The
city just ran out of men.
That’s
right,...Vancouver.
The
whole “raining men” thing was just a strange phenomenon from the
‘80s. The eighties, for god’s sake. And here I’d spent all but
the last four months of that decade in the closet with my
tossed-on-the-floor acid-washed jean shorts, collar-less Girbaud
shirts and pleated baggy pants.
Doesn’t
matter now. The men are gone. I’ve stepped into some Wonder Woman
land. She may be fierce but frankly she doesn’t do a thing for me.
I
should be like that guy who married a hologram.
Of course, then I’d have to decide between Fred Jones from “Scooby
Doo” and Hermey the Elf. Longstanding crushes. I used to be partial
to blonds. I guess I’d pick Hermey. He’s got to be a dentist by
now, right? My mom would be so happy. “Oh, son, you picked such a
sweet, well-mannered hologram groom. And
successful, too.”
Seriously,
how did thirty-nine people show up to a
hologram wedding? Did they miss Barbie and Ken’s big event? Did
they actually buy gifts from the registry? Yeah, I should definitely
marry Hermey the Elf. But first
I’d have to propose and, well, he’d likely say no. He’s
probably more the Big Daddy type, all that time spent around Yukon Cornelius.
Fred
would turn me down, too. Nothing personal. I just don’t get the
sense he’d want to share his cravat drawer.
Dammit.
I can’t even get myself a decent hologram.
There’s
some urban legend going around about some gay
man meeting some other gay man by happenstance, out in public, in
person, a random encounter
in a rom-com come-to-life. I
don’t see that happening for real. I
sit and write in cafes and in libraries, looking up every now and
then in case someone wants to make eye contact. Nothing. Just some
guy one floor below me at the central library, constantly clipping
his toenails. (Eye contact?! How could I compete with foot care? And
I’m not the foot fetish type. Nothing romantic about what goes in a
sweaty sock.)
I
go to the grocery store. Not a look there. I have to decide if the
avocados are ripe on my own. (By the way, here’s how.)
Even when I try to cruise
the Mr. Clean bottle. Worst
kind of gay. He’d go home with anybody.
I
go to the gym, too. There is ZERO eye contact there. Everyone wears
earbuds and stares down at their phone screen during the long (LONG!)
delay between sets. I’m not my best self at the gym. If anyone
glanced my way, I’d make a bad impression. Part of it is the gym
t-shirt and shorts which show off, well...nothing,
but it’s mostly the cranky face that
would put people off. I
get impatient waiting to use the leg press machine. Not that it does
anything for me. But it’s
part of my routine and it stands between me and going home.
Can’t you step aside
while you scroll Facebook, check
out a Kardashian Instagram account
or text Aunt Rue?
So,
yeah, that notion about meeting a real guy in a regular setting has
been put to rest. Pure myth. That
then leaves online dating options. I say that as if any are truly
viable. Plenty of Fish is
dead water. Same tiny pool, exact same profile photos I saw ten years
ago. As if we’re all ageless wonders. OKCupid is an even smaller
collection and Match.com isn’t
even a blip in the
Vancouver market. That leaves the penis and ass pic sites. Call
me old-fashioned, but I
just don’t feel comfortable messaging a penis. I
can’t imagine a relationship growing from “Nice scrotum.”
So
that brings me back to holograms, Wonder Woman and cruising that
floozy stud, Mr. Clean. Please say yes, Hermey.
