The Big Chill
Cold winters aren't the only thing we share. Are Canadians genetically unflirtatious?
From Fashion, September 2003

"Babies instinctually know how to flirt. When you engage their eyes, baby looks up, then down, then away, then back to meet your gaze," writes Sarah Ban Breathnach in Romancing the Ordinary, her ode to soft-focus female empowerment. "She's irresistible; you're captivated. You smile. Baby returns the smile, and a disarming game ensues until one of you departs."

Relax. Ban Breathnach is not advocating cradle-robbing as the latest method of meeting single boys and girls, rather she is pointing out that everyone -- even chartered accountants -- is a born flirt. Only somewhere along the way, we learn to suppress this natural instinct until our lids squeak with rust whenever we try and bat an eyelash.

Such reticence isn't completely our fault. Blame long cold Canadian winters and the catch-all excuse of overwork for the lack of sidewalk eye contact. "Being busy is the antithesis of flirtation," argues Gilbert Reid, a 61-year-old documentarian and life-long flirt.

Worse, the water cooler is no longer an appropriate venue to ply our coquettish wares. We once found Playboy cartoons of bosses chasing secretaries around desks funny; today, sexual harassment is anything but amusing. The thought of losing our jobs over a misinterpreted remark -- one person's verbal jousting is another person's restraining order -- creates a certain workplace chill. This office stoicism is slowly becoming a permanent fixture of our craggy countenances, instead of a nine-to-five posture. "If you glance at people in the streets of Toronto, they look at the sidewalk," notes Reid. "There are all sorts of tics in their face, particularly if they're female, that indicate fear and annoyance."

After three decades in France and Italy, where flirting constitutes the texture of daily life, Reid experienced rude culture shock when he returned to Toronto in 1995. Not only are those in the 416 area eye shy, they "tend to be very literal-minded: 'I mean what I say and I say what I mean.' Words are like bricks." Compare this leaden prose with Montreal, which boasts, according to Reid, "an electric tension in the air."

We flirt with death (Fear Factor) and disaster (Canadian Idol), but God forbid with one another. Those still interested in this lost art will be further disheartened to discover that it's possible to flirt incorrectly. Laila McDaniels, a Toronto-based sexuality educator, teaches dozens of workshops, including Giving Head, Fit to be Tied & Teased and the comparatively demure-sounding Flirtation, which she's sliced into four types: harmless, friendly, seductive and malicious.

And it's the final category that gives flirtation a bad name. The most common example of malicious flirtation, according to McDaniels, is when a couple arrives at a party and the offending mate proceeds to ignore their better half while attempting to beguile everyone in sight -- with the goal of hurting their lover. Other examples include women who make eyes, if not more, with the fellow their girlfriend has deemed crush-worthy.

Such behaviour is both poisonous and unsporting, since flirting with an agenda constitutes game misconduct. In the recent book The Modern Gentleman: A Guide to Essential Manners, Savvy and Vice, authors Phineas Mollod and Jason Tesauro offer the definitive treatise on the wink-wink: "Flirtation is the exchange of peripheral sexual energy for mutual glee and confidence boosting." Further, "Seduction is only successful when consummated, whereas the gaiety of flirtation is itself the reward."

McDaniels emphatically agrees. "That's key. Don't be attached to the outcome or act self-consciously. Have a spirit of generosity." Unfortunately, too many of us (especially men) are rewarded for being goal-orientated at work. (Grabbing for the brass ring is considered a good thing; grabbing someone's ass, not so much.)

Women, meanwhile, are more comfortable with flirting frivolously, which causes problems when men misread these hollow cues. In One Last Good Look, writer Michael Winter explores jealousy and the mutation of desire through his protagonist Gabe English. At a party, his exasperated girlfriend Lydia confesses: "Women, if you haven't noticed, Gabe, are way different. We flirt. Flirtation is a different set of muscles and it's becoming apparent only women have them."

Sabrina Saccoccio, a flirty Toronto writer in her 20s, affirms the gender gap, "I'm more careful with men than with women," she says. "My level of flirtatiousness depends on the person's demeanor. Confident people are better at it."

Gilbert Reid would not be surprised to learn Saccoccio is of Italian heritage, since he looked at the differences between Europe and Canada in an hour-long CBC radio documentary entitled Mating Games. In Italy, gazes are extended, returned and held, but end once you pass by the person who initiated the peekaboo. Here in Toronto, says Reid, people wear blinders.

When Gavin, a 29-year-old graphic designer, found himself single after a long-term relationship, he quickly realized he was a horrible flirt. "The more I tried, the more apparent my desperation became. I found it hard to lock eyes for longer than half a second." Admitting that "looks aren't my greatest weapon, but at the same time I'm not Quasimodo" Gavin blames Toronto's large population. "If, as a woman, you have thousands of guys checking you out, then a wall will certainly be built to protect yourself from the leering."

By contrast, one female friend of Reid's remarked of her time in Rome that such behavior "was like being caressed as you're walking down the street." The result of this Italian male-female gaze, according to Reid, is that "it asserts and reasserts your existence all the time. Your recognition is as a person and a subject, not an object."

Of course, Italian women are taught to negotiate such attentions at an early age, taking cues from both mother and father. Meanwhile, in France, given its elaborate, courtly tradition of romantic love dating back to the Middle Ages -- based on verbal dexterity, wit and double entendres -- flirtation has survived feminism, but is now performed ironically. Or, more accurately, it's done in "the second degree" which implies self-awareness and an implicit theatricality. "The man plays the courting chevalier and the woman plays the person who's being courted," explains Reid, describing such gender roles as a "socially and historically sanctioned division of labour."

Since this mutual understanding is built upon a humourous, ironic stance, it's easy for either gender to disengage at any point. Notes Reid, "It's a game like soccer or chess" -- or backgammon, according to the Modern Gentleman -- "that you play for the pleasure of it."

Despite our cultural and historical disadvantages, McDaniels believes flirting can be taught -- or at least improved through the honing of social graces like politeness, graciousness and courtesy. Undaunted, she continues to try to fix the problem, 15 students at a time. (Having taken her course, I can report that I've never been in a class where the take-home assignment is more likely to be completed.)

Think of flirting as a random act of kindness, with a few more sparks generated. McDaniels often practices her bewitchcraft on subways and streetcars, encouraging students to do likewise. "It's an enclosed, temporary environment. Knowing that somebody is getting ready to depart gives you time to say something, make a little gesture."

Flirt for fun and eventually the romantic karma will boomerang your way. McDaniels fondly recalls establishing eye contact with a sexy young thing on the subway and complimenting him on his outfit. She gave it no further heed until a few stops later, when she looked out the window to her left and saw that the fellow had written his telephone number on a piece of paper and was standing on the platform, pressing his digits against her subway window. "Call me," he mouthed.

Considering that these days you're more likely to pick up a fatal disease on public transit than a human being, McDaniels is clearly onto something.

Bonus Material

In Waking Life, the main character is walking down some steps to get to the subway, and he bumps into an ascending woman. They both say excuse me and continue burrowing. Then the woman turns and stops and says:

Hey. Could we do that again? I know we haven't met but I don't want to be an ant, you know? I mean it's like we go through life with our antennas bouncing off one another, continuously on ant autopilot with nothing really human required of us. Stop. Go. Walk here. Drive there. All action basically for survival. All communication simply to keep this ant colony buzzing along in an efficient, polite manner. Here's your change. Paper or plastic? Credit or debit? Want ketchup with that? I don't want a straw, I want real human moments.

* * *

In the fourth episode of Six Feet Under, Nate introduces the new lady in his life to his brother.

"This is my ... uh, my girlfriend, Brenda," he eventually manages.
"I prefer the term fuck puppet," she ripostes.