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.
Saturday, April 28, 2007
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.
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