WORTH ANOTHER LOOK

Okay, so in my last post I devoted a thousand (plus) words to an encounter that consisted of four glances. Total glance time: 10, maybe 11 seconds. Total time, including moments of stunned ineptitude between said glances: 45, maybe 50 seconds.

 

It was actually 1,380 words. (That’s 27.6 words per second. Must edit better.)

 

Sorry. Maybe the past ten months saying I needed no one and professing to love being single without any possible prospects bore too much bluster. I still don’t think so. I like time on my own. What I’ve learned during various incarnations of lockdown is I miss travel. Men? Meh.

 

But if opportunity knocks…

 

Handsome Man Walking Dog notices me and suddenly I’ve entered Hallmark movie territory. Apologies to Luke Macfarlane as I may have taken one of his roles. (It’s a “sorry, not sorry” from one Canadian to another. How have I missed all eight of adorable Luke’s Hallmark movie appearances?) I decided it was worth considering another glance-fest, maybe even a daring exchange of hellos. (“Hi” sounds more casual, right? “Hey” is too casual, verging on coffee barista indifference.)

 

Over the next week I went back. Same place, same time. Not every day. That would be desperate. (I skipped Monday.) I can’t be sure, but I think he was there every time. I can’t be sure since he now had an extra dog and he didn’t look as good. Do I have that fickle gay gene? 

 

I reminded myself that there were no suitors waiting in the wings. Heck, there are no wings. They got repurposed after lack of use. 

 

My first day back, I was back to my old self. No confidence. Eyes on the pavement, avoiding the cracks that might break my mother’s back. Noble, right? (That should be rewarded.) If he looked, I wouldn’t know. Still, he could’ve approached, said something about the weather, COVID or Meghan and Harry. They’re the standard chitchat topics these days. Clearly, he couldn’t make a choice. I may have made him nervous. He walked on. 

 

The next day, I dared to look. It was the quickest of glances, but long enough for me to see him looking straight ahead, my image registering no more than a one of the dozens of trees in the park. As the days went on, I lengthened my gaze. It’s less gutsy when you know it’s perfectly safe. Still, I focused on the task before me.

 

No doubt, my look remained a work-in-progress. It wasn’t anything in the realm of “Come hither,” but it was a very clear “I see you.” And yet he didn’t see me. 

 

Maybe he’s the one with the fickle gene.

 

Then, it happened. He scowled. It wasn’t directly at me, but I was definitely in range. Message received. Even if it wasn’t intended for me, why would I want to date a random scowler? If he scowls for no reason, what would he do if I put the orange juice carton back with only a few drip-drops left? What if he found a hair of mine in the bathroom sink? What if I didn’t smell Irish Spring-fresh after a run? (These things have been known to happen.) 

 

Bullet dodged.

 

Anything gained? I’ll always have that fifty seconds of four over-the-shoulder glances. The fact he turned out to be The Scowler can’t negate that. So many possibilities never lead to anything. There’s also the chance that The Scowler with Two Dogs is just a case of mistaken identity, that my Handsome Man Walking Dog really and truly only has one dog and is still out there, Fido’s pee schedule too irregular for me to expect such an easy, Hallmark-approved Scene 2. “And cut. Can someone’s get Luke Macfarlane’s agent on the line?” 

 

Wasn’t meant to be. 

 

Doesn’t matter. For a moment, I felt noticed. I extended that moment into a week of what ifs and, dare I say, hope. (Bonus: I blogged that week in half as many words.) That’s enough.

 

 

LOOKING OVER MY SHOULDER

I’ve noticed a shift when I’m out and about, doing my daily walks, runs and bike rides. I’m noticing men again. I suppose I never really stopped noticing them, but there was an extended period time when they mainly registered in a recently renovated part of my brain. (I never used the old frontal scrapbooking space anyway.) Thoughts about men had moved to the COVID police lobe. 

 

That guy isn’t giving me space as he walks toward me on the sidewalk. 

 

Is the dude behind me too close? 

 

Why isn’t that man’s mask covering his nose?! 

 

Brain overload. I may have had an overly active survival instinct or maybe it was just a mutation of my ever-present need to control my environment. Men represented danger, but then, just to make it clear I’m not sexist, so did women, people who are gender-fluid and maybe the occasional statue. Deep into a pandemic, I was anti-bodies.

 

Think I’ve (mostly) worked my way through that. Now it’s back to seeing men as humans, some of them aesthetically pleasing to this gay guy’s eyes, some of them possibly even being gay. (My gaydar has always had reliability issues. Now it’s rusty and further hindered by mask coverings. It’s as if everyone’s being coy with me.) 

 

Possibilities? Nah. Pre-COVID, it wasn’t like I ever caught other men glancing back at me with that Hey-he’s-aesthetically-pleasing-and-possibly-gay-like-me kind of look. There was a brief window of time for a few months before I turned fifty when that kind of thing may have happened, but never ever at any other point in my life. Most certainly not after I hit the half-century milestone. Hello, pasture. Let me graze on hay and the occasional sugar cube.

 

Today, a man looked my way. I contacted a skywriter to assist with the big announcement, but his fee was astronomical. (If I’d said “sky-high” it would have been too on the nose, yes?)

 

SPOILER ALERT: Don’t get your hopes up, dear reader. This isn’t going to lead to anything.

 

Vancouver is enjoying a string of days of sunshine, with temperatures getting warmer each day. We’re in that weird spot in the calendar year where some people step outside in shorts and t-shirts while others continue to wear puffy winter coats and gloves although I think many in the latter group do so out after establishing a months-long habit, much like I see people carrying umbrellas on days with no chance of rain in the forecast. They’re locked in with, This is my outdoor look. Change is hard. I wore jeans and a sleek, form-fitting navy sweatshirt with a thin horizontal ribbon of hunter green across the chest. It’s the kind of understated, clean garment I see a lot in Stockholm; indeed, I bought it at a trendy men’s boutique in the city’s hip Södermalm neighborhood during my most recent visit. (I just Googled the tag to learn it’s a German label.) The item comforts me, reminding me of my geographical happy place, while also giving me the cool confidence of a faux Swede in North America. 

 

I loaded my backpack with my laptop and headed out for a midday walk to do some errands and to do some writing outdoors, a rare treat I’ve only done a couple of times in this year (plus) of lockdown. Between errands, I stopped in a favorite café, ordered my go-to drink, an oat milk latte which I first “discovered” in, yes, Stockholm several years ago during my first visit. (I was an oat milk convert before it became a thing in North America.) Drink in hand, I walked two blocks to a waterside park, sat on a shaded bench and fit in a half hour of writing, a decent chunk of time given that it had been a while writing in a different venue than my windowless home office/recycling nook. (I'm so glad Zoom isn’t part of my life. Eyes off my sad space, people!)

 

As I packed up and began to walk out of the park, I spotted a nice-looking man about my age walking a small dog on the sidewalk across the street. Our eyes met. Normally, such a moment prompts me to do a lower my head and conduct a safety check. Are my shoelaces securely tied? Could that knot be a little tighter? But, on this occasion, I didn’t look away and neither did he. In fact, I got the distinct feeling my presence startled and pleased him, much like his pooch might respond upon seeing an approaching Pomeranian. (Ghastly breed, but then dogs aren’t very discerning.) In all, the look may have lasted two seconds, but that’s a long time to hold a gaze on someone, enough time to feel one’s personal space has been invaded. Naturally, I came to my senses and looked away. My double-knotted shoelaces were indeed securely intact. 

 

History proves that I am a complete failure in executing The Second Look. On that rare occasion when I attempt such a move, degree of difficulty 4.8[1], it’s a belly flop. My timing is all off. I wait until it’s safe. I don’t turn around until I feel certain that the moment has passed. It’s absolutely counterproductive. But I like feeling safe. I turn and, sure enough, the guy is a full block away, looking forward, getting on with the ordinary thoughts of his day. Did he turn back moments earlier? I’ll never know. Yeah, safety kinda sucks.

 

This time was different. Maybe it was my swanky sweatshirt. Maybe it was a radical move, brought on by months of being cooped up. Maybe the past ten months being dateless produced temporary amnesia regarding the sting of dismissive rejection. Whatever the reason, I pivoted my head slightly—subtly?—and glanced back. 

 

By god, he was doing the same thing.

 

No way. This was too much. I felt embarrassed. Caught! I quickly came to my senses and looked forward. Safety again. I wouldn’t want to risk walking into a tree. Again, a counterproductive stance. Come on, man. What are you doing? You looked and he looked. Somewhere pigs were taking flight. (Hopefully from a factory farm. Fly, Porky, fly!)

 

Doing something daring once—this was like parachute jumping for me—feels less so if you do it again immediately thereafter. I turned back again. Alas, all I saw was the back of his head. But then…he looked back again, directly at me.

 

A bit thrilling, but I panicked and pulled the parachute, looking forward. 

 

Another jump—er, look. Same from his end.

 

Um…now what?

 

I didn’t have a clue. Another mutual glance occurred before I looked forward again in case some prankster tree had snuck up on me. I walked on, a building now blocking any possible view of Handsome Man Walking Dog. Whew! That was quite a ride. A little “Weee!” in my day. Time to hit the grocery store. (Oat milk on sale!) 

 

Perhaps I blew an opportunity. Somehow, I was supposed to make something out of that exchange. How? I need a dating tutor. Maybe I should start with Flirting 101 or enrol in a campy retro course: Cruising for Love. (My luck, it would be all about Captain Stubing and “The Love Boat.” Incidentally, did Lauren Tewes ever get back on track? Must Google.)

 

A quick reflection two blocks away told me the dog was the conversation starter. Duh. Apparently, I can’t think and execute over-the-shoulder glances at the same time. Still, it would have looked odd, the two us of walking on separate sidewalks, heading in different directions and me suddenly changing course, feigning an urgent need to shake a Yorkie’s paw. Too obvious. 

 

Sigh. Sometimes obvious IS the objective! It’s good to know I’m fifty-six and I still have things to learn. I just wish it was something else—baking bread or top five metropolitan areas in Siberia. 

 

Heading home, canvas bag of groceries in hand, I’d already worked past feeling incredulous over my ineptitude. I was smiling, the day felt a little brighter. I’d been acknowledged. Ain’t that something.   

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[1] This, according to a 2017 answer to a query on technologyreview.com, is currently the highest degree of difficulty for any existing dive thus far attempted in competition, a reverse 4 ½ somersault in the pike position. Truly comparable.

CECI N’EST PAS UNE PEEP

I’m not someone you’d describe as singularly focused. I may have my sights on moving to L.A., but that does not mean I’ve successfully tuned out the nagging thoughts of being forever single.

It’s silly really. This is not the time to think about finding love. When I lived in L.A. but dreamed of moving back to Canada, I knew I’d never find a lasting relationship under the palms. I told myself that I had to be in the place where I wanted to be first. Otherwise, my dream would only lead to frustration. Twice I fell in love in L.A. and twice I pitched moving to the land of igloos and no TVs. Both times my Northern ideation helped walls go up. How could the relationship feel stable when I was quite literally unsettled? Eleven months after the second breakup, I quit my law career, packed my car and headed to my home and native land. I had no idea what I would do for a job—turns out studying this video was not helpful—, but I sensed that my life would fall into place. Love would follow. Add a Tim Hortons donut and homemade veggie poutine and I’d live happily ever after.

Seventeen years later, I’m looking South. Whereas I only had four weeks from when I decided to move to Vancouver until I began the drive, my earliest date for a return to Los Angeles will be in July 2012. For the next nine months, I should tune out any ideas about finding love. It’s been a 7 ½-year wait so far...I have lots of reading and writing to bide my time. And I really should catch up on movie classics if I want to hone my screenwriting. I’m embarrassed to admit that I’ve seen “Pillow Talk” but not “Citizen Kane”. For shame!

Still, a little validation would be nice. My last real date was fourteen months ago. One-time coffee “dates” after online messages don’t count. They are just interviews. The reality is that I fail time and time again. “We’ll call you if we’re interested.” And the cell phone never awakens from deep sleep. I would welcome several dates with the same guy. Get beyond the standard bio exchange. When did you come out? How long have you been in B.C.? Where were you when you learned Ricky Martin was really and truly on our team? Yep, I’m tired of playing in the shallow end. Why doesn’t anyone want to venture to the other side of the pool,...even if only for a season?

It’s a long shot.

If not a string of dates, a few knowing looks would at least affirm that I am more alluring than the ho-hum pastries in the Starbucks display case.

Can’t a decent looking man takes his eyes off the cereal box display in Safeway and give me a peep? Consider it charity. Stares for the needy. Ogle away!

Hello? I exist. If I am stuck in the shallow end, why does it seem that everyone has their eyes shut when I wade in? How long must they play Marco Polo?

I might be better able to play the waiting game if I thought things will be better in Los Angeles, but I cannot kid myself. I remember the model/waiters, model/accountants, model/personal trainers. If I don’t warrant a glimpse here, any thought of standing out in L.A. is foolish California dreamin’.

Sigh. Spinsters may take refuge amongst colonies of cats, but I’ll have closets stacked with jigsaw puzzles. If I’m going to get nothing from time spent gazing elusive baby blues, I might as well lose my vision going bug-eyed staring at cryptic cardboard pieces of indistinguishable blue water. In the end, I might have something to show for my time.

But then, perhaps I’ll send out a final mating call. “Marco?”