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.

GAZING AT THE ENDLESS STY

If you were someone who had a perfect complexion all through high school, stop reading. Surf somewhere else. You will have no frame of reference. But if you had zits like me, the kind that couldn’t be tamed despite the promises of pimple cream ads, read on.

My acne was debilitating. As an angst-ridden adolescent (Is there any other kind?), I made dozens of mirror checks each day to gauge the latest developments. Those darn zits were peskier than the critters in a Whac-A-Mole game. In high school, my self-consciousness was generalized to class situations and wholly exaggerated. I was invisible to most of the student body. If they didn’t see me, how would they notice my pimples?

But logic has no place when blemishes assault. Not then and, thirty years later—sigh--, not now. The zits are a thing of the past. Hurrah. But for the past two weeks I’ve had a sty on the eyelid of my right eye and it’s, quite literally, an eyesore rather than a sight for sore eyes. (Flip words around and the meaning can be vastly different. By the way, I’m using the preferred spelling, sty, according to my dictionary. Stye is also acceptable though less commonly used. I was raised to use the less common form so, as a writing stickler, I felt compelled to mention this. I am not thrilled that the common spelling for my facial imperfection is also used to refer to a swine enclosure, often heaped with manure. If I am supposed to be calm, then someone should suggest a less offensive name for my unsightly inconvenience.)

I am proud to say that, despite the sty, I have not been holed up in my home, ordering delivery pizza each night, waving payment through a cracked door. “Just leave it on the doormat, thanks.” Alas, my takeout scenario conjures up unpleasant references to my “pizza face” days. Sisters can be cruel.

I have gone about my business in town, not giving a hoot about the sty. I have resisted repeated mirror checks. My life has gone on. Shocking, really.

So why a blog entry? Tomorrow I have another coffee date, my first since the beginning of July. I know, I know,...the sty is a silly thing to be concerned about. Easy for the sty-less crowd to say. I like to go into a date with some semblance of confidence. First impressions matter. In the online dating shopping network, people decide to pass quickly. I think I’ll send Mr. Descent [sic] a message. How much lower can I go? (Not making that up. There is an unfortunate speller on Plenty of Fish who calls himself Mr. Descent. At least, I think that is not his intended name.)

Okay, so I’m going forward. I’m not canceling the date or asking to reschedule, using that Marcia Brady line from “The Brady Bunch”: “Something suddenly came up.” But I don’t think I’ll wear my favorite green shirt which calls attention to my green eyes. Black is slimming. Does it reduce other things?

Hmm, would an eye patch be a stylish accessory? Arrr! Sadly, Talk Like a Pirate Day remains a month away.

I look forward to saying goodbye, sty. If the date doesn’t go so well, I am sure there are many other possibilities for it being a dud. But then, the sty might turn out to be a convenient explanation as I trudge forward, continually mystified by the gay dating world.

I wasn’t me; it was the sty.