THE COLD WAR

“You know,” the cashier said, “so many people are coming through with cold medicine. I just started getting the sniffles myself.”

And I’m getting a big ol’ lump in my throat.

I have three days to conquer the cold. And I’m the type who usually takes six weeks to work through the common cold and its evolving symptoms. Currently, it’s a sore throat, stuffy nose and plenty of achoos to make me a too-tall Sneezy.

But, really, I’m a colossal Grumpy. After a six-week absence, the last thing I envisioned in seeing Tim back in Vancouver is me offering a dainty right-handed wave while the left hand gestures the STOP signal. “Stay back. I’m contagious.” How romantic.

That’s not how it’s supposed to go. I’ve seen every romantic movie ever made—or at least ever featuring Meg Ryan—and not once does the partner get off the plane cradling an oversized box of Kleenex.

Until the counter lady at the drugstore mentioned the parade of cold medicine shoppers, I was trying to convince myself that I’d developed a sudden allergy to Ontario and our family cottage. If only. I could adjust to staying away from that. Fifty years of cottage life. It was a good run. But Tim? Really?!

I want to leave the cold symptoms behind at the Ottawa airport. Abandon them like whatever lotion I forget is buried at the bottom of my backpack. “I’m sorry, sir. You’ll can’t take the hair gel with you. And you’ll have to dump your nasal congestion, too.”

No problem.

For now, I’m spending extra hours lying in a very uncomfortable cottage cot, trying to sleep, but really just tossing about as I seek to clear an airway and defend myself from a mosquito I can hear but can’t see. Supine and vulnerable. He’ll get me. He’s just messing with me, having a little fun first.

It’s become that kind of visit.

I’m popping Sudafed and lozenges. I’m blowing out an endless stream of phlegmy mucous—four or five pounds? Do I look slimmer?

In truth, the sore throat is on the way out. Apparently I managed to drown it in orange juice. The sneaky sneeze attacks are less frequent, but still ominous. The heart of the matter rests in my nose. Time is ticking and it’s still running.

So what’s the most romantic way to hand-wave anyway? Just in case I lose this battle.

GOING PUBLIC

I despise public displays of affection. They are obnoxious. Too in your face. Evidence of excessive clinginess. Keep your hands in your pockets. Wave or wink if you must. Or how about a good, old-fashioned round of Patty-cake (followed, of course, by sharing some antibacterial gel)? Beyond that, yes, get a room.

And…exhale. It feels good to get that out.

Why no PDAs? Show some self-control, folks. Let all that desire build up to create something combustible once you get behind closed doors. If you can think beyond your own saccharine love bubble, realize that there are many single folks who don’t want reminders of what they’re missing. What’s more, bystanders deserve to be spared that awkwardness from suddenly having to stare at their shoelaces on those rare occasions when things get lewd. Don’t make others feel like involuntary Peeping Toms.

No public displays of affection, please. None! I am firm on this.

Even when in relationships, I’ve never had to put my partner in place. It’s just been understood. We followed the Safety Code for gay men. Stand at least six inches apart, no kissing, hand holding or hugging (unless you do a 360 check and are certain there are no witnesses, thus nixing the “public” from the pending display of affection). Any urge to get a little touchy has always been smothered by a more common sense yearning for self-preservation. Why risk a gay bashing? Refraining from PDA was never mentioned when people talked of safe sex. I assume it was a given.

But I am prepared to make an exception. Because it is convenient. When it comes to Tim, by golly, I will even participate. No apologies.

I am such a hypocrite.

Tim has a clear sense of how reserved I am. Touching—public or otherwise—has always made me uncomfortable. I’d rather be locked it a classroom and subjected to an hour of nails on the chalkboard than submit to a massage. I haven’t seen any purpose in hand holding since my parents determined I was old enough to cross the street on my own. Draping an arm over another’s shoulder just makes the recipient sweaty and gives the one offering a shoulder cramp. Blech. None of this is romantic.

Except…

Tim can be as publicly affectionate as he wishes. I welcome it. On our last date, as we walked down Denman Street in Vancouver’s gay-friendly West End, we’d stop and suddenly Tim would hug me. Long embrace. “I’m going to take you out of your comfort zone,” he whispered as I reflexively pulled back. Then I managed to relax and say, “Please do.”

He’d kiss me on the lips and I stayed in the moment. No urgent, paranoid safety checks. No worries about a swarming or a muttered, “Faggots.” Times have changed and, yes, I am changing.

I feel Tim’s strength, his warmth and his affection in these moments. As we stood beside his car at the end of another lovely evening during which the conversation never lagged, we laughed freely and I kept thinking, He gets me. (And he’s still here!). I lost my ability to speak in full sentences. “I just want…I need…I am wondering…” He mercifully interrupted me with a flash of his dazzling smile and said, “Yes. I like you.” Out of a sense of both relief and glee, I dropped to the ground, laughing.

It’s not just me. It’s not just me.

He hugged me. He kissed me. Somehow, I exuded cuteness, mixed with my natural geekiness. He even said, “Sexy.” I should really question his judgment. But I’d rather go for another hug and kiss. Who cares who else is around?!

It’s one exceptional exception.

And I just may let up for others—as long as this lasts.

HAPPY THIRD ON THE FOURTH

Fireworks? Okay, wrong country. But I should be so lucky. Today is Date 3 with Tim. I could also call it our two-week anniversary. There was a time, in my mid-twenties as I finally began dating, when two weeks was the cut-off point. A fortnight and then dumped. I was such a peach. And then I’d gone rotten. Even the fruit flies had moved on.

Two weeks should mean nothing now. I’ve had long-term relationships—up to seven or eight years at least. But considering the dearth of second dates in recent years, maybe a third time out merits another celebration. Frozen yogurt if not ice cream. Why not? And, of course, some euphemistic fireworks would be most welcome, too. Sparklers for starters. Should I hope for more?

This is my last day in Vancouver for a while. The extended vacation begins tomorrow. Tim and I will be in separate countries. I am still excited about my trip. I bounce at the thought. But thoughts of Tim generate the same reaction.

I am going into this date trying to be in the moment. Let it be what it will be. Still, it is hard not to press for more. Everything is in the early stages, but there is a desire to further define it. What are we? Where are we? Where will we be when I return in six weeks? Realistically, I don’t think any of those questions can be answered, but still I ask them. It would be best to keep them as in-the-head queries rather than on-the-table probes. Let’s see how much restraint I have.

The plan is for a walk and dinner. In anticipation, I should keep my mind on lighter third-date questions. Like why did my hairstylist make my hair so poufy? Am I too old to be wearing a shirt this tight? When again do you add a tongue to a kiss? Yes, these questions are plenty superficial. In my twenties, they would have been all-consuming during the pre-date hours. Now they are amusing distractions. Just what I need for now.

TIME PASSAGES

Time is time, right? Then how come that last hour of work can crawl while, after fifteen hours at Disneyland, you feel like you just got there? I hear people talk about their forties whizzing by while a line at the airport is where someone can suddenly acquire a full head of grey hair, arthritis in the left hand and an urge to start wearing black knee socks with sandals.

Father Time plays tricks on us. Why not? He’s got plenty of—well, you know.

In my last blog post, I shared how it took eighteen years to finally go on a first date with Tim. That was nothing. A mere blip compared to the week of waiting for Date Number 2. Actually, it’s a week and a day. That explains comparisons to an eternity. So much more rational.

It’s like that old Heinz ketchup commercial—for those of you who go back in time as far as the mid-‘70s. Cue the Carly Simon song, Anticipation. Ah, it’s keeping me wa-a-aiting. And I am hoping for so much more than a dab of sugared tomato sauce.

Even a decade ago, the specifics about a next date would be firmed up through a phone conversation that followed a bit of phone tag which had the added benefit of allowing you to play back the recording to hear his voice and to feel something aflutter inside again. I remember having to towel off after nervous phone calls during which I fretted over every word. Now communication comes through text messages. Convenient, yes, and hygienically more pleasing, but perhaps too controlled. We can type, delete, type, delete, delete until any vulnerability and awkwardness are neatly expunged from the record.

Indeed, Tim and I exchanged a few texts Sunday night and Monday morning until a tentative plan was in place for Saturday. Not much spontaneity in the words. Still, I will admit to rereading Tim’s opening words—Hey, handsome. He really wrote that. I just went back and checked again. (Just for the sake of keeping this post authentic, I assure you.)

There is no further contact, at least until Friday afternoon or Saturday morning when one of us sends out a confirmation text. Just in case. So much can happen in the span of a week.

My inner voice implores me to think of other things.

Pretend that the World Cup matters. Yea to any team wearing green!

Watch another episode of an obnoxious celebrity chef berating fledgling restaurant owners and wonder why I cannot swear off the #$%*@ show once and for all.

Go outside and tame the blackberry bushes (but don’t get all scratched up before the big date).

Sudoku. Another chapter in a YA book I cannot relate to. Laundry. A valiant effort to rid the shower of any trace of mildew.

Anything to pass the time. Let another hour tick away. I am that much closer to Saturday. It is important not to spend much thought playing out the possibilities regarding the date. That is not constructive. There are some really wonderful What ifs, but given my track record, there are many more less hopeful ponderings. How will I blow this? What better-than-me guy did he meet on Wednesday? When will it dawn on him that I have a perma-pasty skin tone?

Ah, yes. If scrubbing the bathtub doesn’t temper the excitement, self-doubt will. It is there. Always is during the early stages. I’d say I’m not being too brutal with myself this time around. There is more confidence, a sense that I deserve a great guy and a real hope that Tim just might be that guy. But who knows?

Saturday still seems so far away.

NOT READY FOR PRIME TIME

I have had three long(er) term relationships. In two of them, the guy fell reluctantly into things with me. In both situations, the spiel went something like this: “I’ve got a lot of changes going on in my life right now. You just need to know that I’m not sure how much I want in dating right now.” I ignored the yellow caution light (or the red flag) and continued on. Love did bloom. In both scenarios, I was the one who chose to end the relationships. Ironically, both guys would have stayed the course.

But things were flawed from the outset. They didn’t hide things from me. I, due to a genuine interest and perhaps a blind determination to be in a relationship, didn’t allow a vague “no thank you” to lead to an early exit.

Here I am in a similar situation yet again. During a promising first date and a second date over dinner tonight, conversation ran smoothly. Both of us shared freely, going into greater depth than I typically encounter with the interview-styled surface dating. Tonight’s date was cut short due to the fact I have to catch the last ferry home which departs at a night-owl-unfriendly 9:15 p.m. I had to leave at 8:30 to ensure that I would make it. As we walked back to my car, things got quiet.

Awkwardly so.

For me, I worried about my dog sitting in the car for two and a half hours on one of the coldest nights of the year. (Yes, I’d wrapped him in blankets, but what if that wasn’t enough?) I also fretted about whether the breath mints I discreetly popped would cover up the Thai curry aftertaste from dinner in the event we shared a goodbye kiss.

My concerns were for naught. My dog remained nestled amongst the blankets, a distinct smell permeating the car as I opened the door. He’d found my overripe banana, pierced it and feasted on the tropical treat. His birthday is tomorrow. I’ll consider that an early present. And the kiss? Alas. I got a standard hug and a “Drive safely.”

Ouch. I think the banana fared better.

The car radio taunted me as I drove to the ferry terminal as Lady Antebellum sang “Just a Kiss”:

Just a kiss on your lips in the moonlight
Just a touch of the fire burning so bright
No, I don’t wanna mess this thing up.
I don’t wanna push too far.
Just a shot in the dark that you just might
Be the one I’ve been waiting for my whole life.
So, baby, I’m all right
With just a kiss goodnight.

If only.

Why didn’t I switch to the all-news station?

Katy Perry’s “I Kissed a Girl” immediately followed. Not as relatable but the kissing theme highlighted something glaringly missing from a second date.

As there were no road-closing accidents en route to the terminal, I arrived with a few too many minutes to spare. I had too much idle time sitting in my dark vehicle to allow me to wonder, Uh,...what happened? He had said, “We’ll talk during the week”, but was that simply a polite substitute for “Have a nice life”?

Yes, I think I knew the answer, but why spend the next five days wondering and entertaining the remote possibility that we would indeed talk? If things were going down, sooner would be better. Forget the dating rules. (I’m too old to bother with them.) I wanted clarity. I called him.

To his credit, he wasn’t creeped out...or he didn’t let it show. He even answered on the first ring. (Isn’t there a two-ring minimum? Seems he is not a rule follower either.) “I told you that I’m just starting back into dating,” he explained. Yes, his two-year relationship ended less than two months ago even though he knew it wouldn’t work three months into it. “I don’t know what I’m thinking. I don’t know what I’m feeling. I just want to go really slowly.”

Et tu? Déjà-vu? “I understand,” I said. “No pressure at all.” Seems the only place kiss fits in this evening is in the kiss-off.

I have no tears like the castoffs on “The Bachelor”. I could go into one of their classic Woe Is Me speeches: Why does this always happen to me? I put myself out there. I showed I am ready for love. And he didn’t want it. He didn’t want me. What’s wrong with me? I wonder if implants will make a difference next time around. Again, not all parts of “Bachelor” talk are relatable, but I understand the gist of things. (I’m thinking of getting my teeth whitened. Okay, maybe not a full procedure, but I could pick up a packet of those Crest Whitestrips.)

I know that five days from now I’ll still entertain the possibility that he might call, just like I will gullibly fork over a couple of dollars tomorrow for a lottery ticket. But I also know that no call is an honest, merciful (in)action. I cannot continue to be the dating coach for another tentative man.

A shame really. I saw potential. Intelligent, empathic, attractive, artistic,...even a quasi-vegetarian. (Sorry, but sushi is not a vegetable.) On the bright side, there are no snags in my future plans. I can continue to dream about taking a peon day job and writing during my free time when I move to California. I will be leaving nothing behind. My life needn’t be so complicated.

And yet I wouldn’t have minded.