DOMINO DANCING

I am three for three this month.

I’ve read it in articles, seen it on TV and heard it on the radio: there is a surge of people joining online dating sites after Christmas. Furthermore, more people break up in January than any other month. (Maybe Johhny shouldn’t haven’t joined the online site on Boxing Day while still attached to Frank.)
So call me an opportunist. Someone’s pain could be my gain. I rejoined one dating site and tried to view my ol’ standby, Plenty of Fish, with new eyes. Perhaps a cute little fishy has been lurking amongst all that algae.
Thus far, match.com is a complete dud—just like last time I shelled out money to join. Despite being a top site for heterosexuals, very few Vancouver gays have profiles on it. I have received two very nice expressions of interest from men whose photos suggest there could be a physical attraction. Great,…if I lived anywhere near Edmonton, Alberta or Baton Rouge, Louisiana. (Why taunt me? Why make me regret my foolishly chosen home even more?!)
There are more guys on POF and, lo and behold, it seems some new fishies have joined. And, yes, as my opening sentence suggests, I took the lead and messaged three guys whose photos/profiles piqued my interest.
Not all at once, of course. In my mind, that either seems slutty or defeatist. Slutty in that juggling multiple guys goes against my dating intentions—a relationship, not hookups. Defeatist in that mass-messaging would show that I am not particularly hopeful of hearing back from at least two out of three of them.
Having shared my online approach, you might surmise that, if I messaged three guys, at least the first two messages went nowhere. And, yes, you’d be absolutely correct. You’d be even more correct if you guessed that all three messages went nowhere. Shame on you, logical defeatist!
Three for three. Three messages, three periods of painstaking virtual silence.
Nothing,…

Nothing,…

Nothing.
Except I did receive messages the day after I sent each of my charming, witty notes. It’s just that the incoming messages did not match the outgoing messages.
Welcome to mismatch.com.
I wonder if the three guys who received my messages lapsed into a hyperventilating fit of despondency as did I when I opened my mail. Is every middle-aged single guy delusional in thinking he can attract men beyond his reach? Are we all seeking to reel in that prized catch that spawns a truly unbelievable fish story? This pathetic dating game is more reminiscent of knocking down dominoes than playing Go Fish. Why do I keep playing?
It is still January. These newly thrown-back fish have yet to adjust to the pond. We’re not the same and neither is the pool.

Maybe they’ll come out with a news story on what time of year people are the most desperate. I can hold off on the opportunism ‘til then.



MAN OF MY DREAMS

I can’t wait to go back to sleep. I dreamed in short, vivid snippets last night and one episode was particularly wet. No, not in a smutty, Health 101 way. It involved a pool of water. And me. And a guy.

Again, nothing sexual. To get that kind of thinking out of your head, let me share that one of the other dream sequences involved being chased by unpredictably playful zebras. I have a recurring nightmare wherein I am forced to eat steak. (I’ve been a vegetarian for almost thirty years.) Seems my internal oddities roam unfiltered in REM sleep.

So back to the pool, the guy and me. I cannot recall what he looked like. All I know is a feeling: unguarded glee. We shared it. Both of us fully clothed and standing near the pool, he scooped me up and leaped into the water as I laughed and he grinned. A simple act which, when it involves someone special, can be an exhilarating moment.

No need to overanalyze the teensy vignette. However, it combines a couple components that make me feel my happiest. I have a deep connection with water. I swim six kilometers a week at a local pool—sigh, no grinning suitor to be found—and I moved to my rural home specifically because of the water view. So much of my life has been shaped by experiences linked with pools, a river, a lake and oceans—friendships, high school survival (swim team), career (linked back to lifeguarding). It is odd, in fact, that no dating experience or relationship has linked with water. I’ve never thought about it before, but none of my exes had any comfort in water. Perhaps we were doomed from the get-go. Perhaps for my next date I should ask the guy to produce his swimming level certificate. Tadpole?! Uh, sorry.

Yes, overanalyzing...

I also know that I have a robust laugh—the kind that can be infectious or grating depending my company’s disposition. When work is too intense, when I am fatigued, when I do not seem to be flourishing, that laugh goes dormant. If I laugh at all, it becomes a motion on mute, an oddly internalized chuckle that cannot break out. There is a direct correlation between my expression of laughter and my sense of thriving and even my writing creativity. (Reading this, you can probably discern that I am in the midst of a muffled laughter period.)

That little dream instantly awakened me. It underscores my need to feel joyful and to feel unrestricted. It also represents hope. Prospects of ever connecting with another man seem bleak. Maybe, just maybe, he’s still out there. Alas, this is January and I am in Canada. Pool season is months away. Come June, if you hear reports of a fully clothed middle-aged man lurking at the community pool, know that it’s just me, the quirky dude who runs with zebras.

 

Tonight I’ll hit the pillow early. I’ll invite my pool mate into my dreams once more. Alas, why is it that the good dreams are one-shot wonders while the horrid nightmares (filet mignon!) have no qualms with invading the bedroom over and over?

I’ll take my chances. It is worth it to dream again.

TOO MUCH OF A GOOD THING? (Part One)

I do not have a tattoo. I will never have one. Yes, this is a “never” I can say with certainty. I hear getting inked can be painful. I do not need to investigate this. Rumor of pain is enough of a deterrent. I have an intense aversion to such a feeling and thus I have come to terms with the fact that I will never get Amy Winehouse permanently etched on my upper arm. It is not much of a hardship. I do not have an urge to identify myself with a singer, a snake, a rose, MOM or some sort of chain-link design. (Call it a hunch, but I don’t imagine tat artists are so skilled with otters, cauliflower or a group shot of the cast of The Golden Girls. Yes, even if I wandered in a tattoo parlor in a drunken state, I would remain an ink virgin. I don’t do Bea Arthur. SLAM!)

So no tattoo for me. My skin will only be covered with SPF 45 and cotton.

My regard for tattoos on others has evolved. I grew up in a conservative, reserved family during the 1970s. Tattoos were for radicals. Prisoners. People who still saw Jane Fonda movies. Extras in “Easy Rider”. If anyone let a tattoo show, I was trained to look away. No telling how many times I saved myself from being stabbed to death.

I imagine that long-tatted folks are horrified by how commonplace getting inked has become. In the rural, artsy/blue collar area where I live, a tattoo is no longer the requisite accessory for driving a motorcycle; rather, it is the perfect companion to driving a pickup truck. And everyone drives a pickup. (This is yet another reason why I am the default answer to the local version of One of These Things Is Not like the Others. I am the misfit with my plain ol’ silver Honda Civic. There are perks however. I can easily spot my vehicle in any parking lot. No need for a hot pink paint job.)

It has taken time, but I am finally in a state of mind where I no longer see someone with a tattoo and think he is planning to overthrow the government or lace my latté with LSD. (Is LSD a liquid? I don’t feel a need to Google. It might be scary.) I work with people with tattoos. My cousin has a tat. (An ankle butterfly. Yes, we are related.) I appreciate the fact that a tattoo can make a statement, even add to one’s identity. The tattoo is no longer taboo.

But as with everything, I think some people take inking too far. Indeed, excessive inking can make an attractive person look utterly unappealing. I may be in the minority, but I feel that way about David Beckham. This man is almost universally lusted over. He is one fine man. Or he was. A few tats? Fine. But he kept going. Why distract from perfection? I still find his face attractive, but that’s it. In the coming year, he may cover his cheeks and forehead with tatted leopard spots and then all will be lost.

A more current rendition of Adam Levine.

Adam during his minimalist phase.

Same for Adam Levine. He’s not Sexiest-Man-Alive worthy, but he certainly caught my eye when I first saw the video for “This Love”. Beautiful. Now he, like Beckham, is the living, breathing version of a hoarder’s house. Tattoo clutter.

No matter how much you love dragons, NO MORE TCHOTCHKES!

All this came to mind again Friday night as I went to the gym to squeeze in a mediocre end-of-week workout. As gyms in January are clogged with well-intentioned resolution makers, this promised to be a rare moment when I wouldn’t have to wait for any weights or machines. Despite my fatigue, I changed into my gear and went. The alternatives, 8 p.m. bedtime or ever-syndicated “Hogan’s Heroes”, were not compelling. Sometimes depressing can be a motivator.

As I walked into the gym, a guy wearing a school-bus-colored thong tank worked his triceps. His back was fully inked as were his arms. He turned to reveal a work in progress as pectoral tats reached toward his neck. I looked away, not based on a fear of being knifed—indeed, you can’t hide weaponry in a thong tank. I turned because that’s what you do when you see a train wreck.

Moments later, I peeked. (Another train wreck behavior.) I saw his face and it registered that this was a guy I lusted over only a year ago. Best looking man at the gym. Back then, he’d had a tattoo on each of upper arms that he flashed when he wore regular tank tops. I actually liked the designs he’d chosen, but I appreciated how his perfect biceps weren’t covered. I’d tried repeatedly to make eye contact with the guy but never succeeded. And now here was this “new, improved” version of the man. All sex appeal gone. At least to this beholder, he was utterly ruined.

What do you think? Do you prefer old David or new David, old Adam or new Adam? How about Ricky Martin? I know many guys like tattoos, but is there a point when it becomes excessive? What is the turning point? How does someone with a fondness for ink know when to say when?

ISN'T IT ROMANTIC?

Generally, I have ample protection. I have never wandered into a bridal shop. I don’t flip through wedding magazines—even when it’s between that and The Economist at the dentist’s office. I avoid the Valentine’s section at the grocery store. (It will be set up within the week, no doubt. I’ve stocked up on Band-aids and Kleenex already so I have no reason to stroll down that aisle I refer to as the Red Sea.)

But then I went and booked a quick trip to Victoria. As it bears no relevance to me, I completely forgot how romantic the charming little city can be.

Interlocked elbows while meandering and gazing at beautiful old buildings.

Sharing tea and scones at the Empress Hotel.

And how about getting cozy on a horse-drawn carriage ride?

I tried to tune out the romance. I don’t need a companion to admire the architecture. And I am more of a coffee guy anyway. Still, I conjured up a dreadful image of me paying for a carriage ride for one. I imagined the sad looks, the hushed whispers and the likelihood of becoming a YouTube sensation—2014’s version of Grumpy Cat. Definitely had to steer clear of horses. The risks were too great.

It didn’t help that I traveled to Victoria with two dates lined up. Two chances to click. There was a chance for that carriage ride or maybe even a midnight harbor walk, keeping warm against Date #1 (or Date #2) while oohing and aahing at all the structures tastefully silhouetted in glowing lights. And I saw potential in BOTH dates. Trouble is neither of them did.

Cue Gershwin.

And so that made being alone in that darned charming little city a tad harder. As I ventured about, there seemed to be fewer families taking up all the sidewalk space. Perhaps that is more of a summertime phenomenon. This made the glut of couples even more obvious. To be fair, despite walking many miles during my stay, I saw no lesbian couples and only one gay pairing. Perhaps Victoria is too Victorian.

Luckily, I’ve also come to know Victoria as a recreational city and a place to sate my shopping desires. I didn’t need a mate to enjoy a scenic jog along the water or to load up on shirts and shoes. And I didn’t hesitate to go out to eat with an empty chair across from me—I got used to that long ago. (I had plenty to read.) I decided to satisfy any hankering for horses when I got home, figuring I could pet a couple of alpacas through a fence on the way into town. Close enough.

So I managed to dodge Cupid’s arrow. (Damn.) Must have been a trick arrow because I certainly tried to get hit. I’ll make it back to Victoria, hopefully sooner rather than later. Romantic or not, it is a lovely setting.

2 UP, 2 DOWN

I did not travel two ferries to Victoria just for a couple of coffee dates. At least that’s what I’m telling myself. I need my urban fixes to sustain my sanity and it’s been too long since I’ve explored this lovely little city.

But, yes, I had two potential dates lined up from Plenty of Fish. One guy messaged me a few months ago, but has been in Nigeria for much of the fall. The other guy I messaged the day before heading over. Why not?

I am here for three nights and gave both guys that window of time for meeting. One suggested getting together for a drink on the first night, the other wanted to meet for coffee the following morning. Two dates in a span of thirteen hours. The optimist in me wondered if I’d have to sneak away from any extended evening encounter to scramble over to meet the next guy. Me slutty? It was worth a chuckle.

I walked over to Canoe Bar Friday night and found Mick sitting at the bar. For once, a guy’s online photos undersold him. I felt an instant attraction, a wonderful sign. We chatted for ten minutes at the bar before I asked if we could move to a table. I didn’t like having a date as three bartenders stood nearby with little to do. I detected a trace of annoyance from Mick. Perhaps he had planned on a quick getaway or maybe he just enjoyed ogling the hunky trio. (This was not a gay bar; I assumed the guys were straight.) As we resettled, I asked about his work. What caused him to travel so much internationally? Turns out he works for a prominent public health foundation committed to eradicating certain diseases globally. He spent the next ten minutes talking about his job as if he were delivering a report to the United Nations. Was he trying too hard to impress or was this merely a canned brief? Business talk, only interesting for a change. Indeed, I was utterly fascinated.

So let’s recap where we are at this point. Attractive. Intelligent. Noble career.

He was incredibly fit, too—an avid marathon runner.

Hmm, how fast can I move to Victoria?

We talked about his teen son and that’s when I discovered the divorce hadn’t been finalized yet. There is always a catch. Separate abodes, at least. Better than the last time. I didn’t have the slightest sense that he would go back.

Dates are getting harder for me to gauge. Of course, I know when I am not interested and I can easily detect when it is a case of mutual disinterest. But I’ve gotten bad at figuring out if a guy is into me when I am into him. It all comes down to the goodbye.

We left the club and walked a few blocks together until his route home different from mine. It ended with a cordial hug, something I initiated. I think he would have preferred a wave. Yep, then and there it was clear. Any interest had been one-sided.

Normally, this would be easy to shrug off. The whole thing was impractical given the distance between our homes. And besides, I had another coffee lined up for the morning. So long, Mick. I’ve met a number of fine men who weren’t into me. I’ve learned a thing or two about being resilient.

This time, however, I turned the focus on me. After so many go-nowhere dates, I have to wonder what it is that I am doing wrong. It wasn’t a time to beat myself up over my looks. I’m in great shape and I’ve reached the as-good-as-it-gets level. This time I focused on the conversation. All these dates seem unnatural. They come off as interviews. There needs to be more doing than just talking. But things still seem stilted on a walk-and-talk. Why doesn’t my humor come through? Why do things remain at the schmooze stage? (I am a dreadful schmoozer.) Why don’t things ever evolve into genuine conversation?

No answers, of course. I stopped at 7-Eleven and picked up some comfort food. Let Häagen-Dazs coffee ice cream be my backup companion.

I awoke to the fog of a new day. Another coffee, another opportunity. I walked to trendy Cook Street Village to meet Connor for an early morning latté. Arriving early, I reviewed his profile to assist with the schmoozing. Enter Connor. Again, he looked at least as good as his best online photo—tall, trim and flashing a warm smile. We chatted about less cerebral matters than the night before, but connected over where I lived as he has two siblings that have lived in my community in the past. Still, there were gaps in the conversation. I would stare into my empty mug, searching for something to get things back on track. If not a total fail, the schmoozing still needed work. Another street corner hug and I knew that was the first and final goodbye with Connor.

When the travel is greater to meet up on a date, the stakes are higher. A good date is not enough. In both cases, I am certain I came off as nice, but nothing more. How the heck do I conjure up the wow factor?

These dates had promise. Both men slotted in times early on my visit, leaving potential for a full weekend of follow-up activity. I got fizzle instead of sizzle. I don’t feel dejected—at least not after the pick-me-up that came from buying five pairs of shoes. At this point, however, I am mystified. What will it take to find a mutual connection again?

I now have plenty of time to ponder this as I have an open schedule to take in the sights of Victoria. To be safe, I am leaving the credit card in the hotel room.

TIME TO SETTLE?

When I was in my late teens, I clearly recall single women on TV and in life getting riled up over two comments: (1) “Your biological clock is ticking” aka You’re not getting any younger; and (2) “After 30, you have a better chance of getting struck by lightning than finding a man.” These jabs were supposed to be helpful.

Stop being so picky.

Beggars can’t be choosers.

It’s time to settle.

The comments did not relate to me. Obviously, I had no timeline for getting pregnant. And back then, I was still in the closet and there was a Whole New World to be explored. I just needed to muster up a sense of pride and an ounce of courage and step out beyond the cozy cluster of wooden hangers. Still, I paid attention to women’s reactions: incensed, flabbergasted, despondent. When they needed support, they got what they perceived as criticism. The speaker always viewed it as constructive criticism,...a reality check.

I felt nothing but empathy. Somehow I knew that the time might come when I’d be labeled the picky one, the one who should settle for a lovable—er, likable—oaf just because, well, he noticed me.

Be grateful.

The problem is I’m not the kind of person who settles. And this is only a “problem” if I take the view that I must be in a relationship (which I don’t). Yes, I am 49 and, yes, the pickings seem slim. Some people imply that I must not really want a relationship. I’d be in one if that is what I truly wanted. This is the genie view of dating. Your wish is granted. Unfortunately, I do not know Barbara Eden personally. (She’s blocked me on Twitter.)

I do want to be in a relationship, but not just any relationship. I’ve been in bad relationships and boring relationships. I have felt worse about myself as a result. Being alone can be the healthier option. On my own, I continue to challenge myself to be a better person, not because of anyone else, but due to my belief that there is much to be learned throughout this life’s journey. I am hard on myself and I have a self-deprecating sense of humor, but I know I have a great deal to offer.

I continue to put myself out there. It aggravates me when someone suggests I am not trying hard enough. After so many lackluster coffee dates, I could have given up long ago, rescued a dozen cats and become pen pals with American prisoners on death row. I could have littered my garden with gnomes, each individually named and greeted daily. I could have begun the mother of all latch-hook projects to create charming butterfly tapestries for every wall in my house. No, I am saving these options for my sixties.

The biggest obstacle for me is opportunity. Single gay men in my age range do not exist where I live. (Well, there is my new neighbor, but we are simply friends. Despite my great affinity for Nora Ephron, it is indeed possible for two gay men to be friends without ever having the slightest inkling for sex or some other-defined relationship. Please do not suggest that we could be more. It reminds me of well-intentioned friends who have tried to set me up with the only other gay guy they know. You’re gay, he’s gay. How could it not be a match?)

I am perfectly willing to look beyond my community. WILL TRAVEL FOR A DATE. This weekend, in fact, I am in Victoria—two ferry rides from home—and I have a couple of coffee dates lined up. You never know, right?

I know that many guys have passed on me because of the distance. I also know that many have passed because they just weren’t interested. That’s the harsher reality. But it makes sense. Clicking with someone else is harder as you get older. I remember an early bar encounter when I thought I found a match just because we both liked the TV show “Murphy Brown”. (Why not? For awhile, we would have lovely Monday nights.) With age, we have set ways of being. We look for something deeper. Just being gaga over the same pop singer does not cut it.

I don’t think anyone has the answer to end my single status. Sometimes we sad-sacks just need to vent. We need someone to listen. It’s the same as when my married friends rag on their spouses. It’s about letting off steam. I am not in their shoes. I am not the one to decide when they should consider a different course of action. But I listen well. I know that helps.

I suppose I could work on my cruising skills. On my way to Victoria, I met up with a friend at a Starbucks in Vancouver. A good looking man entered. I watched how my friend fixed his stare on the guy. It seemed aggressive, but perhaps I could get better at trying to make eye contact. I’ve checked my shoelaces enough. Still, I don’t think a future relationship will begin with a cute (or creepy) tale about when our eyes first met. Neither do I think we’ll meet while fondling melons in the supermarket or while being caught in the rain without an umbrella. I’ll try to stay open to that anything-is-possible mindset—even TV/movie clichés. Nonetheless, I suspect there will be a greater purpose in our first encounter, should it ever occur.

Is there anything else I should be doing or trying? I will continue to write about the hopes, the misses and the failures of the dating process because that is a logical fit for this blog. However, rest assured that my life goes on. I am working on a new manuscript, enjoying a wonderful nonfiction book and going through a newfound willingness to try out recipes from a massive pile of clippings in a stuffed file folder. I am more than just a chronically single man. Thank goodness for that!

CHRISTMAS FOR ONE

Let’s just get the obvious out of the way: spending Christmas alone can be depressing. I’ve had some downer holidays, the worst being the one when the power went out and I spent the “festive” evening alone in the dark before driving into town to sit in an empty Starbucks parking lot so I could at least get an internet connection.

The truth is that Christmas can be also depressing or, worse, tense or combative when spent with family. Family gatherings are sometimes particularly troubling for LGBT folks. 

I have had “orphan” Christmases in which those of us who weren’t going home got together. Some of those gatherings were lovely, some just sad. It’s not really the day to chat up strangers who are on a casual friend’s curling team. I cannot feign an interest in that “sport” and the field of conversation did not become any wider when I discovered he was a butcher. (I am a strict vegetarian.) I’ve declined this gathering of curlers the past three years.

Some years, Christmas for One has been about surviving the day. Still, I think I’ve found a way to celebrate it. I share the following as tips for enjoying the holiday based on many years of going solo.

Play it loose with the traditions. I’ve gotten away from trying to mimic the traditions of larger Christmas gatherings. It’s not the same and pretending it is just makes things worse. Now I pick and choose what traditions I feel like. There is no one else insisting on putting up a tree or caroling around the cul-de-sac. This year, I put up a string of lights outside. I like peeking at them as I take my dog on the last walk of the night. They looked particularly sparkly after last week’s snowfall. I waffled on getting a tree, ultimately choosing to pass on that this year. I don’t like staring at the emptiness under the tree. Next year I may be okay with it, perhaps adding poinsettias as groundcover.

Plan for a full day. Pretending it was just another day only worked once. Fool me twice? Nope...didn’t happen. Planning is essential. I’ve ad-libbed the day before, but the what-do-I-want-to-do-now moments teeter on being sad little voids. 

Eat whatever you fancy. As a vegetarian, I have no need for a turkey or a faux turkey. For years, I made mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, Brussels sprouts and roasted veggies. I’m not craving that this time around so why go through the motions? Instead, I am making pizza with a homemade crust that I love, but haven’t made in a decade. I am looking forward to it—and that’s the point: create a meal you like, rather than something that is going to remind you of the shared feasts of Christmases past. For breakfast, I’ll open with a grapefruit and a full pot of strong coffee. Later in the morning, I’ll have a stack of blueberry pancakes with pure maple syrup. During the afternoon, I’ll make shortbread. I enjoy cooking without being rushed by other pressing items on an agenda. This is the perfect day to give the oven a workout.

Enjoy a quiet, relaxing activity. I like to pull out a jigsaw puzzle a few times a year. It is a focused way to pass time. I find it very relaxing in the way that I imagine knitting or car tinkering appeals to others.

I have a large stack of books waiting to be read. As I just finished one, I’ll pick a new one to begin, curling up in a chair and sipping some of that seemingly bottomless coffee supply. I also love magazines and I bought a couple to browse through.

Get outside. After the pancakes, I’ll take the dog for a long walk along the beach. This is my favorite tradition that began even before I had a dog and spent a Christmas on my own in Malibu. I feel a strong connection to nature and to water in particular. Beach walks nourish my soul. Having the dog with me adds lighter moments as his excitement in hopping through the sand always makes me laugh.

Keep up the fitness. Since I don’t partake in turkey, I don’t waste a couple of hours on the sofa in a tryptophan stupor. Fitness is extremely important to me and I don’t take a day off just because the gyms are closed. I always go for a decent jog on Christmas. I have to do this so I don’t fret over the extra food indulgences. I like to run into town along the lower road that shadows the coastline. There is a long pier that I jog out on—it’s the closest I can get to walking on water—and then I continue to the other side of the quaint harbor, all the while enjoying the peekaboo water views and the lack of foot and car traffic.

Over-plan. The day is full but, just in case, I have some videos that I would love to see again. It’s been a long time since I last saw “A Room with a View” and I’ll never tire of marveling over Nora Ephron’s brilliant screenplay for “When Harry Met Sally”. (It was at the peak of my Meg Ryan Can Do No Wrong period. Sigh. I miss dear Meg.)

In the days that follow, keep the focus on others. All in all, I know it will be a good day. After Christmas, I will run into a few acquaintances who will ask, “How was your Christmas?” It’s a perfectly normal question, a refreshing variant to “How are you?” I have learned that most people who have spent all their Christmases surrounded by people are aghast if I reveal that I spent it on my own. I’m past the days of self-pity; I don’t need it replaced by other-pity. I am ready with a true response—“Very nice”—and a quick pitch back—“How was yours?” If they go behind a brief “Good”, I probe to let them get it all out. People like to talk about themselves. It is rare that they realize that they shared a lot while I didn’t. We all have different needs.

And we all celebrate—or don’t celebrate—in different ways.

I am happy with my plans. I hope you are with yours. All the best to you!