AN EMBARRASSMENT OF STITCHES

I always get stuck when some schmuck suggests that everyone share their most embarrassing moment as a meeting icebreaker.  It’s not that I have something to hide; I have too much to share.  One moment?  How can I possibly narrow it down?  I am naturally awkward, a klutz.  I blame it on left-handedness but that only disparages the southpaw collective.  Today’s doctor’s office visit must be in the Top Ten of my most embarrassment moments.  Well, Top Twenty at least.

I had to see a specialist to remove a couple of cysts on my back.  They’d been growing larger to the point where I’d named them.  Mash and Spud.  (Yeah, I make ‘em lumpy.)  My family doctor had suggested I have them removed in the past, but he didn’t push.  I stress just from having my blood pressure checked.

My skin cancer specialist referred me a month ago.  Many times, I thought about cancelling.  Spare me, spare the medical staff.  When a receptionist called to remind me of the appointment, I confirmed that I would be there.  It was a rare moment of bravery.  I knew it wouldn’t last.

I woke twice in the night.  I wouldn’t say I had a panic attack, but visions of a knife slashing my buds proved disturbing.  I gave my groggy dog a tummy rub for my benefit, not his. 

The commute to the doctor’s office was two hours.  Plenty of time for me to back out.  I thought about it, particularly when I started blurting out staccato screams in the car as I sat idly at traffic lights.  Whatcha lookin’ at, BMW driver?  That was my Steven Tyler impression. 

I passed on my morning cup of coffee, knowing the hot beverage would only make me sweat profusely as I filled out the one-page consent form.  I dutifully checked the No box for allergies, HIV and medication.  I’ve never understood why these forms fail to ask, Are you hopelessly squeamish?  A little heads up would seem helpful. 

Dr. Congenial ushered me in and I impersonated a normal person, commenting on the breathtaking view of Vancouver’s False Creek.  Maybe this visit would be different, a moment of personal growth when I’d be miraculously cured of my medical panic reflex.

“Don’t tell me anything,” I told him as I lay on the crepe paper covered examining table.  “Don’t let me see anything.”  And with that, I shut out the harbor image, turned my head and stared at the oddly textured white wall.  My overactive imagination kicked in, wondering how easy it would be to wipe blood off the wall. 

Sensing my unease, the good doctor advised, “Think good things.”  But instead of ice cream, my schnauzer and Hugh Jackman, I thought of blood, knives and how much this torture would further wound my VISA.  Yep, this procedure wasn’t covered.  I was paying for the pain.

Each “tiny prick” sensation from the freezing process made me kick back one or both legs.  Dr. Congenial gamely tried to distract me, asking about the population of my rural community while I probed him about his recent enrolment in water skiing school during a Florida vacation.  Can’t tell you what I asked or what he answered.  We both knew I didn’t care.

The knife made its first slash.  I grimaced and convulsed.  “The back is a tricky area to freeze,” he said.  More tiny pricks followed.  Freeze, please! 

Midway through removing Mash, I blurted, “I’m not feeling well.”  Based on his response, I’d say I was disturbingly pale.  He ordered me to flip over and anxiously shouted for the receptionist.  “I need an oxygen mask,” he ordered.  Maybe they only say “stat” on TV shows; regardless, the “stat” was implied.

Hooked up with a mask, I apologized profusely as the sixty-year-old physician elevated my legs.  “I’ve got them,” he said.  “You can relax your body.” 

Um, no I can’t. 

After the sideshow subsided, Dr. Les Congenial cleaned off my back.  He swabbed all over, including places far beyond the frozen potatoes.  I visualized the liquids that had oozed all over.  Blood and other cyst guts. 

Mercifully, Mash departed and he stitched me up, but Spud proved more challenging.  The freezing was wearing off.  I thrashed after each of the doctor’s movements.  That fainting feeling returned.  Another body flip, more oxygen, more ooze to sponge up.  He stopped acknowledging my “I’m-so-sorry-I’m-so-stupid-I’m-okay” mantra. 

I bucked up for the final sutures, clearly feeling more than I should.  My hands gripped the sides of the table, my knees remained bent with the feet dangling midair.  Embarrassing?  Pathetic.

When he finally transferred me from the table to the floor in the next room, I pulled off crepe bits that stuck to my face and right arm as a result of my profuse sweating.  I slipped out to the receptionist area, paid my fee and declined booking a follow-up to remove the stitches.  “Oh, he won’t want to see me again,” I said. 

I’ll stop in at a clinic a few more hours from home.  Maybe the staff way off yonder will have recycled the fax with my photo and the bold “WARNING” title.  I took some solace in hearing the next patient yelp loudly as I waited for my VISA charge to clear.  Maybe I’d stumbled upon a mad doctor!  Or, more likely, maybe not. 

At night, I called my mother, a former nurse, to confess my misconduct.  She was too busy watching “Dancing with the Stars” so I related the incident to my father, a retired doctor.  He’s getting hard of hearing and was watching a hockey game so he may have hung up thinking I bought a bad melon or won a trip to Omaha.  Didn’t matter.  I’ll have another embarrassing moment in a week or two.

If anything good comes from this episode, it’s my immense gratitude for my good health.  I am truly lucky that I’ve never had an overnight stay at a hospital, I’ve never had friends scrawl colorful doodles on a cast and I’ve never stared obsessively at an IV drip bag, wondering if a bubble or fold within warranted another call for the nurse.  My coming out occurred at the peak of the AIDS crisis, but my pathological fear of all things medical, combined with my reserved nature and my model-free looks, kept me from one-night stands and unsafe transgressions.  How would I have handled regular probes and the slew of side effects from experimental treatments?  How would the medical community have coped?  Doctors had enough to deal with.

With age, I’ve always hoped that I will gain the courage to get through unpleasant medical appointments without incident.  Unfortunately, I have yet to outgrow a fear that began without any clear triggering event during childhood.  To all in the medical profession, you have my unwavering admiration and appreciation.  You also have my heartfelt, red-faced apologies.

THE MISSING LINK

We came close.

If I had a list of what I hoped for in a partner, Jim would meet most of the criteria.  Unfortunately, lists are for grocery shopping, not a boyfriend search.  Although Jim is highly educated, politically active (in admirable causes), stylish, an arts supporter and a vegetarian, I am just not feeling it.  It is SO frustrating.  I am tempted to criticize myself, saying I am too picky, I am avoiding intimacy or I am a dating pretender who would rather live as a hermit.  What’s wrong with me?! 

In my heart, I know there is nothing wrong with me...at least not with regard to rejecting Jim.  And, truly, I cannot say there is anything wrong with Jim.  He’s a nice guy.  Still, after a month of dating and wishing for a spark to surface, I know it isn’t going to happen.  Poor Jim is utterly perplexed.  I know he is smitten with me.  He dares to call me “sexy” and “handsome”.  (By contrast, a work colleague today said I look haggard and stressed.)  Yes, love lust mild infatuation is blind.

Despite Jim’s amazing dating résumé, something is missing.  Too often, we engage in parallel rather than intersecting lines of conversation.  I feel that I follow up on things he mentions, but my own words seem to evaporate before they reach his ears.  When he does respond, it is to say something about himself.  I feel my teeth clenching.  That’s surely not a sign of attraction.

As I’ve mentioned before, Jim was born and raised in Los Angeles, a city I am hoping to return to if U.S. immigration would be a little more cooperative.  While I miss much about L.A., Jim’s way of speaking reminds of something that did annoy me.  He is big on name dropping and one-upping every story.  It is intended to impress.  I, however, am not looking to be impressed.  I seek to connect in an honest, authentic way. 

Tonight we met for the last supper.  I am going through a traumatic work situation that has left me feeling vulnerable and questioning my career options.  I dared to share.  He listened and nodded appropriately.  No comments, no questions.  And so we moved on to his training plans for a half marathon coming up in August.  More teeth clenching.  A heaping plate of nachos arrived just on time to give my jaw a suitable outlet.

If anything, the meal affirmed that I was making the right decision.  I walked him to his car and said I wasn’t feeling any chemistry even though I wished it existed.  For a moment, there was a look of shock on his face, but we parted with a quick hug and I strolled back to my vehicle feeling no sense of regret, no pang of despair over being single again. 

It doesn’t mean I’m destined to be a hermit though that wouldn’t be so bad if I could keep all my teeth and avoid wearing flannel.  I have plenty of other things to think about for now.  I can ask and answer my own questions.  Dating is not a priority.

DOUBLE VEGGIE

Like Meg Ryan in WHEN HARRY MET SALLY, I consider myself low maintenance.  I may even have a stronger case.  I don’t ask waitresses for meal components “on the side”.  I once bought a two-in-one shampoo/conditioner.  And my Starbucks order has never included the descriptors “extra hot”, “no whip”, “double tea bag”, “grande in a venti cup”, “three-fourths decaf”, “room for cream” and/or “served by a barista singing the Armenian national anthem...in Swahili.”  (In my early Starbucks days, I did go through a phase of ordering a tall dark Italian, but when I kept get nothing more than a strong cup of coffee I reverted to my standard venti brew.  I now leave the dreaming to my lottery quick pick.)

In truth, I am not as low maintenance as I’d like to think.  A colleague once said, “You have lots of quirks.”  Not sure what’s the less offensive label, quirky or high maintenance, but I could never respond with a successful slander suit.  I blame Miss Piggy.  And Chicken Little.  And Dory and Babe and the cow that jumped over the moon.  Yes, I am a strict vegetarian whose REM visions of eating a thick slab of steak are not dreams but nightmares.  (Seriously.  While you dream of appearing in meeting for work in boxers, I dream I’m force-fed filet mignon.)  Ordering off a menu can be a complicated process.  Servers try mightily to suppress annoyance over my inquisition about broths, cooking oils, gelatin and that cursed cheese ingredient, rennet.  (And now I have to ask about crushed beetles?! )

A few weeks ago, I went on a promising first date with another vegetarian.  His choice is based on a cholesterol count, not a love for Bambi but it still makes dating and eating out easier.  If we don’t go to a vegetarian restaurant, we at least opt for a place where there is something more than a soggy pasta primavera on the menu.  In the past month, I’ve visited favorite restaurants that I can’t convince friends to go to (“Didn’t we go there last year?”)  and explored a new haunt, immersed in a hippie culture while dressed in a Michael Kors outfit en route to the ballet.  Yes, you can eat granola without looking granola.  (Tie-dye only accents my pastiness.) 

Being a vegetarian isn’t a dating essential like non-smoking, but it sure is refreshing.  I don’t have to defend or justify my diet.  There is no need to look away as my dinner mate gnaws on a heaping plate of buffalo wings at T.G.I. Friday’s or cracks open lobster bits.  I don’t have to think about kissing someone with beefy residue on his tongue. 

To be sure, if there were hordes of gay vegetarians on the planet, I would cruise tofu turf, but dating is challenging enough for me.  I once did a worldwide search on a gay dating site with 22,000 members.  When I added “vegetarian” as a search term, the pool shrank to seven.  Yep, that guy in Helsinki looked dreamy. 

When I do date a vegetarian, I become more hopeful, perhaps even desperate. 

Please let this work.  Maybe I can overlook the fact he dresses as Spock on full moons.

Sure he rambled for an hour about igneous rocks, but he makes his own vegan cheese. 

When we’re both eighty, how wonderful that we can order one item and ask for a share plate!   

I do not know how things will turn out with my current broccoli beau.  He has admitted that his vegetarianism is selective.  He’ll eat fishcakes and turkey tacos at a catered work function and I was startled that his Lexus had a leather interior, but matching my values isn’t going to happen.  I’ll appreciate what we have in common, enjoy the dining experiences and see how things play out.  If things go kaput, I have a backup plan:  I’ve bookmarked this website.

“COMMON” SENSE

What makes a good match? About two months ago, I signed up for another online dating website, Match.com, feeling that a moratorium was in effect at Plenty of Fish. (Not that overfishing ever occurred, but stocks were clearly depleted.)

Sad to say, the prospects at Match.com are even less promising. Still, once or twice a week, the site generates a list of possible matches for me. I get an email, suggesting that I take a look at GnomeLover49’s profile and pointing out some commonalities in our profile.

Like you, he is a non-smoker.
He also goes to the gym.
He also likes to travel.

Wow. I know I’ve said in the past that I’d just be relieved if the guy breathes, applies deodorant and washes his hands after urinating—yeah, I know, that last expectation eliminates a lot of guys, but it’s a non-negotiable. A non-smoking, gym-visiting traveler? Jackpot!

Or maybe not. How much should a date or a potential partner and I have in common? When I was new to dating, I genuinely thought there was great potential because the slightly inebriated guy chatting me up also liked a song by Ce Ce Peniston. (Sadly, neither the guy nor Ce Ce lived up to their potential.) In retrospect, I was probably slightly inebriated too...and a little too smitten by the guy’s high cheekbones. On another occasion, I felt a spark with a guy because we had a two-minute sharing about our dislike for Geraldo Rivera. Another time, I got excited because a guy with thick, curly brown locks liked all the Golden Girls. Even Dorothy!

I was surprised—no, shocked!—that none of these relationships lasted longer than, well, a night. In those days before cell phones, I’d rush into my apartment, unimpressed by my unblinking answering machine. Blankety blank. Seems some people don’t immediately think in terms of for better or worse and happily ever after. And so began my jaded period.

In time, however, I changed my perspective on what to look for in a potential mate. Maybe having things in common didn’t matter at all. I told myself that it was about mutual respect. Understanding and accepting the differences was more important than liking Savage Garden and “Murphy Brown”. I decided to embrace differences. Let my guy be a Hulk Hogan enthusiast. Listen as he rambles on about how Ross Perot would have been a fine U.S. president. Allow him to waste his Sundays watching golf on television. I’d love him, warts and all.

With a fresh new outlook, I hooked up with a guy who quit a successful career in real estate and moved into a camper trailer while training to become a personal life coach. Next, I dated a guy who’d found his spark after joining a women’s knitting club. During each date he’d spoil me with a special gift, a small hand-crafted knit square—actually something between a square and a circle--, lovingly rendered in a shade of my favorite color, green. I never figured out what to do with the quasi coasters so I shoved them in a shoebox where I keep the latch-hook bookmarks I received from a nun I used to know.

Okay, sometimes differences are just too, um, different. Seems I’ve spent too much time on the far reaches of the pendulum. As I’ll share in my next post regarding my latest dating adventure, having at least one core interest or belief in common can at least provide a solid base. And if he can name at least one CeCe Peniston song, well then, bonus points!

A GOOGLY-EYED LOOK AT DATING

On Friday night I met my date at one of my favorite restaurants. The Naam is a hippie hangover establishment, all-vegetarian fare, mismatched wobbly wooden chairs, sitar-heavy soundtrack playing between live sets by a folk guitarist. To be sure, it’s not for everyone. My sirloin-loving best friend becomes surly whenever I dare mention the place. It’s a chancy choice for a first date, but every so often I stop playing it safe and go for what I really want. Being a quasi-vegan vegetarian, it is a rare pleasure to be able to scan an entire menu and make a real decision about what I want to order instead of waiting to ask the server what dish the chef can de-carnivorize.

Okay, so my meeting place wasn’t particularly bold. According to his Plenty of Fish profile, Jim is also a vegetarian. It was one of the indicators that led me to be cautiously optimistic about how the date might go. There were other signs of hope. His messages were exceptionally polite and warm. He grew up in the city my last date referred to as the world’s “most hideous place”. Yep, Los Angeles, the city where I’d lived for five years and the place I am hoping to return to, if someone could every spur the immigration sloths into reviewing my file. And not once did I squirm while reading his messages, feeling a need to find solace in this favorite book of mine.

Jim showed up making a wonderful first impression: stylish coif, designer glasses, fashionable outfit. I know there is a stereotype out there about gays being style experts who give straight guys makeovers, but gay men in Vancouver rarely exhibit any sense of how to dress to impress. Vancouverites would not find that remark a poor reflection on themselves; rather, it would show that I have my priorities out of whack. Sorry. My shallow concern for my appearance blossomed while I lived in that Most Hideous Place and I haven’t quite shaken it.

The date with Jim turned out to be one of those rare occasions when conversation flowed easily and more and more connections surfaced. Everything clicked. I had no doubt that the interest was mutual and, as we hugged goodbye on the sidewalk, Jim mentioned getting together again. By the time I’d reached the ferry, he’d texted me to say again how much he’d enjoyed the conversation. Some who follow dating rulebooks might find that contact too soon, too desperate, but I found it a perfectly natural extension of a pleasant dinner out.

We texted back and forth a few times as the ferry was late and Jim asked for my last name. “It feels a bit tawdry only knowing you on a first-name basis,” he wrote. That told me two things: (1) He has an odd definition of tawdry and (2) He wanted to Google me.

I should not have been surprised. Such is dating life in a virtual world. We’d met online. Why wouldn’t he conduct an internet search as well? I have a very common name. Perhaps he’d find some scandalous bits about a few of my namesakes. As an author, I get Google Alerts whenever my name appears in the Google search engine. Among other things, I have died twice this year. The obits were very kind.

When I awoke Saturday morning, Jim was on my mind. The conversation had been that good and his background proved truly impressive. Was he too good to be true?

Google got the better of me, too. I have never come across his last name before so the links that surfaced were direct hits. Sure enough, Jim did earn a degree at Stanford. And Harvard. Yes, he worked as an executive for all the major companies he mentioned. There were references to his time in Amsterdam, in Portland, in San Francisco, Chicago and, of course, L.A. As well, I found links to affirm that he’d actively campaigned for an iconic Democratic senator, worked on California’s campaign against Proposition 8 and served in a prominent role on a national minority rights organization in the U.S.

Checking Jim out online proved as fascinating as chatting with him in person. Intelligence is a sexy quality to me, as is political activism when it is a cause I also believe in. For now, let’s say that Jim is too good, but totally true. Wow.

One oddity did surface during the search. He graduated from the same L.A. high school as my alcoholic, former coke-head ex. (Why name him. Alcoholic Former Coke-Head Ex has a nice ring to it.) They attended at the same time with Jim finishing a year before AFCHE. Do they know each other? Now that I live in a different country, I’d say that commonality is plain weird. Thankfully, high school was oh so long ago.

It’s all a go after the Google. Apparently my deaths didn’t scare him off either. We’ve arranged for another dinner date next week. Only so much can happen online.

SAME TIME, DIFFERENT SPEEDS

“How did that hour go so fast?” he exclaimed. Just seconds earlier, my thought was, Thank God for parking meters.

Yeah, you know it’s bad when you see a coin-sucking parking meter as your friend. It was my Get Out of Coffee For a Small Fee card. Why monopolize this guy’s evening?

I should back up. There’s a fine line between Faint Hope and Realistically Negative. When Benny sent me a message a week and a half ago, I had reservations. Sure, I’d recognized the photo. I’d even clicked it to skim his profile. But I did not linger and I did not contemplate ever initiating an online message. Benny’s main photo was a beach shot of his buff body in a swimsuit. It was a fine body, to be sure. But my guard goes up when a fifty-two-year-old man picks a Sports Illustrated cover shot that to say, “This is me!” (My own selection is dubious as well. It’s a windblown image of me riding the Mad Hatter tea cup ride at Disneyland. I blame my own poor choice on the fact I don’t collect photos of myself. Delete is a wonderful option on digital cameras.)

Back to Beach Boy Benny, he did have several other photos online. He wore gym gear in each shot, one even taken mid dumbbell curl.

Benny is proud of his body. As he should be. He has successfully repelled the middle age beer belly. Kudos. I just prefer a little subtlety. Let the muscle show in a nicely fitted (not tightly fitted) shirt.

His listed interests consisted solely of physical activities: weightlifting, going to the gym, rollerblading, skiing. Each item seemed redundant. (See aforementioned photos.)

But Benny messaged me, referring to my thoughtful profile. Faint Hope beat out Realistically Negative. You have to put yourself out there. You just need one match. There’s no harm in a quick reply. If it leads to coffee, your dog will appreciate the downtime.

So I replied. Short exchanges went back and forth. We were in the same profession. He grew up in Atlantic Canada. (That is almost always a positive.) I even pushed for depth in my third message:
“It’s great that you treat fitness seriously. What other interests do you have?” He replied with a vague beauty pageant answer: “I also enjoy travel and reading.” I was a little disappointed he left off world peace and finding a cure for athlete’s foot.

I overlooked the fact that each successive message from him contained more spelling and grammatical errors. Are we really in the same profession? I cut to the chase. Let’s do coffee before your inability to distinguish between your and you’re completely repulses me.

As soon as he sat down, Realistically Negative showed up. I needn’t get into specifics. I just knew this was not a match. For an hour, I politely conversed. I followed up on his remarks and went through the motions. When I asked how he’d spent his day, he said he started out as he always does—wait for it—going to the gym...until noon. That must impress someone.

For his part, he asked nothing about my dog or my writing, key topics I raised. His most animated response to anything I mentioned came five minutes in, after I said I’d lived in Los Angeles. He practically screamed, “How did you ever live there?! I’ve traveled all over the world and it is without a doubt the most hideous place!” I could have been mean and embarrassed him by saying I hoped to move back there, but I sat quietly, satisfied that Realistically Negative got it right.

It’s all okay. Sixty incredibly slow minutes, but it is over. I have another date on Friday with a guy who kept his shirt on in all six of his photos. He has a variety of interests, most of which complement mine. I plan on bringing Faint Hope along for dinner. Fingers crossed. After all, the restaurant is in a Vancouver neighborhood not yet adorned by friendly parking meters.

SWISS AMISS

Nothing against Switzerland. It’s beautiful in pictures. Someday I hope to visit. But, beyond its alpine imagery, the country sticks out in my mind as being a peaceful nation that maintained its neutrality in time of war. Yes, that is a good thing. I think I came out of the womb as a pacifist. Not that I was angelic. Didn’t see the point of a water pistol when a bucket of water had a greater impact. Never found the slightest fascination in any kind of weaponry, any movies with violence or drab military uniforms. While being peaceful is a noble ideal, being neutral sometimes isn’t. Okay, here’s where I need to leave Switzerland alone and focus in on gay and lesbian subject matter. I attended a wonderful conference a few weeks ago and a counselor spoke to a group of thirty of us for two extended sessions. Her talk had many important insights that I have used at work, but what lingers more is the way she spoke of her family. There were wonderful stories about her aging, pie-baking mother in Nova Scotia and a few relatable anecdotes about her Twitter/text-obsessed teen stepson and stepdaughter. And then there was her “partner”. Always referred to as such. Never he or she, never husband, wife, girlfriend, boyfriend. The only pronoun used was “we”. It was masterful maneuvering, the kind of gender neutrality that takes constant self-monitoring. I’ve done it before, though not nearly as smoothly. As effortless as she made it seem, it became a distraction for me. This lovely, self-effacing, empathic woman who spoke passionately about accepting and embracing people neutered the most important person in her life. On my gaydar checklist, she had all the stereotypical lesbian traits. It wasn’t as though she was desperately trying to be straight-acting, yet she adopted a stance I have taken many times in my life: You can figure it out for yourself. Why should I have to make a proclamation? As the day went on, I kept waiting for her to get comfortable for the big reveal. Yes, she relaxed enough to throw out a couple of expletives that had proper context and made her stories more realistic. She made multiple references to her golf game. She shared many of her own flaws, some deeply personal. But The Partner remained a genderless enigma. Being single and chronically dating-challenged, I tell myself there isn’t much harm in my closed/closeted stance. No one suffers. I do not have a “partner” who has been slighted/neutered/erased. I am an introvert. I do not need to share that I am gay, just like I do not need to share that I am a vegetarian or a lover of old episodes of “The Mary Tyler Moore” show (and, particularly, its oh so empowering theme song, the lyrics markedly more positive after Season One). I do not like calling attention to myself. No need when others crave the stage. Despite the fact I could relate to Neuter Syndrome, I remain bothered by the countless references to The Partner over the course of the day. I may not have gone with any family references and stuck to stories about my dog. Heck, I can connect everything in life to my dog. Or “The Mary Tyler Moore Show”. But this respected speaker who spoke so eloquently about creating genuine relationships could not be fully honest with us. We have made progress over the past four decades since Stonewall, but we have a long way to go in terms of self-acceptance and societal acceptance. Locking ourselves in a gondola in Switzerland is safe, sometimes even restorative, but neutrality that amounts to neutering can be harmful.