Tuesday, October 25, 2016


Sometimes it’s agonizing,…not being noticed. There’s a Janet Jackson song off her “Control” album; it serves as the soundtrack of the moment: “He Doesn’t Know I’m Alive”. I stare at him, one second, three seconds, thirty. Doesn’t matter. His head is buried in the financial pages of The National Post.

There’s no ring on the long fingers of his left hand. How is that possible? Maybe it’s nothing personal. Maybe his head is always down. He’s thin, his shoulders are slight. But he exudes a kind of sex appeal that comes from not knowing. The wavy salt-and-pepper hair adds to the ooh-la-la. (My chronic state of singlehood is not helped by the fact my brain thinks in terms like ooh-la-la but, golly gee, he’s all that and some extra la-las to boot.)

He’s got that Mediterranean olive complexion. I imagine he’s Portuguese. Accent or not, it doesn’t matter. His face is long, unblemished and...perfect. Delicate. Pretty. This was my ideal kind of man before being an out gay man led to years of overexposure to masses of muscle packed tightly into white tank tops.

He wears simple casual clothes, stylish, new. The blue sneakers still have that new-shoe gleam. The dark blue jeans shoe no sign of fading. The black hooded jacket remains zipped up, sagging a bit too much but it looks great on him anyway.

I’m this smitten.

Once or twice a week he comes into the café where I write each weekday morning. When he’s not consumed by the newspaper he stares at the screen of his laptop, gazing at stock market graphs. He’s never even glanced my way. That makes me feel more desperate, like a sixteen-year-old in high school, yearning to be noticed, befuddled by what makes others the center of attention while I am forever enshrouded by an invisibility cloak. Magic? No. A freakin’ curse.

I tell myself there’s nothing to be gained from continuing to look. The ooh-la-las don’t lift me as high as they should. The sense of oblivious rejection—not even worth a glimpse—carries a stronger, downward pull. Ah, but so beautiful. My very own Siren.

Perhaps it’s just as well that I don’t register. I know nothing about stocks. I don’t even like The National Post. I can’t make chitchat in the best of times. I doubt I could dazzle him with “Nice that it’s not raining, eh?” (“Tell me all about Portugal” seems too risky.)

He neatly folds his paper and places it in a pocket of his satchel. I don’t know how it’s even possible to fail to see anything around you, but he’s completely in his own world. Maybe it’s a skill you learn when you’re so regularly and aggressively ogled. He gets up, turns and exits. I watch him cross the street as his stride turns to a dash. Off to catch a bus? Or maybe he noticed me after all.

Perhaps it’s better for both of us if I switch to writing at the Starbucks down the street.


Monday, October 10, 2016


I know I’m supposed to look away. It does no good to gawk. Certainly doesn’t help the situation. May even make me cringe. But I get sucked in every Sunday. I take a glance. I tell myself it breeds hope, but what I immediately feel is a wee sting and a pang of jealousy.

Another couple getting married and posting the announcement in the New York Times. Two men. A few years ago, when I first spotted one, I felt pride. Sound the wedding bells and a certain ABBA song! Another step forward for the LGBT movement. Affirmation in my favorite newspaper. I was truly happy for the (presumably) happy couple.

But somewhere over time, resentment nudged its way in. These smiling men with Harvard law degrees and PhDs from Berkeley were marrying other guys. Not only were they smartypants, they looked decent and served on boards of noble-sounding charities. Their smiling faces served as a slap across my own, refuting all my whining that there aren’t any good guys out there. (Maybe I just have to move to The Big Apple.)

I always compose myself enough to wish them well. Surely they’re not trying to rub it in that they are Haves and I’m a Have Not. Surely weddings have nothing to do with flaunting. (It’s about new dishes, isn’t it?) How could the rest of us feel anything other than pure joy? Congrats, guys!

And then a few months ago I felt more of a comeuppance when I read the final sentence of Stewart and Paul’s wedding announcement: “The couple met on OkCupid in 2015.” Two weeks later, the last sentence regarding Gregg and Jonathan stated, “The couple met through OkCupid in 2011, and learned that they lived around the corner from each other in Brooklyn.” And just yesterday, regarding Johathan and Matthew (who happen to look an awful lot like Gregg and Jonathan): “The couple met through OkCupid in 2015.”

Hmm. I could draw one of several conclusions. Perhaps OkCupid has found an inventive way to advertise in the oh-so-reputable New York Times. Could Gregg have changed his name to Jonathan and is Jonathan going by Matthew now that he’s shaved his beard? After all, Americans love their conspiracy theories. (Even the backgrounds in the pictures look similar. Same photographer? …Or…same poseurs?!) Perhaps I could be the one to uncover the scam. Maybe it’s incumbent upon me to do so. No other reader would have saved these clippings, ostensibly for some future blog post.

Egad. Is this what happens after a dozen years of being steadfastly single? How jaded and cynical can I be? Will it get worse?!

Even if I were to dismiss these “Ok” success stories, I came across another stop-yer-whining notation in a September blurb regarding Daniel and David: “The couple met in 2012 as members of Front Runners New York, a lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender running club, and started dating in 2013.”

Perhaps there is an undercurrent of hope in all of this. Finding love may still be possible. Dating sites just might work. By golly, I’m still on OkCupid and, as of today, 210 men apparently “Like” me…though not enough to send a message. (Weirdly, it only takes sixty seconds to scroll through the thumbnail photos before the site tells me, “That’s everyone we could find.”

This morning I messaged the guy with the second highest percentage match—a 92%er! A glance at his profile reveals he’s a bisexual who “might” have sex with his best friend’s partner if he knew the tryst would never be discovered and who would consider cutting a partner if requested during sex. Yes, folks, this is 92%. And suddenly hope feels like false hope…

But there’s Front Runners, too. I officially joined in August. I rarely make Wednesday night runs because I can’t get out of work on time for the 6:30 run, but it’s a new week and I’ll try again. If my future husband isn’t there, at least my belly can get some toning. That’s something. Or maybe that’s false hope, too!

Wednesday, October 5, 2016


There are people in cancer remission for whom each birthday is an extra celebration, each Christmas all the more cherished. I’m not sure I’ll ever get the point where Christmas will be pleasant again, but birthdays do have new meaning now. I still don’t celebrate. I don’t answer my phone, I don’t tell people and I cringe over the well wishes that spring from an automated Facebook notification. But I do mark the day—quietly—as an achievement.

One of the reasons I grew to hate my birthday is that it felt so arbitrary. Twelve months pass…so what? (I feel the same about New Year’s.) Maybe there are moments during any given year that are deserving of a special dinner or at least an ice cream cone based on something good I actually did. Those are the times when recognition would be authentic. Going another 365 days? Not so much.

Except now. 365 is an achievement. When I was forty-nine and a half, I was committed to a psych ward. I was suicidal. If I hadn’t been locked up, I’d have totaled my car and, if it went well enough, totaled my body. Game over.

I managed to fake my way out. The immediate crisis was over but living to see another birthday seemed utterly implausible. I tried to be gentle, coaxing myself to hang on for two more years to see if I could turn my life around but I wasn’t invested. I was stunned that I made it to fifty. Life remained bleak, recovery impossible. The only way I survived was through running away on weekends to Seattle, Whistler, Victoria…anywhere that helped distract me from a stagnant, failed existence. It was an expensive coping mechanism but at least it wasn’t destructive like turning to drugs or alcohol. I’m fortunate that I’m not wired that way.

Lo and behold, fifty-one came, too. By then I’d switched psychiatrists after sessions with Dr. 7 became combative. I acquiesced to meds. First one, then a second as well. The lows weren’t quite as long or, well, low. I went off the meds, had a setback, went back on. And now I’m fifty-two. I’ve surpassed my two-year goal. I can’t say I’m happy…that was too lofty an aspiration. But I’m not depressed. I’m stable.

Sessions with Dr. 8 have gone from weekly to monthly, in part because work is too busy at the moment, but the urgency is gone, too. My family doctor no longer insists on regular check-ins. (Has it really been nine months?) And I’ve gone off my meds again. “I’m concerned,” Dr. 8 said during my last session. But it’s Day 27 without and so far so good. I’ve come to accept that I will feel sadness more than others. I no longer fear that I may be hospitalized again. If it happens, I just hope to have the wherewithal to drag myself to a different facility.

So…another birthday. Fifty-fuckin’-two. It’ll come and go without fanfare. I have a thirteen-hour work day and then I’ll hit the gym. Maybe I’ll have ice cream on the weekend. But this birthday seems like an achievement. Each one is a milestone. While I’m far from thriving and as alone (and sometimes lonely) as ever, I get teary realizing how much I’ve fought to last this long. I still don’t feel I’ve made any social inroads and I’m still relying on travel as a way of coping. (I have three weekend escapes planned for this month.) It continues to zero out my bank account but I can go longer without furniture. It’s not like I ever have anyone over. There is a lot of work for me to do to reach a point of being invested again. But I’ve given myself the gift of time. Seems I’m sticking around. It’s not exactly “happy birthday”, but it’s a birthday. And that’s something.

Thursday, September 29, 2016


The numbers continue to dwindle. AIDS isn’t what it used to be. There are buzzier causes: ALS, prostate cancer, refugee resettlement. Staffs at the past two schools where I’ve worked attend charity dinners and auctions each September to support research for medical conditions a few of our students have battled. There are other banners I want to get behind, like mental health, everything pertaining to animals and the environment and, yes, refugees.

But AIDS remains closest to my heart. I first grappled with coming out back when Geraldo Rivera reported about GRID—Gay-Related Immune Deficiency—on “20/20”. It was the acronym that preceded AIDS, with a heavy emphasis on “gay”. Gay men were getting sick; gay men were dying. I signed up to volunteer with the AIDS Resource Center in Dallas before I’d ever so much as kissed a boy. I was profoundly impacted by Randy Shilts’ agonizing account of the early years of the AIDS crisis (And the Band Played on) and the haunting, Oscar-winning documentary “Common Threads: Stories from the AIDS Quilt” before I’d ever had a date. Gay may technically be synonymous with happy, but in those days it was heavily weighted with fear, maybe even death. AIDS will always play a part in my identity as a gay man.

I made sure to avoid any proximity to this sign. Just not me.
And so I showed up at the Roundhouse Community Centre yesterday for yet another AIDS Walk. I first participated in a walk twenty-six years ago in Los Angeles, a decidedly grimmer time when the people with full-on AIDS sat in wheelchairs pushed by loved ones. Some bravely walked, with or without a cane. We knew who had it. Their faces were gaunt, unnaturally tanned and KS lesions dotted their skin. I remember trying to project hope. You can beat this. The AZT will work. The cure is coming. But my sunshiny disposition faded after seeing the ravaged bodies of so many men in their prime, from watching mothers push their thirty-year-old sons, from seeing the inequity as one healthy-looking “longtime companion” supported the weakened one.

So much has changed. In the past year I’ve briefly dated two HIV+ men, each “undetectable”. They are among the lucky few who were diagnosed thirty years ago and somehow managed to survive the darkest years. They take their meds but show none of what once were the telltale signs of AIDS. They manage their condition. The hope now is real. Still, it’s not like diabetes or epilepsy. There remains a sense of shame and even shunning from potential partners. As I listened to both of them tell their story, one was wracked with guilt while the other’s language was loaded with affirmations delivered defensively rather than convincingly. The mental toll remains great.

In truth, I’m out of touch about what it means to live with HIV or AIDS today. I don’t have a clue what the needs are. I don’t know what is within reach and what remains a loftier goal in terms of medical research. Where are things at in terms of a vaccine? Why won’t my medical insurance cover PrEP (Pre-Exposure Prophylaxis)? What are the inequities regarding prevention, detection and treatment in developing countries?

How did I become so removed? Why did we stop rallying? Where did everyone go? Thousands turned out for AIDS Walks in the early ‘90s. In recent years, only a few hundred show up. Contrast this with the fact that, according to the CBC, “hundreds of thousands” showed up for the Pride parade in Vancouver only seven weeks ago. Something seems amiss.

I need to re-educate myself as to where things are at regarding AIDS. I need a better sense of how the donations help. Despite my ignorance, I know I must continue to participate in this annual event. For me, the AIDS Walk is a meditative time when I honor the thousands who died from AIDS in bleaker times. Knowing that HIV is no longer a death sentence makes it more critical that I remember friends whose bodies and minds battled desperately and ultimately futilely and who died at twenty-eight, at thirty-five, at forty-one. I continue to mourn the passing of Stephen, Don, Farrell, Steve, Greg and Jose. The anger is gone but the tragedy only feels greater. All their potential wiped away. All so unnecessary.

I keep hoping the number of walkers will stabilize and that more gay men will show up again to reflect and remember. Pride celebrations offer more opportunities to ogle glamorous drag queens and ripped studs in Speedos. Pride leaves many feeling good, but the AIDS Walk stirs trickier emotions and commemorates an era that must not be forgotten.

Tuesday, September 6, 2016


It’s uncomfortable. I’d much rather look down than stare straight ahead. But Vicky keeps admonishing me: “Head up, please.” I’m not sure I’ll ever master sitting in the barber’s chair. I’m still the antsy little kid; only now there’s no green sucker as a parting gift.

There’s no other time during the month when I’m forced to face a mirror for a prolonged period of time. It shouldn’t be so painful but I’m the polar opposite of Narcissus. My image spawns awkwardness, followed by a swell of self-hate.

That nose. So big.

Those eyes. Look at the bags under them. So dark. Coon eyes.

Vicky combs my wet hair back. It’s a rough gesture that jolts my whole head. Is she frustrated? Does she hate her job? Is she wishing she could be pickier about her clientele?

Oh, god. I’m face to face with me again. Aack!* When did my hair recede so far? And the bigger question: WHEN DID I GET SO OLD?

Just last week, my younger cousin—he’s 44, I’m 51—blurted in both exasperation and envy, “How do you keep getting younger?! You look 30.” I hear it from others, too. There’s a consensus that I look considerably younger than my age. But objects in the mirror at close range and under bright lighting look harsh. Every year shows. Every trauma leaves a souvenir.

If only I could look away.

Torture for me would be a room full of mirrors. It’s a good thing I’m not privy to top-secret anything. I’d crumble minutes. Forget waterboarding and cocked pistols; just hold a hand mirror to my head. Aack! What Canadians really mean when they say “sorry” would be known to all. (Sorry ‘bout that, Mr. Trudeau.)

This is a touch-and-go period. It’s only my second appointment with Vicky. As noted in a recent post, I’ve had to find a new stylist now that I am finally living and working in the Vancouver area once again. Maybe I should have been pickier, maybe I should have done more research but my hair was overgrown and verging on becoming a home to paper clips and dryer lint, not to mention a snake or two. Vicky’s salon is but a few blocks from home. It was the perfect confluence of convenience and urgency. The rest is up to the two of us. How’s her chair-side manner? Can she avoid nicking that mole at the back on my head more than once? Can I adjust to twice the price for the same service?

There are, of course, other options. Plenty of salons. For a while, it seemed that Vancouver’s nearby Yaletown was solely comprised of salons and storage warehouses. But most of the places in the downtown area have a certain level of pretentiousness. I always have to fight off the too-cool-for-me complex and I’ve already acclimated to the salon where Vicky works. There is no receptionist, no clear sense of where to announce your arrival and where to stand or sit while you wait. Little dogs that belong to the stylists dart between chairs on a mission they don’t seem to have defined. They have no interest in my gestures to pat them. They’ve mastered salon aloofness.

Barber shops are out. I’m not the kind of guy who can drop, take a seat and wait for the next available groomer to snip and shave. I like my hair—what’s left of it—and I can’t bear to have it butchered. “It’ll grow back” isn’t much comfort in the weeks of waiting. I have bad memories of succumbing to an overeager razor back when I lived in Malibu. And, if I’m being honest, I feel uneasy about how much cheaper a cut is at the barber’s. While I may have gasped internally at what I had to pay the first time I saw Vicky, a price too low makes me feel I’ve gotten a hatchet job…even if I can’t spot the flaws. (This admission would make my father cry. Where did he go wrong?!)

I suppose I’m hair-obsessed. Like Pamela Anderson and her boobs. Newman and his eyes. That Crawford guy and his body. Not that I’m anywhere near the Anderson/Newman/Crawford zone in anything (unless penmanship counts). But most of us are aware of a feature that gets the most—or only—compliments. Naturally, we want to highlight it or at least preserve it.

At 51, preserving is becoming a challenge. Summer toning at the gym doesn’t get the same results. The stomach protrudes too much no matter how many laps I swim. But the hair, well, it was always supposed to be there. I blocked out the history of baldness in the family. I let past hairstylists reassure me that my follicular fountain wouldn’t run dry. (Never trust anyone whose livelihood depends on a healthy tip.)

After the cut...I survived.
The vibrant curls and waves in my hair now look like thinning frizz. I keep switching hair products in a state of desperation I haven’t had since I heavily invested in the acne cream industry in my youth. Alas, the body has a mind of its own.

As Vicky finishes—Oh god, not the blow dryer! We haven’t had that talk yet. Extra frizz!—she offers a hand mirror for me to glance at the back. Are you kidding me?! I already know there’s a spot at the top where hair can’t grow because of a cyst I had removed two years ago. I don’t want to do any more spot checking.

I don’t raise my arms. I shake my head. At this point, after fifty minutes of mirror scrutiny, I’m too despondent to speak. Let it be over. Please just set me free.

Before I leave, I book my next appointment. I suspect it wasn’t any better for her than it was for me, but it’s harder to say no in person. Besides, I retain a foolish sense of denial. No one else sees my head up close. No one else sees how my asset has become a liability. Vicky and I mark our calendars for the next ordeal.

Maybe she’s the one who deserves the green sucker.

Monday, August 29, 2016


You know that uneasy feeling when you’re in the midst of a job interview that you thinking is going really well and the HR guy interrupts to say, “All right then,…thanks for coming in”? I just felt it again.

Only this time there wasn’t a job on the line. Just another episode of dating. I’m a seasoned veteran of first dates. I’ve been lucky to experience a few really good ones. I survived a few horrid experiences. For the most part, I’ve sat through a lot of ho-hums. I’m not sure I’ve ever had the chutzpah to cut the conversation in an instant and simply indicate that I’ve had enough—I have other things to do…laundry, a run, a little pre-planning for next year’s taxes.

Maybe this is why so many of my first-coffee meetings last ninety minutes, even two hours. Maybe I shouldn’t take the length of a conversation as a good sign. Maybe we just continue to talk because I don’t have an exit plan and neither does the other poor sap. Hats off to Cody for pulling it off.

Still, it’s an abrupt jolt when you don’t see the end coming. It happened so fast that I can’t quite recall how it played out. I’m pretty sure Cody got up while offering his closing remarks. Nothing you can say will make me linger any longer. We both mentioned how we enjoyed the get together and, yes, maybe we can get together again after Cody’s long weekend trip. Still, I have enough sense to know that only one of us meant what he said.

I hate that kind of ending. When it’s sudden and unexpected, I’m five steps behind the other guy’s processing of what preceded The End. And, yes, I take it as a personal failure. I thought things were going well. I felt an attraction. Weren’t we connecting?

Exit Cody, enter self-doubt. What did I do wrong? How did I blow it...again?

I must have talked too much.
I was boring.
My hair’s too big.
I’m just old and tired looking.

And on that “old” line of thinking, I’m left with a clear sense that I’m too old for this. Another date with nothing to show for it other than another bruising. In that way, I’m more banana than coconut. I should be thicker skinned but I just wasn’t made that way.

As Cody turned toward the door, I knew to stand back. I retreated from the patio to return my mug to the plastic tub inside. He was still in view as I hit the sidewalk. And, darn it, he was walking in the direction where I parked my car. I couldn’t walk in his wake so I turned the other direction, still stunned as my brain tried to figure out a destination for my detour.

I came up with raisins. There was a bargain grocery store a few blocks away and last time I stopped in I was surprised how cheap the raisins were. So that became my mission. Yes, I needed to stock up on jumbo bags of raisins. Somehow that made the end of the date feel that much more humiliating. And because no one on the planet goes to the store just to stock up on raisins, I grabbed a bag of ranch-flavored rice cakes to boot. I’m not sure I’ve ever bought that item before, but let anyone else in the express line conclude that the rice cakes were the craving; the raisins were simply an economical extra.

I walked back to the car, certain that I’d created enough distance between What’s-His-Name and me. I had tangible evidence that my drive into the West End during rush hour wasn’t, uh, fruitless. Only now I don’t just feel rejected; I’m downright kooky.

This endless cycle of first-round dating takes a toll. The only good thing to come out of this latest come-uppance is that I’ll be making a sizable donation to the food bank. It means another shopping expedition because there’s no way I can just unload cheap raisins.

Weirdest. Date. Ever. And apparently it’s all my doing.

Monday, August 22, 2016


I’m a serial monogamist, but I gave up on men after a couple of years in Vancouver. The first was Jean-Paul, a very pretty boy whose mind seemed to drift during our monthly sit-downs. If only I could have read his mind. I’m guessing the flow would have been something like this:

Butterflies. They’re so sweet. I wonder if any have pink dots. Gee, my pores look good. I think I’ll put a mint leaf in my water for lunch today.  

Ah, Jean-Paul. I crushed on him for over a year but we never could meet on the same level. His head was always in the clouds.

So I switched to Ali. It was doomed from the outset. I spotted him in a club, dancing along his best friend, the deejay. Another pretty boy, but thin, lanky. When he showed up at my gym, I thought there was a connection. We’d briefly make eye contact before I’d glance down and smile at my shoes. (All my flirtatious moves were wasted on Nikes.) When I showed up at his workplace, he offered a vague “Hey”. Maybe he hadn’t noticed me before. Maybe the sexual tension was all mine. But I continued to haunt his worksite every four weeks. And I learned not to bow my head so much. He wasn’t any chattier than Jean-Paul, but I don’t imagine he was thinking about butterflies. I’m not sure he was thinking at all.

Seven months into our “relationship”, I called Ali after returning home from one of our sessions. I asked him out and he politely declined. Flattered, he said. Boyfriend in Calgary. I think it was the quickest thing he could come up with on the spot.

I made myself go back to Ali. Yes, crushes are crushing but I knew I’d keep seeing him at the gym and in the clubs, week after week, without any visitor from Alberta. I needed to show I wasn’t as fragile as I truly was. For all I know, Ali had forgotten the phone call thirty minutes after it happened.

A few months later, I finally had a Vancouver boyfriend and I went to Ali one last time, probably just to let that fact slip into the conversation. The announcement was met with silence but it was Ali’s normal kind of silence. Nothing to read into it.

That’s when I switched to women.

My boyfriend called a girl friend who recommended I go to Christina in a trendy Yaletown salon. We clicked. She was chatty and not at all pretentious like the others in the shop. She moved to a different salon in the city and I followed. Over the years, we chatted about her trip to India, her wedding and her first baby. I didn’t have much to say about my boyfriend—just a few thinly veiled rants laced with humor. Yes, he’s difficult, but—ha, ha—he’s mine. She’s was there after I broke up with my boyfriend. Yes, we’re in the middle of renovations so—ha, ha—we’re stuck in the same house for several more months. (A year as it turned out. By then, I couldn’t muster up a single “ha” or “hee”.) Even when I regained my freedom and moved to my rural home, I sailed over once every five weeks. I would stick with Christina no matter what.

But then Christina went and moved to Vancouver Island. Hmm, that would mean two ferries or a plane and a rental car…

I suppose it was good that Christina announced that she was giving up hair. She and her husband had worked it out so she could be a full-time mom to their son and the little one on the way. I put on a brave face, hugged her and wished her well. It wasn’t easy.

I’m more committed to stylists than boyfriends. The ex and I lasted seven years. Christina and I went nine.

CJ's tats were something like this, only with
more orange and green. They grew faster than my hair.
I had no choice but to find someone new, someone along the coast where I lived instead of a person in the city. I’d heard chatter about a gay couple that owned a salon in the closest town so I dropped in. I figured it was time to give men a try again. Besides, I was starved for any gay connection in this land of mill workers, fiber artists and retirees. As luck would have it, they booked me with a gruff, heavily tattooed woman who took over the salon when the boys moved back to The Prairies. If only I’d had one session in either of their chairs. Surely they’d have warned me to flee this place, too.

I stuck with CJ for four years, even as others bailed when she was under investigation for child pornography. Just imagine how widely and wickedly that kind of news spreads in a small town. I’m not sure if my loyalty was a message of support or just a self-centered need to get a consistent cut. I finally had to look for someone new when I arrived for my appointment and found a handwritten note taped to the door announcing that CJ’s was out of business. It was a highly impersonal Dear John letter, but I guess it was understandable. Yes, she was arrested and convicted. There was a moment when I wondered what prison. Could I get a haircut during a scheduled visit? But then I came to my senses. I figured scissors were a banned item in that kind of environment.

So I started seeing Kat, a new age philosopher whose weight loss grew more and more concerning as she endured a rough breakup—again, in a small town…—, a liver transplant ordeal of the father of one of her boys and the drug dependency of her other son. I listened plenty, always waiting for the right moment to express concern about her weight. I’d like to think I provided a diversion as we often talked passionately about the books we were reading, about how we’d changed since our youth and about how to survive in the quirky coastal area we called home. We lasted four years until I finally had to break up in June. We knew it was coming. It ended in another wonderful conversation in which we each added to our reading lists. I wondered once again if I should express concern about her weight—she’d reached the point where thin turns to frail. I withheld. In every breakup, there are words we wished we’d said. All I did was thank her for the monthly moments of sanity before we hugged goodbye, her bony frame all the more apparent.

And so now I’m at that awkward stage, looking once again, hoping I can find someone to click with, someone with a few things in common, someone who maybe gets me…and someone who won’t butcher my hair with an overzealous razor. (It’s happened.) Time to start a new relationship.