SHIFTING GEARS

In this first month of being single again, I catch myself still leaning into the habits of when I was part of a couple, when I processed so much of every day with a certain someone in my heart and on my mind, even when an international border separated us. In a way, the distance kept him closer. Contact and communication didn’t just happen, a ho-hum, taken-for-granted, “You again.”

 

Sometimes our times together felt a tad too razzle dazzle, the equivalent to a kid’s weekend stay with the non-custodial parent. We hiked and biked and ate out aplenty. I’d like to think we’d have done these things just as much if everything had played out in a shared city but time can feel less special when the effort to see each other is only a half hour drive across town or double that in rush hour. Was it “un-real” in that regard? I don’t believe so. We may have cherished shared time more, but the dynamic also came with added pressure. It was more jarring when something might be off. With time so precious, a conflict could require tinkering with the itinerary. As well, a retreat to one’s own home to regroup was more than a short drive and, if chosen, exponentially more dramatic. 

Our hikes and road trips were great fun, but much of our best clicking came with the two of us sharing a sofa or sitting up in bed with morning coffee in either of our abodes, an easy stream of chatter going on and on and on.

Alas, my sofa is now for me alone. I never have coffee in bed. I scroll social media quickly, rotely. There is no one to lean into to show my screen and to share an anecdote triggered by a post. It’s all now literally unremarkable. This is but one example of the emptiness I now feel in something small that meant more because, for two years, it was shared. So often during every single day, it’s tiny things that prick me. It’s over. I wasn’t The One, after all.

These are some of the things that continue to require a mind shift:

·      I don’t need to mentally file away anything that happens in my day. There is no one to share it with on a FaceTime call before turning in. 

·      A building is just a building again. I try to blot out Art Deco from my vision, much like that mechanism on newer phone cameras that allows you to make a garbage can or a photobombing crow disappear.

·      I don’t need to note the location of Mexican restaurants wherever I happen to be. I’m not stopping in. There’s bottled salsa at home—not as good as at most taco spots, but it’s just me again and, really, I’m not that picky.

·      I don’t wear the coat he bought me. I can’t. Not yet. I loved it. He loved me wearing it. It feels like being cloaked in him. When he was my boyfriend, that was comforting. As my ex, it’s not helpful.

·      I listen to my boppy pop music whenever I want. I’ll still dance and lip sync along to the songs in my crazy way. There just isn’t a bemused witness. It makes me feel good; just not as good. 

·      I write or read in silence. I sometimes wish NPR were still rambling on and on in every room. Quick moments. They pass. Things are quieter as well on account of the lack of text messages. Ping! Ping! Ping-ping! My ex would fire off unedited texts in rapid succession. Used to make me smile but stressed me out, too. What is all that? Do I have to stop everything and respond? My friends rarely text. Sometimes I wonder if they’ve lost my number.

·      It took two weeks but I’ve stopped bracing for an instant blast from the overhead spout when I step in the shower. This is now at the top of my Good Things about Breaking Up list. It’s a sad list. 

·      I can push back any urgency in getting an extra chair for my living room. He wanted one and I still see the hole in my design layout, but I don’t need it. I’ve been unsubscribing to those weekly furniture emails. I may even like the open space.

·      When I pull out my phone and take a blendie (a selfie with the background matching what I’m wearing), I feel even sillier than usual. What’s it for? Who’s it for?

·      I don’t have to put gel in my hair after a late afternoon workout. I’m not going anywhere for the evening and FaceTime is no longer a nightly custom. Some version of bedhead now begins to take shape hours before I ever get near the bed.

·      I don’t have to give plant updates. The fact my Christmas cactus went through a bonus blooming period in recent weeks doesn’t matter to anyone other than the person who rejuvenated it. He’d say he “saved” it. (It’s true. Thanks!) I didn’t take a pic to send. We’re not texters anymore, even if my phone still has his contact at the top of the queue, ignoring alphabetical order so I see it every time I go there. I don’t know how to get rid of that once-handy feature. I did, however, figure out how to delete his photo. 

·      I need to stop glancing at visitors’ parking for my building. His car isn’t there. It’s never going to be there again. I also don’t need to check for empty spaces. I’m not expecting any other visitors.

·      When I see the same color and model of his car, my heart still skips. The plates say British Columbia, not Washington. That’s supposed to calm me, but I’m left concerned about that skipping heart. He dumped you. Hasn’t that sunk in? Good god, play some f#*king Alanis Morissette! Take a boxing class. Shred old manuscripts (by hand). Summon your righteous rage!

·      This morning I got a text from the library. A book I’d put a hold request on is ready for pickup. It’s a picture book about tacos. (No, not the super popular one. A knockoff, most likely.) I don’t remember requesting it. How long ago was that? Obviously, I did it for him. I’d show him. I’d read it aloud. None of that now. I canceled the hold. 

·      There’s no rest even when I sleep. I keep dreaming about his furniture and endless trinkets. I’m supposed to know where they go, how to arrange them. This connects directly with our breakup. I didn’t help him pack. I blurted a petty “no” when he first asked and then, after apologizing, he refused to let me help. Used against me, it felt punitive, a response uncharacteristic of my ex. Why did he shut me down? It still haunts me, literally day and night. I force myself to step away from the dilemma with a blink of my eyes. A moment awakened. The next night, the dream cycle resets. 

 

The list will shrink. Give it time. In another week or two months from now, Me Days won’t feel so lacking. I like my own company. It says something about how much I loved my ex that I allowed him to crowd in with Me, Myself and I. This transition was not my choice but, as with global warming, the discontinuation of Häagen-Dazs Bananas Foster ice cream and the constant threat of no more music from Selena Gomez (I do like my ditties), adapting is the only option.

 

The process takes time. I can’t pay a higher fee and make it a RUSH order. Yes…time. I seem to have so much of that now.

 

 

I THINK MY PHONE HAS AN S.T.I.

Okay, time to give myself a shake. I can lament getting dumped, commiserating with a growing soundtrack of songs. It’s funny how many pop ditties are relatable. When I’m not feeling wounded, it’s the song’s hook that draws me in. Now I’m drawn to lyrics about getting the hook. I suppose the corresponding visual is exit stage left in these Tinder times, but I still envision a sudden chute opening up at the person’s feet, sending them down into some deep, dark hole, relegating the sad-sack to bumming a morsel of pizza crust off a sewer rat. 

 

Hours after sitting through my closure call with my ex and hearing Taylor Swift in my head, summing up his point of view—"We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together”—I downloaded a “dating” app. I think it’s actually more for hookups but the guys on this one seem to still keep it a tad higher brow. Perhaps it’s a formality but they complete the “I am open to” box with Friendship, Relationships, Dates before adding Random play/NSA. (NSA=No Strings Attached=hookup.) 

 

To be honest, I’m not open to any options right now. I’m here for Woofs and Likes. After getting dumped, I need to know that someone might pause on my photo, read a sentence or two of my profile and think, Yeah, he’s okay. Not worth a message or anything but, I’m here and woofs are free. That’s right, I’m craving virtual barks from humans. 

 

The world gets weirder.

 

In the days that followed, I reactivated my profiles on Plenty of Fish—a pond that’s more depressing than ever—and OkCupid, a site that Vancouver men seem to have abandoned. Cupid’s apparently been playing with poison arrows. 

 

And then I crossed over into the present century, diving into the very shallow pool that is Grindr. No risk of neck injuries from my head hitting the bottom, just a range of STIs.

 

Good lord. (I don’t say things like, “Good lord,” but I’m thinking I’m going to need something akin to divine intervention to help me cope. I’m experiencing shortness of breath just typing on the topic. Seriously!) 

 

I think the name of the app is supposed to allude to sexual friction, bodies grinding together but my first image was me getting chucked into a large meat grinder, shredded down to nothing, a variation on that woodcutter scene in Fargo. Not kidding. That’s where my head went. This app is going to grind me down.

 

Lordy lord.

 

Unlike the other apps, I paid some sort of fee. This is my virtual beer. When I used to go to gay bars, my survival instinct always said, FLEE! To combat this, I’d order a beer. I hate beer. I couldn’t gulp it down like a rum and Coke or a Tom Collins, well drinks that were always mostly ice. Being raised with a sense of frugality, I knew I would finish the beer. It would take forty-five minutes, tiny disgusting sip after tiny disgusting sip, but that meant I’d have shown up and stayed in a gay bar for practically an hour. 

 

Sometimes I could kid myself into staying a bit longer. Never much of a drinker, I’d wonder if I might have a buzz and whether, should a police officer pull me over, I’d blow above 0.08. (I’m 6’1” so highly unlikely.) I’d add to the STAY incentive, speculating the DJ would play a Janet Jackson or Madonna song next or, if not then, right after that. 

 

Paying for three months of Grindr means I’ll check in a time or two. Get my money’s worth. No woofs, but taps instead which manifest as a flame symbol. (I’m not sure how a flame translates to a “tap,” but I’m guessing no one else is bothered by this illogical visual.) Tap away, guys. I really need a boost. I’m paying for affirmation. 

 

Grindr scares me. Most of the messages I’ve received are mind numbingly lite, a mere three letters—hey or sup. Are some users billed by the letter? Jeez. How does an overly wordy guy like me navigate three little letters? I really, REALLY don’t belong here. But hey is safe, at least. Not scary. I just delete it or, once or twice, I’ve hey’d back. It’s a dare. Message me again. More letters, please. 

 

People don’t like dares.

 

It’s the other possibilities I’m afraid of. Something urgent, direct, crass. No mention of coffee. No talk about a favorite hike, no question about what I write. I’d share some examples but I don’t have any. I delete these messages right away, as if my device might succumb to a virtual STI. I really don’t want to have to take my phone in for repairs. How would the tech dude react if I set it on that counter and say, “I think it might have gonorrhea”? 

 

“Sorry, man. You’re screwed. No antibiotics for that.”

 

So I’m paying for flame emojis and the screams are, what, a bonus? I have a low threshold for horror. I’ve never seen a Halloween movie or anything with Freddy Krueger. (Had to Google the character so as to not confuse him with that Flintstone guy.) What I’d be more than willing to pay for is a blocking mechanism. No faceless profiles, no profile that includes the word “daddy,” and no unsolicited homemade videos. Call me retro, but I’d prefer floppy disks to dicks. Sorry. Grindr made me say that or, more specifically, aspiring videographers with an inflated sense of, er, pride. 

 

Damn you, Grindr. As the gays have flocked to you, the staid sites gather dust, mould and an archive of profiles from guys who haven’t figured out how to download a photo from the present century. (Seriously! Same photos for active users on Plenty of Fish from when I first logged in somewhere around 2006.) I’m tempted to contact a lawyer to bring monopoly/antitrust charges against Grindr. 

 

“What damages would you allege?” Thomas Buckingham Lowden III, Esq. would ask.

 

“My phone has gonorrhea! And I’m going to be single forevermore!”

 

“With all due respect, sir, I’m not sure we can prove in a court of law that the last part is on account of a dating app.”

 

I hate lawyers. (I can say that. Used to be one.) No validation from the legal system.

 

*Logs in* 

 

No new flame emojis either. Someone just show me the trap door shute. I’ll go willingly. Sewer rats aren’t nearly as scary as certain cellphone icons.

 

DUMPED IN DENVER

It's the 15th, Denver.
Can I help you yank this down?

There’s never a good time to be dumped but, I’d have to say, some times are worse.

 

Christmas. (Eve or Day.)

 

New Year’s. (Same as above.)

 

Valentine’s Day.

 

Guess which one I just experienced.

 

He didn’t!

 

Oh, yes. He did. 

 

I’m on record as saying I don’t like Valentine’s Day. Gotta say, I like it even less now. 

 

The day before had been rocky. One of the tough parts of long-distance relationships is that communication while apart is always somehow lacking. Texts can be misread, the tone unclear. Calls are better but there are distractions. FaceTime is my preference, but it’s always clear you’re still apart. 

 

Something had been off in the morning phone call, a laugh meant to convey lightness and support misinterpreted as uncaring and a suggestion dismissed with irritation. He was stressed, I told myself. He had reason to be. 

 

When I FaceTimed in the evening, he didn’t answer. He quickly message instead: 

Can’t talk now, sorry

 

A little later, a flurry of texts, an unexpected attack. He needed to focus on himself. And, incidentally, I was deficient…in many ways. 

 

It felt so wrong. An assault on my character. Little things were suddenly everything. I know I’d disappointed him a few weeks ago and, what I’d thought had been resolved was now the equivalent to that pesky spinning rainbow on a computer screen. It would not go away.

 

A FaceTime followed. More character assassination. He depicted my view of our relationship as narrow, self-serving and a total letdown. Where was this coming from? It was exacerbating. Slanted. Absurd! I hung up. 

 

A few more texts came, more of the same. I let them go. What was the point of arguing—even defending—when the point of view had gone so dark?

 

Feeling shaken and wounded, I immediately faced more confusion. I was supposed to fly to Denver the next day for a two-week stay, my first visit at his new place, a chance to help him settle in and for us to feel out our new U.S. base. Was I still welcome? 

 

I didn’t pack. I managed a couple of hours sleep but mostly the night passed slowly as a pillow fight, solitaire edition. When the alarm sounded, I felt both relief and dread. No more agonizing tossing and turning but now I had to face the day. Where were we? Were we even “we”?

 

I texted:

You’re my partner. I would like to come today—to

see you, to be with you.

 

Is that okay?

 

And immediate response:

Yes. Happy Valentine’s.

 

Okay then. What had been the significance of yesterday? Anything? Nothing? 

 

There had been times when our evening chats had involved misunderstandings but, in each instance when Evan had been harsh or moody, he’d texted an apology immediately the next morning. His ability to say sorry, quickly and genuinely, had always been one of the things I most admired about him. 

 

No sorry this time. I packed. Was “Happy Valentine’s” supposed to make everything better? I spent the day traveling, still confused and wounded. I knew we’d have a difficult conversation. I knew we’d get through it. 

 

I took the train from the airport to Union Station where he picked me up. It was a fifteen-minute drive to his place. We broke up before we arrived. 

 

What was going on? Why did he keep casting me in a negative, dismissive light? I could have rebutted everything and defended my character. I made a few points, but, as startling as it was, I knew nothing I said mattered. 

 

He’d made his case and said it. He’d dumped me. He’d freed himself from the apparent awfulness of me. 

 

He mumbled a couple of times, “This is a great Valentine’s Day.” I will begrudge him this. As the dumper, he needed to keep his mouth shut about that. His choice. I was the dumpee. That was my line. True, not a great VD for him either, but I’m the one who didn’t want this. I’m the one who spent the day traveling for a greeting that plays back as “Hello, I’m dumping you” on the highlight reel.

 

As the drive continued he gave me a tour guide’s narration of things along the route. It felt so tone deaf. Random buildings didn’t matter when I didn’t matter. I stared at the glove compartment, trying to will my mind to go numb, waiting for him to change course, to glance at me, to see me for me again, to see the man he fell in love with, the guy he spent the past two weeks repeatedly saying how much he missed. Nope. The tour dragged on, even as we walked the block to his place after parking.

 

I went through the motions looking at his place. I tried to offer a positive comment or two. My heart wasn’t in it. His heart wasn’t mine anymore.

 

Two weeks here? He floated the friends concept. We’d be better as that. 

 

I sat and focused on my phone screen. How much to fly out the next day? How much for a hotel? The costs were high, but I saw no other options. I did not want to be where I was not wanted. I could not flip a switch and become friends with someone who’d just portrayed me as too much, not enough and wholly unappealing.

 

I should have Ubered it to the hotel. Instead, I asked for a lift. I suppose he owed me that. We drove mostly in silence. We got lost. I was relieved to have the GPS voice fill the space between us. 

 

Still stunned, I kept thinking he’d recant. He’d remember how we gel instead of perseverating on how we’re different. He’d come to his senses. 

 

He didn’t. 

 

Hello, nondescript hotel room. It was eight o’clock at night, eleven hours after I’d left my home, a single scone to sustain me for the day. I needed food but I knew you don’t ask for a table for one on Valentine’s Day. Couples don’t want a sad single dude, freshly dumped no less, in their periphery as they thank god they no longer have to eat Lean Cuisine on February 14^th. 

 

As with many downtowns, Denver doesn’t have a big offering of grocery stores. I walked half an hour to Whole Foods, passing many restaurants loaded with couples. Not fun. The streets were quiet as I slogged back to the hotel with my banana and guac, passing the occasional love birds spilling out of a diner, clutching bouquets and boxes of flowers. Still not fun.

 

Before turning in, I checked my phone yet again. No calls, no messages, no regrets. 

 

In the middle of the night, it became crystal clear, his resolve would not relent. Our relationship ended three weeks short of two years. Rest in peace, or something like that. He has a clean break in a new home, free of any memories of me or of us. I get to return to a home where the presence of Evan is everywhere, reminders I can’t pack away in a closet. (Maybe I’ll buy a tarp and turn the balcony to an indefinite storage space.) 

 

He’d frontloaded all his thinking about ending us. He’d had time to think about us shifting to friendship. Maybe even plenty of time. Had it only been a few weeks? Had he flirted with thoughts of freedom at Christmas? Did doubts set in last summer? He’d often gotten caught up in our differences and, to be sure, some of them are pronounced. I’d repeatedly said, You be you. I meant it. I don’t think he ever got his head around that when it came to me. 

 

He’d held off and didn’t say it until he was ready. Why then would he recant? He’d said it. He’d freed himself. Hello, relief! 

 

A little reminder, courtesy the
City of Denver.

I checked my phone first thing in the morning. I still hoped he’d express regret. A big mistake that’s all. Stress and sickness had made him turn against me, the easiest target for doubts, frustration and distraction from other big changes in his life. Alas, the only thing on my screen was a notification from Duolingo, suggesting it was time to practice Swedish. 

 

Plenty of time, as it turns out.