knowing that I need to consciously and consistently think positively in order for such thoughts to sink in.

Have I grown from this? Absolutely. I realize that I am worthy of a good man. I am worth it. And I’d say that makes a washed-out summer and a few days of wallowing entirely worthwhile.

WHAT NOW?

This all comes as a surprise. Suddenly I have blog fodder. Not that I want it.

I had decided not to write anything more about my relationship with Tim. First dates—awesome ones at that—made for a welcome, happier tone in my posts. I felt there was also a unique story to be told in having a budding romance put on hold by a pre-planned six-week escape from my rural home. Returning to British Columbia, I wanted to keep the rest of the relationship private. Let it grow and blossom in private.

But then he snipped that beautiful blossom, stomped on it, picked it up and yanked off each colorful petal, all the way down to He loves me not. Some of the most stunning flowers have tragically short growing seasons. Getting dumped sucks.

And so I’m back to blogging. My site has a long track record of chronicling isolation and dating woes. Aren’t you tired of it? Have you really ogled every cat video on YouTube? (If so, may I suggest this clip with talking nachos? It garnered repeated viewings and hearty laughter from my cousins at the cottage last week. But then, my aunt was generously refilling everyone’s wine glasses.)

I could be hateful. I’ll leave that to my comrades on Twitter. They’ve endearingly shown their support by referring to Tim as a douche, an a**hole and a cognitively and visually challenged bat. Dan made me laugh out loud—no, I will never opt for the overused, now meaningless “LOL”—when he tweeted, “I say we destroy him.” We need people like that. I think of Elizabeth Perkins and Jim Belushi in “About Last Night”. (The original movie, adapted from what is likely a superior David Mamet play.) Removed from the immediacy of the situation, they diffuse things and ensure that negativity doesn’t fester within. If things take a comical bent, all the better.

Truth is, I don’t have a drop of anger for Tim. I am deeply frustrated, disappointed, disheartened and just plain sad. (Sorry, anger. There’s no room for you!) Dumping happens. I get that. I am not immune. (I never get a flu shot as I have a faint-inducing aversion to needles, but if someone created a dumping shot, I’d be first in line. Both arms for safe measure. Let me just lie here on the floor first.) Before I left for the summer, Tim and I could not have had better dates. Even this week, Tim talked about the second date that didn’t seem to end. He referred to us being in a bubble. He talked of the sparks from the date before I headed to L.A. It was not a one-sided feeling. I had every reason to believe in our potential.

Had I stuck around this summer, I doubt I’d be blogging about Tim. The momentum would not have been interrupted. But I had made a commitment to be in Los Angeles for five weeks. I served as dogsitter/housesitter for a very close friend. And, really, before Tim popped up, there was nothing I needed more than a long vacation in La-la Land. After my darkest spring ever, I needed the summer retreat.

L.A. served me well, but it created too much distance much too soon. We never got back on track. Our last date showed glimmers of what we’d had. The conversation was inquisitive, an exchange of sharing our perspectives which continued to feel in sync. It was playful, punctuated by at least one long, glorious laugh. I never thought a nudging conversation about progressing physically would kill it all.

The disappointing end to something that had such a promising start leaves me where I was pre-Tim. I am profoundly bewildered. After getting a glimpse at something great, the state of bewilderment is even greater. Didn’t think that was possible.

When people don’t go the “He’s a douche” route, they show support with empty, hopeful statements.

“He wasn’t the one.”

“The right guy will come when you least expect it.”

“You will find love. Be open and he will come.”

Fortune cookie sentiments. How do I remain hopeful after nine years of hopelessness? If he is out there, what the hell is he waiting for? Where is he hiding? And why is he hiding? It is cruel to continue to dangle the thought of him in front of me all this time. This is the slowest form of torture.

This one did not work out. He was not The One. Fine. His quick exit affirms that. Okay. But I need something more substantial than a fortune cookie for sustenance. (Does anybody even eat those dang things?) I need real hope. I need a sign. Hell, I need The One. Sooner rather than later. This week would be dandy. Next week will do.

Please let the waiting be over.