It's hard when you realize that it will never be enough.
Because you're there already, aren't you? You did what you set out to do and you're there, you're here, you're it all and it's not very much. It's nothing at all, really.
It looked bigger on paper.
Much bigger.
And so, what now, where now, where to, who to, and what then, what after that?
And then?
It's hard when you realize that your entire life is a plan. It's always the next day, the next week, the next month, next year, next time.
I walked out of my professor's office the other day encouraged. Jubilant, maybe. And yet, I recognized that feeling - the one I had when I found out I would be coming here. And it hit me then, that I had fooled myself into thinking this would be enough, that this time, it was enough.
It is never enough.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Sunday, November 04, 2007
Page one
I remember a few years ago one of my best friends made a temporary move to Sydney, Australia. The hardest part, she said, was knowing that she could walk down the street armed with the full, yet sad knowledge that there was absolutely no possibility of bumping into someone she knew.
The sun was beautiful and bright that morning and as I made my way along Point Grey Road, it seemed perfectly natural that he should be there, that he should call out my name, hop of his bike, and we would walk there together.
Tonight, as I sat around a crowded table, filled with pitchers of beer and Diet Cokes, half-eaten plates of pizza and discarded napkins, I looked at the smiling faces around me and remembered, with a deep sense of pleasure, how good it feels to laugh, to really laugh, until tears well in your eyes and threaten to spill.
It made me realize that it is a beginning that is starting, slowly, to take shape and to take hold, and that while the middle and the end remain so strangely unknown, that the first page has been turned.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
In between
Sometimes, I think it would be very peaceful to live in between.
In between cups of lukewarm tea in paint-chipped mugs. In between black and white photographs, between winter nights and wine-soaked summer suppers. In between organic cafes and trips to a market. In between runs in the rain and slow walks by the ocean. In between phone calls home, in between cold mornings wrapped in afghan blankets.
In between.
Because sometimes, living on either end, is where the hurt is.
In between cups of lukewarm tea in paint-chipped mugs. In between black and white photographs, between winter nights and wine-soaked summer suppers. In between organic cafes and trips to a market. In between runs in the rain and slow walks by the ocean. In between phone calls home, in between cold mornings wrapped in afghan blankets.
In between.
Because sometimes, living on either end, is where the hurt is.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
A love quad-rangle
Just to look at her, you know she takes her coffee with sugar. And probably with 35% cream. Because it tastes good and that is enough.
She has a knapsack slung over her shoulder and the straps are worn. She’s a Vancouver Film School student but you know she doesn’t carry the bag so that people know. She carries it because it’s comfortable and that is enough.
Her hair is a tawny shade of bottled red, her jeans are frayed. Her leather jacket is a size too small because it wasn’t bought for her. But it’s warm and it’s worn and that is enough.
Her boyfriend hands her back her thermos of coffee, a small hand poking out of a sleeve too long. He stares at her. She laughs.
“I’ll be back by ten,” she says. She promises.
She places a Dock Martined-foot on the first step of the bus, turns her broad, smiling face towards his. “Have a good day, babe,” she drawls. He stares. She laughs.
A barely audible sigh escapes from this small man, this boy, with a thrift shop plaid jacket and a walkman in the pocket of his Levi’s. He’s still wearing the Ramones t-shirt he wore to bed because it smells like her. He turns to walk away, to start his day, to start to fill the hours between now and 10 tonight, when his world will feel right again.
A couple gets on the bus. A powerful couple. His hair is full of K-Pax, his shoes are shined. He’s tired, he was up at 5 and in the gym; he doesn’t drink coffee. He doesn’t believe in coffee. He is conscious of the eyes that turn, he awaits their recognition. He welcomes and shuns them. He glances over at the film school girl and straightens the collar of his Banana Republic trench coat.
A woman sits down beside him. Her electric blue rain coat looks strangely obscene on such a grey day. She is thin in a nervous way, her face is pretty, but drawn. She will not be attractive when she’s 45 and she knows this. She drinks coffee in the bathroom and munches anxiously on soy beans during her lunch hour. An engagement ring fits loosely on her finger – no wedding band yet snuggles up against it. But it will come. Oh but of course it will come!
She opens up an oversized leather purse, pulls out a cellphone with a poodle charm hanging from it. She flips rapidly through the screen, and curls up next to her fiancé. ‘Look at that one, babe, isn’t it just soo cute of us?’ Arms crossed, he allows his head to tip slightly. A forced smile mercifully curls out from a strong, pronounced jaw – he remains silent. She is encouraged and tries again. “How about this one – adorable!” This time, he verbally agrees with the digital representation of their lives, of his life. He is in pain.
They get off the bus and she immediately tucks a bright blue arm in his. It is teeming rain – she shields her salon-styled hair with her purse. She stumbles in her heels – he doesn’t change his pace. He forges ahead, and they fall out of step. The distance between them grows.
And as film school girl bops off the bus, her face, her hair, her smile gratefully meeting the rain, I couldn’t help but think, how right would it be, how peaceful would it be, what an awakening would it be, were film school girl to spend a night in a smoky bar with Banana boy, for nervous soy muncher to spend a night laughing, really and truly laughing over a bowl of greasy popcorn and beer, with a man who actually saw her. Sometimes, all is just not right with our worlds, and it's such a shame that sometimes, only strangers on buses on rainy Vancouver days, can see this.
She has a knapsack slung over her shoulder and the straps are worn. She’s a Vancouver Film School student but you know she doesn’t carry the bag so that people know. She carries it because it’s comfortable and that is enough.
Her hair is a tawny shade of bottled red, her jeans are frayed. Her leather jacket is a size too small because it wasn’t bought for her. But it’s warm and it’s worn and that is enough.
Her boyfriend hands her back her thermos of coffee, a small hand poking out of a sleeve too long. He stares at her. She laughs.
“I’ll be back by ten,” she says. She promises.
She places a Dock Martined-foot on the first step of the bus, turns her broad, smiling face towards his. “Have a good day, babe,” she drawls. He stares. She laughs.
A barely audible sigh escapes from this small man, this boy, with a thrift shop plaid jacket and a walkman in the pocket of his Levi’s. He’s still wearing the Ramones t-shirt he wore to bed because it smells like her. He turns to walk away, to start his day, to start to fill the hours between now and 10 tonight, when his world will feel right again.
A couple gets on the bus. A powerful couple. His hair is full of K-Pax, his shoes are shined. He’s tired, he was up at 5 and in the gym; he doesn’t drink coffee. He doesn’t believe in coffee. He is conscious of the eyes that turn, he awaits their recognition. He welcomes and shuns them. He glances over at the film school girl and straightens the collar of his Banana Republic trench coat.
A woman sits down beside him. Her electric blue rain coat looks strangely obscene on such a grey day. She is thin in a nervous way, her face is pretty, but drawn. She will not be attractive when she’s 45 and she knows this. She drinks coffee in the bathroom and munches anxiously on soy beans during her lunch hour. An engagement ring fits loosely on her finger – no wedding band yet snuggles up against it. But it will come. Oh but of course it will come!
She opens up an oversized leather purse, pulls out a cellphone with a poodle charm hanging from it. She flips rapidly through the screen, and curls up next to her fiancé. ‘Look at that one, babe, isn’t it just soo cute of us?’ Arms crossed, he allows his head to tip slightly. A forced smile mercifully curls out from a strong, pronounced jaw – he remains silent. She is encouraged and tries again. “How about this one – adorable!” This time, he verbally agrees with the digital representation of their lives, of his life. He is in pain.
They get off the bus and she immediately tucks a bright blue arm in his. It is teeming rain – she shields her salon-styled hair with her purse. She stumbles in her heels – he doesn’t change his pace. He forges ahead, and they fall out of step. The distance between them grows.
And as film school girl bops off the bus, her face, her hair, her smile gratefully meeting the rain, I couldn’t help but think, how right would it be, how peaceful would it be, what an awakening would it be, were film school girl to spend a night in a smoky bar with Banana boy, for nervous soy muncher to spend a night laughing, really and truly laughing over a bowl of greasy popcorn and beer, with a man who actually saw her. Sometimes, all is just not right with our worlds, and it's such a shame that sometimes, only strangers on buses on rainy Vancouver days, can see this.
Sunday, September 09, 2007
A city's finest
Alright.
So I just moved here, and I'm in no position to pass judgement on what has aptly been dubbed North America's most beautiful city. But coming from a lifetime in Montreal, to be plopped down in Vancouver, does not come without it's challenges.
And so, while freckled mothers here feed their wide-eyed children named Juliet or Charles peeled apple slices dipped in white organic honey, while people compost and gaze at you with deliberate, though passive horror as you accidentally jog over into the 'bikers' lane, as people smile and wave and wish you a great day and actually mean it, while the sun commands you from the sky, in all its yellow glory, to be happy, to be bright, while people discuss the virtues of slicing open vanilla beans diagonally as opposed to straight, while people let their dogs run free and their cars on biofuel, while the beaches are packed with grandmothers doing yoga, all of this, all of this and more, makes a girl a little nostalgic.
A little nostalgic for a night on a Montreal street where Guy would stagger out from Saint Sulpice bar, to vomit his twelve Labatt Blues all over his Walmart running shoes, to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, not bothering to roll up the sleeve of his Point Zero shirt, to place his hands firmly on his knees, to turn in the direction of his buddy Jean who leans out the door to shout that he's ordering another round, and is that cool, and of course, and oh but of course, Guy nods his head in an emphatic 'yes' because that, all of that and more, is Montreal.
So I just moved here, and I'm in no position to pass judgement on what has aptly been dubbed North America's most beautiful city. But coming from a lifetime in Montreal, to be plopped down in Vancouver, does not come without it's challenges.
And so, while freckled mothers here feed their wide-eyed children named Juliet or Charles peeled apple slices dipped in white organic honey, while people compost and gaze at you with deliberate, though passive horror as you accidentally jog over into the 'bikers' lane, as people smile and wave and wish you a great day and actually mean it, while the sun commands you from the sky, in all its yellow glory, to be happy, to be bright, while people discuss the virtues of slicing open vanilla beans diagonally as opposed to straight, while people let their dogs run free and their cars on biofuel, while the beaches are packed with grandmothers doing yoga, all of this, all of this and more, makes a girl a little nostalgic.
A little nostalgic for a night on a Montreal street where Guy would stagger out from Saint Sulpice bar, to vomit his twelve Labatt Blues all over his Walmart running shoes, to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, not bothering to roll up the sleeve of his Point Zero shirt, to place his hands firmly on his knees, to turn in the direction of his buddy Jean who leans out the door to shout that he's ordering another round, and is that cool, and of course, and oh but of course, Guy nods his head in an emphatic 'yes' because that, all of that and more, is Montreal.
Friday, September 07, 2007
Soul surfing
Some observations on Vancouver.
There are more dogs than people in this city.
A person's salary can largely be determined by the type of coffee he or she drinks. The sliding scale runs from Tim Hortons, to Starbucks, to rest at Antigua, which boasts a $200 cup, if you're so inclined.
Despite the strike that is running into its seventh week, the streets are exceedingly clean. And that is because all the city's litter is being dumped into the downtown eastside.
People here have disturbingly low BMI's. I am beginning to suspect that Vancouver ships all its overweight citizens out onto islands somewhere, along with the garbage that overflows from the downtown eastside.
People who pass you on the street at 6:30 a.m. as you trudge your way to school smile at you with toothy, soul-penetrating smiles that make you feel strangely violated that early in the morning.
Stores have insultingly obvious names, such as moMENtum, for a males-only spa.
Everyone is blond. Everyone is always discussing his or her existential crisis while simultaneously balancing a cup of non-fat-mocha-latte-extra-tall-extra-hot-extra-extra-blah-blah-do-I-sound-cool-yet-do-I-do-I, while stretching into the downward dog position on his or her LuLu yoga mat. Everyone has a gay best friend.
Oh. And I saw two complete heads of hair lying on the pavement as I crossed the Burrard Street bridge the other day. I'm not entirely certain how that fits in with anything, but there it is.
There are more dogs than people in this city.
A person's salary can largely be determined by the type of coffee he or she drinks. The sliding scale runs from Tim Hortons, to Starbucks, to rest at Antigua, which boasts a $200 cup, if you're so inclined.
Despite the strike that is running into its seventh week, the streets are exceedingly clean. And that is because all the city's litter is being dumped into the downtown eastside.
People here have disturbingly low BMI's. I am beginning to suspect that Vancouver ships all its overweight citizens out onto islands somewhere, along with the garbage that overflows from the downtown eastside.
People who pass you on the street at 6:30 a.m. as you trudge your way to school smile at you with toothy, soul-penetrating smiles that make you feel strangely violated that early in the morning.
Stores have insultingly obvious names, such as moMENtum, for a males-only spa.
Everyone is blond. Everyone is always discussing his or her existential crisis while simultaneously balancing a cup of non-fat-mocha-latte-extra-tall-extra-hot-extra-extra-blah-blah-do-I-sound-cool-yet-do-I-do-I, while stretching into the downward dog position on his or her LuLu yoga mat. Everyone has a gay best friend.
Oh. And I saw two complete heads of hair lying on the pavement as I crossed the Burrard Street bridge the other day. I'm not entirely certain how that fits in with anything, but there it is.
Friday, August 31, 2007
Daybreak
The morning comes quickly and no sun greets you. And yet, everything seems a bit brighter, somehow. You turn and look into an unsmiling face, and the arms that reach out squeeze a little too tight.
And yet, not tight enough.
Salut, Montreal. You have been good to me.
And yet, not tight enough.
Salut, Montreal. You have been good to me.
Monday, August 20, 2007
Heart of Hearts
As I get ready to make a cross-country move, I am reminded that home isn't where you lay your head - it's where you lay your heart.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Dead on impact
I got an e-mail this morning from someone I dated very briefly last winter. We parted amicably, and so to see a message with his name on it in my inbox wasn't surprising, as we had made very casual plans to see each other some time in the next two weeks or so, before I head off to BC. I had to cancel those very same plans this weekend, and felt no real sense of urgency to reschedule, which was why the content of his message this morning struck me as so bizarre.
Mmmm there is something in particular I wanted to talk to you about. I have seen a therapist a few times since our relationship ended, and one of the things we talked about was you. I thought it might be insightful for you to hear some of the things that I took away from those conversations. Don't worry. I don't think it would be an unpleasant conversation for you...perhaps a little bit uncomfortable at worse, but there is also a chance you might find it...hmmm...educational *lol*.
That being said, I am not sure if I am feeling an urge to talk with you more for my benefit or your own. Well...I'll leave it to your judgment to decide if you have time for a talk. I suppose I could just write you a letter instead.
It amazes me the impact you can have on someone's life, when taking leave of their company brought you nothing less than a sheer sense of relief. It leaves me stunned that a four-week period in my life I can barely recall the details of, and am not particularly interested even in revisiting mentally, could have prompted someone to spend even five minutes worth of a therapy session discussing.
And yet, the reason for my amazement, and subsequent sadness, is the realization that some of the men who have had the greatest impact on my own life, likely felt that same sense of relief when they walked out of my proverbial door. It feels so tragic in a way, that the surest way to hurt someone, is to feel indifferent towards their pain, because that is the one thing you simply cannot help.
The heart, as they say, does not lie.
Mmmm there is something in particular I wanted to talk to you about. I have seen a therapist a few times since our relationship ended, and one of the things we talked about was you. I thought it might be insightful for you to hear some of the things that I took away from those conversations. Don't worry. I don't think it would be an unpleasant conversation for you...perhaps a little bit uncomfortable at worse, but there is also a chance you might find it...hmmm...educational *lol*.
That being said, I am not sure if I am feeling an urge to talk with you more for my benefit or your own. Well...I'll leave it to your judgment to decide if you have time for a talk. I suppose I could just write you a letter instead.
It amazes me the impact you can have on someone's life, when taking leave of their company brought you nothing less than a sheer sense of relief. It leaves me stunned that a four-week period in my life I can barely recall the details of, and am not particularly interested even in revisiting mentally, could have prompted someone to spend even five minutes worth of a therapy session discussing.
And yet, the reason for my amazement, and subsequent sadness, is the realization that some of the men who have had the greatest impact on my own life, likely felt that same sense of relief when they walked out of my proverbial door. It feels so tragic in a way, that the surest way to hurt someone, is to feel indifferent towards their pain, because that is the one thing you simply cannot help.
The heart, as they say, does not lie.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Cheesecake
It's the intense, blinding hatred you feel for your telephone and the inability to see the madness behind such emotion for an inanimate object. It's the questions, the ambiguous answers and the questions that come from those answers. It's the roller coaster ride. It's the wondering how on earth you ever managed to sleep alone every night, and how you will again. It's sex that leaves you starved, it's intimacy that leaves you ravaged. It's you, betraying everything you thought you were, and loving, hating every minute of it. It's the clear sense that you, are slipping away from you, it's the fogginess, the blurred edges, the impossibility of interpretation. It's the shift, it's the change, it's a tiredness you can't quite name. It's knowing and it's ignorance.
It's sitting at your friend's kitchen table and watching as her husband cuts her a third piece of cheesecake and knowing you will never have that.
It's sitting at your friend's kitchen table and watching as her husband cuts her a third piece of cheesecake and knowing you will never have that.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Unfortunate Coincidence
By the time you swear you're his,
Shivering and sighing,
And he vows his passion is
Infinite, undying ---
Lady, make a note of this:
One of you is lying.
-Dorothy Parker
Hmph.
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
Watershed
It's funny how it changes.
How you can sit and stare at your convictions, hold them in your tired, cupped hands, only to watch them slip through your weakened fingers like water. And what amazes you even more, perhaps, is the complete absence of desire to try and capture them, to regain some sort of stronghold over what you thought mattered most.
Because somewhere, in the tiny, wet beads that remain, hopefully, lies something better. A little less certain, a road not quite as traveled, but with the promise of a pool at the end, an entire body of water, waiting, just for you.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Kids in the hall
He strolls down Robson, a yoga mat tucked neatly under a toned, tanned arm. Bluetooth firmly in place, a warm smile of recognition breaks across his face as he sees you sitting, folding up your copy of the Vancouver Sun at the plastic, umbrella-shaded table to make room. An airy kiss graces each of your cheeks, an order for a non-fat-something-or-other is placed. A sense of calm, of relief washes over.
He glances down at the frantic, red-penned circling you've done on the 'apartments for rent' page.
'We'll find you something babe, don't you worry one bit about it.'
The briefcase is opened; a blackberry is placed on the table.
He sees the smirk you tried, failed to hide.
'I know he says,' sheepish. 'I know.'
But he's a lawyer now, he's a grown-up now, and I guess you should be, too. And it's heavy lifting now, and it's no more playtime now and I guess you should follow suit.
He tells you of people, of places and things. And they all feel so far from the nights piled into his mom's minivan, from backyard parties with ice cream cakes and first kisses. It's property now, it's research grants now, it's car co-ops and broken hearts.
As you stroll through your goodbye, making plans, making promises, you remember to gently inquire. The girl, the sweet one, with the brown eyes and the light laugh. A silence casts over, and he turns to you, eyes questioning.
'I'm scared, Heath,' he says.
And you realize, that despite, or perhaps in spite of, courtrooms, Lacoste running shoes, flaxseed and composts, regardless of London jaunts and ski weekends, conference presentations and tailored-suits that he is still what he always was. That you both are, what you always were. Kids playing at being grown up. And not always doing a good job.
The hug lasts a little longer, and you feel it might be because you're trying to hold onto something that always feels so out of grasp. And so, you take the opportunity to whipser,
'You're alright. We're alright.'
He glances down at the frantic, red-penned circling you've done on the 'apartments for rent' page.
'We'll find you something babe, don't you worry one bit about it.'
The briefcase is opened; a blackberry is placed on the table.
He sees the smirk you tried, failed to hide.
'I know he says,' sheepish. 'I know.'
But he's a lawyer now, he's a grown-up now, and I guess you should be, too. And it's heavy lifting now, and it's no more playtime now and I guess you should follow suit.
He tells you of people, of places and things. And they all feel so far from the nights piled into his mom's minivan, from backyard parties with ice cream cakes and first kisses. It's property now, it's research grants now, it's car co-ops and broken hearts.
As you stroll through your goodbye, making plans, making promises, you remember to gently inquire. The girl, the sweet one, with the brown eyes and the light laugh. A silence casts over, and he turns to you, eyes questioning.
'I'm scared, Heath,' he says.
And you realize, that despite, or perhaps in spite of, courtrooms, Lacoste running shoes, flaxseed and composts, regardless of London jaunts and ski weekends, conference presentations and tailored-suits that he is still what he always was. That you both are, what you always were. Kids playing at being grown up. And not always doing a good job.
The hug lasts a little longer, and you feel it might be because you're trying to hold onto something that always feels so out of grasp. And so, you take the opportunity to whipser,
'You're alright. We're alright.'
Monday, May 28, 2007
Faceless, spaceless
'I'm trying to tell you something about my life. Maybe to get me in between black and white.'
-Closer to fine
And it's good, sometimes, to be nameless. And it's better, sometimes, to be faceless.
So that you can eat ice cream for breakfast and cookies straight from the box for dinner. So that you can ride a merry-go-round in the rain and laugh so hard your face hurts. So that you can splash through puddles and kick at stones, so that you can run up a flight of stone steps just to see what's at the top. So that you can laugh at your own breathlessness when you realize there's nothing. So that you can board a train when you have no idea where it stops, and no real concept of where it started, either.
It's good, sometimes, to be nameless. It's good, sometimes to be faceless. Because often, what's hiding, what's lurking and what's smiling, is you.
-Closer to fine
And it's good, sometimes, to be nameless. And it's better, sometimes, to be faceless.
So that you can eat ice cream for breakfast and cookies straight from the box for dinner. So that you can ride a merry-go-round in the rain and laugh so hard your face hurts. So that you can splash through puddles and kick at stones, so that you can run up a flight of stone steps just to see what's at the top. So that you can laugh at your own breathlessness when you realize there's nothing. So that you can board a train when you have no idea where it stops, and no real concept of where it started, either.
It's good, sometimes, to be nameless. It's good, sometimes to be faceless. Because often, what's hiding, what's lurking and what's smiling, is you.
Saturday, April 28, 2007
Unwedded Miss
I started packing.
I started packing, and I have one, small box now sitting in my living room, apart from all the others, the name of my new city written bravely across the top. Housed in that cardboard container are several, select items, pictures, three books and a few candles, that will keep me company for the next two years, as I trade in a half decent apartment and a decent-paying job, a car and a medical plan, for a dorm room, a bus pass and textbooks, on the other side of the country.
I am excited about this move. I'm excited about my new campus, which sits on top of a mountain. I'm excited about my new program. I'm excited to be able to wear jeans again every day and be justified in eating cereal for dinner if I choose to.
But most of all, I am excited to be escaping the stark realization that I, unlike many of my close friends, am not getting married. I do not spend my weekends out house hunting. I don't care about tile samples and I don't stress over the colour of my bridesmaids' dresses. I am not pregnant, and I won't be for a long time. I may not ever be. And so, I do not spend my Sunday mornings at Baby Yoga or Stroller Aerobics. I don't post copious amounts of photos of me and a swollen belly to my facebook, I don't e-mail my friends with the latest pictures of me and baby in the park. I don't browse the David's Bridal website and I have not given two seconds thought to whether I prefer white or yellow gold wedding bands.
I'd like to be able to say I am completely comfortable with my life and where it is. In a lot of ways I am. But there are instances, situations, exchanges and times where a 26-year-old, unmarried woman with no marriage prospects can't escape the feeling she's done something wrong, that she has missed a critical step somewhere, and will be forever branded by this fumbled, foiled footing for years to come.
Or at least until the first of her friends gets divorced.
Maybe it was the look on the face of the bank teller yesterday as I signed for my Japanese Yen, when he wished 'my husband and I' a fabulous trip, and I smiled and told him I was going alone. Maybe it's in the note of smugness I detect in some of my friends' voices as they show off their new dining room tables and stainless steel refrigerators. Or maybe it's me and my own insecurity, and my fear at knowing that when I step on that plane at the end of August, it will be to get away as far as I can from the sounds of wedding bells and baby showers, registries and seating plans.
And hopefully, with a bit of time a bit more courage, it will feel like home.
I started packing, and I have one, small box now sitting in my living room, apart from all the others, the name of my new city written bravely across the top. Housed in that cardboard container are several, select items, pictures, three books and a few candles, that will keep me company for the next two years, as I trade in a half decent apartment and a decent-paying job, a car and a medical plan, for a dorm room, a bus pass and textbooks, on the other side of the country.
I am excited about this move. I'm excited about my new campus, which sits on top of a mountain. I'm excited about my new program. I'm excited to be able to wear jeans again every day and be justified in eating cereal for dinner if I choose to.
But most of all, I am excited to be escaping the stark realization that I, unlike many of my close friends, am not getting married. I do not spend my weekends out house hunting. I don't care about tile samples and I don't stress over the colour of my bridesmaids' dresses. I am not pregnant, and I won't be for a long time. I may not ever be. And so, I do not spend my Sunday mornings at Baby Yoga or Stroller Aerobics. I don't post copious amounts of photos of me and a swollen belly to my facebook, I don't e-mail my friends with the latest pictures of me and baby in the park. I don't browse the David's Bridal website and I have not given two seconds thought to whether I prefer white or yellow gold wedding bands.
I'd like to be able to say I am completely comfortable with my life and where it is. In a lot of ways I am. But there are instances, situations, exchanges and times where a 26-year-old, unmarried woman with no marriage prospects can't escape the feeling she's done something wrong, that she has missed a critical step somewhere, and will be forever branded by this fumbled, foiled footing for years to come.
Or at least until the first of her friends gets divorced.
Maybe it was the look on the face of the bank teller yesterday as I signed for my Japanese Yen, when he wished 'my husband and I' a fabulous trip, and I smiled and told him I was going alone. Maybe it's in the note of smugness I detect in some of my friends' voices as they show off their new dining room tables and stainless steel refrigerators. Or maybe it's me and my own insecurity, and my fear at knowing that when I step on that plane at the end of August, it will be to get away as far as I can from the sounds of wedding bells and baby showers, registries and seating plans.
And hopefully, with a bit of time a bit more courage, it will feel like home.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Child's Play
You know you're not cut out to be a mother when, at a children's birthday party, a balloon hits you in the back of the head, prompting you to spill a glass full of Diet Coke all over the new linen pants you're wearing, and your fury at the four year-old child whose antics culiminated in this disaster is entirely disproportionate.
That, or when you realize that while everyone else brought the one year-old child gifts of teddy bears, corduroy dresses and blankets, you bought her a pair of pink, leather Puma shoes. And your reasoning behind this gift selection was, that if they had them in your size, you would have bought them for yourself.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Baby and the Bathwater
"I throw myself, at nothing."
-The Be Good Tanyas
It sure feels like it sometimes, n'est pas?
Update: Which is alright, because on those particular days, specifically when the weather is ghastly, lamposts throw themselves, or rather, hurl themselves, at my car, hitting their target with a disturbing amount of accuracy.
Sigh.
-The Be Good Tanyas
It sure feels like it sometimes, n'est pas?
Update: Which is alright, because on those particular days, specifically when the weather is ghastly, lamposts throw themselves, or rather, hurl themselves, at my car, hitting their target with a disturbing amount of accuracy.
Sigh.
Monday, April 09, 2007
Holding Hands
I went to a figure skating show on Saturday afternoon.
I know.
I had to.
It was a fundraiser for the women's shelter, and everyone on the board pitched in to sell tickets, direct people to hot dogs and hot chocolate, etc. It actually turned out to be a fantastic event, and despite having to sit on a freezing cold, cement bleacher for three hours, it was a lovely day.
My favourite act of the entire show was the group of 12 and under kids. There were roughly 20 of them, decked out in bright yellow outfits, shaky on their tiny skates, arms spread wide for the balance they hadn't yet mastered. At one point, one of the taller girls in the group, lanky with long, stringy brown hair and glasses, tripped over her own skate, and went crashing to a cruel fall on the ice floor. The girl performing beside her, stopped dead in her tracks (which didn't appear to be an easy feat in and of itself) and reached out a hand to her fallen comrade. Oblivious to the fact that the routine was carrying on without her, this girl's sole concern was helping her friend safely to her feet. It was the best part of the show.
That evening, I went to a going-away party for one of my closest, childhood friends. We ended up making the trek to St. Laurent, to wait outside in the bitter, freezing cold, to get into Rouge. When we finally got the coveted nod from the sombre bouncer, standing, arms crossed, expression firm, we made our way inside. I'll skip over the details of the evening (the place is red inside), but what struck me was the washroom system. They were set up so people waiting in line could peer in and watch you washing your hands, sucking in your cheeks, or fluffing your hair, but this wasn't terribly surprising. What was remarkable, though it perhaps shouldn't have been, was the fact that people literally trampled over one another, jockeying for position in front of a mirror. Stepping on toes, slamming into shoulders, making no eye contact, the mission was the mirror, and nothing else mattered.
As I made my way out into the cold Montreal night after our evening, and my friends and I piled into a cab, I started to think; when did we stop holding out hands, and start crushing them instead? When was the moment where we decided, that when someone was falling, we wouldn't provide a safety net, but rather, we'd move out of the way to give them ample room to land alone?
Sometimes, I think we, with our grown-up faces and our grown-up pink drinks, our perfume, our busy, self-consumed days and nights and in-betweens, could stand to learn an awful lot from a seven-year-old girl, shaky, unsteady and uncertain, on a pair of figure skates.
I know.
I had to.
It was a fundraiser for the women's shelter, and everyone on the board pitched in to sell tickets, direct people to hot dogs and hot chocolate, etc. It actually turned out to be a fantastic event, and despite having to sit on a freezing cold, cement bleacher for three hours, it was a lovely day.
My favourite act of the entire show was the group of 12 and under kids. There were roughly 20 of them, decked out in bright yellow outfits, shaky on their tiny skates, arms spread wide for the balance they hadn't yet mastered. At one point, one of the taller girls in the group, lanky with long, stringy brown hair and glasses, tripped over her own skate, and went crashing to a cruel fall on the ice floor. The girl performing beside her, stopped dead in her tracks (which didn't appear to be an easy feat in and of itself) and reached out a hand to her fallen comrade. Oblivious to the fact that the routine was carrying on without her, this girl's sole concern was helping her friend safely to her feet. It was the best part of the show.
That evening, I went to a going-away party for one of my closest, childhood friends. We ended up making the trek to St. Laurent, to wait outside in the bitter, freezing cold, to get into Rouge. When we finally got the coveted nod from the sombre bouncer, standing, arms crossed, expression firm, we made our way inside. I'll skip over the details of the evening (the place is red inside), but what struck me was the washroom system. They were set up so people waiting in line could peer in and watch you washing your hands, sucking in your cheeks, or fluffing your hair, but this wasn't terribly surprising. What was remarkable, though it perhaps shouldn't have been, was the fact that people literally trampled over one another, jockeying for position in front of a mirror. Stepping on toes, slamming into shoulders, making no eye contact, the mission was the mirror, and nothing else mattered.
As I made my way out into the cold Montreal night after our evening, and my friends and I piled into a cab, I started to think; when did we stop holding out hands, and start crushing them instead? When was the moment where we decided, that when someone was falling, we wouldn't provide a safety net, but rather, we'd move out of the way to give them ample room to land alone?
Sometimes, I think we, with our grown-up faces and our grown-up pink drinks, our perfume, our busy, self-consumed days and nights and in-betweens, could stand to learn an awful lot from a seven-year-old girl, shaky, unsteady and uncertain, on a pair of figure skates.
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
'Take a look, at my face. For the last time. I never knew you, you never knew me. Say hello. Say goodbye.'
-David Grey
He sits down at your table, which is crowded with practice exams and Splenda wrappers; he looks like he hasn't slept in a month. He leafs through your textbook, bored eyes glazing over the numerical equations, looks at you and says, 'Christ, H, I'd rather edit the bloody thing.' Heads swivel in your direction at the accent, reminiscent of Manchester United and enviable jagged-sharp wit, much in the same way they always did. The way they always do. Your face breaks into a smile you immediately wish with a vengeance you could undo. Because this is the thing. This, is the point. You always smiled. You always laughed. You always bought in, and you paid full price. And this time, the cost was so high it left you begging on the street corner in ratty clothes with a tin can.
'You've hurt me,' you say in a voice that unwittingly takes on the tone of a child, and the moment the words escape your dry mouth, you realize how pathetically hollow they sound. Because he knows. Because he always knew.
He leans forward. He leans too close.
"I know," he says.
You kick open your own floodgates now, start rambling about the moral integrity that used to be yours, how you were tricked, lied to, used. You launch into a bitter tirade of a tainted history, of misinterpreted tears and shallow fears. Of cars and houses, of wives and friends, of careers and plane tickets. Of oceans and ignorance.
"I'm sorry that it was you," he says, tears welling in his eyes. Tears filled with salt you would rob, if you could. "I wish it had been anyone but you."
You tell him to leave and don't mean it. Because as he looks into your face and stands to turn away, you know that you have been forever changed. That he holds a piece of you that you will spend many years to come, trying desperately to get back.
And yet, the truth remains. Because the truth is, you probably wouldn't have had it any other way.
-David Grey
He sits down at your table, which is crowded with practice exams and Splenda wrappers; he looks like he hasn't slept in a month. He leafs through your textbook, bored eyes glazing over the numerical equations, looks at you and says, 'Christ, H, I'd rather edit the bloody thing.' Heads swivel in your direction at the accent, reminiscent of Manchester United and enviable jagged-sharp wit, much in the same way they always did. The way they always do. Your face breaks into a smile you immediately wish with a vengeance you could undo. Because this is the thing. This, is the point. You always smiled. You always laughed. You always bought in, and you paid full price. And this time, the cost was so high it left you begging on the street corner in ratty clothes with a tin can.
'You've hurt me,' you say in a voice that unwittingly takes on the tone of a child, and the moment the words escape your dry mouth, you realize how pathetically hollow they sound. Because he knows. Because he always knew.
He leans forward. He leans too close.
"I know," he says.
You kick open your own floodgates now, start rambling about the moral integrity that used to be yours, how you were tricked, lied to, used. You launch into a bitter tirade of a tainted history, of misinterpreted tears and shallow fears. Of cars and houses, of wives and friends, of careers and plane tickets. Of oceans and ignorance.
"I'm sorry that it was you," he says, tears welling in his eyes. Tears filled with salt you would rob, if you could. "I wish it had been anyone but you."
You tell him to leave and don't mean it. Because as he looks into your face and stands to turn away, you know that you have been forever changed. That he holds a piece of you that you will spend many years to come, trying desperately to get back.
And yet, the truth remains. Because the truth is, you probably wouldn't have had it any other way.
Sunday, April 01, 2007
The last supper
I went out for dinner on Friday evening with some girls I know through work. Sitting at a table slightly behind us was a group of four women, roughly between the ages of 45-50.
Amidst their chatter of husbands and a lack thereof, of high school curriculum, the benefits of probiotics, of mortgages and Disney World vacations, each woman took a systematic turn at cutting a small bite of carrot cake from the slice that sat on a plate in front of them. It was comical to watch the pattern that developed; bits and bites, decreasing in size were removed from the hunk, as no one wanted to assume responsibility for attacking the middle. The cake took on the distinct appearance of a top-heavy, withered apple core, finally toppling over in collapsed, weakened surrender. The four forks took turns hovering, none making the daring move to dive in. The cake lay there, under the forlorn glances of its polite consumers.
Meanwhile, at a table across the room, sat roughly 12 men, between the ages of 25-35. Working like a well-oiled machine, slices of pizza, french fries and slugs of beer were traded back and forth across the table, unabashed hands reaching, swapping, slapping away.
Sometimes, I think men have got a really, really good thing going.
Amidst their chatter of husbands and a lack thereof, of high school curriculum, the benefits of probiotics, of mortgages and Disney World vacations, each woman took a systematic turn at cutting a small bite of carrot cake from the slice that sat on a plate in front of them. It was comical to watch the pattern that developed; bits and bites, decreasing in size were removed from the hunk, as no one wanted to assume responsibility for attacking the middle. The cake took on the distinct appearance of a top-heavy, withered apple core, finally toppling over in collapsed, weakened surrender. The four forks took turns hovering, none making the daring move to dive in. The cake lay there, under the forlorn glances of its polite consumers.
Meanwhile, at a table across the room, sat roughly 12 men, between the ages of 25-35. Working like a well-oiled machine, slices of pizza, french fries and slugs of beer were traded back and forth across the table, unabashed hands reaching, swapping, slapping away.
Sometimes, I think men have got a really, really good thing going.
Monday, March 19, 2007
Lie to me. I promise, I'll believe
I lied, he says, and it's plain and it's simple.
Only nothing will ever be plain again.
And the truth floats between you like a teasing, helium balloon that neither of you reaches up quick enough to grasp.
It's a betrayal you can taste, it's a ravage of all you hold dear.
It's an anger you don't quite feel.
It's what was there all along, but what you, in all your childish delight, squeezed your eyes shut in front of, in defiance, in fear.
In love?
Only nothing will ever be plain again.
And the truth floats between you like a teasing, helium balloon that neither of you reaches up quick enough to grasp.
It's a betrayal you can taste, it's a ravage of all you hold dear.
It's an anger you don't quite feel.
It's what was there all along, but what you, in all your childish delight, squeezed your eyes shut in front of, in defiance, in fear.
In love?
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Building her case
And it makes a case then, for being alone. It makes a case.
She makes a case, the girl does, as she screams into her cellphone on the corner of De Maisonneuve and Guy, spitting and swearing, cursing and crying. The male passersby chuckle, thinking 'glad it's not me,' and the women glance upwards shyly, because we all know we've been there.
She makes a case, the woman does, as she packs her things into boxes, forced to start over, to make a new beginning, again, only this time, it doesn't feel new. It feels tired and forced, messy and in shambles.
She makes a case, then, the girl, who rummages for phone numbers and sifts through errant pieces of paper, who checks e-mails and msn's and all the other voyeuristic technological mediums of our generation. She makes a case, because she's right. Of course, she is right.
She makes a case, the woman does, as she redecorates her house, as she cuts her hair. As she treats herself to measured slices of chocolate truffle cake and walks in the Arboretum. She makes a case, as she gets a library membership, a gym membership, an art club membership, as she sections off her time into manageable compartments, filling up the days, the hours, the weeks and the life not lead.
You make a case then, for yourself, you do, as the hurt rolls in, as it rolls over you, and you think, 'welcome in, old friend, welcome in again.'
But the question remains of when it will end, and as the fog slowly becomes replaced by a daunting clarity, that it will only end when you make a choice, when your case, is won.
She makes a case, the girl does, as she screams into her cellphone on the corner of De Maisonneuve and Guy, spitting and swearing, cursing and crying. The male passersby chuckle, thinking 'glad it's not me,' and the women glance upwards shyly, because we all know we've been there.
She makes a case, the woman does, as she packs her things into boxes, forced to start over, to make a new beginning, again, only this time, it doesn't feel new. It feels tired and forced, messy and in shambles.
She makes a case, then, the girl, who rummages for phone numbers and sifts through errant pieces of paper, who checks e-mails and msn's and all the other voyeuristic technological mediums of our generation. She makes a case, because she's right. Of course, she is right.
She makes a case, the woman does, as she redecorates her house, as she cuts her hair. As she treats herself to measured slices of chocolate truffle cake and walks in the Arboretum. She makes a case, as she gets a library membership, a gym membership, an art club membership, as she sections off her time into manageable compartments, filling up the days, the hours, the weeks and the life not lead.
You make a case then, for yourself, you do, as the hurt rolls in, as it rolls over you, and you think, 'welcome in, old friend, welcome in again.'
But the question remains of when it will end, and as the fog slowly becomes replaced by a daunting clarity, that it will only end when you make a choice, when your case, is won.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
A Million Little Failures
She stands, she hovers, arm extended, invisible particles of sea salt falling to the carpeted floor. Eyes bright, hopeful, she shakes her hand.
A silent offering.
I glance up from my computer screen, finish typing the sentence I have in my head before I lose it.
‘Would you like one?’ she questions tentatively, waving the Miss Vickie’s chip bag in front of me.
I wrinkle my nose.
‘No thanks,’ I reply.
The arm falls, the bag crinkles in her hand as she bunches up the top of it. She smiles a sad smile, turns and leaves my office.
I watch her go and I immediately I begin to feel badly.
My co-worker is on a diet. Of sorts. We cheer her on as she measures out her teaspoon of salad dressing at lunch and look the other way as the cookie cupboard is mysteriously raided in the afternoon.
I realized that her offering me part of her already guilt-ridden snack was in actual fact, a request for an accomplice to a little failure. A plea to share the pinprick of shame; to make it somehow seem not so bad.
We all fail. In a million little ways, we fail. We fail ourselves, our friends, our families, our co-workers; strangers.
The other day, in the locker room of my gym, a middle-aged woman, relatively new to the club, stands on an electronic scale for an agonizing, five full minutes. She leans slowly to her left side; re-balances to the right. She steps off, removes the elastic band from her graying hair, shakes it out and steps back on again. Frowns. Leans forward. With a final sigh, she steps down.
No one says a word. No one, myself included, says what should have been said to that woman. That it’s OK. That she is beautiful anyway. That she looks healthy. That her skin is rosy, that her smile is bright. That she is a woman and she is radiant.
And most importantly, that the scale on the other side of the room weighs you in at five pounds less.
You phone a girlfriend at two in the afternoon on a Saturday.
‘Hey hon, how’s it going? What are you doing?’
‘Drinking a glass of wine and watching my roommate make my bed.’
‘You ok?’
(Laughs) ‘Why, because it’s two in the afternoon and I’m drinking or because I wasn’t able to make my own bed and my roommate is doing it for me?’
‘Well, you know. Either.’
You’re in a food court, trying to manipulate a piece of sushi in and successfully out of an impossibly small plastic cup of Soya sauce. A woman, standing in line for a piece of pizza, is holding a roughly eight-month old baby girl who is screaming with fierce determination. The child’s face is red and angry; she is pushing with all her force against her tired, frazzled mother. The woman tries to shush her. Rocks her. Tries to give her a bottle. A Pacifier. The child screams and then screams louder. Finally, in a moment of pure frustration, the mother looks into her child’s face and screams back.
A man you care about, a man you care about a lot, tells you he’s sorry, that he’s really sorry, that he can’t. That he’s failed you; that he’s failed her. Tells you he’d like it if you understood, but that it isn’t really necessary at this point in time.
We all fail. In a million little ways, we fail. But I find, that as I bumble along, that it’s the failures in people that make them human. It’s the failures in people that I like.
A silent offering.
I glance up from my computer screen, finish typing the sentence I have in my head before I lose it.
‘Would you like one?’ she questions tentatively, waving the Miss Vickie’s chip bag in front of me.
I wrinkle my nose.
‘No thanks,’ I reply.
The arm falls, the bag crinkles in her hand as she bunches up the top of it. She smiles a sad smile, turns and leaves my office.
I watch her go and I immediately I begin to feel badly.
My co-worker is on a diet. Of sorts. We cheer her on as she measures out her teaspoon of salad dressing at lunch and look the other way as the cookie cupboard is mysteriously raided in the afternoon.
I realized that her offering me part of her already guilt-ridden snack was in actual fact, a request for an accomplice to a little failure. A plea to share the pinprick of shame; to make it somehow seem not so bad.
We all fail. In a million little ways, we fail. We fail ourselves, our friends, our families, our co-workers; strangers.
The other day, in the locker room of my gym, a middle-aged woman, relatively new to the club, stands on an electronic scale for an agonizing, five full minutes. She leans slowly to her left side; re-balances to the right. She steps off, removes the elastic band from her graying hair, shakes it out and steps back on again. Frowns. Leans forward. With a final sigh, she steps down.
No one says a word. No one, myself included, says what should have been said to that woman. That it’s OK. That she is beautiful anyway. That she looks healthy. That her skin is rosy, that her smile is bright. That she is a woman and she is radiant.
And most importantly, that the scale on the other side of the room weighs you in at five pounds less.
You phone a girlfriend at two in the afternoon on a Saturday.
‘Hey hon, how’s it going? What are you doing?’
‘Drinking a glass of wine and watching my roommate make my bed.’
‘You ok?’
(Laughs) ‘Why, because it’s two in the afternoon and I’m drinking or because I wasn’t able to make my own bed and my roommate is doing it for me?’
‘Well, you know. Either.’
You’re in a food court, trying to manipulate a piece of sushi in and successfully out of an impossibly small plastic cup of Soya sauce. A woman, standing in line for a piece of pizza, is holding a roughly eight-month old baby girl who is screaming with fierce determination. The child’s face is red and angry; she is pushing with all her force against her tired, frazzled mother. The woman tries to shush her. Rocks her. Tries to give her a bottle. A Pacifier. The child screams and then screams louder. Finally, in a moment of pure frustration, the mother looks into her child’s face and screams back.
A man you care about, a man you care about a lot, tells you he’s sorry, that he’s really sorry, that he can’t. That he’s failed you; that he’s failed her. Tells you he’d like it if you understood, but that it isn’t really necessary at this point in time.
We all fail. In a million little ways, we fail. But I find, that as I bumble along, that it’s the failures in people that make them human. It’s the failures in people that I like.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
10 little things
A tag by Vila over at http://thesmokingsection.wordpress.com prompted me to put together a little list on the ten oddest things about me.
Alors!
1) I always spoil the ending of a book by reading the last page before I get there, no matter how much I'm enjoying the story.
2) I never pay parking tickets, license or medicare renewal fees or return library books even remotely close to on time. Which reminds me...
3) One of my absolute favourite snacks is peanut butter stirred with Splenda. Don't judge.
4) After finding a bug on my pillow a few months ago, I now unmake and remake my bed every single night, just to make absolutely certain no unwelcome visitors are crawling around in there!
5) I am shamelessly addicted to Oprah magazine and read it religiously every month. From finish to start, of course. Don't you judge me!
6) I don't own a working television.
7) I have absolutely no fascination with celebrities. I can honestly say there isn't one famous person I feel my life would be enriched by meeting.
8) I make 99.9% of my phone calls from the bathtub.
9) I once got yanked over by security at the airport for a 'conspicuous-looking item' in my bag, which, I humbly admit, was my bathroom scale. I was 16. So don't judge.
10) This list got progressively easier to write as I went along. And that makes me nervous.
I am ridiculously terrible at inserting links properly, so I'm not even going to try. But Arthur, Walters, K, Mood Indigo, S'Mat and Jonasparker, kids, you're up. A vos tours!
Saturday, March 03, 2007
What they didn't tell you
It hurts a lot more.
That crossing your own boundaries is harder on you than when someone else does it.
That no, you actually won't grow up to love green beans.
You won't feel as guilty as you should.
That the world can be polarized into two, broad categories: People who are good at math and people who aren't.
And that the people who are good at math hate you.
That a piece of you really in fact does die from a broken heart.
That time doesn't heal all wounds. Some remain oozing, gaping gashes for years to come.
You don't learn from your mistakes. You keep making them until you simply arrive at a point where you've accepted the fact that you are a person who makes mistakes.
Big ones.
Scary movies get scarier the older you get.
That always being true to yourself doesn't always work out.
That just being yourself is really, the hardest thing in the world to do, because your concept of self is in perpetual shift mode.
You really weren't the prettiest girl in the class, and plaid did, in fact, make you look fat.
That crossing your own boundaries is harder on you than when someone else does it.
That no, you actually won't grow up to love green beans.
You won't feel as guilty as you should.
That the world can be polarized into two, broad categories: People who are good at math and people who aren't.
And that the people who are good at math hate you.
That a piece of you really in fact does die from a broken heart.
That time doesn't heal all wounds. Some remain oozing, gaping gashes for years to come.
You don't learn from your mistakes. You keep making them until you simply arrive at a point where you've accepted the fact that you are a person who makes mistakes.
Big ones.
Scary movies get scarier the older you get.
That always being true to yourself doesn't always work out.
That just being yourself is really, the hardest thing in the world to do, because your concept of self is in perpetual shift mode.
You really weren't the prettiest girl in the class, and plaid did, in fact, make you look fat.
Friday, March 02, 2007
Face forward
I know.
I said, I know.
But in my defense, I was blackmailed.
I joined facebook.
And all that it implies.
I said, I know.
But in my defense, I was blackmailed.
I joined facebook.
And all that it implies.
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Explain me this
Finally.
I finally got myself accepted to grad school. Two years and an amount of money I'd really rather not acknowledge spent on under grad classes later, I got that coveted piece of paper that officially tells me I'm in.
And so, if everything goes to plan, which it rarely does (with an ironically disturbing amount of regularity), I will be leaving Montreal for a city I've never so much as set foot in, to study public policy.
I'm happy about this. Really happy. And what has made me even happier has been the reaction of my friends and family when I shared my news. It was the reaction of one person in particular that gave me slight pause, and prompted me to write this.
One of my very good girlfriends is married to a fantastic man, has a spectacular child, and lives in a lovely home. We've known each other for years, and although our lives have gone in drastically different directions (read: I live in apartment, sans fabulous husband or child and this situation is unlikely to change in the foreseeable future), we have remained mutually supportive of one another's endeavors, and highly respectful of each other's choices.
I wasn't surprised, therefore, when she sent me a beautiful, congratulatory note, telling me how proud of me she is. It was the way she signed it that threw me for a loop.
'Just wait- now you're going to meet a fantastic guy, the man of your dreams, and then you'll be set!'
Why can't I be set without the man of my dreams? What if there isn't one? Does this somehow make my life unfulfilled, somehow less than what it should be? Does it inevitably imply that I still have my work cut out for me, that I've failed in my inability to find someone to share my life with? Can't I share my life with me, just me, and have that be OK?
It wasn't that her reaction hurt my feelings, but it did make me think, make me question the female perception that anything a woman does outside of marriage, of having and raising children is just that -outside. Just part of the waiting game, just a girl biding her time and trying to make herself useful in the interim.
Just filler.
I finally got myself accepted to grad school. Two years and an amount of money I'd really rather not acknowledge spent on under grad classes later, I got that coveted piece of paper that officially tells me I'm in.
And so, if everything goes to plan, which it rarely does (with an ironically disturbing amount of regularity), I will be leaving Montreal for a city I've never so much as set foot in, to study public policy.
I'm happy about this. Really happy. And what has made me even happier has been the reaction of my friends and family when I shared my news. It was the reaction of one person in particular that gave me slight pause, and prompted me to write this.
One of my very good girlfriends is married to a fantastic man, has a spectacular child, and lives in a lovely home. We've known each other for years, and although our lives have gone in drastically different directions (read: I live in apartment, sans fabulous husband or child and this situation is unlikely to change in the foreseeable future), we have remained mutually supportive of one another's endeavors, and highly respectful of each other's choices.
I wasn't surprised, therefore, when she sent me a beautiful, congratulatory note, telling me how proud of me she is. It was the way she signed it that threw me for a loop.
'Just wait- now you're going to meet a fantastic guy, the man of your dreams, and then you'll be set!'
Why can't I be set without the man of my dreams? What if there isn't one? Does this somehow make my life unfulfilled, somehow less than what it should be? Does it inevitably imply that I still have my work cut out for me, that I've failed in my inability to find someone to share my life with? Can't I share my life with me, just me, and have that be OK?
It wasn't that her reaction hurt my feelings, but it did make me think, make me question the female perception that anything a woman does outside of marriage, of having and raising children is just that -outside. Just part of the waiting game, just a girl biding her time and trying to make herself useful in the interim.
Just filler.
Saturday, February 17, 2007
She's a big girl now
"It's a big girl world now, full of big girl things."
-Kendall Payne
Enough said.
-Kendall Payne
Enough said.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
It's all around me
I am not going to release yet another disparaging post about the commercial, despair-inducing, chocolate-indulging nature of Valentine's Day into the blogosphere, as I am quietly confident there are already enough of them floating around. I have never been a large supporter of the day to begin with, and although the temptation to condemn it with a vengeance this year is perhaps slightly stronger than holidays previous, I will not give in! If Hallmark tells us this is a day to celebrate love and the joy it brings to our lives on an individual and collective level, I figure I can do that. Because to be truthful, although I won't be going home to a bottle of wine and a home-cooked meal, lovingly prepared by some fabulous man, this doesn't discount or discredit all the other amazing ways that love rears its lovely little head in my life on a daily basis.
It's in the Valentine's card my best friend made sure was in my inbox this morning.
It's in the e-mail my mom made sure I would get as soon as I got into work, wishing me a happy day.
It's in the exchange I had with my elderly neighbour in the elevator this morning, when he asked me if I enjoyed the books his wife gave me.
It's the anonymous someone who collected my newspapers for me all last week while I was away at a conference, and slipped them under my door when I got back.
It's in the shared cup of coffee with a friend as she confides in you about her excitement about moving in with her boyfriend, and her fear of what her Catholic family will say.
It's in the guy in your economics class who shyly hands you copies of the notes he took for you, unasked when you missed last week's lecture.
It's in the excited message from your friend who tells you to find something decent to wear, because she bought you tickets to the opera for Valentine's Day.
It's in yourself, in the cup of tea you brew, the workout you force yourself to do because you know it's good for you, it's in the evening you spend reading a fantastic book.
It's in the smiles you give, the hugs you squeeze, the tears you dry, the consoling words you speak.
It's in the letters you write, the compliments you give, the favours you extend.
It's knowing that this year, you don't have to look outside for love, because it's all around.
It's next door, it's down the street. It's in a friend's apartment, it's in your family home.
It's in an e-mailed letter, it's a phone call away. But most importantly, it's in you.
So Happy Valentine's Day to you all. However that happens to play out in your corner.
Saturday, January 27, 2007
Expecting the accepted
It's the said, and the unsaid.
It's in the eyes that follow you, and what they scream.
It's in the smoulder.
It's in what you shouldn't have done, but what you did.
It's in what you feel the next day.
It's in the quiet realization, the quiet compliance, the quiet acceptance.
Of yourself.
It's in the eyes that follow you, and what they scream.
It's in the smoulder.
It's in what you shouldn't have done, but what you did.
It's in what you feel the next day.
It's in the quiet realization, the quiet compliance, the quiet acceptance.
Of yourself.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
In the eye of the beholder
If I ever had doubts about my ability to be a good mother to a baby, the piercing skepticism in this child's eyes certainly brings my insecurity to a head.
Monday, January 22, 2007
A guide
I feel I can say this because I have been on the receiving end of a broken heart myself.
And I can honestly say that while yes I did indeed resort to eating ice cream directly from the tub, I did get ridiculously, falling-down, embarrassingly drunk, I did call my girlfriends in the middle of the night, bawling, I did listen to David Gray and cried until my face hurt, I did max out a credit card and I did call in sick to work.
I joined a gym; I joined a new gym. I worked at a gym.
I took a yoga class, I oil painted. I took a feminist literature class, I cut my hair, I grew it out again, and I resorted to all the other token, get-over-him tactics that any girl in the depths of despair would turn to when her world feels as though it has been shattered and her heart feels like it’s been put through a meat grinder and then strained, just for good measure.
But for the love of God.
I didn’t continue to text message him with little notes that read *hugs* every week. (Isn’t it painfully obvious that when someone decides to take leave of your relationship that they likely don’t want you hugging them anymore? And what are we, 13?)
I didn’t send a barrage of e-mails.
Nor did I elect to attach copies of my political science essays to those e-mails in the hopes of impressing him with my witty (wordy?) examinations of social democracy.
I didn’t call at 2:30 in the morning, two weeks after the fact, asking if we could 'talk.'
I didn’t send birthday cards and I sure as hell didn’t send flowers.
So P.S.
You shouldn’t either.
And I can honestly say that while yes I did indeed resort to eating ice cream directly from the tub, I did get ridiculously, falling-down, embarrassingly drunk, I did call my girlfriends in the middle of the night, bawling, I did listen to David Gray and cried until my face hurt, I did max out a credit card and I did call in sick to work.
I joined a gym; I joined a new gym. I worked at a gym.
I took a yoga class, I oil painted. I took a feminist literature class, I cut my hair, I grew it out again, and I resorted to all the other token, get-over-him tactics that any girl in the depths of despair would turn to when her world feels as though it has been shattered and her heart feels like it’s been put through a meat grinder and then strained, just for good measure.
But for the love of God.
I didn’t continue to text message him with little notes that read *hugs* every week. (Isn’t it painfully obvious that when someone decides to take leave of your relationship that they likely don’t want you hugging them anymore? And what are we, 13?)
I didn’t send a barrage of e-mails.
Nor did I elect to attach copies of my political science essays to those e-mails in the hopes of impressing him with my witty (wordy?) examinations of social democracy.
I didn’t call at 2:30 in the morning, two weeks after the fact, asking if we could 'talk.'
I didn’t send birthday cards and I sure as hell didn’t send flowers.
So P.S.
You shouldn’t either.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
Grey's epitome
It seems an irony of the cruelest proportions.
On my 26th birthday, in the locker room of my gym, I happen to look into the mirror above the sink while washing my hands, only to be nearly blinded by the light glaring off of it.
A grey hair.
Sigh.
On my 26th birthday, in the locker room of my gym, I happen to look into the mirror above the sink while washing my hands, only to be nearly blinded by the light glaring off of it.
A grey hair.
Sigh.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Required reading
Are men necessary? by Maureen Dowd.
And when you're finished with that, The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen.
And when you're finished with that, The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen.
Sunday, January 14, 2007
This life
It can be hard, sometimes. It can shake your faith, sometimes. The faith that there is some sort of plan. Some sort of big, general idea. Something bigger than you that says, 'this is how it will be.'
She was a woman full of grace, a woman full of of love. A woman full of life.
This life loved you, Angela.
And this life will miss you.
She was a woman full of grace, a woman full of of love. A woman full of life.
This life loved you, Angela.
And this life will miss you.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Bigger than this
It’s 7:30 and your alarm is screaming. You open your eyes and think 'you have GOT to be kidding.'
But you force your feet to slide to the floor and into a pair of slippers and pad your way down the hall. You toss a piece of whole wheat bread into your toaster and pour a glass of skim milk. You drag out a yoga mat and yawn your way through a series of crunches.
You eat, shower, try to do something that could be considered acceptable with your freaking wreck of hair. You go into the office. You drink coffee and chat with your co-workers. You drink more coffee.
You check your e-mail, arrange an interview for the story you’re writing, you check your e-mail again. You do some writing, slash some red pen marks through other people’s writing, you go home.
You change into a pair of jogging pants and drag yourself to the gym. You suffer through a 45-minute workout. You go back home.
You set your alarm to time the fifteen minutes you have to soak in a bath. You dry off, get dressed and head off to a board meeting.
You drink more coffee. You give a little presentation about the financial status of the women’s shelter project you’re working on. Two and a half hours later, you get back in your car and drive home.
You open the textbook for the economics class you’re taking and force yourself to study for a half an hour. A measly 30 minutes. 28 minutes pass. You figure this is enough.
You turn on your computer. You open the file and wait for inspiration to come. You decide it will likely come along with the handful of mixed nuts that are calling out to you from the kitchen. Definitely the next handful. You contemplate the right combination of words that will impress the review committee of the grad school program you’re applying to. You work on this for an hour and when your eyes feel like they’re going to bleed or roll out of your head or both, you shut off your computer, wash your face, smear an antioxidant you paid way too much for all over it and climb into bed wishing you never had to get up again.
You lie down, and just as you’re about to close your eyes you notice that the light on your phone is blinking furiously. You know you won’t be able to sleep until you’ve listened to that message. You dial the number and wait.
Her voice comes through the phone and with only the words, ‘Hi Heath,’ you immediately know that everything in her life has changed, for good, forever.
Her baby is born, although there is no more ‘her,’ no more ‘his,’ it’s ‘theirs,’ it’s ‘ours.’ A little girl, a little person, a little life.
Suddenly, your eight hours, your static hair, the flatness or complete and utter lack thereof of your abdominals, the illiteracy story you’re working on, the shelter, the economics class, the applications, they all seem very, very small. You feel very, very small. Like no matter what you do, no matter how hard you work, how little you sleep, how much you study, it will never be big. It will never be bigger than this.
But you force your feet to slide to the floor and into a pair of slippers and pad your way down the hall. You toss a piece of whole wheat bread into your toaster and pour a glass of skim milk. You drag out a yoga mat and yawn your way through a series of crunches.
You eat, shower, try to do something that could be considered acceptable with your freaking wreck of hair. You go into the office. You drink coffee and chat with your co-workers. You drink more coffee.
You check your e-mail, arrange an interview for the story you’re writing, you check your e-mail again. You do some writing, slash some red pen marks through other people’s writing, you go home.
You change into a pair of jogging pants and drag yourself to the gym. You suffer through a 45-minute workout. You go back home.
You set your alarm to time the fifteen minutes you have to soak in a bath. You dry off, get dressed and head off to a board meeting.
You drink more coffee. You give a little presentation about the financial status of the women’s shelter project you’re working on. Two and a half hours later, you get back in your car and drive home.
You open the textbook for the economics class you’re taking and force yourself to study for a half an hour. A measly 30 minutes. 28 minutes pass. You figure this is enough.
You turn on your computer. You open the file and wait for inspiration to come. You decide it will likely come along with the handful of mixed nuts that are calling out to you from the kitchen. Definitely the next handful. You contemplate the right combination of words that will impress the review committee of the grad school program you’re applying to. You work on this for an hour and when your eyes feel like they’re going to bleed or roll out of your head or both, you shut off your computer, wash your face, smear an antioxidant you paid way too much for all over it and climb into bed wishing you never had to get up again.
You lie down, and just as you’re about to close your eyes you notice that the light on your phone is blinking furiously. You know you won’t be able to sleep until you’ve listened to that message. You dial the number and wait.
Her voice comes through the phone and with only the words, ‘Hi Heath,’ you immediately know that everything in her life has changed, for good, forever.
Her baby is born, although there is no more ‘her,’ no more ‘his,’ it’s ‘theirs,’ it’s ‘ours.’ A little girl, a little person, a little life.
Suddenly, your eight hours, your static hair, the flatness or complete and utter lack thereof of your abdominals, the illiteracy story you’re working on, the shelter, the economics class, the applications, they all seem very, very small. You feel very, very small. Like no matter what you do, no matter how hard you work, how little you sleep, how much you study, it will never be big. It will never be bigger than this.
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
Breaking up is hard to do
It's hard when you know that across town, in a cozy little apartment, there is a man, a really good man, with curly hair and a smile to melt your heart, who is crying himself to sleep over you.
It's even harder to realize that you cannot quite, although you really, really try, muster up the same sort of qualifying sadness that prevents unwelcome thoughts such as 'if I eat this banana at 11 o'clock, will I have nightmares?' and, 'is it cold enough to wear socks to bed?' from creeping into your mind.
Breaking up is hard to do. But I think the knowledge that you're going to be fine, that you're going to be better, is even harder.
It's even harder to realize that you cannot quite, although you really, really try, muster up the same sort of qualifying sadness that prevents unwelcome thoughts such as 'if I eat this banana at 11 o'clock, will I have nightmares?' and, 'is it cold enough to wear socks to bed?' from creeping into your mind.
Breaking up is hard to do. But I think the knowledge that you're going to be fine, that you're going to be better, is even harder.
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