HERE I GO AGAIN--Part One (Glass Half Empty)

You don’t procrastinate doing things you really want to do. Two months ago, I blogged that, now fully vaccinated and perhaps staying in Vancouver for the indefinite future, I was teetering toward possibly reactivating my online dating profiles. But I didn’t. It became a “chore,” on my To Do list, a Post-it that no longer registered with my brain even though it was slapped right next to the handle on my fridge. It joined “mop under sofa” and “figure out how to put sliding door back on to cover laundry area.” Important, perhaps, but these are the kinds of things I rely on someone else to nag me about until one or both of us screams, “I’ve had it!” Prepare to die, dust bunnies. 

 

Days passed, then weeks. Did I really want to look at thumbnail pics of men again? Did I want to get rattled by the site’s less than genuine declaration that it sought to bring together people for healthy, happy relationships? Why then, dear Cupid, would the screen page default to “You might also like…” after I send someone a message? Are you telling me I aimed too high in writing a clever little note to VanMuscleMan? Don’t you just want me to click, click, click so you can show advertisers how heavily browsed your site is? (As a writer, specificity adds character to a piece, but I can’t recall a single advertiser and I’m not about to log in to peruse ads. I have better things to do. Like mopping under the sofa.)

 

On Sunday, I took a corner table at a café and finally logged in again, first having to tell OkCupid I’d forgotten my password and then surprising myself that I breezed right into Plenty of Fish. Oh, POF, if only we could break up for good. 

 

When I first joined these sites way back when I could still call myself middle-aged, it was all free. All my clicking presumably brought in enough income. Over time, the sites wanted my credit card deets in exchange for “highlighting my profile” with a gold star or maybe dancing pickles above the header. Very suggestive, right? I passed. I’m desperate enough to still be on your site but, dammit, I’m not $10.95 per month desperate. And the reduced rate if I go for the annual plan only admits the sad reality that, yes, I’m a likely candidate for site surfing into perpetuity. Hope and denial prevent me from making an economically savvy decision.

 

I updated my pics. I tweaked the paragraphs in my bio. I added and deleted interests. Seems I like the idea of kayaking more than actually going for a paddle. (But I’ve added it to my To Do list.)

 

I browsed. POF flashed the message “Someone Likes You” a few times. I would have to pull out my credit card to find out. No thanks. As I clicked on profiles, parts of each were cut off. Again, the site interrupted my search, imploring me to grab my VISA to “read Leif72’s full profile.” I was tempted. Leif is such a great name. So Nordic! I’m partial to all things Scandinavian. Leif and I could fika on the first date. (Don’t be sleazy, Dear Reader. Fika may be a four-letter f-word, but it’s perfectly acceptable to do in public, even with Granny Eriksson watching.) Still, I resisted the expenditure. I also made a note to revisit my profile to make sure my first paragraph, in particular, popped.

 

It turns out there was a legitimate reason for my procrastination. The catalog of men underwhelmed on both sites. OkCupid was especially chintzy in letting me browse for free. They’d made it so I could only see one profile at a time and I would have to do the equivalent to swiping left or right as a rash judgment for someone before I could see the next person at the mercy of my click finger. Four or five no’s and I had to stop. It felt harsh and dismissive, which it literally was, at least as to the latter part. I logged out. I haven’t gone back. It’s time for me to accept, once and for all, that OkCupid and I are not a match. All the best to you in your future pursuit of desperate men’s cash.

 

Plenty of Fish and I have a much longer previous relationship, albeit often acrimonious. Once I’d navigated around all the attempts to rob me of my meager funds, I took a deep breath, entered a search and looked at the results. After five minutes, I knew I needed an attitude adjustment. I was reacting with horror and hostility to many of the profiles. So many guys with the same photos I’d first seen years ago. It seems these guys don’t age and/or they don’t know how to take a quick selfie on their phone. While I think I could connect with another tech-challenged man, I’m turned off by the clear lack of effort here. 

 

Scroll, scroll.

 

More agitation. When you create a profile, you have a chance to show your best self. Unlike all the dreadful annual school photos, YOU get to choose the pics. Snap, delete ad infinitum until--Wow! This one’s not bad. Almost looks like me even after cropping, editing and choosing a “Dramatic Warm” iPhone filter. I’ve been deceived by a profile photo a time or two. But many of these Fishermen didn’t seem to get the art of self-promotion or even the concept of giving a damn. 

 

One guy posted a single photo, blurry, mostly of an indistinct background wall. (Sir, please go to YouTube and type “how to crop a photo” in the search window. Even easier, use the crop feature that POF provides before you post your pic.) 

 

Scroll.

 

Another guy who ascribes to the One Photo Is Enough school of thought posted a shot so dark that I wasn’t sure if I was looking at his face or a fire hydrant. Another man included several pictures, but I’m not sure what he was going for. One consisted of his feet and a shadow on the ground. Another had him holding up a barbecued rat (squirrel?) on a skewer. I don’t know about the others. The rat was enough of an unwelcome surprise. 

 

SCROLL!

 

Another guy demonstrated a knowledge of cropping skills, showing one shot of his abs--um, no complaints--and a second of him standing in gym attire in a locker room, his baseball cap and its shadow covering his face. What’s there to intuit? See me for my body, not my face.

 

The next profile featured a stunning photo of a camel. The guy was there too, kneeling behind, most of him obscured by said camel. So, he’s portraying himself as an adventurer. He went to Egypt, I presume, but why is my eye drawn to the camel? To be perfectly clear--and this is essential--I’m not into camels, but there’s a rule in acting that kids and animals will upstage you every time. Same for dating profile photos.

 

Scroll, scroll.

 

One guy added a caption under his photo: “danceing Through the Tulips”. 

 

You have no idea what kind of a battle Autocorrect and I had over that one. It got quite heated and the barista told me to quiet down or I’d have to leave. Here’s a partial transcript immediately after I first typed the tulip dancer’s photo caption:

 

                        Autocorrect:   Whoa! You’ve been drinking ciders 

                                                again, haven’t you?

                                      Me:    Have not.

                        Autocorrect:   Whatever. There. Fixed.

                                      Me:    No! It’s supposed to be that way.

                        Autocorrect:   Hell, no! Allow me to show you how 

                                                it’s supposed to be.

                                      Me:    I know that! I know how it’s supposed 

                                                to be. But I want it to look wrong.

                        Autocorrect:   Good god, don’t be daft. There. 

                                                Fixed again.

                                      Me:    Stop that. I need it to look exactly 

                                                how someone else wrote it.

                        Autocorrect:   That’s just mean. Surely, he’d want 

                                                things to look proper.

                                                That’s my raison d’être.

                                      Me:    Apparently not. I’m thinking he 

                                                turned you off.

                        Autocorrect:   The fool! Who would do such a thing?

                                      Me:    Exactly. So, it’s staying as is.

                        Autocorrect:   This is painful.

                                      Me:    Agreed. Let’s move on.

                        Autocorrect:   Yes. Let’s.

 

You’ll be happy to know the barista didn’t kick us out, but he looked at me oddly when I said my friend and I wanted to apologize.

 

Another gentleman claimed to be sixty-one. I double-checked that. Huh. This is one of those guys who thinks, I’ll just subtract ten, maybe fifteen. My friend Norma says I look young for my age. Dude, Norma was being nice. Be you. Be your age! I’ve heard men lament that no one will look at them if they give their real age. Hell, that’s MY lament. But it’s the reality. What are you going to do when you meet for coffee? Borrow that baseball cap from Mr. Abs?

 

AAAAAAAAH!

 

There is only one possible explanation for all these ill-advised, low-effort presentations: My mom made me create a profile. Well, Mom should have had a peek before you pressed the save button.

 

Plenty of Fish and I are all caught up. I can’t say it’s good to be back.

 

         UP NEXT: After regrouping, it seems I’ve got a date lined up.  

A CLEAR DIFFERENCE BETWEEN COVID & THE AIDS CRISIS

Over the last week, eighty-four-year-old gay actor George Takei, best known as Sulu from “Star Trek,” was trending on Twitter. That’s not so unusual. The social media platform has given him a higher profile with more than three million followers, many of whom presumably were not around in the days of Sulu and may have never connected with any of the “Star Trek” incarnations. (Takei also has ten million Facebook followers.) He’s known for tweeting sharp, sometimes humorous, takes on politics, clearly leaning left, as well as regularly recognizing LGBTQ accomplishments. 

 

In 2019, after Donald Trump refused to denounce the Proud Boys during a presidential debate, Takei took to Twitter, proposing that the LGBTQ community take over #ProudBoys by using the hashtag and tweeting photos of men kissing. That would show what proud boys truly looked like. It worked. 

 

This week’s attention comes from a tweet opining that people who choose not to be vaccinated and wind up in hospital should not get priority care over others seeking treatment for equally urgent conditions.

The willfully unvaccinated who wind up in hospitals from Covid should not receive priority medical care over other very sick or injured people who are as much in urgent need of medical care.

— George Takei (@GeorgeTakei) August 13, 2021

Provocative. It’s reflective of the palpable frustration regarding the rise in COVID cases yet again and the inability to stop the spread of variants in part because too many unvaccinated people continue to spread the coronavirus. The unvaccinated pose a continuing burden on the healthcare system and, while claiming their stand is, inter alia, an assertion of individual rights (it’s more complicated than that), causing the general public to face a regression in terms of their own freedoms (e.g., renewed travel restrictions; mask requirements reinstated) and affecting the livelihood of many service industry workers due to such measures as restaurant and bar closures. 

 

Many responded to Takei’s comment with wholehearted agreement, almost 40,000 liking his tweet and 9,000 retweeting it. I first ran across the tweet on Saturday morning when someone identifying as gay embedded Takei’s tweet and responded by saying this was a hideous, draconian proposition, akin to arguments during the AIDS crisis that gays shouldn’t receive empathy or care since those that got AIDS brought it on themselves.[1]

 

Oh, dear. Good point. Medical care does not judge. A lifelong smoker who gets lung cancer gets every possible treatment deemed effective. She is not tsk-tsked and told to wait until a nonsmoker with lung cancer is seen. An AIDS patient teetering toward hospice care does not wait longer as another patient in an equally dire medical condition is attended to. An addict who overdoses is not left if an unconscious person from a car accident is rolled in on a gurney.

 

These are the kind of ethical hypotheticals presented in university classes or on a Friday night as a group of philosophically minded hipsters smoke weed. Yes, we’ve heard that hospitals are struggling in treating and finding beds on account of increased admissions since the pandemic began. We’ve read about patients set up in hallways and even tents. Still, there are medical practitioners with different specialties and hospital units for different afflictions. The predicament Takei’s comment pertains to most would presumably involve patients in intensive care. Again, doctors won’t pit vaccinated COVID patients against the unvaccinated or someone with cancer against the antivaxxer person with COVID. Yes, in crisis situations in hospitals, certain cases take priority, but presumably this is based on how acute a patient’s needs are. Let’s hope, at least, that a scenario in which two patients with absolutely equal needs arrive in an ER with only one attending physician is indeed a hypothetical. Otherwise, I suppose it’s first come, first served. 

 

But as I was riding the elevator the next day, a flaw came to mind regarding the person who asserted that Takei’s suggestion was the equivalent to AIDS shaming. The smoker, the addict, the gay man who becomes ill requires care based on behavior alone. There is no vaccine for lung cancer, no vaccine for addictive disorders, no vaccine for AIDS. Presumably, if such vaccines existed, there would be similar frustration if a person particularly susceptible to an affliction didn’t take the vaccine and becomes ill. The initial behavior is not judged but the choice not to be vaccinated, a behavior or non-behavior itself, is what’s at issue. It’s a different level of culpability, heightening Joe Public’s frustration and likely contributing to a greater sense of regret from the patient himself. 

 

 No lie, I got light-headed just looking
 up photos of people getting vaccinated.

There are vaccines for COVID. True, we have no long-term research on any potential harm from taking it. Like EVERY OTHER vaccine, it is not 100% effective. Also, like every other vaccine or medication, there are potential side effects, some very serious. Just listen to the fast-talking listing of side effects, including death, in every medication commercial. I am taking daily meds with frightening short-term and long-term dangers, but I talk with my doctors, strongly resisting over several conversations, and then I acquiesce, choosing to trust the expert and rely on the overwhelming odds I’ll be all right. I am my own a medical problem. I tune out talk about vitamins, I am reticent to take any medication and I am terrified of needles. (It’s documented as a clinical phobia in my rather thick psychiatric file.) Still, I take my meds. I got vaccinated. (Sorry, vitamin D pill. I’ll do without.) For both shots, I asked the poor staffers, “What’s it like stabbing people all day?” Yes, I see needles as incredibly invasive and threatening. To be clear though, I was profusely apologetic for my wimpy behavior and I repeatedly expressed gratitude for their work.

 

People who aren’t vaccinated are impacting those of us who are. It’s not just antivaxxers who’ve engaged in questionable behaviors during the pandemic. It might not have been wise for anyone to walk around in indoor public spaces without a mask or attend cousin Rita’s wedding along with seventy other people. But a very high percentage of now-vaccinated people making these choices remain unaffected. The initial behaviors may be the same, but medical science, but the risks are far different in terms of both incidence and degree. 

 

Again, I think Takei’s tweet was a way of letting off steam and drawing attention to his social media platform. Many vaccinated people who are back to having to wear masks, putting off foreign travel and/or missing their shifts waiting tables for a low wage yelled, “Yeah!” and pressed the like button. I highly doubt his message made any unvaccinated person fret and rush out to get a shot. In fact, I suspect rhetoric like this causes antivaxxers to double down. No. Vaccine. Ever. Perhaps it’s a stance they’ll stick with till the day they die (hopefully due to old age, instead of this mutating coronavirus).

 

Like many, my frustration grows by the week, maybe even by the day. I also feel that getting closer to normality--some form of a freer “new normal”--is being impeded by the holdouts. How did we become so divided and stray so far from the initially universal notion of “We’re all in this together”?

 

Many of us have done what we were supposed to do, what we thought was for the greater public good and now we’re left to bang our heads against walls and “like” what Sulu says. The antivaxxers have received more than their share of airtime. Quite literally so. They make their own maddening and provocative statements. It goes both ways.

 

---

[1] Sorry, I’ve searched for the tweet and can’t find it, but I’m pretty sure I’m accurately saying the gist of it. If not, I defer to dearly missed Gilda Radner’s Emily Litella. 

IT'S TIME FOR ALL CARTOON GAYS TO COME OUT

Time for a bit of fluff for the dog days of August. 

Did you catch the BIG NEWS story this week?

Holy Houdini! Robin’s gay. We’d all heard the rumors and speculation. For some, it even mattered.

 

But there’s more. Holy knit one, purl two![1] Robin’s going on a date with a guy named Bernard. 

 

You missed out, Batman.

 

To be honest, I don’t know much about Batman and Robin. I saw a few episodes of the old TV show. I know the theme song. I’m familiar with Prince’s “Batdance,” which seems like a mistake in his music vault. (Listen and try to convince me I'm wrong.) I saw one of the movies in the mid-’90s with Kilmer or Keaton or Clooney playing Batman. I hated it. More special effects than plot. I’d rather have watched a documentary on bats. Or robins.

 

My favorite thing about the old “Batman” TV series was when Batman would be called for help and he’d say to Robin, “To the bat poles,” which they accessed through a bookcase that slid open. (See this, but fast forward to 1:57 of the clip.) Cool! More moving bookshelves, please. Maybe put a secret scrapbooking room behind it.

 

Really, I never lusted over Robin. I never wished he were gay, even as a role model for other superhero sidekicks. To be honest, I don’t marvel over any superhero characters. 

 

But the announcement that Robin is gay got me thinking about the fictional hand-drawn or animated characters whom I truly wished were gay.

 

Sticking with superheroes for a moment, I’d be gleeful if the characters played by Hugh Jackman and Ryan Reynolds came out--Wolverine (Jackman) and both Green Lantern and Deadpool (Reynolds). (Thank you, Google.) It’s nothing about what these characters do or what their powers are. Any scenario where Hugh and Ryan are gay makes my fantasies a tad closer to plausibility.

 

Top of my stop-motion animation list is a character I’ve mentioned MANY times as a lifelong crush: Hermey the Elf from “Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer.” That blond hair, that independent streak (even when it’s technically not so), even his challenges in efficiency pertaining to his manual labor output. (I picture him with perfectly clean fingernails, consummately manicured. Hermey accepts differences in others, not hesitating to welcome an outcast reindeer. He’s even got a successful career is in his future. A dentist! He could floss my teeth every night.

 

In standard TV animation, I’ve mentioned Fred Jones from Scooby Doo, too. Yep, another blond. I’m not sure whether that orange ascot tie really goes with the rest of his outfit. It goes too well with Daphne’s hair and I need her to keep away from Fred. (She and Velma would make a great lesbian couple, right?) Most of us Scooby Doo fans must concede, however, that Fred’s a dull one.

 

Hell, let’s make Scooby Doo himself gay. We need more out animals, fictional or real. Like those zoo penguins. Maybe Scoobs could hook up with that other Great Dane, Marmaduke, who always struck me as lovably goofy, but then Goofy’s probably goofier. Scoobs could turn to Goofy if the Marmaduke thing doesn’t work out. 

 

That’s right. Goofy is one of my criteria for a desirability in gay men, gay dogs, straight folks and aliens from Ork.

 

Sticking with animated animals a moment longer, I always assumed Snagglepuss was gay based on old, stereotypical mannerisms, but among pink cartoon felines, I’d lobby more for a certain suave, clever panther to wave the Pride flag. If pink isn’t a factor, I urge Calvin’s sage best bud, Hobbes, to explore his gay side.

 

Back to hand-drawn and animated humans:

 

Linus…Did he ever want to get with Sally? Isn’t Sally a classic fag hag (if that term can be used anymore)? She wasted Halloween waiting around with him for the Great Pumpkin and got nothing for it. 

 

There’s lots of bubbling homosexuality within the “Peanuts” gang. I think it’s widely assumed that Peppermint Patty and Marcie are partnered for life--let there be a wedding. What about Schroeder, the Beethoven-loving, accomplished pianist who has zero tolerance for Lucy? I can understand his reticence to come out. Lucy won’t take it well if Schroeder finally says, “Look, Lou. I’m gay.” Lucy has bullying tendencies and, if any Peanuts character were to be homophobic, it would be her. Not because she’s anti-gay; she’d just turn her rejection outward, an overly broad lashing out.

 

I’d let Linus be, uh, whatever…maybe bi unless it’s an icky love triangle between him and the Brown sibs, Sally and Charlie. It’s plausible Schroeder could be part of the LGBTQ community as asexual. He could be too into his music to think of anything involving physical intimacy. A perfectly played “Ode to Joy” might be his ultimate satisfaction. I’d be good with Franklin being gay. Frankly, Franklin needs more of a storyline; we need to know more about him so he’s more than the token Black character. I’d also find it interesting to have Pig-Pen come out. We gays are a diverse lot. We need to rebut the notion of gays being persnickety Felix Unger fusspots. Let Pig-Pen be a take-me-as-I-am gay dude. He’s shown a different sense of pride already, referring to his perpetual dirt cloud as “the dust of ancient civilizations.” Ooh! Sexy! More alluring than that greased up mechanic down at Bob’s Automotive. Like Franklin, Pig-Pen needs to be further developed. I’m seeing Franklin and Pig-Pen coupling up. Give these two a spin-off!

 

I need a character from Berkeley Breathed’s amazing “Bloom County” (the comic strip with Bill the Cat and penguin Opus) to be gay. Before “Calvin & Hobbes,” I considered this strip superior to all others. Michael Binkley is the obvious choice. Poor kid didn’t seem to be the boy his father wanted. Michael gets stuck on the school football team because his dad wants him to become a star linebacker. What Michael really wants is to dance ballet in “Swan Lake” and become a hairdresser. Yes, there are some stereotypes there, but Michael is more nuanced. Perhaps I see myself in Michael, but not in terms of ballet--I can’t even do the dreaded wedding reception YMCA dance--or with a hairdressing career. Like Michael, I had stages in which I was seen as an airhead and a nerd. More than that, I align with him because he has an anxiety closet that torments him at night. Oh, Michael, you need a loving gay man to hold, comfort and understand you. (Same for me? Well, let’s hope Michael has more luck.)

 

There’s probably a hot Power Ranger or Pokémon character, but these things came after my time. No comment. 

 

There’s probably a lust-worthy or attractively sensitive bad guy to make gay. The Joker? Elmer Fudd? The potentially misunderstood troll in “Three Billy Goats Gruff”? I had an ex who had addiction issues and other elements of a dark side. He regularly told me it was his wild side that drew me to him. It was a convenient stance, a fanciful form of denialism, to convince himself he didn’t need to change. I liked him in spite of his wild side and, of course, it couldn’t possibly last. If Elmer Fudd is gay, someone else can pine for him. I’m out. Let that strapping Paul Bunyan have him.

 

You’re welcome, everyone. I’ve just made comics and cartoons a welcome space for LGBTQ characters. Holy pianola! We’re here, we’re queer, we’re everywhere. 

---

[1] I’ve learned that Robin has a thing for queer (as in odd or weird) “holy” expressions. To be clear, not all gays are into knitting. I foresee a grave injury should I attempt to take up the pastime. 

 

PLEASE DON'T LIKE ME (Part Two)

In my prior post, I wrote about Damien, a resident in the building I’ve been living in since the start of the pandemic. We run into each other often at the small gym on the ground floor and, despite the fact he has a wife, I’ve gotten strange vibes he might be into me.

 

 

Damien mentioned we should go for a walk sometime. That made me somewhat apprehensive. What if he actually meant it? How could I sustain more than just three-minute chunks of chatter, especially after having not met anyone new since COVID came around? What if there was something to that still-nagging sense that maybe he was interested in me? I went out of town for a week, in part, to put off the possibility. Yeah, my social anxiety is that strong. Surely, he’d move on to other interests by the time I returned. 

 

Back at the gym, he brought up the walk idea again, but noted he’d be away for ten days, visiting the grandkids. “Okay, sure.” More delay, more hope this walking thing would go away.

 

Last week we walked. After we met outside the building and decided which direction to go, we headed off. There was immediately a silence that may have lasted beyond a full second. This activated the emergency warning system in my brain: 

 

MISTAKE! 

Must feign sudden ankle twist!

Feign fainting if necessary! 

Stop walking!

 

COVID saved us. Can’t we all fall into corona moaning at the snap of the fingers? Damned anti-vaxxers. Are you still masking in stores? When do you think we’ll be able to stop signing up for gym times and just show up? 

 

On steady ground. Maybe we could survive a walk around the block.   

 

Turns out we walked for two hours and had plenty to talk about. It was enjoyable. I’m glad we went. I went through the usual post-interaction self-evaluation, beating myself up for mentioning some anecdotes that I never finished, sharing too many embarrassing moments, not bothering to follow up on how he learned to speak Portuguese as the conversation drifted elsewhere and generally lambasting myself for talking way too much.  

 

In between bouts of critiquing my social incompetence, I went over all of Damien’s comments that had me continuing to wonder, “Is this guy gay?” Let’s look at the evidence, shall we?

 

·      He was in the seminary for a year with the intention of becoming a Catholic priest. (Such a classic hiding place.)

·      As a teacher, he taught drama.

·      His specialty was musical theatre. (Worth repeating: Musical theatre!)

·      He commented on the abs of a shirtless man who walked past us. (To be fair, they were as finely sculpted as one sees in magazines, the kind I tell myself are obviously photoshopped and cannot possibly exist in real life.)

·      He then proceeded to talk about a younger guy in our building with amazing abs who works out in our gym. (Why have I never seen him?)

·      He mentioned having parties in the tiny town where he lived, saying, “You find your people. Small towns have an underground, you know?” Actually, no. (This should have been a point to seek clarification, but I think I didn’t want to know more.)

 

I managed to bring the conversation around to his wife several times and, to be clear, Damien talked freely about her. I’m certain he loves her. He spoke of her as if they’re newlyweds which I thought was entirely possibly since I knew his children were from a first wife. Turns out, Damien’s been with his current wife for about thirty years. Still, If Damien’s not bi or gay, I need to Google where I can take my gaydar for a tune-up.

 

I figured that, if my conversational skills were as woeful as I thought upon (over)reflection, any liking Damien may have had would have been extinguished, stomped with army boots and hosed down for good measure. Let me be the impetus for Damien talking his wife into a ceremony to renew their vows. Glad I could help.

 

If, however, this had only been about a budding friendship, the fact it fizzled offered some relief, too. Sure, I could probably use more real friends instead of chatting up my Christmas cactus and the hosta I sometimes remember to water, but all the unknowns and uncertainties during the beginning stages are difficult for me. Really? You want to meet for coffee? Why? What the hell’s in it for you? Oh, self-esteem, you are an elusive one. Sorry, Christmas cactus, it’s still you and me.

 

A few hours after our walk, Damien texted: “What a lovely walk and talk. You are very funny! I had a good time. You make me laugh and our stories are worth sharing. See you soon.”

 

Hmm. I use lovely all the time, but it’s not in the straight guy word bank, is it? 

 

My reply: “I enjoyed the walk as well. Maybe next time your wife can join us.”

 

I glanced at my phone screen until “Delivered” appeared beneath my text bubble. Yep. Message received. I’d made things as clear as I could considering that nothing was actually out in the open.

 

The next morning, I got another message from Damien: “I rather enjoyed your company. A repeat soon. Xxo”

 

Um. What? First “lovely” and then “Xxo”?

 

Not clear at all. This is feeling even more awkward.

 

PLEASE DON'T LIKE ME (Part One)

If awkwardness were viewed as a skill, I’ve reached mastery. Top of the résumé.

 

I’ve spent a lifetime wishing certain guys were gay. Now I’m hoping one isn’t. It’s a guy I met at the gym. Not some big, cruisy fitness sweatshop where guys take videos of themselves bench pressing the equivalent to a minibus and where guys nonchalantly linger in the locker room, wrapped in a towel, needing other patrons to notice them. (Oddly, this seems to be a straight guy thing.) I ran into Damien in the convenient little gym in my building, max three users at a time during COVID. 

 

I regularly sign up for the 2:00 p.m. slot, handing off the relay baton to him at 3. Due to the time of day, each of us typically gets the space to himself. (I suppose that would make it easier for me to take regular pics of me doing bicep curls and whatnot in hopes of three or so “likes” on Instagram but, even with no one else present, I’d feel selfie-self-conscious, three-quarters of that sweaty sheen on my body coming from embarrassment rather than exertion. Besides, my whatnots are performed with weights more the mass of a minibus of the Matchbox sort.)

 

The first relay pass was a clear failure. I dropped the baton. I’d said hello and he said nothing. A total shunning. It may have had to do with his earbuds, but I took it as attitude, the kind I got so much of at those cruisy gyms. Why are you even here? He was very fit for his age and it felt like I was being dismissed by one of those older gay men I used to see gathered around little round bar tables, sipping martinis and holding on to superiority so that irrelevance didn’t slip in. No room for me at a regular gym and a misfit at this boutique training room. I wiped down the exercise bike, took my water bottle and left. 

 

For weeks, we’d encounter one another, a silent shift change. He’d stride straight for the StairMaster and I wouldn’t look his way. Ha! Now who’s shunning who? As I sprayed down gym equipment, I’d glance at the TV screen in front of him and be glad not to have to make small talk with a guy who always changed the channel to “Gunsmoke.” Or “Ponderosa.” Or “Bonanza.” Or one of those old Western series where the colors seem to have faded and be a hue or two off what their supposed to be, rust instead of red, skies an unrealistic robin’s egg blue. Really, who the hell books their gym time to coincide with “Bonanza” reruns? This was not someone I needed to know.

 

Then one time as I surrendered the gym to him, he introduced himself and said something innocuous like, “I guess we both like our afternoon gym times.” That made for an awkward pause where I was supposed to say something even though he didn’t give me much to go on. I suppose I could have said, “My endorphins love a post-lunch release” or “This is the one time of day when I’m not Zooming with incredibly important people.” Instead, I’m sure I said, “I like it when no one’s here.” And, due to that patented awkwardness of mine, it would have come off with the tone of, I’m no good at sharing. I basically hate people. I’d really settled into our not-talking thing. 

 

As I left, I managed to recover and say, “Nice to meet you” and “Have a good workout,” but Damien had his earbuds in, not listening to BTS or Chance the Rapper, but some ominous dialogue between Lorne Greene and James Arness about how the cattle needed more hay (or whatever they eat). Riveting stuff, you know.

 

Over time, we got into a groove of sticking to script with our baton-passing exchange. Sometimes he’d get my name right, sometimes he’d have the nerve to shorten it, sometimes he’d be completely off. Perhaps Gordon is the name of a cowboy on “Gunsmoke.” Hard to stick to real-life conversation when a chance to view some jaw-dropping lasso maneuvering awaits. My lines were always, “Hi Damien” (with an occasional “Hey” subbed in to prove I could ad-lib a bit). Then, after he’d acknowledge me with some sort of name, I’d say, “See ya. Enjoy your workout.” It got so I didn’t even feel awkward. Like everything, practice makes perfect.

 

But then one day, Damien said, “If it weren’t for COVID, I’d have you over for coffee.” Um, well. Welcome back, awkwardness. Coffee at a stranger’s home? No, no, no. That would require a whole lot more conversation. Out of desperation, I might ask something stupid like., “Don’t you ever get bored on that StairMaster?”  I wouldn’t mean to be rude. I’d just blurt it to fill a fraction of a second of dead air in order to quell a rush of panic and self-loathing. Man, I’m pathetic. Why can’t I have a simple chat? Why is it that, knowing basically nothing about this person and knowing, therefore, that there is a completely wide-open slate of topics to choose from, I can’t think of anything? 

 

“I guess you like ‘Gunsmoke,’ huh?” Dear God, no. There could be no coffee. Saved by COVID!

 

Over time, there was more to talk about at the gym. It was nice to have time parameters on it. I noticed that if he arrived a couple of minutes early, it was an opportunity to comment on that chitchat go-to, the weather, or that newer addition to Chitchat 101, the coronavirus. These masks make me sweatier. I wonder when we’ll ever go back to letting more than two people on the elevator. Have you gotten your shot yet? If Damien didn’t enter until three or a minute after, our exchange was pared down to a simple “Hi” and maybe a wave with his back to me as he went straight for the StairMaster. “Gunsmoke” was calling and how does anyone compete with that?

 

At some point, a couple signed up for the two o’clock spot and that had me fretting so

I signed up for Damien’s three o’clock time, guessing—correctly—that he wouldn’t be doing weights after the StairMaster. He did lots of stretching instead. He was chattier while getting into stretchy, yoga-ish positions…hang dogs or camels or frozen chickens. (Apologies to yoga devotees. I know nothing about it. I respect your choice of activity even though I’m certain I will never try a session since of have the flexibility of a cement pillar. I might stay for the warmup if the instructor played “Vogue,” but I’m guessing they don’t take requests. Please continue striking your animal poses.) Damien and I exchanged basic information: where we’re from, the importance of keeping in shape, what our wives do. 

 

Wait. What? You’re married? To a woman?! Please, mask, cover my shock. Please, eyes, focus on blankness…like Keanu Reeves in every movie role. 

 

Seriously, a wife? Shock. And relief. 

 

I’d gotten some vibes that maybe Damien was into me. There was never anything vague about me being gay. Generally, I figure, Just look at me, people. What could possibly make you unsure whether I’m queer? At the gym, my face mask highlights the statement, in bold and underlined, all caps, 24-point font. I wear the same face mask every time because it’s the most breathable. I bought it at what used to be Vancouver’s gay bookstore and now, sadly, is where you browse for sex toys. My mask has rainbow hearts all over it and the message, LOVE IS LOVE. Yep, I’m gay. Despite this whole wife revelation, I still couldn’t shake a suspicion Damien was gay and I couldn’t dismiss a sense he might kinda sorta maybe like me in that most implausible of ways. He’d mentioned my fitness and my toned body a few times. Nice to hear for a deeply insecure guy like me, but I’m not used to people noticing things like that. My exes certainly didn’t. 

 

I did my best to accept this husband-wife thing as totally legitimate and not some immigration scheme. I talked more freely after convincing myself Damien couldn’t possibly be interested in me. Turns out our backgrounds are in teaching, both of us becoming principals. When teaching is the topic, I don’t even have to think about what I say. It comes naturally. He talked about his children and grandchildren. I made sure

to always ask about his wife. It seemed like she really and truly existed…from South America. Hmm. Nope, not a scheme; all perfectly legitimate, right?

 

My little COVID-approved life was intact, safely single, completely unencumbered. How nice to begin getting to know a clearly attached straight man.