Biceps & Bigots

I see you lookin' at me/like I'm some kind of freak

The one thing that I really liked about my gym – the very same one I frequent on an almost daily basis, is the fact that the majority of its members are quite often too busy staring at themselves to pay attention to anyone else, i.e. me. It was my place to just disappear into the music and choreography to emerge sweaty, red and victorious without worrying what I look like before, during or after my session. I had left my university gym for this one permanently in 2003 when the stark reality of college life hit me: I just couldn’t stand going into the change room to watch my fellow females put on copious amounts of makeup to work out while I did my best to tame my unwashed-uncombed hair into a ponytail with water and 2 super-strength elastics. Now I understand that not all women are like this: there are plenty out there who just want to get in and get out of the gym, do their thing without being ogled by men and sneered at by other women, but to me it seemed that the aforementioned were few and far between at the university and boy did I ever feel ugly and out of place.

Hence – this gym. An avid loyal customer of 6+ years I had happily gone about my business without the slightest hint of disrespect from my fellow gym-goers. I mean, aren’t we all there for the same reason? Well, maybe not the mirror image exact same reason, but similar reasons nonetheless. Anyway perhaps I was just naïve, or blind until recently, as I’ve noticed and been informed that not all gym-goers keep their eyes or mouths to themselves. Let me tell you ladies and gents – you may think you're being cleaver in your insults but your body and eyes give you away.

More than once, twice, three times I’ve walked past women who felt so inclined to make a snotty comment. About what, you ask? Just me. I admit I am a fit female, only because I frequent that very same gym at least 4 times a week to do cardio and weights. The only time I can admit to ‘showing off’ is laundry day when all my pants are unfit to work out in and I must wear my bike shorts to a weight lifting class. Ladies, don’t think I am oblivious to your catty eyes and judgmental facial expressions. I see you looking at me with those “ugh what a show-offy bitch” eyes – but as the song goes, why don’t you do something? I only look fit because I am fit; because I work for it. To me it doesn’t make much sense to chastise someone for working hard and achieving their goals. How does that make achieving yours any easier? I mean, will your bitchiness magically erase 10 pounds of heart-hazardous fat from your body and transplant it on to mine? No – I didn’t think so either. So save your stares for those women out there who truly do not have to exercise for 7 hours a week to maintain their ideal weight and figure and let me exercise in peace.

Don’t worry men; I haven’t forgotten about you. I notice you as well just as I’m sure you notice me. Most men at my gym are quite fine. They are too engrossed in their weights or cardio to pay attention to anything else, or they are busy comparing themselves to bigger, stronger or faster men as a motivational tool to in turn make them bigger, stronger or faster. But there are some of you out there who are cursed with verbal diarrhea, or perhaps Tourettes, which makes you so inclined to say whatever pops up in your brain or somewhere else on your ripped and vicious anatomy. I am not going to repeat what I hear you say, but trust me: I hear it. And I don’t like it. My sole intent and purpose for going to the gym is not to provide you with eye-candy entertainment, a walking visual image you can fantasize about – ‘getting her for one night’ or worse. I understand that the aerobics class that resembles a dance-hall atmosphere is entertaining to watch, but I and the rest of the participants are not doing it solely for your pleasure. No – we’re doing it for our pleasure. The pleasure of movement, of music, of knowing that you’re exercising without feeling like you’re exercising. Yes you can watch us, but seriously; stop standing outside of the studio making comments on how well we’d do after the music stops. It’s not funny – it’s insulting.

This won’t stop me from going to the gym. In fact I’m going tonight. But at the same time it still sucks knowing that the place I once thought to be judgment free – if only because the people who’d judge you were too busy judging themselves – turned out to be just like any other place. I know that it’s human nature to judge but c’mon; at the very least we can keep our judgments to ourselves, lest we be judged and overhear it too.

PS: The only thing that has (almost) stopped me from going to the gym is The American. No he hasn't vanished from my radar just yet. But he is leaving in 3 days...

Merci beaucoup!!

First off I would like to thank God for all the gifts She and He have bestowed on me - namely the brain currently exploding with a mish-mash of pathophysiology medical-medical-bullshit-bullshit - for somehow filtering out the words that you are reading right now.

Speaking of which, I would also like to thank Mr. WriteNow who bestowed on me the lovely award you see above. I haven't been blogging for long, nor have I had such a big audience besides my mom and my girlfriends who only read when they were bored at work, so it is truly truly an honour (I'm not be facitious) to be recognized for my blog in an (internet) full of incredible, note-worthy, publish-worthy, thought-worthy, laugh-worthy blogs that have come before and will come after lil' old mine.

And as a recent recepiant of the thinking blogger award, it is my absolute pleasure to introduce you to 5 blogs that make me stop, think, smile, recoil, laugh, cry, and everything in between. BUT first of all I must must say - it was exceptionally hard picking just 5, as each and every blogger that I have on my roll has made me think. Luckily most of them have already been honoured!!

DT: the life and times of a twenty-something --> Not too long ago I was found by DT, or did I find him? Either way, DT's was the very first blog I was hooked on when I started Life In The City. His writing style was fluid and poised but down-to-Earth and funny - like I was having a weekly coffee with an old friend, each of us catching up on the others lives. DT's one of the good guys, at least in my opinion, and he's intelligent and funny and a fantastic story-teller. Although he may not post as much as I want him to- when he does it is worth the wait.

The Exception --> There is truly only one word I can use to describe this blog: Incredible, but imagine me saying it with a French accent, it is that good. Like dark chocolate and red wine good. The Exception makes me think - on topics I ponder about on a daily basis, and more importantly, on topics I never would have imagined thinking about. I think she is a teacher and if so I wouldn't be surprised, for I learn something or am inspired to learn something from every post of hers that I have had the pleasure of reading.

Calling it Carpe Diem --> The first 'local' blog that I was drawn in to; I can't really explain my attraction to this blog, besides the authors honesty in her writing and her ability to draw you into a story, even if it's just about steak or those glorious sleepovers we as girls get to experience. I've never met her, probably won't, but more likely than not passed her non-chalantly on the streets of our city - but through her writing she could very well be your best friend.

Ruby: Destination Unknown --> Straight and funny and to the point - Ruby's posts are as thoughtful as her comments that she leaves in yours. I was drawn in by her humour and stayed for her honesty and haven't looked back. I have a feeling that she's already been mentioned, as she should be, so it's not that I have less to say about you Ruby!!!!

Beth: Pink Lace and Pearls --> It was her last post that really really made me think (and as bloggers it's a question I am glad she raised), but to be fair, I was hooked on her blog because it made me think and inspired many a post from yours truly. I love it when I read and am inspired and on more than 1,2,3 occasions Beth has done this for me - and on those days when you have no idea what to write but just feel the need to write, her insights are a welcome ray of sunshine.

On that note - I enjoy each and every single blog that is on my roll, so if you see one that isn't on yours go read! I can't remember who I found first, I think it was brandy, but that's how I've managed to find all the blogs I read on an almost-daily basis. HOWEVER before I go, because there is always a however, Kyla Bea just started her newest blog (I think) - and I believe that given more time, I'd bestow on her the thinking blog award. GO read!

Something it's not

I can only give you everything I've got...

Last Friday, yesterday in fact, I was at work - a company that I've been a part of for the better of three years. During my time here I've had the pleasure of meeting some incredible people - some people that I still keep in touch with despite them leaving for bigger and better opportunities. Last summer I was introduced to my still-co worker now, let's call her "Rebecca", and she and I became fast friends. We thought alike, spoke alike, had the same interests, same sense of humour, hell even similar pasts (THAT was the freaky part). Anyways Rebecca and I soon exchanged cell phone numbers and had many a lunch date that reflected our similar interests and the friendship seemed to be off to a swimming start.

The introduction to other new co-workers, 1 in particular, let's call her "Addie" made for some interesting conversations, ideas and of course, outings. One night in the summer, I'm guessing it was sometime back in August or maybe September... I'm guessing August as it was still warm enough to go out clubbing without jackets and I wasn't buried under a mountain of schoolwork. Anyway one night in the summer, after Addie and I and my friend Chris had been drinking since around 5:15 pm - we ended up at a bar in the heart of the Market. It was the same night that ended with me being followed by the handsome stranger from Montreal that I had been dancing with on-and-off during the night; some parts were getting pretty hot, others not so much. It was a crowded dance floor, I was drunk, and having a good time. So was Addie, who managed to get drinks from almost every single available man on the floor. Rebecca had arrived late and as such was nowhere near as tipsy as the rest of us were, and since she is engaged she declined to, well, engage, in the flirtation game that Addie and I were so enjoying.

The night ended and we all went our seperate ways - but back at the office when our co-workers who declined to join us asked for details, they were stymied with our pact of "If you weren't there; you weren't there" - kind of like "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas".

That is.. until Friday at lunch.

I can't even recall where and how this night came up, but near the end of lunch after we had regalled some tame moments of the night, Rebecca thought it to be funny to look me straight in the eye and say "I saw Carrie give this guy a lapdance".

I could feel the fire in my cheeks turn my brown skin red as the entire table of co-workers, many of which I respect and respected me (punctuation on purpose) turned in shock and surprise, their eyes searching for an explination or an adament rejection of something so terrible coming from such a sweet girl as myself. I took a breath and paused - unable to recall the specifics of the evening with the weight of embarassment crushing my shoulders and my chest. In fact I don't think I even had the mindset to defend myself as I was so shocked that Rebecca, someone I had considered one of my friends moreso than co-workers, would so publically and openly paint me with a scarlet brush.

Knowing that I had mere seconds to defend myself I admitted that I did dance with the guy; he was a good dancer. We danced most of the evening. And I do remember grinding with this guy - and I do remember that one moment he was standing and the next he was sitting; but we were still dancing and his hands were still on my hips. But the way that she said it made it seem, and the looks on my other co-workers faces support my interpretation of her interpretation, that I was practically naked and straddeling him, front to back, on a high-rising stage, suggestively moving my hips and body just for his pleasure and enjoyment. I don't know about you, but when someone says 'lapdance' I picture something along the lines of a strip club with a practically naked professional grinding front and back, stuffing some man's face into her ample clevage where he leaves dollar bills. And let me tell you - that was NOT what happened.

I was dancing with him. That is all. It was a crowded and packed dance floor with little space to breathe, let alone dance. It was around 1:00 am, so we were tired. I remember my legs hurting and being grateful to sit for a little bit - it just so happened to be on his CLOTHED lap. But that's not what Rebecca, and now the rest of the company, thinks. Now I'm a whore, or at the very least, less respected than I was before.

And for that - I'm insulted. I'm insulted that Rebecca, someone I had considered to be more of a friend, would embarass and insult me so publically and so non-chalantly, like it was comperable to proclaiming what colour my shirt was that day. She did it without a moments hesitation; knowing that her interpretation and her delivery was both excessive and painted a far worse picture of yours truly than what the truth revealed. And, of course, how this will inevitably degenerate into me turning tricks on the guy on stage completely naked, and then going home with him, and me waking up with 400$ next to the bedside.

Half of me wishes to get even; for my little 'show' as she puts it is nowhere NEAR as slutty as her on Halloween - slutty enough to get her fiance mad enough at her.. mad enough to leave the bar with her jacket and keys... all without telling her. Slutty enough for her to destroy all the pictures of her, the majority of them capturing her signature dance move of bending over to anything and anyone. Slutty enough for her to be on Facebook, tagged as the "naughty nurse" with her leg around strangers, guys and girls, without hesitation.

But the other half of me ... doesn't. 2 wrongs don't make a right, and although Rebecca chooses to be my very own US magazine, telling stories with partial truths to get the attention and fame she desperately needs... it's not my style for me to do it to her, or anyone for that matter. I don't judge; the very next day after her tryst at the bar on Halloween I met her for a day of shopping as she didn't want to deal with her fiance; I continued to go out with her for a few drinks here and there; I participated in her Secret Santa exchange; I booked her graduation dinner; hell, I even gave her a free week of tanning at my former roommates place of employment. And this is how she shows her friendship to me, by bad-mouthing me with half truths to my peers?

I decided to keep my mouth shut in and outside the lunchroom - shaking my head and rolling my eyes. I tried my very best to not get bent out of shape for a night that happened almost 9 months ago when clearly, without going into detail, there were others in the room, Rebecca included, who acted worse than I at company functions - not something on their own personal time. And I will not share the story of Halloween to anyone else but her if I decide to confront her for Friday's lunch; I take no pleasure in telling other peoples stories and spreading rumours and lies - because if you do that too often, soon enough you'll run out of people to have stories to tell about.

But herein lies the question: do I confront her, and if I do, what do I say? How do you tell someone that they've betrayed you, that what they said - although it was in public and yes they did see it, was both uncalled for and particularily cruel... Something you would expect from an acquaintance that you didn't really get along with as supposed to someone you consider a friend?

I think that the fact that I even have to confront her - that this has to happen, is what's making me so sad. I guess I'm not used to friends doing that to each other.

At Dawn

(Photo: Corbis)

… this is not what I do, it's the wrong time, for somebody new

I was thinking about The American after not seeing or talking to him for days. He was constantly on my mind – like a shadow on my conscience you know is there but can’t quite catch as it disappears from your view. The initial shock and awe was wearing off, the romantic ideas of being swept away and cared for falling back to the reality of my future and what plans I had made and ideals I want to live up to. But the way that he was in my thoughts wasn’t as I expected. There was no rhyme or reason for me to be thinking of him – I just was. And that got me to wonder, was this the famous ridiculous, inconvenient, consuming, can’t-live-without-each-other sensation that Ms. Bradshaw was talking about? But more importantly was the question, do I even want it?

When I take a step (or 5) back to contemplate this entire situation the attraction that I have to The American and the attraction that he has to me is completely irrational. I have no idea who he is, what he does, how he is, where he is going, what he wants or how he plans to get it. He met me a week ago and already has planned our entire future together and is ready and willing, and has even put into motion moving to my city. He claims that I am “the One” to me, to my friends, to anyone who would listen. And when I found that out – reality hit. The romantic ideal, the movie-script come to life feeling quickly fell into the familiar sense of fear that I have of men who, at the beginning, place you on a pedestal only to one day place you in a cage. When viewed through the lens of scientific rationalization – The American seems to be a man who would use my compassion against me and my need for love as a way to control me.

Perhaps I am being paranoid – but in this day and age of the dating/relationship game you have to be. The lines that defined a relationship that were once clearly drawn have been blurred or even erased by the actions of both men and women who were either in a relationship, in an affair, or hell in both. Apparently the term ‘boyfriend/girlfriend’ may not always mean exclusivity… I mean, I had to spell out for my friends what ‘seeing – dating – relationship’ meant to clarify that I wasn’t a whore. Sure; I admit that I told The American that I wasn’t getting married. I’m not. But that doesn’t mean that I am fair game to any and all potential suitors that got it into their heads that this Manolo-lite is "the One". Now my interest in the opposite sex is for friendship and friendship alone; I shouldn’t have to stop being my polite, friendly and funny self to men just because there are some out there who cannot control their raging emotions, or those men out there who believe that if a pretty girl is nice to you it is actually an invitation to get in her yoga pants.


I have a boyfriend. I know I wrote about taken-attraction in a tongue-and-cheek fashion, but now with The American it went from being funny to being ridiculous. The American knows that I have someone in my life – someone special, someone I know, someone I (will again) trust, someone I care deeply for and who cares deeply and truly for me. As romantic and adventurous and exciting as it would be, at least in my mind, to run off with The American – my body says differently. It says ‘hell no!’. I don’t know about you, but I believe that your body is the most beautiful thing you will ever possess in your entire life, save for that awesome pair of Christian Louboutin shoes. I say this because I found my mind being tricked into this imaginary Hollywood-story while my body stayed steadfast in its ‘no way nuh-uh not while I’m warm and alive’ opinion. As the song goes, my hips don’t lie and I’m starting to feel nervous.

My instructor friend and her boyfriend gave The American the old "If you love/care for something let it go" speech, which got me thinking; if you never really had something, how can you let it go? Granted The American had me going for a while – that is, until I left to see Vegas on Sunday. I admit I thought of The American during my visit with Vegas – but when I compared the two side by side, Vegas won the battle hands down.

The only positive thing that I have realized throughout this entire ordeal with The American is that although Vegas and I had and will have our issues… Vegas is actually a decent guy. His level of jealousy and possessiveness has not crossed over to the dark side – He’s attentive without being overbearing, he’s interested without being obsessed, and he’s eager without being controlling… that is, unless I want him to be. I understand that I could have another man in minute but a guy like Vegas, a guy willing to admit over and over that he messed up and is walking the walk of action to prove he’s sorry… that kind of guy isn’t so irreplaceable. As charming and wonderful as The American has made himself out to be - he's actually taught me - or brought to my attention, inadvertantly - that Vegas is one of the good ones, which I guess means I am one of the lucky ones.

Even if I have men falling at my feet.

Into the Fire

... from one extreme to another

I'm going to school. University, I guess. Granted I am nowhere near Virginia, nor was I nowhere near Dawson College back in September. I am in no way, shape or form related to Virgina Tech or Dawson College, save for living in Montgomery County back in the 90s. But I am a student - I am a part of the university and college community here,there and everywhere.

And I'm going to school.

Back in September my college issued a statement regarding the Dawson College rampage, saying that they had a contingency plan in case of emergencies like this. Which got me thinking then and now - after waking up to the news on the radio, on the television, on the front covers of the Citizen, Sun, Metro, and 24 (hours & heures)... how sad it is that in 2007 we even have to have a plan in place for the potential of mass murder in an institution for higher learning. It just doesn't make any sense to me...

But I have an exam to write today - much like those students did too. And I am not going to let the images and talk of fear prevent me from getting my degree... or getting anything else in life that I really want. So I am going to school; and I am going to the gym; and I am going.

I hope you are too.

Dazed and Confused

Whenever I’m caught in the middle of a predicament like this, or whenever I really needed some alone time; time to think and sort out my thoughts, I used to go to the gym. I mean, I pay for it every 2 weeks so might as well use it. This particular gym, more specifically the classes it runs, was the place I went to after Vegas and I ended our engagement – it kept me moving when my world fell apart and gave me a sense of purpose, enough to get me out of bed and to work. And now, 3 years later, I am a fully fledged addict. I’ve met many of my friends and acquaintances through the gym, and I’ve brought along and addicted many of my friends to the exercise classes and ambiance of the gym-going world. Basically, it was home away from the hospital.

However with the arrival of The American… I’m finding it difficult to go. Since the last time we spoke, conveniently at the gym, it seems as if every single word that rolls out of his mouth makes it so hard for me to step inside a once familiar and welcoming environment - like entering your childhood home after it's been sold and remodeled by perfect strangers. A part of you knows that it is the same building; the same structure, the same memories; but a part of you knows that something is missing.

Let me explain; last night I saw The American - saw, not spoke - briefly in between my classes. I had left for the evening and spent a little time meandering around the mall until I realized that I had left my necklace somewhere in the change room. Now this particular necklace, although picked out by Philippe and purchased by my mother, has significant sentimental value to me. It is a teardrop moonstone and both the shape and particular stone is very difficult to find; it truly is one of a kind. The problem is I had managed to avoid speaking to The American that evening, only because I was still in shock and awe to his very existence – and the fact that I had spoken to Vegas not 2 hours ago about my impending visit. Perhaps I felt guilty, or nervous, or both, however the outcome was still the same: I didn’t know what to say or how to act. But knowing that my necklace had mere hours to sit before someone with a keen eye and fabulous taste in jewellery decided to make it their own I had no other choice but to go back. So with a deep breath and cautious step, I re-entered my gym to retrieve my necklace.

The American was sitting at a table outside of the yoga studio – which just so happens to be right beside the entrance to the ladies locker room. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him watch me walk down the stairs, so an all-out avoidance tactic was completely out of the question. He was surprised to see me back – he didn’t expect me to return, although I instantaneously clarified that it was for my necklace. I asked him why he was seemingly waiting, as he was neither jumping rope nor lifting weights, and he said that he was going to dinner with my instructor friend after yoga. He asked if I would stay for a chat after retrieving my necklace, and under the impression that he was waiting for my friend, I agreed to sit with him for the remainder of the class.

I wish I hadn’t.

The American started the conversation by asking me how my day was. Fine, I thought, as small talk between strangers that is usually a good place to start. He began to drop hints as to what he actually does as a job – not that I can explain what he does. (I’m not being coy. Honestly I have no idea what he does). He mentioned that, at 31 and in the service since 19, he was beginning to get the urge to settle down as so many of his colleagues were doing. The work he does is dangerous, at least from the bits and pieces he’s told me, and as much as it is his ‘honour’ to serve his country, if he found the right woman he would stop. He would give up the service, the one thing he loved in the world for a woman… And apparently that woman is me.

I turned away at that point and took a deep and audible breath. After meeting some men in the military I could somewhat understand his eagerness to remove himself from the dangers of service and the anonymity of his existence. I can only guess that living an extraordinary life for so long, the urge of normalcy when presented is too much to dismiss so quickly. However it was still rash; I mean, The American had just just met me, and now he was willing to give up his career and life for a girl he scarcely knows? To me it just didn’t make any sense: I mean, what would he do? And more importantly, and I had to ask this question, what makes him think I want that?

To that he responded “Picture this” and as I closed my eyes The American started to tell me a story… about how he'd take care of me from the second I walked in the door after a long day at work. How I’d walk in the door, tired beyond belief, and drop my purse to the floor, but before it even touched the ground he would catch and carry it, and me, and bring me to the living room. On the way I’d see the dinner table – perfectly laid out for a meal he’s prepared; The American would remove my shoes and socks and proceed to rub my feet as I talk about my day. Knowing that I was hungry but exhausted he would give me a strawberry smoothie to satisfy me before carrying and putting me in a milk bath to relax away the tension in my body. After dinner we’d then go for a walk before going to bed, only for him to wake up before me to prepare my breakfast and coffee and have it ready for me to go. He finished the story, or I guess I should say fairy tale, by proclaiming that he would do that for me every single day.

At this point I can barely open my eyes in fear that at any moment tears would begin to fall… so instead with my eyes closed I asked him “Won’t you get tired of it?”. I don’t know about you, but I’ve had boyfriends in the past who would make me dinner and breakfast and sit with me and talk about my day – but that usually ends once the honeymoon phase is over and the reality of fights and priorities seep into the time once occupied by romance. Also it was those very same boyfriends who seemed to only do those things for me as a way to ‘bank’ favours back in return, or hold it against me when I was unwilling to give in to their demands. Perhaps I am extra cynical after my ordeal with Philippe, but when it comes to relationships I’d rather have nothing if something is demanded in return. When I give to the one I love – no matter what – I don’t ever expect anything in return. But every man I’ve been with, I guess with the exception of Vegas, had an ulterior motive to giving me something, be it gifts, dinner, or otherwise… so I learned to live with nothing to avoid having a previous deed or favour given to me held over my head.

The American, however, proved me wrong. “No” he said, shaking his head while looking at me with sad eyes, not out of pity, but true sadness. “You never get tired of treating the one you love right.”

As I sat there in silence he continued to speak – “Listen Carrie; I know you just got back with this guy and you haven’t even been with him for a second, so I won’t come between you two. It’s just that… as my grandfather said, you will think that you are so cool, but then along comes that one woman who will make your body shake and your soul nervous… and you do that to me. But it’s like that song, ‘Hey Lover’. I’m not going to do anything… I’ll let you be – but I’ll be waiting. If he doesn’t treat you right, give me the chance to show you how good it could be.”

The class ended right on time. My instructor friend stepped out of the room, surprised to see me and The American there. After helping me with my coat and chatting with some friends, all three of us together exited the gym. My friend invited me to grab a bite afterwards, but I shook my head no, still unable to speak – my mind still processing what I had heard and imagined courtesy of The American. So I watched the two of them walk to the food court as I climbed the escalator I shook my head in wonder, moving in slow motion towards the bridge to walk home, asking myself if this was indeed my reality.

And then in my pocket I felt a vibration. Startled out of my dreams I reached into the pocket of my pink coat to retrieve my now loudly-ringing phone, wondering who could be calling me so late in the evening.

It was then when the tears finally fell from my eyes, for the person who was calling me was Vegas.

At Dusk

For somebody new, it's a small crime, and I got no excuse. Is that alright?

(Photo credits: Ottawa Tourism)

It was a chance encounter. One of those moments you believe only exist in movies; an extraordinary event that somehow emerged from an ordinary day. And if you’re me, on a day when you haven’t showered since last night or washed your hair since Saturday. But it happened – and as the cliché goes, a moment in time can change your life forever.

I was at yoga one cold spring/winter evening - my usual lovely way to end a long and draining few days of class, internship and work. In the middle of the class, and in fact in the middle of my reverse triangle pose I saw out of the corner of my eye the door open and a man step in. Startled by the presence of 10 women twisting their body in unimaginable positions he apologized and left only to linger around the studio jumping rope. So focused on my poses and the peaceful pain that power yoga brings, I and the rest of the class thought nothing of it.

The class concluded and as I was packing up and leaving to go he entered the room to apologize again for barging in, except he was apologizing to me. Confused I looked over at the instructor who was coming up next to me (we are friends) and the three of us had a little conversation in which I ended up saying that he should just come in and do the class next time. And some how, some way that line started a seemingly endless conversation. At first I was standing towards the door, the next I was away from the door, then I was stretching, and then I was on the ground stretching – all while talking without pause or breaks with this mystery man. An American soldier in Canada for one month, this well cut, well mannered and well spoken gentleman and I conversed for almost an hour until he asked me the crucial question – where downtown was good to eat.

At this point I think nothing of it – Once myself a stranger in a strange land it is not uncommon for one to reach out to another who is currently in a familiar situation as once you wished someone would have done for you. I had this overwhelming feeling that he had something to say to me, so after a brief pause I let my subconscious decide and said yes to his invitation.

Now unfortunately for me and for most people around me I was in no shape to go out in public – class and the gym doesn’t count. We walked out of the gym to the street and as I tried to juggle my purse, gym bag and coat while putting said coat on, he offered to hold my bag and even carry it while I slipped on the jacket. Again I thought nothing of it, other than it was kind of him to do so. That is, until he opened the door for me, managing to beat me to the handle of the door every single time. Even when I reached for the opposite door to the one he was entering he would let go and grab the door that I was going through, saying ‘please’ as if to ask for the extreme pleasure of opening my door.

Now as a modern Manolo-lite, this of course caught me off guard. The American noticed this and asked ‘what, are you surprised when someone does something romantic?’ and honestly I am. I think it’s romantic when someone gives me a seat on the 95. The American laughed as if I was joking, which clearly I wasn’t when I didn’t return the laughter. ‘Seriously?’ he asked, half confused and half insulted. ‘Seriously.’ He shook his head as he followed me to the table with a disappointed tone in his voice. Clearly I was in for a surprise.

Before I go any further I wish to reiterate a few things to my readers: I informed The American that I was with someone; I informed him that I do not like seafood; and by my actions and future plans The American knew that I was independent, strong and didn’t need anyone to do anything for her. But that didn’t stop him from treating me like a lady in a very Old Great Britain fashion; ordering for me, listening to me, respecting me, complimenting me… And most shocking paying close attention to every little thing I did. I don’t ever think in my entire (albeit short) life have I ever had someone be so attentive to my every action or verbal/nonverbal cue as this American.

If that wasn’t enough to surprise me, the questions he followed with were. ‘So tell me’, he said, ‘Why is it that you don’t have men falling at your feet?’. ‘What?’ I replied with both my words and my facial expression, completely caught off guard by this bold and outlandish statement. To be perfectly honest with everyone, I believe myself to be a pretty average looking person. I am somewhere in the bell curve of statistics proven time and time again – nothing stunning, nothing revolting. Apparently the American thought different. He wasn’t necessarily commenting on my looks, which I may remind you that I had not washed my hair in 4 days, EVEN when going to the gym for some hard-core cardio, and my clothing selection was determined by whatever was on my floor and clean at the time. No, he was commenting on my personality; the very same personality he had met not 2 hours ago and that’s what was so attractive to him – Attractive enough, apparently, to divulge his desire to take things slowly, get to know me, get to love me, care for me, support me, be the man, the knight in shining whatever that every little girl dreams of… that I apparently dream of. Oh, and to fly me to Europe for a weekend to see him if I so wish, and if I was uncomfortable staying in his home in the States put me up in a hotel.

It was here where I thought I would faint only to wake up on my futon with my glasses on the floor, the television still on and mounds of unread/unwritten papers still dangerously overdue. Could this really be happening to me? Could the very image of a gentleman, an older gentleman whisking me away to my happily ever after even possibly be remotely true?

In complete and utter shock and awe I sat there - and apologized. I figured that through my Good Samaritan actions of a familiar face in a strange land I had mislead this American into thinking that I was his dream girl; His princess perfect. I told him that I was with someone and that I never meant to mislead him – And that I, like the rest of the twenty-something girls of my generation, had given up on the idea of a knight in shining whatever. I mean, neither of us are in to flings and he wants to continue talking to me instead of fucking-and-forgetting me… And throughout the night he continuously made it clear that he had no intention of bringing me to his bed. NO, he was more interested in rubbing my feet and then making me dinner and going for a walk to talk about my day.

I had to stop him then and there. Why, you ask? Well… Have you ever had something you thought didn’t exist suddenly appear only when you couldn’t possible have it? I couldn’t say it at the time because I thought I was caught in some sort of rift in time and space… and I was no longer sure if this vision of a perfect life remained my vision of perfect life. I mean… The American is a man looking for his Mrs. The mother of his children. His forever-and-a-day lady. At almost 10 years older than I it is his time to settle down and be with one person and one alone. But for me, at 22 and still in school? I don’t believe my time has come for the white-picket fence with my children running around after the dog in the backyard as I gaze from my kitchen while making supper for my husband. Seriously; I am not slaving through my program and at work to pay for it to become someone’s trophy Stepford wife. I have dreams. I have goals. I believe I have to do something with my life, let alone my degree! But I must admit – there is not one woman alive who doesn’t want to be swept off her feet by a strong, brave, capable man… but if she is literally swept off her feet she can no longer walk towards her own destiny; she can only be carried to another’s.

I believe in my heart of hearts that The American can and would take me away to a happily ever after… His happily ever after. But I can’t help but wonder if I go down this path, what will happen to my happily ever after? What about what I am supposed to do with my life? Am I to forget everything that I have and will work so hard to achieve? How is it possible that in order to get what I want I have to give up, well, what I want?

Not to mention that The American is only in town for a month, so there is always the idea of an expiration to this opportunity. I may never see him again or encounter someone like him again and I would have missed out on a Hollywood love story, an affair I would remember forever in letters to my grandchildren, or I guess in this day-and-age, printed out copies of this blog. Not to say that I would regret anything – Forget regret. Life is too short, and too long for that matter for any of that. The problem with a movie-like romance is that in a movie you know how it’s going to end; the script is already written, the actors paid in advance and the edit room ready to fix all flaws and unfit scenes. In life, while some may believe our history has already been recorded, there is no fast forward button or edit mode. So I don’t know what’s going to happen – but I know it will.

And I’ve never felt so alive.

Red Fridays

On the road again...

I don't know if I mentioned this, but Angelica's fiance, Joe, is in the army. Not too long ago I received an email from Angelica, which is normally a happy moment of distraction in my otherwise dull and work-laden existance. Anyway it was an email saying that Joe had just received his 'posting' if you must - where he will be stationed until their wedding. And let's just say that from where he is now and where he will be, it's a bit too far for comfort - Angelica's and mine.

I've known quite a few people who have enlisted in the army, and I'm sure that everyone who reads this does as well. I don't have to rehash the wonderful sacrifices these brave men and women gladly make for the glory and love of their country and her allies, but what about the ones they leave behind? Perhaps I am biased because Angelica and I are a part of those the ones we love leave, but every member of family - whether it be biological, friendship or just plain old indescribable (read; Angelica & I) - is affected. Not only does it mean that Joe will be far away until the wedding, or that my dear friend, let's call her Marilyn, leaves for training in just under a week for her 'mission' - it means that Angelica and I will join the sisterhood of the ones they left behind.

Oh - that and after the wedding in the summer, she'll be relocating to that far away place until... well, until they're stationed somewhere else. Meaning that within the space of a year I'll be watching 3 of my greatest girlfriends leave this city to follow their dreams and begin their new lives.

And that makes me so sad.

Before I met them - I got along just fine. Well no, I lie, but I also didn't know any better. And now that I have met them I couldn't get along with out them - I can't imagine my life without them. Sure phone calls and emails and mail-love is just great - but there is just something about sleepovers, 2 am junk food runs, showing up at Angelica's falling down drunk just to manage to sober up before going to the bar, sitting in Christie's car for hours upon end talking about absolutely nothing, managing to pick up just where Marilyn and I left off as if we had seen each other every day of our lives... those somethings just can't be replaced. And I wouldn't want them to be - because those girls are irreplaceable.

I know I wrote about the awkwardness of being the Fifth Wheel (which I am sure we have all or will all experience in our lives) last time I mentioned my girlfriends, but really in the end that one night doesn't matter, or at least pales in comparison to all the love that we've shared, all the memories we've salvaged through pictures, and all the cards and gifts that are strewn across our rooms as constant reminders of the impact we've had on each others lives.

It's always painful when loved ones leave - even when you're lucky enough for them to be just a plane ride away. But you worry for them - Will they be safe? Will they find new friends? Will they forget the old ones? Will you forget them? I highly doubt that Angelica and Christie will ever be erased from my memory (or my hard drive) and I know that our friendship is strong enough to survive anything but... I guess all of you out there with girlfriends as special as these ones will understand the sensation that when they leave, it feels as if 1/3 of you is missing.

But at the same time - if you love something or someone, you let them go - and even if they don't ever permanently come back to where you were, to where Angelica, Christie and I used to be, I know they'll always be mine. Just like I'll always be theirs.

The Name Game

"I have given you my soul... leave me my name."

It's a big question - one that has followed women ever since the Sexual Revolution. I first heard it in grade 6 - my science teacher, Mrs. K, introduced herself to us as Mrs. because it was too much work and way too much of a hassle to fill out the paperwork before the ceremony. This question is - of course - "Will you take your husbands name once you're married?".

In my circle of friends this question was never brought up - maybe because (for my friends) we're all 22 and marriage is the furthest thing from our minds. Maybe because we're too busy asking pertinant questions, like which dress should I wear for which formal, or where did my other shoe go, or the ever popular necklace/no necklace problem we all run in to. But maybe because all of our mothers, mine, Mackenzies, Angelicas, Christies, Nicoles and countless others - are Mrs. Every boyfriend I've ever had - his mother is a Mrs. Grandmothers too. It seems as if Mrs.' are everywhere, an inescapable future if a girl chooses to get married.

Not to say that is a bad thing - my mother says her married name often and with pride. Vegas' mother responds lovingly to my 'hello Mrs. ___' as have every mother I've addressed who took her husbands name. But when I was discussing this with Vegas and with anyone who has asked me - I am of the opinion that I should never have to take my husband's name so much as to choose to take his name - and if called Mrs. by an unsuspecting person, be able to correct them with the salutation of "Ms." followed by my last name. Not maiden name, not fathers name. My name.

For as long as I've been out in public alone - not under the shadow of my brother or with my family - teachers, friends, colleagues and others have always called me "Ms." - jokingly and seriously. With the exception of French - the term "mademoiselle" for a young lady and '"madame" for a married woman - I have been and plan on forever being, Ms. And apparently that is a problem - at least, it has been for past boyfriends and lovers and their families.

I remember one time with Philippe - I was discussing with him the potential of getting a new hockey jersey with a player's name on the back. He said i "You know what would be really hot? If you got (his last name) on the back". To which I replied "No, why the hell would I do that?". "Why not?" He asked, insulted that I would dare to reject his name. "Well", I replied, "a) You don't play for the team, b) I'm not your wife and don't plan on being your wife and c) It's not my name. If I were to get my name on the back of MY jersey it would be MY name and no one elses". Clearly this started a fight, but really - when were we not fighting?

But most recently it has been with Vegas. When I mentioned the previous story and how I'd never take on someone elses name - at most I would hyphen but still sign legal documents Ms. - he too didn't understand this. Now my stance on the Ms. subject has not changed since we were dating back in high school. When I reminded him of this, he responded "Well, I thought you would have changed your mind."

Isn't that some men in a nutshell?

I get that in Vegas' family it is 'tradition' for the wife to take the husbands name. My mother did it - my grandmother did it- and I'm pretty sure my great-grandmother did it too. However, this is 2007: and I've never been good at following, or at least, I've managed to follow until I can lead. As much as I adore Vegas' family - I am not willing to forego my family of origin if Vegas' doesn't have to as well. Gone are the days when the wife was a piece of property to be exchanged between one man and another. Isn't it now "husband and wife" instead of "man and wife", implying maybe a hint of equality? So why the name game? Why is it when I chose to keep my own name after being able to chose if and whom I marry do I come out as the bad guy?

In a relationship I understand that I will eventually have to compromise. A lot. Kids, 'home', education, hell even religion - meaning I'd accept yours but never convert from mine. But my name stays. For me - my name is my identity. It is the one thing in this world that defines me and my accomplishments - my struggles, my past, my achievements, my potential. Why would I willingly give up my greatest sense of independence in exchange for the title of 'someone's'?

I retorted back to Vegas, to Philippe, to each man I've dated: "Take my name" - and boy oh boy were they insulted beyond belief. Laughter, pity-looks and dismissals galore. "Degrading, isn't it?", I replied, "that you'd take my name." So why am I supposed to be overjoyed at the potential of gaining a mans name when the shoe is on the other foot is it the most degrading concept ever heard by the ears of men?

There is one woman I know who is a Ms. It's Chris' mom. I called her Mrs. by mistake the first time I met her - she kindly but firmly corrected me as Ms. and I have never made that mistake again. She is easily one of this country's most powerful women - intelligent, successful, not to mention really hot for a mother twice over. She has a better body than I do! But what makes her so incredible is that she is everything: a wife and mother, a success in her career and her life, and she did it all as Ms and not Mrs. She is the epitamy of what I believe is the update to the saying - "Behind every great man is a great woman". Chris' mom is "Beside every great man is a great woman" - not his Mrs. but his Ms.

And I can definately live with something like that.