"AM I PORTLY?"

It’s been going on for a couple of weeks now. At least once a day, I enter the living room and Evan asks, “Do you think I’m portly?”

 

Good god, where’s the escape hatch?

 

As I’ve told Evan multiple times, the answer is no. Still, the question must be asked. Over and over.

 

So what brought this on? Has Evan stopped going to his cardo-yoga classes? No. Is he suffering from a medical condition that causes regular bloating? No. Has he started eating desserts? No. (Blueberries regularly sit in the refrigerator and go bad because I believe someone once told Evan there are natural sugars in fruit and he grew up in a certain gay era where all sugars were considered bad. I’ve seen him eat a single blueberry and then stop.) This is not an issue related to exercise or eating. The problem is Evan is moving.

 

I realize that, for most people, getting ready for a big move does not cause them to go through a crisis regarding body dysmorphia. Moves bring on stress. They stir a sense of melancholy over leaving an established life behind. They induce anxiety over what the future holds and how settling into a new home in an unknown town may come with struggles. But I’ve never known anyone to fret over body weight because of a move.

 

Then again, I’ve never known anyone like Evan.

 

The problem in the biggest sense is that Evan owns a lot of stuff. Furniture. Tchotchkes. Clothes. It’s that last category that triggers, “Am I portly?”

 

Evan spent some of his formative gay years in New York City and Miami. Whereas I embraced the baggy decade of the ’80s, Evan ascribed to a more common gay mindset: the tighter, the better. If you had even a trace of a muscle, the clothing was supposed to smother that bulge like a cast so pecs, biceps, butts and even calf muscles were flaunted. Having to buy a crow bar to undress at the end of the day was just one of those sacrifices made in the name of fashion. And all signs indicate Evan has always loved fashion. 

 

Evan’s current apartment has five closets he has equipped with double and triple rods for accumulating and cramming in the maximum amount of clothing. As well, he has the largest chest of drawers I’ve ever seen. More cramming! Although he asserts he got rid of a lot of clothes when he moved from Seattle to Denver two years ago, “a lot” means too little for someone who can’t walk past a vintage store without going in and will ramble on for twenty minutes espousing the virtues of the brand, Dsquared2, or Ralph Lauren’s contribution to the betterment of the world. (I try to nod and say, “Uh-huh” in the right places.) 

 

Evan has dozens of cowboy boots, at least fifty pairs of jeans, countless jackets and blazers and drawers of shirts I’m afraid to open for fear I’ll never be able to shut them. Do a Google Images search of clothes horse and Evan’s photo should be the first thing that pops up. I believe the Oxford Dictionary is currently amending their definition to include Evan as a synonym.

 

With all that handy storage, Evan has had the luxury of holding onto a massive stockpile of clothing. 

 

That, however, is about to change. His big move is from Denver to the Aspen area, widely regarded as one of the most expensive places to live in the United States. Costs to rent a place are outrageous. At 57, Evan does not want the hourlong commute that some of his younger coworkers have opted for in order to find something more affordable. As well, he rightly considers himself as having aged out of a time when having one or more roommates is palatable. After finally finding a MUCH smaller place for just himself that’s a reasonable commute to and from work, he now has to go through a significant downsizing. Many of his possessions are going to a storage locker but other items are just going. Hello, Goodwill.

 

This leads to the daily “Am I portly?” question.

 

Downsizing comes with painful decisions. What stays? What goes? I’ve shared with Evan the oft-stated rule: if you haven’t worn something for a year, chuck it. I hear him restating it as he talks to himself while staring into one of his closets. He amends the term to two years. But there are too many exceptions to make the rule a rule. While I go out and write—he won’t let me in on the decision-making—he proceeds to try on countless items. 

 

Let me restate the shopping philosophy he was raised on: the tighter, the better. Imagine what happens to him then when trying on a pair of leather pants he bought ten years ago, a shirt from fifteen years ago and a blazer that dates back to last century. (If he reads this post, he’ll take great offense to this paragraph. Where are all the adjectives to describe the utter awesomeness of the pants, the shirt and the blazer? These are not ordinary clothing items. Each has a story and a long list of features to make the item particularly precious.) 

 

Clothes Evan bought many, many years ago were as tight as they could be when he bought them at twenty-three or thirty-six. (I wonder how many XX Small shirts were left on fitting room floors when a sleeve ripped as he tried to get the darn things off.) Now fifty-seven, it stands to reason that some things are even snugger. Uncomfortably so. 

 

Yes, aging sucks. There are indignities even for people who remain fit. That mirror, mirror on the wall betrays us every time.

 

Hence yesterday’s welcoming when I returned from a writing session: “Am I portly?”

 

The day before: “Am I portly?”

 

The day before that: “Am I portly?”

 

The move happens tomorrow and Evan still has to tackle that colossal chest of drawers today. I know I’m going to be hit with that familiar question yet again. And again. Twenty-four hours cannot pass fast enough.

 

 

 

 

 

FROM LONG TO LONGER

Dan Fogelberg took the word longer and made it romantic.

Longer than there've been fishes in the ocean
Higher than any bird ever flew
Longer than there've been stars up in the heavens
I've been in love with you.

 

My long-distance relationship is about to be longer. No so romantic. From Vancouver to Seattle, the distance is 150 miles. A three-hour drive, with a tunnel that backs up, the border crossing and a final crawl until the Space Needle comes into view. In the nearly two years we’ve been seeing each other, I took a sea plane once, the train another time. Mix things up a bit. We sometimes met at in-between spots, each of us taking different ferries to Victoria, a cabin on Whidbey Island, a campsite, and Airbnb in farm country. 

 

But so long, Seattle. Evan got a terrific job opportunity he couldn’t turn down. (We talked about it for weeks and neither of us wavered from our gut response: “Do it!”) This morning the movers came and loaded up his things. We have two more days in a Seattle apartment, entirely empty but for three suitcases and an air mattress. I’m writing this while sipping a Caffe Vita oat latte in a vibrant open space adjoining KEXP radio studio as the station’s eclectic playlist pipes through the speakers and I gaze at the Space Needle, a short walk away. In this city I love, these are a few of my favorite things.  

 

The job is in Denver and, no, it’s not one of those work remotely deals. While known as the Mile-High City, it’s almost ten times the distance compared to Seattle: 1,440 miles away. Three days’ drive instead of three hours. (The days of driving seventeen hours straight and sleeping in autobody parking lots ended three decades ago.) 

 

If one of us had moved to Sydney or Singapore, I’m sure we’d have accepted the change of circumstance, committing to make it work. But that kind of physical separation lends itself to clearer guideposts. Four visits per year perhaps. Two for him, two for me. See you next season. Romantic. Cue Dan Fogelberg.

I'll bring fire in the winters
You'll send showers in the springs
We'll fly through the falls and summers
With love on our wings.

Does the fact the song’s lyrics are accompanied by a harp and flugelhorn make them more compelling or less real?

 

The Vancouver-Denver distance is middling and thus a tad muddled. We won’t be seeing each other three weekends in four, but once a season sounds too sparse. Visits will be negotiated more in terms of frequency and length. For the most part, we’ve alternated between Vancouver and Seattle. For the future though, I’ll be collecting more frequent flyer miles. I can write anywhere. With a nod to Dr. Seuss: In a plane, on the train, on a boat, across a moat. On a box, in striped socks, beside a fox that’s wearing polka-Crocs. Oh, the places I’ll write! Here, there and everywhere. And now Denver.

 

Relationships have to adapt. Denver I shall adopt. The move is a return for Evan. He lived there two decades ago. His parents and other relatives are near, as are friends from high school and university. Lots of pluses, but he will miss the Pacific Northwest. I’m not the only one who thinks Seattle is awesome, a place of trolls, a monorail that goes practically nowhere, free bananas for those who venture to the heart of Amazonland and a destination wall to add your chewed up wad of Hubba Bubba Sour Blue Raspberry bubblegum before taking and posting a selfie NO ONE wanted to see. The city can’t match the Keep Portland Weird vibe, but it tries (especially in Fremont). No doubt, his return, while offering the chance to rekindle connections, is laced with confusion. Is going back going backward?  

 

I have connections to the city as well. My sister now lives less than an hour away, my niece and her new baby are in one of the suburbs and a university friend is a prof at the University of Denver. After three decades in my corner of Canada, I’m not sure how close any of those relationships are. 

 

As for Evan and me as a couple, we’ll be closer to his family cabin (half an hour out of the city), his Airstream in Taos, New Mexico and plenty of new hiking adventures, one of our core common interests. I’ve already pitched a road trip to Moab, Utah and Antelope Canyon in Arizona. My Instagram will have better pics than some wall coated with saliva and spearmint. 

 

I’ll find whatever quirk Denver has on offer. Already, I’m wanting to eat at Casa Bonita, a kitschy Mexican restaurant with cliff divers and newly renovated by the creators of South Park (for realz). Another Insta post! Plus there will be dozens of new cafés to try out as writing locales. We’ll find new bike routes, too. We’ll make new memories.

 

Of course, as rosy as I try to spin things, there are plenty of unknowns. What if? What about? When will? How long? I prefer questions with answers. For all others, I’m just going to bat them away. Plug my ears. La-la-la. Sorry. Can’t hear you!

 

We’ll figure it out. (Fingers crossed.)

 

Longer in distance, but hopefully closer in the ways that truly count.

 

 

SHOWING HIM THE EXIT, AGAIN AND AGAIN

Here’s how not to begin a relationship.

Tell the guy, straight away, that you’re moving. Not something local, but two thousand miles away. See Johnny run.

But he doesn’t. For whatever reason, he plays along with the temporary charade. Heck, the move is two months away. Maybe he’s just playing the odds. Most relationships don’t make it that far anyway. Not in the age of swiping left. Not when messages continue to come in on OkCupid, Plenty of Fish, Match.com. Not when there are ample opportunities for hookups on Grindr, Scruff, Manhunt and Squirt. A week or two, maybe three. A chance to have a companion join you to try out that hip Thai restaurant your friends won’t go to because they prefer sushi and who pays twenty-five bucks for pad thai anyway? Surely moving on will come before moving.

Except it doesn’t. So, go figure, this dating thing has legs.

But keep talking about that move. Mention the comprehensive rental sites you found online for your future city. Throw in repeated references to issues with booking the movers, offer daily updates on packing up your condo, recall a couple of great cafes you discovered in your new city while scoping out possible neighborhoods during a trip there in January. Surely the fling will wind itself down. If Johnny won’t run—maybe he’s got a lingering knee injury—he’ll at least have the sense to turn and walk away. Hell, passing time on Twitter would be a better investment.

But Johnny misses every chance to say goodbye and cut his losses. (Are there even any losses?)

During the entire time that Johnny keeps hanging around, agreeing to yet another date, pepper the poor guy with all your baggage. Go easy at first. Share that you’re a vegetarian. That’s not technically baggage, but it’s sent many a suitor on his way. (“So you eat chicken, right? Fish?”) Let it sink in that the whole ordering Chinese food thing just got impossible. No sharing the Mandarin Mu-Shu shredded pork. Or the Szechuan beef. Or the barbecue pork buns. Chop suey is hardly a palatable consolation. Who really wants seconds of bean sprouts?

And yet he still eats with you. “I don’t mind vegan spots,” he says. Oh oh. That’s a clear sign he’s thinking of hanging on. The ones that stick around into the second month always profess to be cuisine-flexible. They make a point of mentioning every time they prepare a vegetarian meal at home. (“Pretty much. Except for the bacon.”)

So Johnny hasn’t run. Nor has he walked. Apparently that GPS feature on his phone isn’t working and who can get around without it these days? “West” is nothing but a rapper’s last name.

Kick things up a notch. Talk about the meds you’re on. For depression. Actually, for being bipolar. Wait for it...he’ll walk. Whichever direction. There’s always Uber. But, no. Johnny says, “I’m okay with that.” Repeat the diagnoses, adding “really, really” before bipolar.

Johnny stays. Forget all that’s messed up with you; something’s gotta be wrong with Johnny. Maybe he’s just slow at processing. Maybe he prefers to break up by text. Ghosting’s become quite normalized these days.

Johnny texts. Johnny phones. Johnny FaceTimes.

Talk about your eating disorder. Go into detail about the extended hospital treatment last year, followed by the stint in a group home. Make it clear that you made no progress. Still messed up. Again, “really, really” messed up. Listen as Johnny calmly asks questions. Non-judgmental ones, just seeking to understand.

What the hell?

In another week, disclose the doozie of all doozies, the deal breaker—talk about your time locked in a psych ward. Twice.

Still Johnny stays.

There’s nothing left to do but to channel an epidemic. Sure, it dashes the whole moving plan, but make it clear that staying in the city is just a default. It’s not about the relationship. The six-month lease doesn’t prove commitment, especially when you share that the landlord won’t impose a penalty if you bolt after five. Let it be clear. This is temporary. The whole world is on hold.

The relationship waddles past the two-month mark. There’s still a newness to it. Plenty has been (over)shared, but maybe there’s still some googly eyes at play. All the quirks have been disclosed, but they haven’t really shown themselves. By gosh, maybe whatever this thing is has a future. For god’s sake, don’t be a leech. Give the guy some space. Don’t be one of those doomed gaga couples that abandons time with friends and spends all their free time together. Get out. See people. Maybe even dash off for a weekend away on your own. Attached, perhaps, but with that fierce independent streak intact.

F*ck you, COVID-19.

No friends. No getaways. Not even dinners out in which the waiter is an extra person to converse with. (“So you’re a full-time university student, too? How do you manage?”)

Make it just you and Johnny. He’s your Plus One to everything. Except there really isn’t anything other than outings to see if they’ve restocked flour in the grocery store and to search the drugstore for that new woodsy spruce-scented antiseptic someone mentioned on Facebook. It’s just you and Johnny and Netflix.

And walks. Lots of walks in areas strategically chosen where there won’t be other people. Keep that Johnny-and-you-against-the-world-and-all-its-germy-germs thing going.

Cross the three-month mark and watch as it still goes on. The virus,...Johnny (actually, Daniel),...the wonder of it all. It’s yet more proof that I know absolutely nothing about relationships.

HOME ADVANTAGE

Five days in Toronto, a scouting mission.

Now as I sit in a cafe tucked off Church Street in Toronto’s gay village, I stare at a rainbow flag hanging above a window of a two-storey, cream-colored brick house across the street. Maybe this will be home. Not the brick house itself—to expensive, I’m sure—but the city’s designated rainbow quarter. When I visited this same area on a sleepy Monday morning in August, I wasn’t impressed. But then I was able to laugh at myself, too. Who else checks out the purported gay scene of a city on a Monday morning? I wasn’t looking for a bustling bar scene. I’d hoped for charm and quaintness. Instead I saw the same old Canadian bank branches trying to out-rainbow one another with their colorful facades and mainstream cafes, Starbucks and Canadian franchise Second Cup. I looked up at the aging high-rise apartment buildings on nearby streets and thought there was no way I could call this part of the city home.

On Saturday afternoon, I gave the area a second chance. Admittedly, any sense of good judgment was gone as snow covered the ground and continued to fall. I’ve never lost that childhood sense of wonder and excitement when flakes start to fall. I could have visited skid row and been impressed. Everything looks better with snow. It’s part of the reason I’m moving back to Ontario. I want to experience four distinct seasons and escape the rainy “winter” months of Vancouver. I popped into one independent cafe I hadn’t noticed in the summer and ordered an oat latte. That cafe is a rainbow crosswalk away from the one I’m in now. Both pass the test as possible writing spots for me. Passable if nothing more. I’ll have to make things work. The same goes for the entire neighborhood.

In truth, while walking close to one hundred kilometers during this visit, I failed to find a neighborhood that felt like I desperately needed it to be my future hub. I liked the quirky feel of Little Italy and the international vibe of Kensington Market, but there were no apartments or condos in these areas. Roncesvalles was a charming street close to Lake Ontario but, again, no apartments and too far from the heart of the city for a newcomer. Same goes to Leslieville and The Beaches. Even if I found a place, I’d be as lonely—no, lonelier—than back in Vancouver. These are neighborhoods for couples or single people with an established network of friends.

I have to be practical in picking my first place to live in Toronto. I know no one in this city of three million people. In starting over, I need to at least give myself a chance. As much as I shunned West Hollywood when I lived in Los Angeles, I need whatever boost I can get from whatever’s left of a gay ghetto in a city. In Toronto, it’s simply called The Village. This being yet another Monday morning as I check out the place, things feel gay-lite. But then, haven’t all gay hubs lost some of their vibrancy as LGBTQ people have found greater acceptance and spread their wings to other parts of cities, even venturing into, gasp, suburbs? I’m not sure what I was expecting to see but I found it comforting when passed one smiling twenty-something man wearing a jacket covered in turquoise feathers, someone’s boa project that got a little out of control. Whew, this is not the financial district!

An older gentleman has taken up a stool along the window, leaving one empty space between us. I heard him before I saw him. Upon his arrival, my gaydar beeped as he gushed over a young woman’s hair. “I love it. I simply love it! You look absolutely stunning.”

The woman explained, “It took me two days to get it right.” But then they said their goodbyes and the green-haired lady waved once more from the sidewalk as she dashed away. The man has been sitting alone for ten minutes now, seemingly content, no phone to browse, no laptop for writing or web development. It dawns on me that I could strike up a conversation. Should, in fact. There’s a spot to fill: first Toronto acquaintance. But no, I continue with my writing. The move is still a few months away; the urgency isn’t there yet.

It will come. First, I will have to ride the approaching wave of outright panic over all things involving the move. When I was thirty, moving from L.A. to Vancouver, I simply loaded up my Honda Accord, shipped a few boxes to a friend’s mother’s place in Washington state and that was that. No job lined up, no place other than a sofa to crash on. (Yes, I knew one person, instead of zero.) I didn’t have the sense to worry. Failure didn’t cross my mind. At that point in life, I hadn’t ever experienced it. I blamed my dating woes on the fact I hadn’t found my city yet. I’d simply been looking in the wrong place, banging my head against the wall trying to convince lifelong Southern Californians that a move someplace north would be good for them, for us. My persistent pitch was always met with blank stares. Too much sun, I figured. The move would be just for me. It was an adventure.

That was then; this is now. I can admit to being scared. There have been several occasions during this Toronto visit that I’ve had to quell panic surges. How will I ever find a suitable place to live? Why can’t I even get over my fear of using transit here (especially since I’m a mass transit geek)? What if I crash and burn here too? What then?

I left my bottle of emergency anti-anxiety meds back in Vancouver. Breathe. Small steps. Keep from looking too far ahead. For now, I’ve got to get back on a plane later today and see if my power-sanded bathroom walls look fresh when painted over in the flat white my realtor recommended. Plan B will be to hire a professional who can come in at a moment’s notice to redo my mess. My condo goes on the market in two weeks. I have twenty-five years of accumulated things to pare back down to what can fit in a Mini Cooper for driving across the country. That’s enough distraction.

I’m set on this move. I just need to channel some of thirty-year-old me. Confidence or naivite? Whatever it was, I’m going to need it.