The best thing since sliced bread

Actually, it’s way, way better than sliced bread. Sure, sliced bread is convenient – I mean, in my 24 years I’ve never mastered the art of cutting an even slice of bread from a full loaf. One side is always nearly see-through thin, and the other side is so thick I can’t even take a bite out of it (seriously – is there a blonde-proof method for this?) – convenient, but not a phenomenon. 

Alas, I digress…

I had a torturous, uncomfortable, exhausting weekend. Thirteen hours daily, Friday through to Sunday. I was seriously irritated through 95% of it. And today I feel fantastic. I usually feel fantastic, but today I woke up feeling light[i]. For three days I sat through serious drama, heartbreaking tears, asylum-style wailing, and genuine laughter. I talked to strangers – some more dramatic (read: weird) than others. I was deprived of music, and sleep. (Six hours a night just doesn’t even count.) I sat through definitions, theories and experiences. I sat through being scared of everyone in Ontario. I sat through thinking everyone around me was insane. I sat through doodling a name in hearts[ii]. I sat through getting in trouble for doodling a name in hearts. I sat through my own reflections and thoughts. Mostly I sat.

And then it came to me. It dawned on me. It was kind of like waking up on Sunday morning in a momentary panic, and then remembering it’s Sunday, as you roll over and drift back into a sweet, slow Sunday morning sleep[iii]. You knew you knew it in the back of your mind, and in your gut – you just needed a moment to realize it. And it almost makes the Sunday morning sleep even better. Your entire body relaxes, your mind is clear. In that now, everything is perfect – regardless of the day before. 

That’s what it was like – the moment when things clicked. I let go of all my stories. I let myself give up on being right. I let go of things that had happened, and of things that were going to tell the future. Why? Because it’s all so completely ridiculous and silly. And none of it matters. I was told – countless times, that no matter what, I was going to end up in the same hole/drawer/urn as the person sitting next to me (Don – a 52 year-old CEO, who up until that moment had been counting down the days to his retirement so that he could really start living.) It was a funny moment. Don and I looked at one another and even though it might sound morbid, we both realized it was true. It wasn’t morbid at all. It was strangely freeing. Don later turned to me and told me that his answer to that persistent, ‘cute,’ childhood question had always been, “when I grow up I want to have fun.” He promised me he would stop waiting to have fun. It was inspiring.

“Your life is the little dash between the date of your birth and the date of your death.”

I want mine to be a squiggly line.

Today, I didn’t complain about getting up early… although I still hit snooze a few times (hey, I still heart sleep!). I told my family I loved them before I walked out the door. I drove to work car-dancing all the way, more openly than I usually do. I said what I felt. And I even got a smile from the old man who “hikes” the heart of suburbia with a pound puppy attached to his hat. I’ve always known what I want to create in my life – I just didn’t know it’d be this easy.

The best thing since sliced bread is this. And all the other stuff – doesn’t matter. It’s just stuff. 

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[i] Not in the weight sense. Thirty-nine hours of chair sitting paired with a 3-day pasta/sandwich/cookie diet doesn’t really allow for that.

[ii] No point denying it. It’s most definitely a doodling crush.

[iii] Please reference Banana Pancakes for the musical definition of waking up slow. Jack gets exactly what I mean.

Ah, to be young and foolish…

This still applies to me, right? Turning 25, (soon) doesn’t mean I no longer fall under the Young and Foolish category, does it? Because I’m pretty positive I still do foolish things. Sometimes.

Things That Make Me (slightly) Foolish (and young?):

I still put things off until tomorrow – or the last minute possible.[i] I still let my tank drain all the way to “e” before filling up.  I still eat three to four rows of Toffifee, in one sitting (even though I know it’ll result in the ‘rocks in stomach’ feeling – not pleasant). I still screen phone calls I don’t want to take. I still suck at ironing. And changing sheets. I still don’t unpack right away. I still play music in my car at a completely unreasonable/deafening volume. And it still makes me fricken happy. I’m still tempted to eat dessert before dinner. I still secretly like Cootie Catchers – and still secretly think that whatever message I end up with, is somehow significant, to me only.[ii] I still love sharing inside jokes. I still love passing dorky notes. That contain inside jokes. I still pull the Uggs/sweats/mismatched plaid shirt/disheveled hair look – in public. A few people can testify to this. Forehead kisses still make me feel warm and fuzzy. I still turn into a baby when I’m even slightly sick. I still dance and sing in front of my mirror, when no one’s home. I still think wearing “sexy lingerie” as pajamas is stupid.[iii] I still seriously enjoy being the birthday girl. I still prefer my mom’s sandwiches/lunches, to my own.[iv] I still argue with my sixteen year old brother… about sixteen year old things. I still don’t have a “big girl” job. I still sometimes wish for a snow day. I still get sleepy when someone plays with my hair, or scratches my back. I still secretly wish I could finally find a mug/pen/keychain with my ACTUAL name on it. Not the closest version of it – aka Kayla, Kay, Kelly.[v] I still think buying graphic tees is a worthy investment.[vi] I still blush. Frequently.

And on occasion, I still leap before I look…

this would probably be the coolest proposal ever.

 

Ah, to be young and foolish, indeed. I’m not entirely sure I want to give any of that up! Do I really need to? Well, maybe I’ll get that big girl job soon and cross that one off the list, but other than that… – I mean, I don’t particularly think I need to turn the volume down, or that I should no longer belt out tunes into a pretend microphone. Being Adult and Non-foolish kind of sounds overrated. And boring.

I adore fun. Fun things and fun people. I think life is supposed to be fun. And it’s only as fun as you make it. So don’t judge me – Judging Judys of the world, if you see me wearing a wrinkled graphic tee, driving my sound system on wheels (on empty), going on a fishing road trip because a Cootie Catcher told me to. Don’t judge me because this is my method; my answer to the wacky world[vii] we live in.

I think Seal probably sums it up best:

we’re never going to survive… unless we get a little crazy.[viii]

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[i] You’ll never see the never put off until tomorrow what you can do today cliché here

[ii] Par example, I worked at a camp last summer, and of course, was super stoked when one of the kids in my group made one. My message was “This weekend you will go fishing and you will catch lots of fishys.” I thought this was so profound – even though the seven year old who wrote it, definitely did not mean it in a profound way. I took the Cootie Catcher home with me that day and the message is still hanging on my bulletin board.

[iii] How does anyone wear wire, strings, clasps and sequins to bed? Like seriously.

[iv] Um, cucumber sandwiches! Enough said.

[v] The Jennifers, Sarahs and Jessicas of the world seriously take their mugs, pens and keychains for granted. Sigh. But at least I have a Bob Marley song named after me. …well, it’s actually named after marijuana, but I like to pretend.

[vi] You can’t put a price on absolute joy, right?

[vii] Zap! I love onomatopoeia. 😉

[viii] And by crazy, I’m positive he means fun and foolish.

A barrel of monkeys.

“Sooo, how are you holding up?” asks my friend, after skirting the issue for 35 minutes. We’re sweaty, exhausted, and hungry. And it’s an early day tomorrow. Yet none of that matters, really. If this were a photo, the caption would simply read “friendship”. And even though I was just asked a tricky question, I can’t help but smile at my fortune.

I adore my friends. I trust their judgments, I appreciate their stories, and I’m inspired by their energy. I am so very grateful for having amazing, dependable, fun people in my life. I know it’s easy to take things for granted – people, health, and various comforts. So during those moments when I stop to feel my pulse, I also like to remind myself of the people I’m thankful for.

NB: I hate sounding preachy. And/or cheesy. And I realize I’m on the verge of both. But sometimes, I suppose a little bit of cheesiness is okay… 

We all know very well that we don’t get to choose our parents, or brothers/sisters. (Unless we play a hand in adoption?) Anyway. They’re ours, for better or for… better. But woohoo! – we get to choose our friends. Which is big. Over the past year or so, I’ve come to realize that I am in control of who I let into my life – and stay in my life. And that – is an immensely amazing power. Of course, it goes both ways. Deciding whose life I walk into, is a big deal too. Recognizing that immediately eliminates feeling stuck, or bogged down… or being unhappy.

Friendship, in my eyes, is a reciprocal exchange of positive energy. And I’m in love with exchanges of positive energy, way more than with la-dee-da notions of romance and soulmate-y-stuff. (Who am I kidding, I’m not in love with the latter at all). When people talk about falling in love and getting married, the “I just knew” line gets dropped all over the place. If the question “how did you know?” ever came up on Family Feud, I bet you a trillion toonies[1] that the number one answer would be “I just knew.” (I’ve always been slightly skeptical of that answer, to be honest). However – when I cross paths with a wicked-ass, cool fellow human being, who makes me want to listen, share stories and laugh – a lot… that’s when I “just know.” It’s almost instantaneous. The converse is equally true. When you feel even the slightest inkling of “as soon as this course is over, we’ll probably never speak again” – you know an exchange of friendship necklaces[2] will not be happening. And don’t get me wrong! There’s always room for acquaintances! It’s totally cool. They add dimension to the ebb and flow of la vida loca. Social networking is fricken fantabulous.

I’m just talking about the real stuff. The “I just knows” of the platonic spectrum. And at the risk of sounding preachy, I do have to say this: don’t waste your amazing, positive energy on non-reciprocal, negative, stress-ridden and stale relationships. Who needs ‘em? Unless your goal in life is to look good at the cost of being REAL, it’s a waste of time… and well, time. Trust your gut. Always. 

I never hesitate or think twice about investing myself – completely, in inspiring, positive, fun relationships. I’d probably cut off my right arm and wear a hook, for my closest and bestest. To me, that’s the stuff of life. And I’m grateful for all the lovely people I call my friends. It might sound cheesy, but it’s probably not said enough. 

I don’t know exactly how much fun monkeys have in a barrel, but I’m 99.9% sure we surpass that level of fun, every time. Thanks for asking the tricky questions. You kids rock my world, float my boat (more than Timbaland), and you’re most definitely, my cup of tea.

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[1] Relax, this isn’t a skill-testing question. The answer is two trillion. I checked. On Google.

[2] I mean this in a completely metaphorical sense. I’m aware this was a grade six thing. And just like it isn’t cool to use the word ‘crush’ as a 25 year old, it’s probably just as un-cool to be wearing one half of a heart reading “BEST,” hanging on a bath tub chain around your neck. Although, there’s something to be said about giving someone an ivory turtle dove Christmas ornament, which matches your own. That’s kind of a big deal. Kevin knows his shit.

“It’s over,” sung the fat lady.

She told him she was happy for him; that she wished him the best, and that she really wasn’t the type of girl to meddle. She didn’t mean any of it, of course. But she said it was a smile. With a shrug of her shoulders and an air of calm she turned and gave a small wave. She walked away, even though she felt like running.

Smiling the rest of the morning, she went about all her usual tasks. Some more exciting than others, she felt grateful for all the loveliness all around her. Not stopping for longer than a minute, she was glad for the bustle of the day.

She was almost breathless by the time noon came around. She ran out for a coffee – to get an energy jolt, but mostly to feel something else in her heart. She tripped, on her way and into the line. Bumping into someone, she immediately apologized. She felt silly. And foolish. She looked up, collecting herself, and smiled.

           

what are you running from, child?

She hadn’t been called a child in years. She didn’t look like a child. This was odd.

            I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. Can I get you your coffee?

            who said you startled me? i’m not here to get coffee. what are you
running from, child?

            I’m not running from anything. I don’t understand your question.

She looked up at the stranger, who didn’t really seem like a stranger at all. Which of course, was strange.

            I was running into the line. I just want a cup of coffee. That’s all.

            life gets a lot easier once you start saying the things you really mean. and
it also gets harder, at the same time.

She was starting to feel confused. She didn’t know why she was having a conversation with someone she didn’t even know. She smiled at the stranger and said

            I’m sorry. I don’t really know what you’re talking about.

            but you do. you’ve made some good decisions, and some, less so. but
none of them have been bad. they were all right.

            Right. Well, things just sort of turn out they way they’re meant to, I
suppose.

            no. they don’t. they’re still turning, child. nothing is complete. so long as
you’re here – breathing, running and feeling, nothing is over.

Strangely, the words almost reverberated through. She wanted to respond with something equally significant, but couldn’t draw the words. Instead,

            I’m not a child.

            no. but you carry the heart of a child. you’re hopeful and open. and when
you’ve been hurt you stomp your feet and turn your blinders on. you
bump into people, feel guilty for returning to familiar places and run away
from things you think you don’t understand.

She let out a deep exhale. With it, she felt total defeat. She was angry with herself for being so foolish.

            You’re right. My heart needs to grow up. I’m sorry for bumping into you.

The stranger chuckled.

            wrong again. your heart is just the way it should be. stay a moment
longer in your familiar place, it’ll provide the comfort you need. bumping
into someone is sometimes what it takes to remember that you are
surrounded by connections, just waiting to be made. and sometimes,
when you run from something you don’t understand, you’ll
finally see what it truly means to you. and of course, there’s
nothing wrong with stomping your feet – from time to time.

She didn’t know what to say. She wanted to ask him to write it all down for her. So she could read the words, over and over again.

            don’t lose sight of possibility, child. the heart of a child knows
only possibility.

She turned, to pick up her coffee. She put on the lid, and looked over her shoulder. The stranger was gone. How story like, she thought. The crowd had thickened and thinned, all at once. She no longer wanted the coffee. But she drank it anyway. She had forgotten how good it felt to be comforted. Even by something small, and insignificant. Seemingly. 

She walked on, stomping her feet a bit. And she smiled. The first real smile of the day.

An idle mind is the devil’s playground.

Ok, so I’m sure that’s a slight exaggeration. I’m pretty sure satan[i] isn’t swinging on swings and sliding down slides in my idle mind… but sometimes, I definitely think he’s on his way there.

It happens when you’ve got some free time – even just an hour or two, and instead of relaxing and enjoying your time, you lend out your brain to stressful situations and stressful people. I swear to god, sometimes my mind feels like a rent-a-storage-space, where the slogan is ‘COME IN AND DROP OFF ALL YOUR USELESS TRINKETS, BAUBLES AND ASSORTED KNICKKNACKS!’ 

I was driving home the other night, and when I got home I couldn’t remember a) what songs I had just listened to[ii] and b) what route I took. You know what I was busy doing? I was busy trying to calm down satan in my idle mind. I was going over, and over, and over a situation that had already happened. I played the what if this and maybe that game, then switched to wondering about how things would play out in the future, and then decided that maybe if I went over the series of past events ONE MORE TIME, that it would probably lead me to a clear(er) answer. Yeah right. What a fantastic waste of my own energy… what a waste of 20 sweet alone-time minutes during which I could’ve sung my heart out to Goodbye Yellow Brick Road… five times. It’s like once you get on that mind fuck train, it turns into a bloody express that doesn’t make any stops. The train conductor is rude, they don’t serve food or coffee, and the bathroom is in the very last cart. And there’s a line. Everything about it sucks and all you want to know is when/where you can get off. And no, not that kind of ‘get off.’

Here’s the thing: I’m usually pretty good at being present. I know to return to my breath when I start feeling anxious or stressed out. Yoga has taught me well. But man, sometimes when I’m not busy with seven million tasks and I’m not surrounded by chatter and laughter and people, my mind decides to pop in the “Let’s go over this one more time” video and makes me watch it 27 times. Just in case I missed something the last time I watched it. Just in case this time I’m miraculously struck with ingenious insight.

You know what I’m talking about, don’t you? The guy who sends you mixed signals. You could go over his actions and words twelve million times a day and still not get it. You’ll spend time thinking about whether the two of you hugged for longer than is normal, which leads you to think about the average length of a platonic hug versus the average length of a more-than-friends hug. Then you wonder whether he was trying to communicate a secret message via his gaze, when your eyes locked for a few seconds earlier on that day. 

Or, you’re about to have a conversation with someone you don’t really want to talk to, about something you really don’t want to talk about, and you’d seriously rather give up chocolate for the rest of your life than follow through with the conversation. Your mind imagines all types of fantastical and mystical scenarios (most of which are probably completely improbable and ludicrous), then exaggerates, blows out of proportion and essentially equates the impending confrontation to a torture chamber where you’re forced to wake up at 5AM daily, for the rest of your life. Naturally, you’re left dreading the conversation even more. Satan needs to find a new playground because he’s got lame written all over him.

I know we’ve all been there, so I’m going to impart what a wise friend imparted to me. Four Quadrants. Yes, that’s right – I know it sounds like a book Dr. Phil would give publicity to on his show, but what it is, is a simple way of putting things into perspective when you’re on the Mind Fuck Express, and when you want to kick satan and his snaky friends off your jungle gym.

I like to think of it as a mini mental categories game. It (obviously) consists of four quadrants, aka boxes. Each holds a word: controllable, incontrollable, significant and insignificant. And in my head, it looks like this:

Controllable	Incontrollable
Significant	Insignificant

Allow me to demonstrate:

Getting coffee, before work, from Starbucks – is insignificant, in the grand scheme of things. The speed at which the car in front of me is traveling at – completely uncontrollable (unfortunately). Hence, the current situation I am in is completely NOT worth stressing over. I can’t do anything differently, nor does it really matter if I manage to stop at Starbucks before work, or not.

Onto bigger things: the dude sending you mixed signals. At this point, the situation is completely insignificant (again, in the grand scheme of things), yet it IS controllable. You can actually do something about it, if you really want to. You could simply ask him straight out. Easy breezy, right? Well, not if you’re me, because if you recall, I avoid awkward conversations like the plague, BUT the point is that you could easily get off the Mind Fuck Express if you simply sucked it up and asked some candid, egoless questions.

Oh, Four Quadrants. Paired with some sweet yoga classes and you’re on your way to a zen state of mind. I’m proud to say that I’ve been FQing it up lately, and I’m getting better at keeping my mind clutter (and satan) free.

I’m almost deserving of a pat on the back (self-administered, of course).[iii]

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[i] I don’t believe in satan. Talking serpents, little red men with horns and fiery pits of hell all seem like a bit of a gross fabrication to me.

[ii] This, on its own, is a HUGE red flag. If I had the time (and an endless supply of CDs) to make a new soundtrack for every day of my life, you can bet your sweet bum I would. I’m pretty serious about listening to music in my car – I have no qualms about asking my passenger to please stop talking for just a minute so I don’t miss my  favourite song.

[iii] I used to think patting yourself on the back was pretty lame. And I promised myself that if I ever became a teacher I would never utter those words. But upon further consideration, I’ve decided that maybe patting yourself on the back is a big deal. It’s harder giving yourself the credit you deserve, isn’t it? And it never really means as much when someone else compliments you on something – or when someone else “pats you on the back.” Once we finally get to the point, where we can pat ourselves on the back, it’s a sweet, sweet moment of genuine self-appreciation.

Reading between the lines / You deserve better.

Two clichés today = bonus! I find they go together like bread and butter. 

Reading between the lines is exhausting. It should be banned, altogether. It’s not like a tricky yet strangely satisfying game of Sudoku. It’s tricky, but never satisfying, and never complete. In fact, it’s frickin’ exhausting. People should just say it like it is, without leaving things open to interpretation/assumptions/imagination/exaggeration/analysis/etc.

Especially when the subject matter matters.

Now, being on the receiving end of “you deserve better” is also exactly that – exhausting. And that phrase is all about reading between the lines. (Or rather, words.) It’s not a simple phrase; it doesn’t have a clear-cut meaning. You could spend minutes, hours and days analyzing those three words, and still be at a loss with what the Bomb-Dropper really meant by them.

The remnants of the bomb-drop blast:

Are you saying you’re a crappy person? Is it a sugar coated version of “I deserve better”? Do I really deserve better? Are you saying that because you’re seeing someone new and want to let me down easily? Are you just down on yourself? Is it my job to prove to you that you do deserve me?

You might as well drop the “it’s not you, it’s me” bomb. They’re the same thing: a simple-pimple, easy breezy lemon squeezy, way out. I get it – it’s an attempt to seem like the nice guy/girl, who means well. It’s an attempt to tie things up neatly and politely. It’s almost dressed up as a compliment. But news flash: it isn’t one. You didn’t just tell me that my terrible singing is endearing, or that you like the way I write. By telling me that I “deserve better”, you decided that I don’t deserve knowing the truth.

So. I’ll be the typical girl now, and say that you probably do deserve better. In the very least, you deserve not to be left behind, reading between lines and wasting energy on such a meaningless message. Don’t riddle out clichés. Give it straight or don’t give it at all.

Roll with the punches.

I’m a simple girl. Really, I am. I enjoy dorky board games like Settlers and Clue. I enjoy $11 white wine, I’ll go to bed at 9PM on a Saturday night if I need sleep, and I always prefer the book over the movie. I’m not concerned with having a super high income job, I’ve always known I’ll be happier in life doing something that I find meaningful; something I am actually passionate about. I always tell myself, that things are only as simple or as difficult as you make them.

So naturally, by default, I leave no room for drama in my life. Drama, stress, anxiety … they’re all synonyms for Undesirables in my life. I don’t even watch soap operas because by definition, soap opera = DRAMA. (That, and I’m never home during soap opera hours… however while we’re on the topic, does anyone know if anything has changed on Days of Our Lives since 2000?)

How is it then, that drama likes me? That drama follows me around? How is it possible that things end up being so dramatic in my life, that I frequently find myself creatively tailoring my experiences to make them fit in my book? It’s a phenomenon.

To me, Drama is like that grade 2 cling-on you knew, who copied you and followed you around at recess. All you wanted to do, was jump rope and frolic on the field with your friendship necklace best friends, but the annoying one followed you around incessantly, dragging you down by your ankles – reminding you of everything you DIDN’T want to be.

That’s drama. She’s trying to be my friend but I don’t want her in my life. Drama just doesn’t jive with my zen state of being… she doesn’t get that I just love the simple things.

So. Here’s how it’s been rolling for me lately…

People break up after 10, 20, heck, even 30 years and somehow both parties survive (relatively) unscathed. They move on. They don’t stalk each other. I date someone for a few months and as a parting bonus gift, I get an insta-obssessive stalker. How fabulous. A long time ago, I used to think the notion of being “addicted” to someone was sexy. And that it was sign of real, undying, passionate love – AKA fairy tale stuff.

It’s not. It’s a sign of get your effing number changed, ASAP. AKA horror flick stuff.

I googled the dude I went on a few dates with. Not on a whim, either. Drama giggles with glee when I find that he’s been charged with something I can’t even bring myself to write about. Like, is this a JOKE? I would have trusted my life in his hands. I mean, he had made me gourmet meals*[i] – from scratch. He spoke to his grandmother, daily… long distance! All good covers for a shady pastime, I suppose.

Drama thinks it’s comical when I sit awkwardly and uncomfortably in between my new friend[ii] and his girlfriend, on their couch, feeling like a home wrecker, watching a movie I can’t even concentrate on because I’m trying to figure out how I’m going to get myself out of this (so-awkward-it-must’ve-been-scripted) mess without losing my “roll with the punches” cool. It’s so awkward that it’s almost funny.

Sigh. Drama, drama, drama. My friend says that my life is like a movie. She’s right. Sometimes I look around to see if Ashton Kutcher is punking me. (Hey, stranger things have happened. See above for examples).

It’s like I keep getting the green tea latte (yuck) instead of the plain earl grey I actually ordered, because someone, somewhere, has decided that I am a pro at rolling with the punches, so they might as well throw some curveballs at me. Especially when I’m not looking. For kicks.

But really… who am I kidding? I love the ups and downs… it’s fun having a funny story to tell. It’s a good thing I don’t take myself too seriously.

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[i] Seriously gourmet. Par example: lightly pan-seared bass with glazed leeks overtop a butternut squash puree. Oh my gosh – so delicious.

[ii]“Crush.” Is this word still used in our vernacular? More importantly, is it still cool to use the word crush, as a 25 year old? Probably not. I suppose it just has more of an evolved definition now. One not including a pen, lined paper, initials and heart doodles. Somehow, over time, it has become the non-doodling crush.

All that glitters is not gold

No kidding, hey?

Some people know how to package things up into the loveliest of packages – they can shine, glitter, maybe even do a song and dance… but once you open it up: BAM! -it’s just bullshit. 

The Grand Gesture. It’s the stuff of chick flicks, romance novels, and the annoying stories told by the Stupid Girl blindly in love with a Grand-Gesturing Asshole (we all know one). I’ll never get it. And it’ll never mean anything more to me than an attempt to be recognized as a big shot; a great person; a hero. It’s a performance. The Grand Gesture is a public profession of love, a proposal on a jumbotron (shudder), showing up at someone’s door unannounced, bearing red roses, a box of Ferrero Rocher and some other accessory that’s typical. It’s the limo and super fancy restaurant; the ridiculously expensive bottle of wine; the hideous crystal necklace you are never, ever going to be caught dead wearing. All of it. It’s unnecessary. Not to mention unoriginal and well, lame.

I’ll take the small gesture over the Grand Gesture, any day. I prefer an impromptu Hallmark card with a dorky message, an unexpected tea when it’s been a long day (or an impossible morning), the lending of an awesome book, the mix tape – er, CD, or a really, really great hug that lasts a little bit longer than the average one, over fancy shmancy, big and bold moves. 

The non-glossy, non-glittering small things count because they’re personal; they’re real. Anyone can buy a nice bottle of wine, or a sparkly necklace. Anyone can make steak, set a dinner table and light a fricken candle. But, and I’m sure you’ll agree, it would be a lot nicer, and a lot more meaningful, if someone took the time to learn that I don’t like steak, fancy table settings make me feel like an instant klutz, and that I think candles are desperately cheesy *. The only thing a Grand Gesture does for me – is elevate my heart rate. And not in the good way. I literally get nervous if I suspect a “romantic surprise” coming. Why? Because I start worrying about faking a “this is so wonderful!” reaction, and being convincing while doing so. And for those of you who know me, know that I suck at faking. My facial expressions flat out, betray me, every time. That, and I never say the word wonderful. That word is only used by fourth grade teachers, describing fourth grade art.

This isn’t an affront to men, or “romantic” moves. I just don’t believe in a recipe for romance. There’s no such thing as a manual. And for those of you looking for one, you’re on the wrong path, my friends. You can’t force a real connection (no matter how many Grand Gestures you toss around), nor can you ignore one. And from there on end, there are no “right” or “wrong” moves… it’s all in flux. One small step; one cup of tea; one song at a time.

Grand Gestures glitter, sure. But they ain’t gonna make my butterflies fly. Real gold, to me, is found only in the smallest of gestures. Perhaps even inside a non-shining, non-glittering, non-singing/dancing Skittles package full of only orange Skittles. 

* When they’re lit for the SOLE purpose of being “romantic”. Cringe.

Time flies when you’re having fun

Happy 2010!

Sigh, a new year, new resolutions, a new start. Oh, Cliche, je t’aime.

Other than writing “2010” instead of “2009” (and cracking the spine of your brand new Moleskine weekly planner), is there anything else that REALLY changes, solely because and as of Jan 1? Granted, my yoga classes will probably be packed (at least for the next few weeks), and there may even be fewer eff bombs flying around… but as far as I’m aware, the sun was shining just the same today as it was on December 31st. 

Halt! – I’m no cynic, I swear. And I’m not anti-resolutions. Just hear me out.

I think it’s funny – the resolution conversation. People scratch their heads, draw up (typical) resolutions, and then do the whole “so, what’s yours” thing on just this one particular day. Sure, it’s a good excuse, being a new year and all – but it’s pretty much a cop-out. What about the other 364 days of the year? They’re just as good as January 1st. There’s no time to lose! There’s no time like the present! And my favourite: time flies when you’re having fun! People LOVE to say that last one. Actually, they like to sing-song it. Which is okay if you have a good singing voice. And I don’t. So here’s my penny about it.

Time flies no matter what. Life moves fast – every moment. Today is made up of 24 hours, just like tomorrow will be made up of 24 hours. It’s going to fly just the same. Whether you’re stuck at a desk, rocking out to Hanson while on a road trip, or taking walks along the beach (or maybe just writing about it on your lavalife profile), it moves fast. Whatever the moment – good or bad, it’ll pass before you know it. So you’ve got to make the most of every moment – people also love to say. This one I like. (Sincerely like – not the sarcastic like). How, though? I’ve been myself asking that question more and more lately. I think I’ve come up with an answer.

Feel your own pulse. Once you’ve been reminded that you’re alive, (and that you’re lucky as eff for it), the rest will seem okay; it’ll put the small stuff in perspective. And more than that, it’ll hopefully kick your butt into gear. 

Forget the Jan 1 resolution conversation. Nike’s right – just do it! Do something. Today, tomorrow and the day after that. Everyday. Do something that makes you happy; that makes someone you love happy. Do something exciting, adventurous, and yeah, scary. Do something that’ll give you a wicked story to tell. Do something good. Do something cool and amazing and meaningful. Do something that moves you and those around you. 

So yeah. That’s my resolution. I mean, in case you’re wondering. 2010 is going to be about doing. Not just talking.

1. Start blog – check.

PS. Yes, just like everyone else under the sun, I love checking things off my list.