Say Goodbye

Heading homeward, but tell me what becomes of us?

Last night I said goodbye to The American. We had spoken some words few and far between since the last time I saw him - My friends and others had reiterated to The American that I was a taken woman and my dwindling presence at the gym hinted at a nervous mind and an uneasy heart. I had made up my mind to be with Vegas - and not just anyone, not even this old-school romantic soldier could sway my decision. But I admit there was still something about him that made my breath laboured and my heart beat just a moment faster. I didn't know what was going to happen when I stepped out of the change room after an hour of choeographed weights with my instructor friend, but as I saw him sitting on the couch waiting to say goodbye I knew that a final conversation was going to be had.

It was a warm evening - (with the exception of the wind) and temperate for this city - so I elected to walk home. In my normal pace on a night where my winter jacket was but a burden on my arm I could have made it home in 15 minutes. However with The American by my side until I said otherwise, we meandered through the city admiring its beauty, knowing that he may never see the city, or me, ever again.

I asked him why he would ever want to move here. Not that I dislike this city - it's lovely. It is and forever will be my home - or at least, the closest thing to home I've ever had. It's just being an American soldier and having the opportunity to travel to far and distant places to see breathtaking and history-laden sights, why chose just one to remain in for the rest of your life? His response? "I was just always drawn to Canada; and now I know why."

I didn't ask for his 'why' - not because in my heart of hearts I knew his answer, but because it wasn't mine to know. The American was leaving for a mission not 2 days long before flying to Europe for a month and then, well, who knows? He was obviously energized and nervous but at the same time sad to leave; after dropping me off he was heading to a local martini bar to say goodbye to other friends he had met in his short time in the city. I wasn't going - it didn't seem right. But at the same time not saying goodbye didn't seem right as well. Without knowing or caring what my past was, The American thought of and treated me like a lady - even when it was evident that he would not get what he wanted from me. So on a park wall 5 blocks away from my apartment, after walking and talking for what seemed like forever, we stopped to speak.

The conversation started as I had imagined: the easy banter between strangers was seguayed by The American mentioning that one day, in the future, I would make one man very lucky and very happy. I dropped my head and looked away, saying thank you but in the middle of my sentence, as if out of a scene from Gone With The Wind, The American lifted me off the ground, effortlessly, and placed me on top of the wall I was leaning against. Startled but grateful that I was able to rest for a while I continued to speak, confiding in The American that Vegas had hurt me in the past. Startled, he asked why I had let him back into my life, and as I began to contemplate my answer he took off his sweater and folded it up and placed it next to me. He mentioned that while he too cared deeply for his ex's, that he would give her his last dime, it didn't mean that he would ever think to let her back into his life the way she used to be, let alone his heart. Before I could give him my response - in fact, just as I was about to open my mouth - he placed his arms under my knees and my back and lifted me onto his sweater, mentioning that it was never good to sit on something so cold.

After that gesture of kindness that was as unexpected as it was overwhelming to my heart - I wanted to cry because my answer didn't change. The American's 'dream' of whisking me away and giving me everything I wanted, all the while being the officer and gentleman I dreamed of as a little girl in my mothers high heels couldn't remove the face of Vegas that was and is on my heart. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, and with my hands in my lap and my face to the moon I gave him my answer - one I've given many a times to friends and strangers when I let them know that Vegas and I are back together, but until last night did I truly understand the meaning behind the words I speak.

"If I made a mistake like that, and I was truly sorry, I'd want to be forgiven. I can not expect to receive that kind of love, the love that I want, if I am unwilling to give it first."

The American was silent. I could sense an understanding and a level of respect eminating from him, even before he started to speak. "You have a good heart - too good", he said, "but you're a good woman." He nodded his head as he lifted me off the wall and placed me back on solid ground.

We said goodbye shortly after that. In a final attempt to sway my heart The American proclaimed that if I ever wished to see him again, if there was ever a chance that he could call me his woman, that all I had to do was tell him and he would make it happen. I nodded - and told him to be safe. After a kiss on the forehead and a first and final hug, I walked away from my American soldier without a phone number, an email, or even a last name.

I believe that every person we meet, have met, and will ever meet, has a lesson for us to learn. I had asked The American why he thought he had met me, and although I disagree with his interpretation of the events from this month, I know the lesson that The American taught me. Perhaps it is the offshoot of the Sexual Revolution, but the fact is until now, for 22 years of my life, I had never been treated as well as I was by The American. In his mind a lady deserved to be treated as a lady, no matter how she decides to act. I may disagree with the last part, but thanks to The American I no longer have any reason or excuse to not act, or more importantly treat myself, like a lady. I'm not saying that I wish to convert back to a chauvinistic view of male and female roles, but damn did it ever feel good to be viewed and treated like a lady, and I'd like to keep that feeling going - even if it's only by myself.

So... While this may not be the happily-ever-after ending I once dreamed about as a little girl in my mothers high heels, but as a 22 year old girl in my own high heels - it's an ending that I am happy with. And in the end that's all that matters.

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.

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.