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.

She's a big girl now

"It's a big girl world now, full of big girl things."

-Kendall Payne

Enough said.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Missing the boat

I think this is kind of neat.

http://montreal.craigslist.org/mis/

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.

Required reading

Are men necessary? by Maureen Dowd.

And when you're finished with that, The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen.

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.

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.

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.

Merry Christmas, Baby!

Missed that memo

And as you sit, drinking a cup of tea, laughing at taped episodes of Arrested Development, thinking to yourself, well, this is comfortable, it's comfortable at least, it changes.

He calls to you, through a door steamed shut, faint scents of cologne and shaving cream seeping from underneath it,

'Hey -babe, do we have plans on the 30th?'

And suddenly the Earl Gray in your mouth turns to cement and you think,

'Christ, when did this happen?

Liar Liar

The five of us are snuggled up on her couch, sharing a plate heavy with a sizeable chunk of homemade Black Forest cake, her Boston Terrier wedged comfortably between us. Wet, tossed tissues are strewn about the floor, a multi-colored afghan blanket covers our toes. Her husband opens the front door, home from his poker game, takes one look at our puffy red eyes and flannel pajamas and says, ‘can I get you girls a glass of wine?’

It’s ten o’clock on Friday night, and we’re watching our friend’s wedding video. I had forgotten, in all the chaos of that day, how beautiful she was. Really, how beautiful we all were. And so, as we laughed at ourselves dancing barefoot to Follow the Leader and cried at the ‘I dos,’ it dawned on me just how incredibly, and untouchably happy we all looked.

And just how much a girl can hide behind her smile.

She's come undone

I guess it’s a good sign that I didn’t drive home crying. That I didn’t come home to sink into a bath with a cup of tea only to emerge red-eyed and discouraged. I guess it’s a good thing that I walked away with a smile, and phoned a close friend to giggle like a 16-year old girl and say, ‘guess what?’ And to feel her smile back at you through the phone because she knows.

It’s the glimmer of something you can’t quite name in the eyes that meet yours across the table, the glimmer, as you talk of elementary school plays and family vacations that seems to say, ‘I understand, and it’s ok. I understand, and I like you anyway.’

Cost of a good deed? Why, that will be $42!

About three months ago, I was named editor of Aids Community Care Montreal’s newspaper. It’s a nifty little publication, and in my humble opinion, does an excellent job of tying what is already a pretty close community even closer together. And so, I don’t mind battling 4:30 traffic to the complete other side of the city after a day’s work, to hole up in a church basement, pouring over articles, placing graphics, putting in commas and coming up with headlines until 11 o’clock at night. What I DO mind is coming outside, completely exhausted, hungry and ready for bed, to find a GD $42, soaking wet parking ticket on my car.

Montreal, sometimes you really, really suck.

The power of one

And there are moments you can taste it. Where you can hear the voice and feel the hand and you hate this, because you realize you haven’t moved. That sure, you may have a list of accomplishments to rattle off, and good for you, but really, who cares. Not you. Not anyone else. And the despair at the knowledge that you’d trade it all in a blink. And you hate this even more. Because really, you’d like to be stronger. You’d like to have cried all your tears and tossed all your pillows and laughed all your bitter, hurt laughs. But it’ll get you. It’ll sneak up. When you least expect it. Like tonight, at the apartment of the elderly couple, who pry you with books and chai tea and photo albums of curly-haired children and spice muffins. And you look at the walls full of smiling faces and you smile back at them, but they see through you. And the fear that everyone does.

And it’s one more day of pulpy, orange juice mornings and yoga class nights, of meeting-filled afternoons and 3 a.m. longings. It’s you and it’s only you and it’s the fear of how much longer, how much more of this, and where is the reward, the payoff, the gold star, the end.

You know?

Just who do you think you are?

I went to a conflict mediator training session this past weekend. There were eight people in the group. Some old, some young, some wrinkled, some fresh-faced. Some well-dressed, others shabby, some smiling and bright, all of us waiting expectantly for the animator to provide us with some sort of indication or direction as to how the day would start off.

So, paperclips.

We were each instructed to select as many of the tiny tools as we wished, in order to create some sort of artistic display. Some members of the group were incredibly creative, blowing my simple-minded spelling of the word ‘Hello’ right out of the water. We then learned that for every paperclip used, we would have to tell the others something about ourselves. (At this point, I began to desperately wish I had gone for a simple, hi).

Blessedly, I didn’t have to go first. A girl sitting to my immediate left did. I expected her to launch into the typical, “I work here, I studied there, I live here.” But to my surprise, and only mine, she didn’t. Instead she spoke of her faith. Of her love for nature. For her neighbours. For her belief in herself and the universe around her. She spoke of not being afraid of death, as she is so certain of a beautiful afterlife.

And as we went around the table, I became increasingly shocked, and impressed, that no one, no one, spoke of what they did for a living, what neighbourhood they live in, what kind of car they drive, of what their husbands do. Instead I learned of depressions and delights, of battles with food and diets. Of children and miscarriages, of weddings and losses. I heard of personal beliefs, of fears, of failures and pride, of wrinkles and laugh lines.

It may be simple, but that afternoon changed something for me. I am not an editor. I am not a student. I don’t live in Pointe Claire and I don’t drive a car and I don’t have a degree. I don’t have ten pounds to lose and I don’t hate my hair.

I am a daughter. A sister. A friend. I am a lifeline. I am happy and at times desperately sad. I am excited and I can be terrified. I am love and I am loss. I am a million things in this world and not one of them has anything to do with any of the things I, for a long time, thought made me who I am.

And so, it begs the question. For me, and for all of us. Who do you think you are?

One of these things is not like the other

Oh, the baby shower.

The mothers and the mothers-in-law.

The crust-less cucumber sandwiches, the macaroni salads, the carrot sticks, the fat-free dressing, the cheese cubes, the cheese-less pizza squares, the cream cheese tortilla wraps, the pretzels, the smoked salmon, the jelly beans, the little iced cakes, the rice krispie squares, the apple juice, the caffeine-free tea.


The pastel-coloured everything.

The playschool games, the oohs, the awwws, the pictures, the cameras, the tales, the stories, the registries, the balloons.

‘Have-you-picked-a-name-have-you-painted-the-nursery-have-you-chosen-godparents-have-you-picked-a-hospital-how-are-you-feeling-how’s-hubby-feeling-are-you-excited-are-you-have-you-will-you-do-you?

The pervasive sense you have been irrevocably transported into a Jane Austen novel and are struggling, fighting desperately to come up for air.

The reams of tissue paper, wrapping paper, ribbon, streamers, discarded envelopes and gift bags. The diapers, the 15 receiving blankets. The booties, the bonnets, the baskets. The cribs, the cradles, the carriages, the clothes.

Fake smiles, fake laughs, weak hugs, kissed cheeks, tears with questionable causes.

The deep breath, the promises, the lies, the goodbyes.

The keys, the car, the drive home. The knowledge of one of many.