Fake It Till You Make It

I realize I haven't posted anything in a while, and I just want you to know, it's not me. It's you.
Just kidding, obviously it's me. I've been homesick/PMSing for what seems like a month but has actually only been about a week and a half. So instead of disjointed, sangry (sad + angry) ramblings I've just held off. You're welcome. (I do care about you. Honestly.)

Aside from making some Important Decisions About My Future I haven't really been up to much. I somewhat foolishly quit a temp job in the beginning-middle of the assignment, leaving me to lay on the couch and contemplate my life and nail polish for a bit longer than I would have liked. I probably was too hasty in abandoning the assignment after only two days, but I did get a weird sense of satisfaction in knowing that I stood up for myself in a situation I was miserable in. Being an administrator, especially a temporary one, is usually a pretty crap gig. You take a certain amount of abuse or being ignored or people not saying 'thank you' when you say 'bless you' as part of the job. And when a manager who probably doesn't know your name walks by and asks how it's going, you lie and smile and say great! Because you're only a temp. And no one actually cares. But every once in a while there is an assignment that actually makes you think about how feasible it would be to use the extremely dull letter opener to slit your wrists and you have to just say Enough is Enough! I may have done permanent damage to my temporary employer relationship, but it felt damn good!

Standing up for myself has sometimes been a struggle for me, in ways that are probably surprising to some people who know me. I don't really care about acceptance or popularity with my peers. I'm weird and I'm honest and if you can't deal with that I'm not too bothered. I've found that as I get older I attract friends with personalities similar to mine, so there usually isn't much drama in that area. But with jobs, as with men, it's usually a different story. A few weekends ago I was out with the old [new] gang and a friend said to me "you're good at being single! Teach me how to be single!" I replied with "I'm sorry what? How drunk are you right now?" I guess coming to another country to have solo adventures says something about a person...and I've never really pictured myself as that person.

It's taken me quite a long time to de-prioritize men from my life, and let's be real, it's still a work in progress. The general lack of attention (unless I'm full of gin and covered in paint) that Aussie boys have provided me with has made me realize yet again how much I care about how much I am wanted. It's the reason I went back to unsatisfying relationships or pursued people I knew weren't right for me. For someone who has enough confidence to pull off purple velvet pants, I sure have trouble with my heart. I don't want to turn into an ice-queen-man-eater (again) but I just can't devote the amount of headspace to romantic pursuits that I have previously.

Balancing strength and vulnerability has been my main goal in coming here, and my startling (ie. blatantly obvious) revelations in the romance department can really be applied to a few other areas as well. With work, I am learning to stand up for my interests instead of always going the polite doormat route. With family, I am realizing just how much I love and miss them, even though I've been living away from home for over 7 years. I have to admit that growing up, I pitied my peers who had strained home lives, and often congratulated myself on having such a great family. When I got older and my perfect family fell apart, I guess I decided that I didn't really need them that much. I could be independent and that was that. I've chalked it up to distance for a long time, but I am seeing now that I've purposely put a wedge between me and my family. I haven't wanted to admit how much I need them, or how much I miss them.

Something I've been working on lately is really accepting myself as I am. It's very difficult at times because I don't even know certain things about myself. But by giving myself a break - having self compassion is how I saw it phrased the other day - it's happening. While I may seem like a strong, single, confident woman...anyone who reads this blog knows the truth. I'm fairly lost, I'm a bit insecure, I'm a little lonely. But I'm ok. And if I do somehow fool anyone into thinking I'm otherwise, well I think that's a good sign that some day I actually will be.  

My Mr. Brightside

It happened like this…I was wearing a black and white animal print top with a teal belt accent, short black shorts and a terrible orange-pink-ish shade of lipstick (I’m sure I thought it looked good at the time). I walked in to a cocktail bar with over 100 martinis scrawled onto metal menus, excited to be meeting new people in a strange city. Looking back it’s a bit odd that my friend chose to take me to a cocktail bar to mingle with her work friends and her church friends. Possibly it was to make the work friends feel comfortable around the church friends. Or maybe it was a nod to me, since I no longer belonged in either category. I was chatting and laughing obnoxiously in the way that 20 year olds do, no doubt flicking my long black hair around like an insane beauty queen. And then he walked in. He sat across from me and a few seats down, but through the powers of body language, ie. obviously staring, I enticed him over to sit beside me. He was well spoken and charming and quickly wooed my attention away from the rest of the group and it wasn't long until I was leaving my severely unimpressed friend to go off with him and a few others to a questionable nightclub (the same nightclub where I would fall down a flight of stairs a few years later; I still have the scar on my knee).We danced and he drank, because I was new to the bar scene and knew I couldn't hold my liquor. Bodies pressed together, breathing each other’s breath, his cheek brushing up against mine. I was utterly intoxicated. I spent the night in his bed, although we didn't consummate our attraction. As I sat in the taxi on the way back to my friend’s house the next morning, wearing one of his faded polos, I felt strange. I had never had a one-night-stand before, even though most of the night was spent kissing and whispering about nonsense. I was giddy, but ultimately sad that I would most likely never see him again. My friend, on the other hand, was livid with me; this boy had a reputation at work for being somewhat less than honorable and she was disgusted that I too had fallen into the trap. But what could I do? I was recently separated from my 6-month-old marriage and I wanted to experience the life of a normal young adult (whatever that is).

It’s hard to pin down the exact details. A random Facebook message became a frequent occurrence, which led to emails, which led to phone calls, which eventually took me back to visit that western city I did not particularly care for. I remember packing for the trip and wondering if I should bring Q-tips, nervous that a single 20-something boy wouldn't stock his own (I did, and he did). I don’t remember meeting him at the airport, but I do recall the underwear I wore out on our first ‘real’ date that night. After our long weekend together I went back to my city with an Official Boyfriend, though I didn't really have any idea what to do with him.

After adjusting our phone plans to accommodate long distance rates we talked as often as we could. In the semi-darkness of my first apartment that I had on my own, I would close my eyes and focus on the smooth sound of his voice while I tried to reconstruct the feeling of laying in his arms. We fell in love with each other through words. Being away from someone physically forces you to connect with them on another level, and I got to know him in a way I hadn't known anyone else ever before. He listened to my insecurities and my guilt and somehow made me feel accepted again. Although our upbringings couldn't have been more different, we understood each other. Then came the true test of our relationship, his holiday visit – we could talk on the phone for hours but what would it be like spending a week together? Or meeting my family? That Christmas was full of defining moments for us, most pleasant and some not. I was already back at work the afternoon he left, which I thought would make his leaving easier. But as soon as my door clicked shut that evening the tears poured down my face. It feels like I cried for hours, my apartment suddenly feeling like a black hole. His smell still lingered in my sheets and I clutched my pillow as we talked on the phone and told each other “I miss you already”.

Obviously something had to change. It was only a few months later that we decided I should relocate, and live with him. A risky move, but we were young and foolish and hopeless with each other. My worried father dutifully drove me, my clothes and my purple couch across the prairies to my new home. How utterly frightening it must have been for my dad to watch me spring out of the truck before it had even stopped moving and run into this young man's arms. But overall he was probably grateful I was just moving in with someone this time, and not getting rings involved. As we unloaded boxes he read out a few of my packing labels “Shoes…pillows…full length dresses?”, I shrugged and smiled while my dad laughed and said “you've never lived with a girl before, have you?”

Our co-habitation was an interesting experience. At times wonderful, at times awful, mostly it was enjoyable and natural. I got along with his family but not so much his friends. He was there for me when my parents separated that October, he supported me while I was settling in to a new job and we moved to a new apartment. He loved to cook and would spend hours in the kitchen creating while I happily sat on the counter, drinking wine and chatting; some of my happiest memories. But people change more between the ages of 20 to 25 than at any other time in their lives, and we began to realize we were no longer on the same page, that possibly we wanted different things and were becoming different people...we ignored it as long as possible. I loved going out, getting fucked up, dancing and acting a fool. He was unsatisfied with post-grad life and wasn't sure what to do with himself, but knew it wasn't going out every night. It's hard to say what exactly happened, but the biggest factor was probably the breakdown in our communication; it’s much harder to be honest with someone face to face than it is over a few thousand miles. I noticed when I crawled in to bed in the early hours of the morning after my shift at the bar that he no longer reached out to me in his sleep. Eventually I made a list of pros and cons and weighed my options, but finally decided to go. I stayed away for a week to see how it would feel, and to postpone the inevitable ‘talk’ as long as possible. But the day came and I waited for him to get home from work. Standing on the balcony in the weak spring sunlight, listening to The Killers on my iPod and wondering if I was making the biggest mistake of my life, wondering how something that once felt so right could turn into this. After hours of talking, crying, arguing and bittersweet embraces, I closed the door behind me and walked away. I could feel his heartbreaking, and mine ached in return.

The next few months were rough. It’s generally assumed that the person who ends a relationship simply bounces back to everyday life. But the only life I knew there had been with him. To say I was unstable would be a gross understatement. I had my own apartment again and didn't hesitate to do whatever I felt like doing. Which was usually getting as drunk as possible without being fired from the bar and then taking home an unsuspecting male to use. Eventually I convinced myself I was over him, and started to date again and laid off the substance abuse.

I would still talk to him from time to time. There were a few brief periods in which I found myself single and we would try and see if ‘we’ could work again. But something was always off. There was too much baggage, too much pain, too many insecurities. Months went by since our breakup, then years and occasionally I would run into him, usually on purpose but sometimes by accident in the supermarket. A friendly chat would turn into dinner, accompanied by too many glasses of wine and I would look into his eyes and smell his smell that was ingrained in my senses and wonder what was wrong with me. Why couldn't I just be happy with him, and he with me? I begrudgingly began to accept that we were to be friends who care deeply for one another and perhaps nothing more.

It was the middle of summer, I had arranged a get-together because I had something rather important to tell him, and I was nervous. The air was warm though the sun had gone down and we were on our way to a pub as fireworks went off in the distance and colored the sky. I may have had a drink or two before we met up because I had that feeling like this might not be real life and I grabbed his hand in the middle of the street, stopped walking and declared “I’m moving to Australia!” then promptly burst into tears. He pulled me into his familiar arms and said nothing, just held me and waited for me to get myself together. After some eye dabbing and embarrassed laughter we went in to the pub and caught upon each other’s lives. Of course he would miss running in to me, but he wished me all the best and we agreed to see each other again sometime before I left on my adventure. 

Six months later my dad drove away from that city in his truck with me, my clothes and my memories. A random night in a cocktail bar with a handsome, charming man resulted in what I can certainly consider to be  the most defining time of my life. The road ahead is unknown and I bring a measure of caution that I didn't have all those years ago. I doubt I will ever love someone the way I loved him, because I am a different person now. But I try my hardest to be open with the people I meet, to enjoy every experience as much as possible, because you never know where it may lead. Dare I admit that every so often, in the twilight of my day, suspended in the darkness somewhere between awake and dreaming, I wonder if it will lead me back to him.

Cutter

I leave work with a  bounce in my step, knowing that today is the day! I have time, I have money, I have a picture. All I need now is to find the right salon. I walked by it the other day when I was meandering around on my way to work, and I’m confident I will find it again. It was edgy, it was modern, it wasn’t a chain – it was perfect. I wander around for a few minutes, then ten, then fifteen, and I start to get anxious. I duck into a random salon and ask if they have any room for walk-ins today? The pretty receptionist says unfortunately no, and then dutifully tries to schedule me in for tomorrow. But I have no time tomorrow. And I want it now.

After three more salons and three more repeats of this situation, I’m losing hope. Google maps has failed me, my palms are sweaty and I’m trying not to show the irritation on my face. I slowly resign myself to the fact that I simply will not be getting my hair cut today, and I will have to live with myself until Saturday. I get on the train to go home and imagine all the different hairstyles I could have throughout my life…I wonder how long it will take me to grow my hair out again? I wonder if I could ever put up with extensions? And how is it that celebrities seem to grow their hair so quickly? These are the great questions of my life in those 20 minutes of transit.

I’ve realized lately that I’ve always been obsessed with my hair. When I was younger I refused to go to the hair stylist for ‘just a trim’. I always wanted to shock people so I had mushroom cuts, perms, pixie cuts, highlights, lowlights, even a VERY unfortunate Meg-Ryan-in-the-90’s-flip thing for a while, until finally I decided I had to grow it out. For my wedding. Anyhoo, after that it was long and luscious and I would refrain from cutting it for as long as possible. And then I would only allow one certain stylist to touch it. And then when I moved to Calgary, I would only go to expensive salons. I once paid over $200 for a cut and color (the color was dark brown, it was not complicated) and it wasn’t even that good. I was just a hair snob. Finally, enough was enough. The long tresses needed to go. It would be a symbolic cut, me literally shedding the past few years of my life to make room for new things. I was tired of being the girl who hair-whipped everyone in the face, who casually flicked my fringe in a way that said “I know you’re looking at me. I would look at me too.” Enough with the vanity – I needed a change.

After the first cut, lopping off about 4 inches (which I seriously considered keeping so I could later mail them to my friends to freak them out on Valentine’s day), I felt so much lighter! And I hadn’t had a breakdown. So another appointment was made, and I then had an a-symmetrical bob. I quickly tired of that…plus something happened I hadn’t really bargained on. I began to experience hair envy. I would see a girl casually walking down the street, her long luscious locks flowing in the breeze. I would have visions of myself sneaking up behind her and quickly chopping them off with some scissors I so cleverly had in my purse so I could find a wig-maker on the internet and be pretty again. The only way to combat this level of crazy was to, of course, cut it again. I wanted it shorter, with a shaved section this time, something a bit more funky. I was recommended a great salon in Sydney and was as happy as a clam. Weeks passed. Eventually it got too long, so I had it cut. But something was off, the shape, the texture (even though the stylist did exactly what I said). I had to get it cut again…and again…and again! Until my housemate banned me from getting any further haircuts, lest I go raving mad one day and shave it all off.

But there I was last night. Driving home from the train station, making a last minute decision to go to the local mall and buy some tights and dinner fixins. I knew there were a few salons in the mall, but I vowed to stay away. I would be fine until Saturday. All of a sudden, out of the corner of my eye, shiny bottles of product in their neat, colourful lines caught my eye. The glint of light reflecting off steel chair arms and the smell of shampoo and blow-dryers pulled me in and within minutes I was sitting in a chair, talking to a woman who the years had not been kind to about what I wanted her to do to my head. I was taken to the back, where I relaxed as a mysterious pair of hands massaged my scalp. The thought crossed my mind that maybe I just like people touching my hair, and should possibly look into buying one of those wire head-scratchers to avoid salon fees. My stress from the week melted away and I sat happily watching my newest stylist snip away around my ears. After she was done I walked away it was all I could do not to run to my car so I could get home and stare at myself in the mirror, styling and adjusting and possibly instagram-ing. I know I have a problem and it won’t be long until it starts affecting my loved ones (ie. people are going to stop hitting on me because I will have no hair and no one wants to hit on the weird hair-less girl). But I like to think of it as a physical expression of me learning not to be such a control freak. For now all I can say is that I hope that my hair grows really really really fast (like a celebrity), because I just found a picture of this really cool hairstyle I’d like to try…

[Authors’ Note: I do not carry scissors in my purse]

Pros & Hoes

I wake up from a cloudy dream, the kind you have when you say to yourself ‘just five more minutes’ and you sleep for another hour, to my phone vibrating. It’s DreDre, according to caller ID, and I hear my morningtimey old man voice gargle a sexy “hello?” Two high pitched voices (Andre and Lucy) that are entirely too chipper for it being 8:30AM on a Sunday morning sing that they are outside. I say ok and hang up, laying there for another second or two until I hear them giggling and yelling through the open window. Drag myself out of bed, throw on clothes, proceed out the door. It’s road trip day!

By road trip I don’t mean the 12-ish hour trek I did with the boys up to Gold Coast in January, during which I had plenty of time to curse myself for not bringing a book or an iPod or anything to drown out the sporadic and often disturbing talk of males who think you are sleeping. Today we were just making the 3-ish hour trip out to Busselton, for the Easter Sunday Caves party. Which is not, as the name would have you believe, in a cave at all, but a regular countryside pub/tavern/lounge/hotel. And as I started to wonder what we would talk about during the drive, a playlist was selected that was made up exclusively of romantic ballads of the 80’s and 90’s, and 50 Cent. We sang (poorly), car-danced (also poorly) and almost missed a turn or two, but the time passed quickly and I was reminded again that the Hoegarden girls are the only other people I know who share my intense love and appreciation for Enrique Iglesias. We arrived at the Progarden with plenty of time to primp and pre-drink, and to practice each other’s accents.

I haven’t really had a consistent group of friends throughout my life. In high school I hung out with the same people most of the time, but it wasn't so much because we all got along or shared common interests, as because our school had about 100 people and no one else would hang out with us. Or, quite possibly, that we wouldn't hang out with them. I was excited to graduate and get out into the world so I could find people I truly clicked with. However, that plan kind of back fired because I went right into a tight-knit church community, which is kind of just like high school anyway. I remember having ‘girls nights’ but we usually just ended up talking about weddings or babies or buying houses or something, which is cool when you're 30, but weird when you're 18. When I left the church I tried to maintain a few of those friendships, but the common denominator was gone and it generally just didn't work. So I drifted around, picking up friends here and there along the way. Don’t get me wrong, I dearly love my scattered friends and I know that no matter where in the world we are, we could meet up tomorrow and all would be natural and fun. But I had the sense I was missing out on something.

Enter the Aussies; the crew of 21JS. I had magically stumbled upon an actual friend group! We went out together, we cooked together, we were hungover together. I was given a key to the apartment, and I personally took that as the green light to never wear pants. There was drama and love and tears and memories, and when we eventually disbanded I was very very sorry for myself. Later when I decided to venture over to Australia, I knew that it wouldn't be the same as it was with us in Canada, but I couldn't wait to see everyone and I hoped to meet new people who were just as friendly and accepting. And meet them I did. The first night I was in Sydney, trying not to fall asleep mid-conversation because of jet-lag, I met Joanna and Claire, who immediately appeared to be crazy and hilarious (crazarious?). After my solo East coast meandering I arrived at the Progarden for Australia Day and was abandoned by the boys (fishing and surfing, surfing and fishing as usual) so I went about sitting quietly in the garden like a nanna, hoping someone would talk to me. To my delight, it wasn't long until Teash came up and offered me a funnel of punch. I’d never funneled anything before but I wasn't about to turn down a group initiation ritual, so I gave it a shot. And after that much of the day is a blur but I know I had a lot of fun.

Ever since then the HG and the PG girls have been introducing me to the other insane people in Perth. They have never hesitated to invite me along to house parties or festivals, and they have never judged Frittany’s ridiculous behavior  Like when I tackle Pickles to the ground on the beach or talk nonsense in my sleep and wake up Brucey. Of course there is drama, and of course it can’t last forever. But I feel not so homesick when I show up for pre-drinks and am greeted with (what seems to be) genuine excitement and affection. I love that I have carved a little Canadian niche for myself here in this social group, and I hope they know just how much I appreciate them. Possibly this blog post will explain it better than me drunkenly slurring it when I have a mustache painted on my face at 11PM.