STUMBLING--AND CYCLING--INTO A QUEER SPACE

Back in January, I signed up to be a volunteer for an organization called Cycling Without Age. The opportunity seemed a perfect fit for me. I’m an avid cyclist and CWA’s primary intention is to get seniors outdoors, riding on trishaws, offering new experiences in the outdoors. There was one big glitch. There were five training sessions, including four that involved learning how to operate each of the trishaws which had been bought over a span of years so each one had its quirks for how to operate. I’m not a technical person. Anything mechanical quickly overwhelms. Still, I wanted this volunteer experience so much that I dug down and did all I could keep my anxiety in check. I passed training. (And, yes, each of us was formally evaluated.) I was happier—and more relieved—than when I got my driver’s license.

 

Something unexpected came along with my volunteering. It came with a gay twist. During the first training session—a PowerPoint about the organization and the commitment we were getting into—one of the veteran volunteers casually mentioned his boyfriend. I may have jolted in my seat. 

 

Another gay! Hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t even turned on my gaydar.

 

To be sure, this volunteer adventure was primarily about connecting with seniors from seventy-something to ninety-one (my oldest and liveliest rider). Every time I’ve ridden, I’ve worried about messing up. My anxiety is always spinning in place, wondering how I will mess up. And, yes, that anxiety has had a rational basis. My trishaw’s bike chain broke on my second outing with an eighty-five-year-old woman and her daughter. We were in the thick of Stanley Park and I managed to conclude the incident was all my fault. (Maybe it was.) On two other occasions, despite the trishaws having e-assist, I have gotten stuck trying to get up a hill. Wrong gear to start with, wrong level of power. Definitely my fault. The errors happen just often enough that I can’t quell the worry about when the next one will occur. 

 

It’s one thing to get, say, a flat tire when I’m out on my own bike. Then, it’s just myself that I have to worry about getting back home (sometimes after dark). With the trishaw, I have seniors I’m responsible for. I have to get them back to the nursing home or seniors’ centre at or around an expected time. Aside from the broken chain incident, everything has worked out in the end.

 

The good thing is I am never out alone as a solo volunteer. There are always one to three other trishaws with other volunteers and seniors. Quite often, at least one of the other volunteers just happens to be gay. There are times on each shift when seniors are not with us, such as when we have to do a thorough check of each trishaw before leaving the warehouse and when we have to go through a task routine upon returning them. As well, there is wait-time upon arriving at a seniors’ facility as the riders are often still getting ready and often need wheelchairs and walkers to reach the trishaws. 

 

Last week’s ride involved two trishaws picking up senior riders at Qmunity in Vancouver’s West End near Coal Harbour and Stanley Park. Qmunity is an LGBTQ centre so I had the pleasure of taking Ben for a ride while Bob, the other volunteer (who happened to be gay), pedalled two women. We were a full queer contingent, darting through park spaces on a sunny afternoon. No rainbow flags were needed. We just had regular conversations as our regular selves.  

 

My last volunteer gig was with AIDS Vancouver where I fully expected a lot of contact with queer people. As for Cycling With Age, the interactions with other gay men have been a pleasant, unexpected surprise. It’s particularly nice since my social anxiety has increased over the past two decades so it’s rare for me to meet new people. 

 

I wouldn’t say I’ve gotten close with any of the volunteers—I’ve turned down attending CWA’s social events (again, anxiety)—but I’ve enjoyed casual conversations with other gay men, most of them in their fifties and sixties like me, a couple younger. All but one is partnered so there is none of the flirtiness that may occur at a gay bar or pub. Mostly, we talk about biking and travel. 

 

It's all so normal—or as normal as it can be when it involves a guy like me who is terrible with chitchat. 

 

I love my time with seniors, especially that ninety-one-year-old who waves her purple cane at everyone we pass and turns to me and jokes, “Next time, you sit; I pedal.” Yes, more rides with Agnes, please! But I’ve also loved the bonus of regular conversations with older gay men. It’s not what I signed up for, but I’ll gladly take it.

TOO MUCH GINGER (Part II)

 Too much ginger?

Apologies. This was supposed to be a humorous post. I don’t know what it will turn out to be now. Anxiety has a way of taking over everything.

 

A couple of nights ago, I had a miserable sleep. It wasn’t much in terms of a sleep at all. Call it a miserable, prolonged awakening in lieu of sleep. I blamed pumpkin pie. It’s a seasonal scapegoat. (Really, when was the last time you ate pumpkin pie in February?) I figured I’d eaten too much pie over the course of the evening, but there were other possibilities too, if I broke the pie down into the particular ingredients. (This is the kind of thing I do during unwelcome, prolonged awakenings.) I’d gone heavy on the ginger which probably wasn’t great on the stomach. Too much nutmeg and cloves as well. The pie shell’s expiration date was two years ago, the egg whites’ Best Before date was five weeks ago, maybe six, and it’s possible both the pumpkin puree and the sweetened condensed milk were outdated, too. Maybe this was the type of pie TikTokkers eat on a dare after they get bored swallowing cinnamon. (Yes, I’d been overly generous on that spice as well.) I wasn’t, however, in the mood to make and post a video at three in the morning after wrestling pillows and sensing that dark circles had settled under my eyes. They’ve taken up permanent residence, but surely they were undergoing a fresh paint job for that football player look, only sad and scary.

 

Pumpkin pie probably didn’t deserve my late-night or next-day wrath. I’ve had four nights in a row with sleep taunting me. 

 

You sure you want it? 

 

Isn’t flopping, tossing pillows and wrestling with sheets and blankets much more fun?

 

All that movement burns calories, you know.

 

If sleep taunts, anxiety bullies. It’s been having great fun at my expense. I’ve been downing aspirin to subdue a headache that keeps popping up, today crossing over into the migraine zone. My stomach has been busy shooting pain and clenching innards to cause constant discomfort. My brain won’t slow down.

 

Sometimes there is no clear cause for an anxiety visit. It just shows up. No call ahead. No text. Quite rude, in fact. I’m here. You’re gonna want put on a pot of coffee. Maybe one of those big urns. 

 

This time, however, I know why it’s here. Evan and I are off on another trip, this time for three weeks. While I always get excited about travel, there are always a few matters that give me the worries beforehand. As I mentioned in my prior post, the one where I viewed pumpkin pie as a nemesis (sorry!), I don’t have a big enough suitcase for either the length of travel or the weather variability, with current temperatures ranging from a low of -15 in northern Colorado to 95 in Miami. I’m going suitcase shopping tonight.

 

The bigger issue is that I’ll be meeting Evan’s parents on this trip. It’s not just going to be a pleasant lunch at the Olive Garden wherein I search for more intelligent, conversation-extending ways to say, “Mmm, breadsticks!” We’re staying with them for a full week. And not just any week, for those of you familiar with the American calendar. We’re there for Thanksgiving, a much bigger to-do in the States than in Canada. Bigger than the Fourth of July, bigger than Groundhog Day—seriously, Hallmark, why haven’t you exploited that?—sometimes bigger than Christmas. Between Thanksgiving and Christmas, star billing goes to the one your grown children show up for. Evan’s Colorado visit makes Thanksgiving the big one for 2022. 

 

That would be big and stressful enough since the boyfriend of nine months—Me!—is in tow and, good god, he’s a vegetarian. “But it’s Thanksgiving! He’ll at least have a little turkey, right? What do you mean he won’t eat the stuffing if it’s cooked in the bird? What the hell is mushroom gravy?”

 

If too much ginger is at play, the ginger is me, a big redhead who likes a few blond highlights. Call it a hunch, but I think they’re really excited I’m crashing Thanksgiving. 

 

But there’s the Open House first. I got the invitation on a group text. “Come say hello to Evan and James!” Evan later texted that his mom had selected “green jade moss and grass” for the color theme. My colors. I had to ask if he was serious. He wasn’t but my sense of humor suffers rapid decline when anxiety lurks. And Evan may need to learn when it’s the right time to joke around.

 

Open House, no joke.

 

Evan’s mom has stated she’s invited all Evan’s friends, but Evan insists they’re her friends. No matter to me. A houseful of strangers sounds like all kinds of fun. I’m an EXTREME introvert, by the way. 

 

Among the guests are Evan’s stepbrother and wife, driving in from Wyoming…or maybe the tip of Argentina. I don’t know. I’m only hearing half of what Evan says at this point, which happens to be the half that included him saying, “They’re MAGA people. But nice.” Hopefully there’s a hat rack in the front hall for them to hang their red caps. I will politely excuse myself to go to the bathroom if they mention Mar-a-Lago, the My Pillow Guy or start an impromptu rally, chanting, “Build that wall!” I may have to lie and say I’ve got overactive bladder syndrome. And diarrhea. 

 

Often at house gatherings, I drop to the floor and play with the dog. I’m in luck when it’s a slobbering golden retriever that rolls over and insists on a three-hour tummy rub. “Yes! Yes! Who’s a good boy?!” The nifty thing is that Evan’s mom is partial to miniature schnauzers like me. She’s had four, I’ve had three. But none of them will be available for a paw shake, much less a belly scratch. They’re all dead. Making the boyfriend’s mother cry is not cool at an open house. 

 

So…no dogs to keep me occupied. Evan’s parents have two cats now. I love all animals, but some not as much as others. Cats are clearly in the “not as much” cat-egory. (Sorry, couldn’t resist.) I admire cats from afar after getting scratched up by neighbors’ felines as a kid and cat-sitting a devil cat for one very long week in my thirties. “Yeah, I think she’s possessed,” my friend said after returning from his trip. No chance I’m going to crouch down and allow two Himalayans to draw blood from my face and arms during my big debutante affair. My sudden screams may cause a lot of troublesome red wine spillage.

 

Speaking of wine, Evan told his parents I don’t drink. He clarified by tagging on the word “much.” Critical add-on. But his brevity had already incited panic in his mother. “No turkey? No alcohol?! Is your boyfriend a mannequin?”

 

I drink. A glass, sometimes two. No one’s going to mistake me for a hardcore partier. I would think that’s a positive, especially at an open house. Wouldn’t want to break the Waterford crystal or Evan’s second-grade pottery collection, a charming set of ashtrays displayed on the living room hutch. (I too made ashtrays in elementary school. Such were the seventies. Did Philip Morris fund our arts programs?) If I have to, for the sake of making a good impression, I’ll allow generous pours to refill my wine glass and then dump the Chardonnay in the bathroom sink when I’m making another of my runs to duck out of a conversation about guns in churches. 

 

I just double-checked the open house invitation on my phone. It’s four hours which initially makes me think, FOUR HOURS?! Damn. But then I feel thankful. There’s an end time. That’s something. Seems like I’m shifting to glass-half-full territory. May there be no spills, no overconsumption causing me to diss about Melania and no serious cat scratches causing me to bleed too profusely. After a week of meeting the parents and half of northern Colorado, I’m sure I’ll enjoy sunny southern Florida. I’ve had melanoma but worries about skin cancer are nothing when put in the big picture of the trip that lies ahead. A sunburn might make cat scratches blend in nicely.

 

But then, Evan did say I needed to pack high fashion clothing for going to dinner with his client in Key West and more trendy, arty wear for when we hit Miami to see his best friend. There’s a fancy schmantzy weeklong art gala that’s in Miami while we’re there. Events galore!

 

WHAT?! 

 

So, once again, I should apologize for disparaging pumpkin pies. They probably don’t cause restless, sleepless nights of tossing and turning. Any correlation with unrelenting tummy aches and constant migraines is likely coincidental. It seems there may be other factors. Still, I’m not going to pack my Ativan. Even if it helped me refrain from heated MAGA debates, kept the wine steady in hand and allowed me to make nice with the kitties for a few minutes, I don’t think I’d make a great impression if I curled up on the living room sofa and finally fell into deep dozing during my big debut. 

 

I’ll handle all of it. Or I won’t. What’s three weeks anyway? 

   

 

 

 

 

PANDEMIC WANTS AND NEEDS

It’s been my stance throughout the coronavirus that I am absolutely A-OK. My social anxiety and my introversion make me well-suited for locking down and keeping the world at bay. Well, all right. If you insist. No pining for a hug. No wishing to be a foursome, laughing too loud at the local bistro between nibbles of the brussels sprout appie. (Well, three of us nibbling. I’d have my hands resting on my lap, cursing the fact they’ve added bacon to a veggie I loved way before cabbage became cool. When bacon becomes the standard foodie additive to ice cream flavors, I shall have to pack up and join a vegan commune thirty miles down a dirt road in Northern Idaho.) Yep, I’m in no rush for my next dine-out experience. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. Take as long as you want, Corona. You won’t see me blink.

Early on, I would grind my teeth as videos emerged of rebels invading Walmart, going mask-free, asserting their warped view of freedom and personal rights. You can’t stop me from being selfish! I have a right to public stupidity! (The Republican Party tells me so.)

I stopped arguing with my mother as she preemptively justified my parents’ “need” to continue eating at a booth inside their local Panera Bread. “Oh, son. They’re so good there. They make us disinfect our hands as soon as we walk in. The place is very spacious. Sometimes we have the place to ourselves.” Um, wonder why? “And your father gets the monthly all-you-can-drink coffee deal. You know he likes to get his money’s worth.” Really, how could I argue with all that?

When I called last week, she said, “We miss our friends, you know. We’re not getting any younger and they’re dying. Everyone we get together with is very careful, of course. We stick to our little group of eight.” I couldn’t respond. She didn’t give me a chance. Mom and Dad were dashing off to a unit on the second floor for a fun-filled night of playing Mexican Train. I don’t know what that is and I’m not looking it up. I’m just going to tell myself there’s more social distancing in it than a game of Twister.

Before dashing, she did toss in, “Oh, by the way, your brother has COVID.”

“From the family reunion at Christmas?” I asked. (Yep. That’s another story. I’ll spare you.)

“No, dear. From a coworker.”

“I thought he was working from home.”

“Well, he was. But they like to communicate in person, you know.”

Okay then. They live in Texas. It’s the last rocket stop before Mars.

My mom was trained as a nurse and my father was a doctor. They know how viruses spread. They know how to stay safe. But they’ve decided their need to be social and my father’s “hobby” of going to five different grocery stores every week so he can stockpile Buy-One-Get-One-Free cans of green beans from Kroger before raiding the shelves for bargain-priced All-Bran at Brookshire’s is more important. You can never have enough bran on hand. (This assumes you’ve also filled two closets with toilet paper.)

Last night I met my dear friend Katrin for a glass of wine after she finished work. As someone who lives alone, I’m allowed to meet with one, maybe two, other people. Our provincial guidelines are murky and, as people who like to do whatever they want are quick to point out, most of them are only recommendations. People justify brunch for six by saying, “It’s not illegal. They can’t put me in jail.” Sigh. Because the threat of sitting in a cell with two drunks and a shoplifter is what it takes to do the right thing.

Katrin and I are each other’s designated person though we haven’t met often since our biking and hiking outings in the summer. We met at the same seaside pub a few months ago, sitting on the outside deck under a heat lamp as the pouring rain battered the ground three feet away. Last night, the temperature dipped below freezing and we were well layered, Katrin in snowpants and me wrapped in the handmade wool blanket I’d bought in Stockholm three years ago. (Miss you, Sweden!) Just like last time, we were the only ones sitting outside, chatting at length about the global inequities regarding vaccine distribution, who should be given priority and what should (but won’t) happen to privileged people who jump the queue.

What the hell did people talk about before COVID? The Kardashians? “This Is Us”? The fact that it’s too cold and I lost all feeling in my toes thirty minutes ago? Ah, but we wouldn’t actually be sitting outside, pretending this is perfectly normal pre-COVID, would we?!

Katrin and I worked our way past coronavirus indignation and went deeper, as we’ve always done. We met three years ago as both of us attended our first group course for people with eating disorders. She’s bulimic; I’m anorexic. She’s made astounding progress; I haven’t. Every conversation we’ve ever had has been incredibly rewarding, quickly forgoing chitchat for substance.

“I’m worried I’m going to wind up back in the psych ward,” I said. “All this isolation has been too much of a good thing.”

This is where it’s important to distinguish between needs and wants. My mother’s yearning to socialize is a want, not a need. It makes her feel better, more connected, in-the-know with her friends. All good. But I know she and my father fully support themselves living together and carrying out their comfortable routines, my dad devouring every article in his paper copies of The Wall Street Journal and The Dallas Morning News, my mom scrolling through Facebook, sharing a post about Hunter Biden or, on better days, sharing a meme about the well-earned right to crankiness in old age, then liking every photo in posts from my sister and me while adding powerful comments like “Yikes!” and “Neat!” where applicable. (It’s not a cause for therapy, but I tend to get the “Yikes” and my sister the “Neat.”) They come together for meals, my father, who’s never made so much as a piece of toast in his life, pacing the kitchen helplessly five minutes before noon. In the afternoon, they take a little walk before my mother resumes reading something from her stack of library books, my father still plodding contentedly through his newspapers. After dinner and a never-missed dessert, they settle for an evening of “Wheel of Fortune,” “The Crown” and maybe an episode or two of “House Hunters International” before turning in. I’ve observed them many times, amazed at how satisfied they are with their “Groundhog Day” existence. They are happy. They are the definition of Meant for Each Other. Sure, time with friends only makes them happier. Still, a want, not a need.

I’m the opposite. I don’t want to socialize. Let me write. Allow me to read. Set me off on a hiking trail and, please, let no one come my way. I don’t hate people. I just struggle in environments with people. Isolation makes my attempts to cope rustier. I need to be with people even if I still haven’t gained any more sophisticated skills from back when I was four and my mother would nudge—no, push—me to go sit in the sandbox with the other kids. My inevitable tantrum didn’t endear me to my peers, but I didn’t feel like I was missing out as they offered sand “cakes” to everyone else but me. I mean, really, why would I pretend to eat a fistful of sand? (And why is Tammy actually doing it?) Also, why does Jimmy keep running over everyone’s legs with his Tonka truck? May he never get a driver’s license.

Fifteen years ago, I moved to a rural area, idealizing it as the optimal setting for my writing with frequent breaks ambling through the forest just up the hill with my schnauzers. Peace and quiet...except when my neighbor was pressure washing microscopic blemishes on his driveway. Again. And again. Out, damned spot! The endeavor required great patience and, by that, I’m talking about mine.

My time living in rural isolation—a decade—nearly killed me. I wound up severely depressed and suicidal, locked up in a psych ward. (I swear it had nothing to do with the pressure washer, but we all need our scapegoats.) My psychiatrist, my family doctor and my counselor all ordered me to move. I would not survive more time in isolation.

And here I am once more, the past eight months, in particular, in solitary. Like my parents, I have my own routines to give me purpose. I track every minute of time writing to ensure that I’m not wasting too much time checking out who is the person it’s trendy to hate today on Twitter. I have stacks of books on my coffee table that are urgent must-reads since they’re checked out from the library and I have five more Holds waiting for me. I also have my exercise compulsion, part of my eating disorder, that consumes large chunks of my day six days a week. Days pass quickly. I’m content or, at least, safe.

That changes as soon as I step out. My runs and hikes and bike rides and timed walks are fine because they are tasks that fulfill an exercise requirement. If, however, I walk to a grocery store or to watch a sunset or to meet Katrin for a drink, I’m unhinged. I’m like that kid from “The Sixth Sense:” I see people. Not dead, thankfully, because that would have me screaming hysterically and get me fast tracked back to the psych ward. Seeing living people freaks me out just as much as dead folks traumatize that poor Haley Joel Osment.

It’s hard to explain—too much for a blog entry that’s already running long—but something overwhelms me in being among other people as they go about the significant and mundane parts of their day. They are able (or, at least, that’s the assumption I make). Many are talking to a coworker, a friend or a partner. They are connected. They aren’t faced with a well of tears suddenly pooled in each of their eyes, panicked that, if anyone should even glance their way, it would be so obvious that they are falling apart, longing to turn back after only half a block, willing to subsist on another can of black beans to put off grocery shopping for another day. I can’t be certain, but I’m guessing being out in public hasn’t led to three ways of killing themselves to pop in their head in the past minute. Bridge. Bus. Bayonet. It’s not willful thought; the “suggestions” just appear. These people I pass can’t see the billboard I envision draped from the building across the street: YOU BLEW IT. NOTHING WILL EVER BE RIGHT AGAIN. They don’t see the one up the next block: WHY ARE YOU STILL HERE ANYWAY?

These aren’t the voices in one’s head that doctors ask me about from time to time, wondering if I’ve earned another mental health label as if they’re like Boy Scout badges. Thanks, but no thanks. I don’t have multiple personalities and I don’t have Satan or anyone else squatting in some otherwise unused space in my brain. It’s just my solitary inner voice, with all its tainted takes on failure and worthlessness honed by prolonged periods of isolation. Socializing doesn’t fulfill some deep yearning to connect; rather, it distracts my brain from dark, hopeless thinking. Like I said, I need to socialize as much as I don’t want to.

Seeing Katrin was like releasing a pressure valve, letting out just enough of a dangerous substance to bide me some time. It was painful and embarrassing. I’m lucky because it didn’t faze her. Her nods weren’t perfunctory. She’s thought my thoughts. When the server braved the cold to ask if we would like another glass of wine, Katrin didn’t see the interruption as a welcome opportunity to move on to a lighter topic. (Whew! Enough of that!) Instead, she took the conversation right back to where we were. “You were saying that...” She completed the sentence with precisely the last thing I said. Such a skilled listener. Not just skilled but invested. That makes all the difference.

After three hours of sitting outside under a heat lamp that, if it was still on, it had all but raised the white flag as if to say, “You win, arctic front. I was designed for warming up Floridians when the temps dip below 75.” We surrendered to the cold too, and began a race-walk uphill toward our respective condos, still conversing, but now it was mostly about hot showers and ways to treat minor frostbite. We didn’t hug when we reached the street where our paths diverge. She’s the only person I like to hug but we haven’t done that for nearly a year now. We once did a weird elbow tap, but that offered nothing as a hug alternative. A hand wave had to suffice.

A night out came to a close. I had feeling in my toes an hour later. I texted Katrin, apologizing (needlessly) for my mood and thanking her (profusely) for her company. It’s all too clear I needed that.