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.

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.

Bells & Blues

... do I look like a maid?

I was talking to my boss yesterday about, oddly enough, weddings. Perhaps because he and I are just short of creating a pool as to when the receptionist will get a proposal, or when our other co-worker will have a baby and finally bag her long-long-long term boyfriend. Anyway I had mentioned Angelica's upcoming nuptuials to Joe in August, of which yours truly is one of her bridesbabes. He brought up that old, awful and oh-so-annoying 'insult' of "Always a bridesmaid, never a bride!" to which I responded "Do I look like a maid?"

Again, I guess I've been slacking on the memo department, but since when did getting a boyfriend automatically bring up the awkward wedding questions, the proposal dreams and the choice of flowers at the ceremony? And in a place of business, where the majority of employees and maybe 1-2 management are in fact female? Am I missing something - perhaps an emotion that most girlfriends are supposed to have when it comes to weddings and white picket fences?

Another blogger wrote about this not too long ago - how she, at 28, still had no idea of what her perfect wedding would look like. And for that post I wish to thank her. Vegas and I were talking and he brought up the 'fact' that "All girls have their perfect wedding planned out from the beginning." Um... the beginning of what? A relationship? Isn't that a little freaky? I mean - I got freaked out like nobody's business when Philippe got to talking about how I'd raise his children and how we'd be married in a Catholic church in French. It just didn't make sense to me then and now the concept of planning out such an elaborate event when you never know what tomorrow will bring in a relationship. Seriously; as in the case of Philippe, one morning he could be making you pancakes and strawberries and walking you to work, and the next day he could be chasing you down the main street of your city calling you a lying cheating waste of space. Why spend all that day-dreaming time on one day when you could spend it dreaming of your future - career wise, friends wise, travel wise, everything wise?

I must admit, however, that I have thought a little about a wedding. Why, Carrie - you ask? Well a few years ago yours truly was engaged... to Vegas. Did I mention that? Yeah... well anyway. The extent of my planning? My dress is Vera Wang. My shoes are Manolo Blahnik, or maybe Christian Loubouitin. Uh... um. My ring is Tiffany's. And that's it. Everything else was shades of grey or on my to-do-list after finishing my degree, getting a good job to pay for more school, getting my MA, PhD or even MD. Back in my 18-year-old mind that was what was most important to me - and it still is today. In fact, now in my 22-year-old mind other things have entered the realm of 'most important to me' that were not so clear as a know-nothing-know-it-all teenager.

A good point that was brought up in a comment is that most couples, men or women, whatever, think too much of the ceremony and not the actual marriage. What comes after the celebration - when the guests all leave, the food all gone, the presents all open - the reality of married life kicks in. Back in the end of my relationship with Philippe entering my single summer, my cynical self once though that the smallest pair of handcuffs in the world were wedding rings. And in a sense this is still true.

Vegas is a home-body. He dreams of white picket fences, children (with HIS last name), roots and neighbours, routine and stability. I, on the other hand, am a nomad. A gypsy in the hot-Esmerelda kind of way. I dream of travel, of far away places, of giving back to the world everything it's given to me and more. Of joining MSF, of lecturing on a little known but so important topic to future generations of those following in my footsteps. Of having former teachers who didn't believe in me call me DR., and have former teachers who did believe in me celebrate my success as their own. And maybe, after all that, or at the end stages of that, do I begin to accept visions of children and a hint of stability.

To me, a wedding represents both a celebration of a beginning and of an end. Sure I wrote how the Bachlorette Party is a celebration of the end of the single-fling life, but what about a wedding? It is a celebration of the beginning of married life - but what if it's not what you want? It sometimes seems, maybe only to me and others who've experienced twisted forms of relationships, that a wedding means you're exchanging your freedom for a party and a pretty dress. And to me, my freedom is worth far more than that.

The receptionist at my office seems really happy that she will be getting a proposal. She is more than willing to move to be with her soon-to-be fiance and start a life anew. And to her I say - right on sister. My co-worker wears her engagement ring with pride and brings her man with her whenever she can, and on her spare time plans her wedding with the same force and passion that she does her work. And to her I say - right on sister. Angelica is running a tight ship with dresses, fittings, parties, hair, plans, placement and of course food. And to her I say - right on sister. I will gladly attend, send gifts and stand up at the alter of my girlfriends weddings because it is her choice and I will celebrate it as if it were my own. But it's not my choice. At least, not yet.

I've got too much to do.

The Fifth Wheel

Last weekend I was dragged out by Angelica, her fiance Joe, Christie and her soon to be ex boyfriend, let's call him Paul... 2 couples in love and a little drunk, all set for a cold but shenanigan filled night on the town. Oh, and me. So you can imagine just how excited I was as the no longer single but still fabulous third, well make that fifth wheel in a mele of drunk, loud, affectionate couples holding hands while I held on to my new Coach purse, walking down the street either in front of or behind the 2 happy couples.

No worries, I thought to myself, as I tried in vain to convince myself that as soon as we got to the bar things would magically get better, the awkwardness would subside to reveal glimpss of the good old times Angelica, Christie and I had before we went our separate ways. I mean, that's what the weekend was about, right? Angelica had made the trip and now that she was here she was planning on making good all the promises we made each other on an epic night out, Summer of Fun style. Not to say that she didn't; oh no. I saw her every day and enjoyed every minute I spent with her but man oh man, when we got to the bar, holy hell was it ever awkward for yours truly.

Apparently I didn't get the memo, but I guess the once dominant singles to couples ratio normally found at the bar has switched, and with the exception of other socially akward people, the majority of the crowd out last night was plus one. And boy did I ever feel like a zero. I mean, seriously: If I was a single girl again in this situation I think I would have lost my mind. Since when did coupled people collectively decide to take over the single scene, leaving the stragglers to either pair up out of desperation or boredom, or as I did for the majority of the night, stand around saying nothing and having nothing said to me save for the scraps of conversations the couples managed to throw my way.

Please imagine how much fun I was having.

But here's the thing; I'm no longer single, so even playing my usual game of 'how many numbers can I get in one night' was completely out of the question, which left me with the only option of standing around waiting until the couples got tired and hungry and wanted to leave. (Did I mention that everyone was crashing at my apartment and I had the only key? Yeah. Otherwise I would have gone home, slipped away unnoticed until the next morning at our greasy spoon breakfast place).

I had written before about my intense dislike of needing a boyfriend in order to hang out with my girlfriends during my single summer, but now that I've found myself in a relationship I thought I had fulfilled the requirements to avoid any and all couple-y awkward social events. I guess with Vegas not here we've put ourselves in this grey area of having a significant other without having a significant other - especially when we need or want them around. I ended up text-messaging with him until close to 3:00 in the morning, my pathetic attempt to experience the sensation of everything and anything falling away to the sound (or in my case, image) of your lovers voice.

On the one hand I completely understand where Angelica and Joe are coming from. They too are long-distant lovers who hardly get to see each other, let alone do the usual couple stuff together. And Christie and Paul? Well, let's just say their relationship is special. And yeah, when couples go out together it really is only a matter of time until they lose interest in any other person than the one they are going home with. And that's lovely...if you're a part of a couple.

But on the other hand, knowing that this will inevitably, eventually, and always happen - why invite or drag or nest at a single or separated friend out when clearly she's that one thing that's not like the others; one of these things that's not quite the same. Even in my familiar territory of single and fabulous I felt not quite the same - to be perfectly honest, I felt useless, like a vintage accessory that's just gone out of style. And considering that I just got a boyfriend, that's pretty lame. I can't help but wonder in the cold and sober morning if this is my new coupled future - reveling in the grey area of taken but single, flying solo while surrounded by pairs. Because seriously, that future sucks.

The Bachlorette (Party)

I’m in the middle of planning another bachlorette party for Angelica, my girlfriend who is getting married this summer. Christie, myself and another friend, let’s call her ‘Holly’, had a successful impromptu bachlorette for Angelica this past summer, which involved endless drinks, food and adoration from a group of generous guys we picked up at a local night club in the heart of the downtown core. Following an adventure home which included piggy back rides through the valley of sketch, the memories (and pictures) live on in infamy as one of the most fun nights of the entire summer.

That evening we were celebrating a lot of things; first and foremost, Angelica’s impending nuptials. Second, the arrival of Angelica’s wedding tiaras of which we all wore to the bar. Third, Holly’s most unusual cameo. And fourth, we were celebrating the joie de vive that twenty-something girls have for a mid-summer Friday night out. We were celebrating a lot of things, and as we drank, dressed and took pictures that idea got me thinking about my own state of non-union. It’s not that I was upset or jealous; I don’t think I am the marrying, white picket fence and 2.5 kid kind of girl, but on a night historically spent celebrating the last hurrah of singledom, I couldn’t help but wonder why we tend to celebrate being single only when we know it is slipping away?

Now I don’t know about you, but a Stagette thrown by yours truly involves drinking, dancing, flirting, eating, and pictures, oh so many pictures. A typical girls night out with the exception of a gigantic rock on a girls finger that manages to get the attention of any and all available (and not so available) men currently at the bar. It’s a proven fact, at least among my circle of friends, that nothing attracts a group of men willing to buy you drinks like a woman they know they can’t possibly have. A stagette/bachlorette, whatever, is an evening with your closest girlfriends doing all the things you would do, or wanted to do, while you were single. So begs the question… if one has to wait until they are engaged to, well, engage in such free spirited acts of independence once dominant in a girl’s single life, why are such special nights regulated only for those who will lose it?

According to these types of parties, the single life is meant to be enjoyed. Sure at the end of the night (or the beginning of the morning) you may return to your bed alone, or find yourself walking the walk of game alone (with a stop at Second Cup for a vanilla bean latte) in last nights killer outfit and equally killing shoes, but they are all signs of a good single night out. Being single, unattached, whatever allows you the freedom to do such things, be wild and free, and to celebrate this just because you can. The party may ease up once you find yourself in a relationship but until you do, the joie de vive of the single life is there, just waiting for you to grasp it.

A co-worker and I once discussed at length the concept of a we’re all bachlorette party; where a bunch of girls, single or otherwise, would dress up with veils or tiaras, hit the bars for an epic night on the town with the goal of getting as many free drinks, kisses and phone numbers as humanly possible. Now why would an evening that fun, that fresh, that exciting and eventful be reserved only to brides? I mean, in the sense of singledom we are all potential bachlorettes, looking or otherwise, for our Mr. Right. I think that single gals should, nay MUST celebrate their single hood long before it’s traded in for a Vera Wang wedding dress and sky-high Manolo Blahnik wedding shoes. I mean, what’s really stopping us? In my opinion, when Mr. Right eventually comes along, I think he’d rest easier knowing that when our final bachlorette comes we’ve managed to enjoy our seriously-single time enough to let it fade as soon as we watch him get on one knee. That way, not only do we know what we are losing, the freedom and spontaneity of singledom, but we also know what we’re gaining… Someone to come home to.

Diamonds

... are a girl's best friend

In this festivus season, among many things, I got to thinking about girlfriends. I read an article recently in a trashy tabloid magazine (shut up; it's my thing, let it go) about a growing trend with 20-something girls, at least, the 20 something girls in the celebrity world. Anyway, in this piece the author makes an observation that the relationship between girl friends are replacing the level of relationship once held by boyfriends. Celebrity 'couples' like Paris & Britney, Marisa & Rachel and Oprah & Gayle are constantly and consistently seen together... well, maybe just Oprah & Gayle, doing all sorts of everyday mundane activities that are always 10x better with the pleasure of someones company: shopping, coffee-ing, holding hands and of course, partying until the wee-hours of the morning.

Now in the real world where every day ordinary relationships aren't so scrutinized, this isn't really new. At least not to me. Girls nights out, 'dates' and everlasting friendships have always existed with bonds that are so strong that they sometimes defy logic. I know: I have had the honour and pleasure of having such relationships that defy logic, escape explanation and just exist, as if we were created for each other. I mean, after I read the article I got to thinking about these relationships that I have with my girlfriends, and how close and important they all are to me in their own special way. With Angelica, Mackenzie, Christie and countless others in my life, my heart and on my mind I can't help but wonder... are girlfriends the new boyfriends?

In this day and age, a Manolo-lite can and does have a number of loves in her life. I know I do. My area of study, my family, my friends... although sometimes those terms are interchangeable. Maybe girlfriends aren't the new boyfriends... they're your new family. She's there when your man is not (if you have one; and if you don't she's that much more important), and try as he might the men in your life will never understand you the way the girls in your life already do. They can read you like a magazine; seeing right through your filler and pretty pictures to get at what's REALLY bothering you. They call you on your bullshit without making you feel like a failure, and the girlfriends who do that like my girl Mackenzie are the girls you want and need in your life. They see the real you... and love you all the same.

Maybe Charlotte was right in making her girlmates her soulmates, because really, it is just as hard, if not harder, to find a true girl friend than a good boyfriend. Break-ups with girlfriends are harder on the heart, your soul, your other relationships at work and at play because ... well, that level of intimacy took years to establish, and so will the pain of its sudden and often nasty endings. Luckily I have had only 1 break-up with a girlfriend of mine, and I'm twice as lucky since I still had and have the girlfriends who picked up the pieces of me while we all floated on ok.

One of those girlfriends... let's call her "Chris", is a girl I've known for a while whose friendship I can't even begin to describe. She is a girl of few words but when she speaks I listen. She has the uncanny ability to simplify whatever it is I am going through without dismissing the smallest detail to find the truth underneath the confusion. I credit her for smacking enough sense into me countless numbers of times, and most recently for getting me out of my destructive and abusive relationship with Philippe. She also held me up when my relationship with Vegas... Well, when it made me not want anything at all. Chris is my conscience: I don't know what I'd do without her. Kind of like the rest of my girlfriends, I'd be lost without them.

Don't get me wrong here, there are plenty of backstabbing, manipulative girls out there who pass themselves off as your friends but quickly shed their civil-persona to unveil their true nature. So that makes finding good girlfriends even harder. So this festivus season, let your girlfriends know how much you care for them; and the ones who must leave your life, let them know even more. Finding a good girlfriend in high school, in college, or in life, is like finding a diamond in a stock-pile of cubic zirconias. They all may look the same, but you'd never ever for a second think of trading away the diamond.

Just like your girlfriends.

Oops!

Oops: a summation of a relationship, however brief, torrid, or catastrophic, generally understood by all parties involved to have been a mistake.

I was attending a good-bye party for one of my girlfriends, let’s call her Emily, who in a few days is gallivanting to South Eastern Asia for four months with her boyfriend, let’s call him David. The majority of the party was her girlfriends, I included, except for one “happy” couple, and I use that term objectively. See, this couple constitutes one of my domesticated friends, let’s call her Abby, along with her boyfriend of over a year, let’s call him Bram.

Let me begin with the fact that I adore Abby; she is smart, beautiful, career oriented, comes from a good and loving, God-fearing family and is on her way to a fantastic job and a fantastic life. So it confuses the hell out of me every time I see her as each time is few and far between and she is almost always attached to Bram. It is simply mind-boggling to me every time I see him holding her hand, or with his arm around her, or Heaven-forbid kissing her. Maybe I should expand; Bram is a bit older than her, give or take 4 years, with a job but no career, not very attractive facially, physically, intellectually, anything? He’s immature, funny only to himself, makes inappropriate remarks and jokes at the worst possible times… basically he is a walking train wreck, except one you simply MUST look away from. So I had to ask myself, how did this gong show of a guy have my gorgeous girlfriend in the palm of his hand?

The first thought that popped into my mind was obvious; however Abby is a good girl, traditional and proper, so the “he must be good in bed” excuse is out of the question. Money? I ventured a guess that he spoiled her rotten with gifts, dinners, mini-breaks and the like… until the bill came at the martini bar we were at, and it was Abby who pulled out her credit card from her clutch while Bram kept chatting away, like he was expecting her to pay for the pleasure of his company, his food, is alcohol, and his dessert. Now I am the modern type of woman; I enjoyed treating my man to a dinner, a drink or 2, or a movie no problems; however an acknowledgement was always in order for each of us, whoever was paying; a thank you from Bram would have been nice, however it seemed as if a thank you, let alone a glance at the bill was the furthest thing from his mind. So it cannot be money. Company? As I alluded to before, Abby is... well, perfect. Given the chance she could get any man at any time… so why Bram? Then it hit me; Pity! This must be a pity date, or a pity quickie relationship! During the past year we all kept thinking that one day Abby would show up solo, smiling and laughing like before with a “just kidding!” look in her eyes… but it’s been over a year, and Bram is still around. So really, what is going on here? This isn’t the first case I’ve come across where a gorgeous, intelligent, otherwise perfect girl is in a so-so relationship with a guy her friends wouldn’t touch with a 10-foot clown pole. So why is it that this otherwise reject-of-a-guy is getting the fantastic girl?

I guess it comes down to what a lot of people have been telling me; guys are intimidated by good looking girls. That is why you see a lot of hot girls walking around, holding hands and getting married to less than hot guys. The nice guys and the hot guys are not making any moves, therefore leaving the attractive women ripe for the taking. The nice guy complains that there are no nice girls left and that we all want the jerks; to this I say, well then make a move before the jerk gets her! Personally speaking, not a lot of men speak to me for one reason or another, so whenever a guy shows interest and makes a move, I will most likely respond just out of curiosity or who knows? Maybe even attraction; but this chain of events cannot occur spontaneously; you must make a move in order to see results. Jerks and less than … worthy I suppose? Gentleman get the girl simply because they try; they put in the little bit of effort that the nice guy can’t seem to do and as a result, the jerks and less than worthy men get all the women.

And I find that frustrating; not only for my friend Abby, but for myself. Heaven knows I’ve had my share of “oops!” with men I shouldn’t ever have touched with a 10-foot clown pole, but I did because they put in the effort while the nice guys I really liked sat back and watched, shaking their heads and seeing fit to lecture me when the relationship didn’t work out. I guess the final word is this; nice guys, make a move; and nice girls… don’t settle for the less-than-worthy guy … except if you can explain it away as a temporary bout of insanity, otherwise known as an oops!

As If! Carpal Tunnel and the 20-something...

Because seriously... I can't make this shit up...

As I sit here typing this, I still cannot believe that I am actually writing about carpal tunnel in the 20 something girl. It seems surreal, as your twenties are the times when you (should) be establishing or have already establish a good level of health. My good friend Mackenzie and I always joked that the human body is made only to last about 40 years in good health, so if you’re active really that number drops down to 20. And until recently, we did not know how right we were… at least concerning the two of us.

I am well aware of the fact that there is a distinct difference between having pain in your wrist and having carpal tunnel. I subscribe to the first definition; my left wrist (as in my non-dominant hand) was strained due to my over-zealousness in a yoga class... oh and from years of being a keeper in soccer… right along the ulnar nerve. So along my pinkie-line there is random pain that really is all my fault. The reality that I continue to use my left hand for everything except writing does not help the fact, thus my wrist injury can be written off as a “repetitive strain injury”, or RSI. Mackenzie, however, was and is not that lucky. I know that she had been mentioning pain in her wrist for the longest time, and although I advised her to see a doctor we both dismissed the idea of anything more serious because really, we’re 21! We are both relatively fit, practice yoga and do a bit of cardio… So imagine the surprise when a doctor, a trained professional, told her that she “definitely” has carpal tunnel in her wrist.

FYI: Carpal tunnel syndrome occurs when the median nerve (running from the forearm into the hand) becomes pressed or squeezed at the wrist. This nerve controls sensations to the supine position (ie up, because in supine you can hold a cup of soup!) of the thumb and fingers but not the pinky, as well as impulses to some small muscles in the hand that allow the fingers and thumb to move. The actual carpal tunnel, a narrow rigid passageway of ligament and bones at the base of the hand houses the median nerve and tendons. When these ligaments become thickened from irritated tendons or swelling in general the tunnel narrows and compresses this nerve. The result may be pain, weakness or numbness in the hand, wrist and sometimes up to the arm.

Besides the annoyance of having to purchase and wear a 40$ brace (mine was 12$) at night and during classes to stave away the pain, the truth about her condition really had me and still has me stunned. From what I know, CT usually only occurs in adults, and although I know 21 is considered “adult”, CT is not the first thing that comes to mind when I think of an average 21 year old. CT is more common in older women and those who do repetitive assembly line work, such as seamstresses, warehouses, manufacturing etc… So knowing this I can’t help but wonder; where does a 21 year old pick up carpal tunnel?

The first and most obvious theory would be technology. At school Mackenzie sits behind her iMac in lecture, at home, and wherever she takes her baby with her. I remember back in grade 4 learning how to use a computer, you know, one of those old-school Apples with a tiny screen and 2D graphics? Was that the beginning of the end? Did all those recess’ spent playing “The Oregon Trail” put me on a path (so to speak) of weak ligaments and pinched nerves at the ripe old age of 21? Granted the introduction of computers to my grade school open my eyes to the wonders of technology, but did it also open my joints and ligaments to the repetitive strain normally reserved for those who have progressed further in life who, for lack of a better description, have earned their aches and pains over the years? Considering many people with CT have worked for 10 or 20 odd years behind either a typewriter or a computer, and both Mackenzie and I are stuck in 9-5 office jobs only to return home to our beloved laptops to Facebook and MSN our time away… could the advent of modern technology be behind our frail and weak joints?

That answer, like many that quick and unthought-of, simply cannot be true. A study done in 2001 done by the Mayo Clinic found that so called “heavy” computer use, up to 7 hours a day did NOT increase a person’s risk of developing CT. Mackenzie’s mother, along with my mother and father and many of our senior colleagues have been using a computer for longer than we have been alive, and none so far have been diagnosed with CT. The advent of ergonomic keyboards and mouse pads, the research going into prevention of CT cannot be ignored, nor can the non-prevalence of CT in our more mature colleagues.

Anyway, what is even worse than being diagnosed with CT is the expectation that because we are young we can “suck it up” or “deal” with the pain thanks to the supposed infallibility of our youth. Erm… no. Just because we are young doesn’t mean we do not feel pain, and since we’re going to be around a bit longer means that we should take every precaution to take care of our bodies. I found it funny how the “adults” in my life often remind me that I am not invincible, that I cannot get away with 3 hours of sleep, unhealthy food and lack of vitamins… however when it comes to legitimate pain such as CT we’re expected to “suck it up” and stop complaining… So really, what’s the deal?

It would be too easy to blame work and school for the onset of Mackenzie’s CT; as she said, her work is not paying her enough for her to ruin her body, especially for a twenty something girl who now has the ligament-annoyances of a forty year old woman. I am still at a loss for poor Mackenzie and her mysterious affliction of CT, but if you will excuse me, all this typing is making my wrist hurt.

Knowlege is Bliss: Ignorance is Bothersome

Numbers were designed to explain; but how the hell do you explain this?

I admit; I am a shopaholic. I love shopping, I love the thrill of the hunt, especially when I find or am presented with a bargin. I’ve decided among other things that with my single status going on 9 months I’ve replaced sex with working out, shopping and various forms of education. I had been looking for a way to combine these distractions to ease an already hectic schedule of being single and fabulous (!) and luckily for me all three of my diversions appeared at the once place where I go to relax: the gym. Today’s generation of Manolo-females and us Manolo-lites are of two mindsets. We are either exercise-addicted health fiends or lazy couch-bums who gorge on all the fast food/junk food we can get our hands on. I subscribe to the fitness-trend, with a sprinkle or two of the pleasures of fast food, and as such I was at my gym yesterday, a gym that I have been a fiercely loyal client for the past 5-going-on-6 years of my life, despite the bad-rap it has gotten with its rude employees and money-hungry managers. Angelica and I were walking up the stairs after our exercises, one of the front-desk agents stopped us and asked if we would like 3 tans for 10$. What began as a seemly harmless gesture ended up being a semi-battle of wills which as a consumer I don’t think I should ever be involved in.

I said no, stating that I do not tan and also tanning is dangerous, especially in beds and besides, I’m already a good colour to start the summer season. The front-desk-agent, let’s call her “Ana”, proceeded to give both Angelica and I the sales pitch of how tanning is actually safe, how it’s the UVC rays that cause cancer from the sun but are not present in tanning beds, how you establish a base by tanning therefore reducing your risk of burning in the summer etc etc etc; all to the dismay of myself, a student of life sciences and more importantly an educated and informed consumer. I retorted with facts straight from a doctor that tanning is actually dangerous, any kind of tanning, as it causes mutations in your DNA leading to melanoma, or in other terms skin cancer. Here is where things get funny; Ana, sensing Angelica’s pull towards my point of view, decided to break out the “well we all have cancer card” to sell those 3 tans and help the gym make their quota of tans. Now, I am not a business-savvy person, and I could not sell any product if my life or my Manolo’s depended on it, but could someone please tell me what the hell kind of sales pitch is that? “We all have cancer”… I was so in shock I couldn’t even articulate myself to this kind of ignorance. I hate to break this to everyone, but we all don’t have cancer. Our healthy cells at this very moment are ensuring that we do not have cancer by either fixing the mutations that are occurring during DNA transcription, or failing that isolating and destroying the cells with the mutations that they cannot salvage. So why would I want to put that glorious mechanism through more work unnecessarily, especially after helping it out by exercising for 2 hours? And even if I do have or get cancer, I wouldn’t want to waste my immune cells in destroying a form of cancer I can easily avoid, like skin cancer. I’m of the opinion that you don’t “get” skin cancer, per say. You give yourself skin cancer by not protecting your skin either outside or inside. And to have Ana trying to convince me to PAY to give myself skin cancer? Does anyone else see the ludicrousness of this concept?

Apparently not, as the people this gym decides to employ certainly think otherwise or at least they are trained to think otherwise. I think the most aggravating part of that conversation was the fact that we were the only clients she stopped to give the special “discount” too. Was it because we were girls? Or was it because our generation is addicted to that pseudo-glow we get after spending 20 minutes in a tanning bed? Skin cancer is on the rise, especially in the 18-35 brackets of consumers with disposable income. It is a testament to our instant gratification mindset; instant tan, instant weight-loss, instant “health”? Yes you look better with a tan, but only on the outside. The damage that can be done where it counts, at a molecular level, is irreversible and dangerous and plain old stupid. I find it ironic that the gym I belong to, a home-grown success that claims to put health and wellness as a top priority for all its clients, pushes a product that is known to cause cancer and to use the excuse that well we all have it, might as well look fabulous while we can. Why don’t you just sell me cigarettes while you are at it? At least those puppies calm me down after listing to this projectile ignorance.

Now I try to make it a point not to down-talk anything I haven’t tried, with the exception of foods that everyone knows is just plain nasty, like eyeballs (don’t laugh; I’m sure they are a delicacy somewhere). I have been tanning in a bed before to see if a) I would really burn less with a base, b) I look and feel healthier and happier, and c) just to see what the big deal is. Let me tell you, I still burned when I went overseas despite the base I presumably established and SPF 50 I slathered every day, I looked tan but not happy, in fact I looked just as tired as I did before, and the tan faded within days so in order to keep up the façade I had to return multiple times, and c) … there is no big deal.. You get naked, slather cream on your body, put goggles on and lie there for 10 minutes. The lotion smells lovely but that’s about it.

An interesting thing I had noticed after going tanning for a few weeks was after a while I would feel better after I tanned, kind of like an instant pick-me-up, almost addictive, so I can understand all those tanorexics out there who simply cannot stop going to their local tanning salon. I have a friend like that, Daisy, who tans frequently and for long periods of time. She feels better afterwards and the glow is quite nice, but up close her skin looks aged despite the fact that she is younger than I am. I can only imagine that in a few years of continuous multiple tanning sessions, Daisy’s going to look 35 before she is 25, which is a shame because she is a pretty girl who got caught in the tanning-frenzy that is my generation.

Knowing all of this I eventually had to turn away once another front-desk-agent started to give Angelica the same “information” that “Ana” had just finished speaking about. Seriously, just because 2 people who work at a gym tells you something is safe doesn’t make it so, especially when a doctor, a dermatologist who also happens to be a friend of mine insists that it is not. Really, I don’t care where you work, with the exception of a hospital and I am calling you doctor or nurse, because in the end a gym and any other corporation’s main concern is with the bottom dollar. They had a quota to fill, and we fit the profile of who could do just that for the company for that month.

But in the end Angelica and I walked our pasty-pale asses home without the 3 tans for 10$, because although the inner shopahoic tells me that is a good deal I’d much rather have that 10$ and a few extra years on my life than a fake-and-bake tan, helping to display for everyone to see my gullibility and the pleasure I receive from destroying my own body. Except I couldn’t help but wonder if this is how my generation is perceived, as mindless spend-thrifts looking for the next instant fix to all our problems, whether it be darker skin or quicker weight loss. The Manolo-female has paved the way for younger versions of themselves to follow this trend; I certainly hope any Manolo-lite who is reading this now will join me in avoiding this lemming-trap and spending our hard earned money on something worthwhile… like shoes.

Domestication: Friend or Foe?

Is it better to be an undomestic diva or a domestic door-mat?

I've been discussing this disturbing trend with one of my new co-workers, a 20 something full-time office chick/part time student whom I've be-friended. We're both on the look-out for new wing-girls, you know, the girl friends who are always up for a night out dancing, boy-hunting and just plain fun. Not to say that our current girlfriends aren't fun anymore: quite the contrary, when we DO see them they are a blast. But herein lies the rub; we hardly ever see them anymore and when we do, they seem to have permanently attached themselves to their boyfriends hips.

On one hand, who can blame them? Being attached to someone's hip has its obvious benefits. As one of my girlfriends often says in her quest for a significant other, "Coupled people do not go out clubbing; they stay in and fuck." And when they do emerge from the bedroom, they are so immersed with each other they may have well just stayed in there. Other perks included in domesticdom are semi-permanent dinner dates, movie dates, someone to stay in with when the weather gets bad, and someone to accompany you on all those boring mudane tasks us single and fabulous (!) girls must do alone. So, from the outside looking in, domestication doesn't sound so awful.

However, and there is always a however, freedom-loving Manolo lites, including yours truly, can and have fallen into the domesticdom-trap. Anyone who has been in a relatively serious long-term monogamous relationship can attest to this: after a while you start to act, think and believe as an entirely different person, and from the inside looking out, things can get a bit foggy.

Last summer I found myself in a semi-serious relationship with a guy, lets call him "Phillipe", and sure as hell I found myself domesticated. I would sleep at this guys place almost every night, even though my apartment was on the street where I worked and his was across a bridge and often required 2 buses to get where I was going, not to mention losing the 45 extra minutes of beauty sleep I so thoroughly enjoy. And if that wasn't enough, after spending the night and morning with him he would meet me for lunch when clearly I should have been socializing with my girl friends, or at the very least a co-worker whom I've now developed full blown crush-affair with... hey, a girl's gotta have her priorities! And even after spending the morning with him, having lunch with him and talking to him on the phone, "Philippe' still managed to convince me to either spend the night as his aparment again or crash at mine, although his preference was obviously his place, despite the geographic proximity of our work-places to my apartment. If my behaviour was any indication, my girl friends must have been driven crazy! "Philippe" had managed to go from being my summer boyfriend to being my summer. Only now do I realize just how much I missed out on after falling into what I call the domestic-trap.

Looking back on this as I enter my summer in singledom, I can see the ups and downs of domestication. Sure, domesticdom has its perks, but myself and anyone else who has been in a long-term monogamous relationship has to be careful not to become a "domestic doormat", women (and men) who freely give up their individual lives to become one with another. As a freedom-loving Manolo-lite, I thought myself immune to such trickery, but "Philippe" and countless other men I know have successfully tamed some of the wildest women I know, including myself. I am talking about girls who under normal circumstances would hit on bars and boys for drinks and dances who now drop similar plans for a movie night pour deux... in other words, sans moi. The worst part is, I often find myself losing touch with these 'domestic doormats' in hopes to salvage what little social life I have left.

Not to say that their social lives are completely void, oh no. Their calendars are always free for 'couples nights', implying that if I want to see them I'd best get myself a boyfriend or at least someone I am casually dating to tag along for the ride... I guess I am simply not a fan of needing a boyfriend to hang out with my girlfriends.

Now, I know it is not fair or correct to couple all taken-girls into that one awful category. On the contrary; I know some pretty fabulous halves, women I like to call "domestic darlings". These girls are in monogamous relationships and spend quality time with their boyfriends/lovers/significant others. However, they have also mastered the art of having a life outside of their relationship.

Some of my girl friends, the very lucky ones, have boyfriends/lovers/significant others who encourage these girls to keep their social lives and their girlfriends, and when they join us for a night out they are never overbearing or controlling; in fact they are quite fun. One particular girl friend, lets call her "Angelica" and her fiance, let's call him "Joe" have perfected the art of having a lover AND having a life. I would even go as far as to say, it is the type of domestication a Manolo-lite like me wouldn't mind having. But as I said, this summer I've found myself a happy resident of singledom, meaning I'm a bit cynical... I'm hopefully enough to keep looking for a relationship like that, but I'm smart enough to realize that "Angelica" and "Joe" are the exception to the rule.

So what's a single (and fabulous!) gal to do when she's stuck between the singledom haven and domesticdom wonderland? I am not about to give up the freedom and spontaneity of singledom for the pleasures and stability of domestication... I just hate the fact that so many of us have to chose between one or the other.

Brains versus Beauty...

Since when did we have to choose?

I have been asking myself lately, among other things, if there really are women in this world whos sole purpose is to make us feel bad about ourselves? The only answer I have been able to come up with is "maybe", but recently I have been encountering women whos sole purpose in life is making me question mine.

As far as I am concerned, a defining characteristic of the modern Manolo-female is her intelligence. In fact, these days you are more likely to encounter a female on a university campus than a male and soon enough, most of us will be working for a modern Manolo-female instead of a male. On the outside she appears to have it all: an intelligent mind to match her sexy body and she remains what us twenty-something Manolo-lites are striving to be not only for ourselves but for men as well. I was under the impression that smart was sexy; but why then, given the choice of a smart, sexy Manolo-lite, do some men still prefer the pretty little airhead immortalized by the likes of Pamela Anderson and Jessica Simpson? It seems to me that although the modern man professes the desire for a competent, ambitious and driven woman, he continues to prefer the company of a scatterbrained, yet gorgeous female. I can't help but wonder why, when given the choice between sexy and smart and just sexy... why do men still go for just sexy?

I have a friend, let's call her "Daisy", who embodies the definition of the "Just Sexy" female. She is tall, skinny, blonde, beautiful, and has the habit of saying the most mindblowingly odd things you could possibly imagine. Although carefree and charismatic, her knowledge of current events, street smarts, common sense and educational topic of choice is not her forte. And yet, for one reason or another that I have yet to figure out, she manages to have four men, four really great men gravel at her feet and answer her every beck and call. So why is that?

According to askmen.com, modern men should raise their personal standards and expectations in their search for the perfect girlfriend. She should be smart, sexy, sweet, ambitious, self-reliant, independent and mature; the kind of woman you would find at a library, museam or cultural event but who is not adverse to the odd sporting event and a pitcher or two of beer. However, despite the aformentioned qualities deemed necessary in a female, these so called modern men still flock towards the young, fun and intellectually numb women they find at the bars, the clubs, the malls or wherever else they congregate in mass numbers. So why is that we, as Manolo-lites are told to be smart, sexy, sweet, ambitious, self-reliant, independent and mature when the hot, fun, scatterbrained girls are attracting and getting all the guys?

Now I am not saying that my friend is stupid. On the contrary, she is actually quite clever. She has everything a Manolo-lite wants without all of that hard work. And although this situation is quite frustrating, fear not my lovely Manolo-lites: there is a gold lining to this charade. The way I see it is, whatever man, modern or not, who would lower his expectations in a woman for the moment is doing just that: for the moment, which leaves us with the men who appreciate brains in a partner just as much as beauty. As annoying as it is to watch every available guy at the bar gravitate towards your pretty clueless girl friend, true Manolo-lites shouldn't waste our time with men who can't handle our minds as well as they can handle our bodies, nor should we settle for one or the other. The "Just Sexy" female gets them easily, but nothing worth having comes easy.

So, on behalf of all Manolo-lites, I would like to thank all the "Just Sexy" females. Next time you and your girl friends are out on the town and your "Just Sexy" friend is getting the most attention, remember this: think of her as your Darwinian card: by attracting and being naturally selected by the low-riding men who are looking for either a trophy or a good time but not necessarily a long time, allow the good, intellectually superior females to find the good, intellectually superior males who require a higher form of stimulation than a pretty face, a nice rack and a gullible yet trusting mind. They just make our search simpler by weeding out the population of men better suited to a "Just Sexy" female versus men better suited to a Manolo-lite. So yes, maybe there are women out there whos sole purpose in life is to make us question ourselves... but only for the moment.