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.

 

 

 

  

OUR TOWN

There’s a song from the early ’80s by J.D. Souther and James Taylor called “Her Town Too.[1]” It’s a sad, post-breakup ballad, looking at the mess that comes in the aftermath. The two people go on, of course, but it’s awkward when both continue living in that same town, seeing the same people who knew them as a couple. 

 

Well, people got used to seeing them both together

But now he’s gone and life goes on

Nothing lasts forever, oh no

She gets the house and the garden

He gets the boys in the band…

 

It used to be your town

It used to be my town, too.

 

As a teen, listening to the song was brutal. I ached for James Taylor who has always struck me as a gentle, introverted, conflicted soul. (What I was and am…although I managed to avoid the drug problem.) He’d looked so handsome on the 1977 “JT” album cover and had sounded so content singing “Your Smiling Face,” a song that sounds like pure sunshine…if its rays had a vocal. Carly and James were one of the first celebrity couples I was aware of and, being a pop music fan(atic), I felt joy listening to them duet on “Mockingbird” and “Devoted to You,” thinking they represented the modern fairy tale. Carly came off as a happy free spirit whom I’d decided was a perfect companion for James whom I’d heard experienced depression and had an extended psychiatric admission when he was younger. (Yes, this is the kind of thinking I had as a kid, hoping for happiness for people I felt needed it most. Isn’t it interesting how much we identify with kindred spirits even before we have the labels that confirm how alike we may be?) 

 

“Her Town Too” was released around the time James and Carly separated. They would divorce two years later. James has said the song is about another couple that went through divorce, but I can’t help but think there was a little music therapy in it for him too. Maybe shock therapy, the harsh reality that follows.

 

I’ve never had a relationship with someone with whom I had to share a town after the love flamed out. When I dated guys in L.A., getting from one neighborhood to another might take an hour in traffic so, if we split up, that basically meant I’d never see him again…and I’d save a helluva lot on gas. (Was that any kind of silver lining?) Earlier this year, I wrote about my Vancouver ex. The city’s big enough for us to exist separately, but I didn’t want to risk running into him for safety and sanity reasons so I blinked and moved to a rural community with some water and a ferry between us to make the distance seem greater.

 

You would think that the easiest post-breakup adjustment would be with the guy who lived in Portland, Oregon while I was in Vancouver. It was not a “His Town Too” situation. It wasn’t even a case of “His Country Too.” And yet in some ways it’s been the trickiest relationship from which to re-cast the settings after the fact because it stands up as the most important.

 

I’d spent so much time in both Seattle and Portland as a solo traveler, checking out neighborhoods, local coffee spots, public art and parks. These cities are among my happy places. Beginning in late 2016, my time in these cities became shared experiences when a friendship with a guy from Portland became more. 

 

The change was a risk. We had something special as friends. There was a profound sense of understanding and connection. Both of us needed a friend. And both of us had a track record of romantic relationships that didn’t pan out. We’d invested a year and a half building this friendship, mostly through online messages but deepened by some in-person visits that were remarkably comfortable while also leaving me with a strong sense of wow. A disastrous stint at dating could destroy everything, all ties lost. Over a breakfast in Seattle, I stumbled and bumbled to get the words out, proposing we move beyond friendship. To my great relief, he wanted the same thing.

 

Bear & I became fast friends
as I waited for another
departure from YVR airport.

For about a year, our risk paid off. Via planes, trains and automobiles, we met regularly in Portland, Vancouver and often halfway, in Seattle. We made the long-distance relationship (mostly) work. I can’t delete that parenthetical. I still get stuck on feeling I failed. I was too emotional, too defective…just too. I still feel the pain from conflicts that arose. It hurts knowing I couldn’t—we couldn’t—figure out a better way to navigate those times.

 

It’s that pain that left me wondering after the relationship’s demise if I’d lost not just him but the cities we shared. I thought they might be forever tainted—a forfeiture after Game Over. Portland, where he lived, seemed to logically revert to him. Seattle? We could share custody, but would it ever be one of my happy places again?   

 

Six months after our breakup, I blogged about a return visit to Portland and the Oregon Coast. His town, his state, but I didn’t want them to relinquish them. Ideally, I wanted to still see him whenever I was in town. I wanted my friend back. We weren’t at that point and I couldn’t count on us ever getting there. For other reasons, I was emotionally vulnerable and I told myself I needed the comfort of familiar escapes from my crumbling life in Vancouver. I’d had Portland memories before the relationship and I was determined to have new memories thereafter, ones that wouldn’t be forever clouded by feelings of failure and thoughts of him. 

 

My ex knew about my blog and had always been complimentary and supportive of my writing. I figured he’d stopped checking it out after things fell apart, but he’d read the post and assured me—Bitterly? Sarcastically? Generously?—I could have the city back without him being in the way. 

 

I got them back. Portland; Seattle as well. His towns. But my towns, too. I came to love these places again, without the man I’d loved. We did meet occasionally when I was back in Portland, times that I still valued although there was a guardedness present and, for me, lingering guilt and emotional confusion. We were friendly but were we friends? It was a work in progress.

 

Then came COVID. 

 

Dragon lurking deep in a local forest

No travel, no escapes. For a while, I did a masterful job in deceiving myself. I played tourist in my town. That worked for a year. I’d cycled every bike route in Vancouver and all the suburbs and I’d walked and jogged every block within a long-armed radius from my home. I’d day-hiked every trail in the region. I’d Googled every local “secret,” to track down alley murals, twig-crafted forest creatures and boulders with poems inscribed on them. I even rushed to visit a (deserted) rooftop dog park despite not having a dog. Yes, I’d literally reached the dog days of the pandemic. 

 

When the U.S. border finally reopened for Canadians to drive across last month, I rushed to pack, book hotels and get away. There were still hurdles and limits so short road trips were the only option I could manage. Hello again, Seattle! And then, hey there, Portland!  

 

My old haunts were fully mine again. My ex had moved two thousand miles away. Iowa. (Really?)

 

And yet there were so many moments when he was with me, in my mind at least. I didn’t try to push him away; rather, I welcomed him and every small reminder of us.

 

I wish I could more vividly remember our conversations and our experiences. Someone might diss me, say I’m not romantic. That seems patently unfair. As a long-time educator, I know we learn and process differently. Details don’t stick with me. I’m not panicked about early-onset Alzheimer’s, even if I frequently wonder why I got off the sofa to walk into the bathroom. You’d think the setting would make things clear but no. Did I need to pee? Was it a dental floss emergency? Is there a hangnail I need to deal with? Too often, I find myself shrugging and washing my hands because, well, haven’t we all amassed two lifetimes’ worth of soap and sanitizer? 

 

I’ve stopped seeing fogginess as a fault.

 

In Portland and Seattle, what remains strong are the feelings and that sense of connection. They are what mattered. They are what still matter. My drive to Portland took nine hours instead of five due to a long border wait and two doses of rush hour traffic, first in Seattle, then in Tacoma. It allowed enough time to recall one particularly awful drive from Vancouver to Portland, traffic bottlenecked for a seventy-mile stretch from north of Seattle to Olympia. I’d had to pull off at an exit, frazzled, hands shaking, fighting back tears. I can’t make it. I refueled on caffeine, did a walking tour of nearby parking lots (sorry, no photos) and got back into the highway queue. When I arrived at his place, none to the traffic snarl mattered. I was like a puppy as he opened the door. “You! Yes, you.” I can allow this recollection; I can savor it. 

 

I know how nostalgia tends to let the rosiest moments stay in bloom, but I I still have perspective. I’m not warp our relationship into something mythical. I remember darker times, but I have enough distance now to wholly cherish the good times as well.

 

And there were many. 

 

Places that weren’t even filed in my memory come back when I pass them: a pizza place we ate at where the crust was charcoal black, weirdly just the way I like it (much to my mother’s annoyance, burnt toast was my childhood specialty); the area we walked off the main strip to photograph tucked away street murals; the street—or is it just a ramp—that I’d drive to go from downtown back to his place, always worried, always bracing for the possibility I’d get stuck in the wrong lane and miss it. (The worry was warranted. I regularly missed it, my directional challenges always amped up in Portland. Getting lost is embedded in my route from any A to any B in the city. Oh, yeah! This is familiar. I’ve been lost here before.)

 

There are other spots that enter my mind even though I don’t pass them: a craft brewery where I had the best berry cider ever and have tried to find something close to it ever since, a beloved Mexican restaurant, a comfy neighborhood bookstore, a bakery whose popularity perplexed me, a pool where’d I’d swim laps. I don’t pass them because they’re part of my ex’s neighborhood. I don’t have any reason to go there now that he’s gone. 

 

With time, I realize how much I needed my time with him, even if it didn’t last. He helped me see the good in a man again. Yes, he was good. Sometimes we were good, too. Many times.

 

I see these places as not only my towns, but his towns. I embrace them as our towns, too.

 

I was here. We were here.

 

I am grateful.

---

[1] The two share writing credits for the song along with Waddy Wachtel. 

GHOSTS FROM DATING PAST

OK, so I'm dating. But it’s so much more than that. The connection is uncanny. I’m astounded how it continues to deepen. If I were truly social media oriented, I’d have changed my status on Facebook. Yep, James Gregory is in a relationship. But I’m neither savvy nor self-absorbed enough to think that a Friend I haven’t seen since high school graduation and a Friend who happens to be a former colleague’s ex-wife’s aunt care. (They’d rather see photos of the roasted potato broccoli pizza I ate last night.) So I share my news on an obscure blog. (This one, in case my reference isn’t obvious enough. Glad you found it as a detour on your quest to search “how to fix Trump’s hair”.)

But my non-Twitter friends don’t read my blog. They don’t know about it. I share things that are too honest, too personal for real life friends. (Being un-Friended in the real world stings too much.) For them, I go the old-fashioned route, sharing my take on “The Bachelor” and bemoaning all the shade sugar is getting these days during occasional one-on-one social encounters.

For once, I have something significant to say when a friend asks the obligatory question, “So what’s new with you?” Yep, so glad you asked!

While I’m gleefully giddy, I must do my best to tone it down when sharing the news. I’m acutely aware how sensitive one can be when chronically single. (My last relationship ended in 2004.) Sometimes I’ve felt more hopeful, even inspired, after hearing about someone else’s new love. But that’s fleeting. It always spins back to another rip in my crepe paper coat of armor. What’s wrong with me? No one will ever notice me. I’m destined to die alone. When being single seems like a state of perpetuity, it’s difficult to ignore the hole, the missing connection. Another person’s newfound love can be celebrated, but it also wounds an already fragile lonely heart.

So I proceeded with caution in sharing my news with two of my single friends. Over an afternoon coffee, I patiently let my retired teacher friend go through the motions of debriefing me on events of his life in the past few weeks. A bronchial condition. A visit from an ungrateful nephew. A tense encounter in the checkout line at Safeway. (Thirty items is not “Express”.)

Oh, the restraint! Thou shalt not blurt. How many more sad-sack anecdotes before my big news?  Alas, the weather rant came next. Yes, it’s cold and, yes, there’s snow, but it’s not raining. Isn’t that the silver lining in Vancouver? I don’t think Oprah is a jumping-the-shark moment for “60 Minutes” but I’ll nod if that helps us move on. And can’t we both agree that your building manager—whom I’ve never met—is an asshole and a lazy one at that? Was I a cup-half-empty guy too during all those years being single? Hard to recall now that my mug is overflowing.

At last, the focus turned to me. Where to start? Do I take it chronologically? How do I condense twelve hours of glorious anecdotes into five minutes?

“I met someone. I’m in love.”

Oops. I’ve been known to give away movie endings, too. But this proved to be a prudent way to share. I’d said what I needed to say, albeit not as much as I wanted to. I’m in love! I’m in love! I’m in love! My friend was then free to ask as little or as much as he wanted. And, to his credit, he asked enough to stretch out our conversation ten minutes, maybe fifteen. He smiled. He congratulated. He shared in my joy.

And then he said, “I think it’s safe to share this now.” As he searched his phone, he talked about watching an old, old (1980s?) episode of a Canadian game show I’d never heard of while he was confined to the sofa one afternoon—bronchial condition reality. It took several minutes for him to find the video he wanted so he spouted off random rules of the game show, some sort of two-against-two trivia contest with the kind of measly prize payoff that’s typical of cheap Canadian productions. (Box of Tim Hortons donuts, anyone? Maybe a baseball cap with a moose on it.) At last, the video. Two sisters competing against “friends” Tim and Fabio.

Oh, no. Ick. Tim. He was a guy who seemed gaga about me in the summer of 2014. Until he wasn’t. Chucked me like a concrete block into the ocean. Why the f*@k did I need to see the clip? Funny? I responded with a shrug and an eye roll. Five seconds and I’d seen enough. “You’ll be happy to know they lost,” my friend said. “And Fabio’s the only one who got them points.” Why would that make me happy? My new guy makes me happy. Nothing more required.

Later in the day, I picked up another single friend for dinner and, as he got in the car, he rattled off a conversational “agenda” for our meal. (He’s a lawyer, but that’s not a good enough excuse.) Items 1 and 2 were about recent trips of mine but then he added, “And then I’ve got something important I want to talk to you about.”

Naturally, I wanted to go right to what was “important”.

“You’re driving,” he said. “We can wait ‘til we get to the restaurant.” Really? Maybe my friend doesn’t know me that well. It’s only been twenty-one years, after all. But I tried to give waiting a go. As we drove, we chitchatted about the latest highs and lows of his pie pursuits. (Yep, he’s obsessed with the pastry. It’s an endless pursuit for the perfect slice. His most rhapsodic moment came from a particular pecan pie at DFW airport five years ago. Aside from a Japanese women’s church auxiliary apple pie sale one weekend each October, it’s been a disappointing quest ever since. And, no, I’m not making this up.)

Pie talk out of the way, I pressed for him to get to the important topic even though I had ten minutes of driving left. Seems he’d gotten together for dinner a few weeks ago with some friends from our past and my ex had organized the whole thing.

Ugh. My ex. A seven-year mess that began well but devolved into an abusive relationship.

My friend talked about sitting beside my ex the whole time and how nice he was. Was this the “important” news? Was my long-time friend dating my ex?! Didn’t he remember how miserable my ex made me, how much I suffered?

Then he said, “I think you two should get back together.”

Clearly, he remembered nothing. I shook my head, emphatically said no and, as luck and good travel time would have it, pulled over to drop him off to get a place in line while I parked the car. This was a bigger What-the-F*@k moment than Game Show Tim & Fabio. Here I’d suggested we get together for dinner so I could talk about a new man I loved and, first, I would have to recite a series of indignities I’d incurred with my ex. To be fair to my friend, I’d never fully spelled it out before. They’d remained in the same social circles and I didn’t need friends to take sides after the breakup. Besides, I was too ashamed of all I’d endured for so long.

While standing in the crowd in the restaurant lobby, it only took a minute of listing terrible experiences for my friend to say, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I’m sorry.” But I went on. I needed to be clear that my ex had caused real damage despite all my efforts to block and repress the vial that spewed with each left-field rage. Never again.

More apologies. My friend was mad at himself. Not his fault. Thankfully he had a pizza menu to peruse before shifting to the truly IMPORTANT topic of the night: new love, better love.

And so, after a couple of unexpected detours, I’d managed to share my news. The ghosts from dating past were most unwelcome, but they served as a reminder of how far I’ve come. I’ve struggled mightily in recent years. I spiralled from alone to lonely to bleakly desolate. Somehow I rode out the worst times and survived by merely existing when that was the most I could muster. I got better—not completely but enough to feel again and enough to want to risk sharing myself with another. I’m with a man who gets me. I believe he won’t ridicule me. He makes me feel cautiously confident. He makes me want to be well and to be invested. I’m one of maybe three people on the planet who hasn’t seen a “Ghostbusters” movie of one gender focus or the other so my pop reference may be off, but I’m feeling deserving this time around, I’m experiencing things fully aware and this time I’m determined that nothing’s gonna slime me. No more being spooked by ghosts and, if I’m lucky, no more singlehood. May status reports be a thing of the past!

TEMPERED EXUBERANCE

I’ve been single for most of my time living in British Columbia. There were seven and a half years when I navigated the ups and downs of coupledom and codependence, but the rest of my twenty-two years have been overpriced ready-made meals for one at Whole Foods and go-nowhere coffee interviews. (They say they want a boyfriend but they’re not hiring.)

For whatever reason, single people seem to gravitate toward single friends. We commiserate. We judge less. (Yes, it’s always his fault. What’s wrong with all of them?!) We have established routines when we get together, running through the latest false starts, bemoaning the pervasive flakiness of gay men, offering hollow words of encouragement.

Keep looking. Unless you need a break. Yes, breaks are good. They say you’ll find him when you’re not looking. Just like that American quarter I picked up on the sidewalk at 14^th and Main.

You’re a catch. Really! Not for me, of course. (Let’s not get awkward.) But, yes, you deserve a break. One of these dates will finally lead to something. Besides, I heard on the radio yesterday that coffee is good for you. (It came right before the Starbucks ad.)

Single friends never make the offensive suggestions of those rogue attached friends who still sit down occasionally for a rushed get-together. (The car needed an oil change. Gotta kill forty-five minutes somehow.) Attached friends show their impatience as you launch into the first of what was supposed to be a series of anecdotes with the working title “Woes of the Single Man”. They’ve had better luck. (Yes, it has to be attributed to luck.) They’ve forgotten what it’s like to be single. They interrupt and say things your mother says before you abruptly hang up on her.

Maybe you should join a bridge club.

Maybe you should stop walking with your head down.

And then, worst of all, Maybe you’re being too picky, which to the overly sensitive, chronically single gay man translates as, “You’re not all that deserving. Settle. Lower your expectations.”

Ouch. Thank goodness for single friends.

The greatest danger to the friendship between two single people is the possibility—however remote—that one will fall into a relationship. It’s the beginning of the end. Sure, there’s initial joy. High fives. I told you it would happen. I’m so happy for you!

But it hurts. Being single suddenly feels lonelier. Maybe not all gay men are flakes. What’s wrong with me? Yep, self-pity crashes the celebration.

And your relationship status with the formerly single friend changes as his dating relationship deepens. Saturday brunch gets canceled. (“Dwayne and I are doing the Run for Vision-Impaired Peruvian Tree Frogs. And Sunday’s no good either. We’re canoodling. Have I mentioned he’s a great canoodler?”) Weeks go by. (“Dwayne’s cousin’s in town.” “Dwayne and I are going to Open Houses. You know, just for fun.” “Dwayne needs me. He has an infected toenail.” F*@king Dwayne.)

The rare get-togethers now involve seating for three and, while it’s clear The Boyfriend is the one who’s changed the dynamic, you’re the third wheel. Sometimes you’re the fifth wheel as another couple elbows its way in. (“We met at Charades Night at the community center.” Charades? Really?! When did that become more fun than a bitchfest over coffee?)

Your friend has moved on. You’ve been squeezed out. It’s time to lick your wounds, cough up that hairball and call your other single friend. The one who talks too fast, forgets to swallow as saliva builds on the sides of his mouth and makes too many connections to Pokemon characters. It’s all too clear why he’s hopelessly single. You question why you’re having coffee with him thirty seconds into his first monologue. But he’s available. No canoodling. No weekends wasted hypothetically wondering how a kitchen reno will make that overpriced townhouse in the suburbs livable. This default friendship is all Dwayne’s fault.

I’ve lost a lot of single friends to Dwaynes. We’re down to passing waves as the two of them walk their three Chihuahuas in the park and I rush to fit in a 12K run before the next Vancouver rain. (Must lose the belly blubber. Maybe then someone will notice me.) And so it is with trepidation that I’ve arranged to meet a single friend for coffee and another single friend for dinner. I have news.

I’ve found a Dwayne.

Only better, of course. Much, much better! (I stubbornly refuse to punctuate with multiple exclamation marks—it’s redundant—but picture seventy-eight of them prior to this parenthetical aside. In fact, picture them in a bubble font, with hearts replacing the dots. I’ve officially become a tenth grade girl.)

But I can’t get too excited as I tell my single friends. It’s not that I feel a need to be cautious in what I say about him. Sure, I have a clear track record of dating failure, but I’m confident this time around. I know we fit. I’m elated. I’m giddy. I have an urge to blurt, “He’s the one!”

I am eager to share my news but I’ve got to show restraint. Casually insert “kinda” and remove exclamation marks and ALL CAPS as I gush about him. He’s kinda amazing. (You have no idea how hard it is to leave the preceding italicized sentence. Sometimes understatement is tantamount to a lie.) I don’t want them to feel discouraged. I don’t want to say goodbye to my friends—we’re not really huggers—and leave them to head back to their one-bedroom apartments in that Maybe it’s me downward spiral. I can still ascribe to the pervasive flakiness of gay men. Well, most of them. The single ones, my own friends, and the fine, enlightened readers of this blog, excepted.

I won’t abandon my single friends. I won’t stop listening to their struggles and frustrations. I’ll be there when they find their own Dwayne. If ever. I’ll listen and encourage. Knowing this, I can adjust to a gradual release of all the gleeful feelings and moments of this astonishing journey with my Dwayne. (To be clear, his name is not actually Dwayne. It’s way better. Naturally.) Despite the fact I know my life is changing, I’m determined for some things to stay the same.

SWIFTLY SPEAKING

I wanna be Taylor Swift.

Not for her nasally voice. I think I’ve got that already. Not for her fame. I wouldn’t be able to handle the paparazzi. (My side profile shots are frightening.) And not for her closetful of trophies. Nothing could ever top my fifth place ribbon I won earned as a seven-year-old in the neighborhood watermelon seed spitting contest. (In truth, there were no ribbons. But it was a moment. With six of us participating, it was the first athletic endeavor wherein I didn’t come last. A victory of sorts. I fashioned my award by tearing a strand from my bed sheet, thinking my mother would never notice. That’s another story...)

I want to fall in love like Taylor does. Swiftly. Did her name create a self-fulfilling prophecy? Perhaps I’ll change my last name. Forget Swift. I’m no groupie. How about Lovemore? Or Firstglance? No, I think I’ll go with (You Had Me at) Hello. Why not? If kids are getting names like Apple and 7, I am going to be James (You Had Me at) Hello. Nice ring to it, no? And I like the parenthetical homage to The Carpenters’ “(They Long toBe) Close to You”. No one else will make the link, but the name is for me.

Perhaps as James Hello I’ll become socially ept. (Clearly, I’ve mastered inept. Why can’t I be ept? No such thing?! By god, how am I supposed to right things?) Maybe the whole name thing needs more thought.

Back to Taylor Swift. This is a woman who falls in love. A lot. True, guys line up for her. Fame, money, trophies. Maybe I’ll go back to wearing my bed-sheet ribbon.

Joe Jonas.

Taylor Lautner.

John Mayer.

Jake Gyllenhaal. (Ah, Jake. This one was the keeper, Taylor.)

Conor Kennedy.

Harry Stiles.

These are all brief relationships. According to my trusty Wiki research, none has exceeded four months. But Taylor would never call them “flings”. Love. Truly, Madly, Deeply. (Aside: Whatever happened to SavageGarden?)

For me, it’s not about the fact the relationships end. My focus is on getting something to start. For the past decade, I’ve been this sad sack, stranded on a quasi-island, failing miserably at survival. Lots of rubbing stones together to try to make a spark, a fire. Nothing. No matches. No light.

Taylor believes in love. Taylor finds love. She is known for bashing her exes in song, but her lyrics are also laced with hope and romance. Listen to “Love Story” again. “Today Was a Fairytale”. Sense the longing in “Teardrops on My Guitar” or “You Belong with Me”. All summer her duet with Ed Sheeran, “Everything Has Changed”, squiggled through my brain like an earworm. It amused me as a tale of falling fast.

All I knew this morning when I woke
Is I know something now, know something now I didn't before.
And all I've seen since eighteen hours ago
Is green eyes and freckles in your smile
In the back of my mind making me feel right.

'Cause all I know is we said, "Hello."                            [As in (You Had Me at)!]
And your eyes look like coming home
All I know is a simple name
Everything has changed.
All I know is you held the door
You'll be mine and I'll be yours
All I know since yesterday is everything has changed.

The jaded part of me dismisses it all as the thinking of a young mind. So naïve. So open. I was that once. An ex (and his mother; both cynical) once described me as a deer in the headlights: innocent, hopeful, and wholly unaware of the harshness ahead. Now I am guarded. I’ve been cheated on, abused and, of late, completely passed over. Yes, Taylor, there is a country song in me if I can ever feel comfortable leaving off word beginnings endings and tossin’ ‘round apostrophes.

But I’d like to get back to being hopeful or, at the very least, suspending disbelief.

Hope is a start. Opportunity is another hurdle. Someone hold the door. Green eyes and freckles or not, show me that smile.

I can’t keep rubbing rocks together. I have no interest in being on “Survivor”. I need a spark, a flame, some warmth. Bring it on. 

Swiftly.