About a Girl

five years

On Saturday, I sat on a sun-soaked deck and thumbed through various things blackberry. I noticed the date: July 17th. Oh, it's so-and-so's birthday, I realized. This so-and-so and I had been friends for well over a decade, so it's not a surprise that his birthday is etched into my subconscious. But in the last few years his birthday has meant more to me; His birthday is three days after The Day That Changed Everything. I remember because I had been planning to go to his birthday party when it happened. And, well, you know. That changed.

So looking at the date, I was slightly stunned. July 14th had passed and I hadn't even thought about it. On the first anniversary of it, I took the day off work and got a tattoo. Every year since that has been marked by some sort of emotion; even the two weeks leading up to the date had been peppered by preparation for that day being difficult. Last year, for instance, I remember crying in some idyllic London park near my work. Not much, just a few tears. I miss you dad, I whispered. I felt alone. That was the four-year anniversary, which makes this the fifth. 

A friend recently posted something on facebook about it being the anniversary of her own dad's death. I thought then, that will be me soon. But it wasn't. I didn't even flinch. 

Do I feel guilty? Not really. I know he wouldn't want me to. But maybe, just a bit. I don't want to forget. I don't want July 14th to be just another day because it isn't, it can't even be. 

All the same, it seems something has shifted. I don't quite define myself as the girl who lost her dad and is perpetually broken hearted about it. I mean, I am that girl, but it's not all I am anymore. I'm the girl who gave up everything to live the life she wanted. And the girl who didn't settle for mediocrity, but who still knows what's important. And the girl who loves with her whole heart. And the girl who is ok with who she is and doesn't compromise that. And the girl who still, five years later, thinks about her dad every single day and would give anything to just talk to him one more time. I can be all those things, right?

And maybe we don't need to commemorate the goodbyes -- the birthdays, the anniversaries, the moments we lived for are the most important ones, right? Or maybe it's not about big moments at all -- maybe it's the little memories that count. The pieces of wisdom that have no date, the little daily gestures that made you feel loved. I still pay homage to those daily, and I think that's what matters.

+++++

Five years and six days ago, something happened that shook everything I knew. I clutched onto the strongest had I knew and felt it loosen its grip as his raspy breath petered out and his body gave up. I walked out of a hospital thinking the entire world would never be the same, and for me it wouldn't. I was a chipped china vase that had been knocked over and shattered and while the people in my life gave me glue to put myself back together, only I knew how to fit the pieces together. Five years later, I still have cracks, but I'm whole again and I'm stronger than before.

This year, I spent my day lazily working, tired from a late night out with good friends the previous evening. I skipped my usual morning workout; I was feeling blase. Maybe my body knew what the date was even if my conscious mind didn't. At night, I did something I never do. I went for a walk with someone who means the world to me. We talked about everything and nothing. We dipped our feet in the cold waters of the lake. We stopped by the Saskatoon bushes and stepped on a prickly plant. I slept like I hadn't in years.

It's good to remember. But sometimes it's good to live in the moment, too.

Read: The Boook of Lost Things

You know the old saying about not judging a book by its cover? I choose to read this book because of its title. I just liked it. It wasn't what I expected. It was a story of a grieving kid who goes to a mythical land and has to use his courage to get back home, coming across re-written fairy tales in the process. It's a book that appeals both to young readers and adults, because while its a book about fantasy lands and imagination, it also has really grown-up themes that a young reader wouldn't understand. And the ending wasn't really what I expected -- I love it when that happens. All in all a very good read.

Read: Push

This book inspired the movie Precious, which I haven't seen but will ... eventually. The book was gritty, disturbing, unsettling and also really inspiring. Though the plot might be old as time -- hard-luck teenager with an effed up home life meets a teacher who help her see a future for herself -- it's uniquely told. It's a quick read but one that sticks with you for a while.

Three Recent Conversations That Prove I am Losing It

Recent Blackberry Messenger conversation.

Friend (3:05pm): Shall we meet at 6?
Me (3:06pm): Sure, 6 sounds good.
Me (5:33pm): Oh My God! Totally running late!! Sorry!!
Me (5:34pm): I'm in line at a store right now and these stupid people are returning a freaking toaster. The nerve! Like, how long does it take to pick a new one! They all make toast! I'm giving them dirty looks right now. Jerks.
Me (5:34pm): Actually forget that. Had a moment of panick where I thought we had said we'd meet at 5.
Me (5:35pm): I'm totally going to be on time. Early, even.
Me (5:35pm): Am losing the plot
Me (5:36pm): Obviously did not look at the conversation right before my eyes before I sent that
Me (5:36pm): *mortified*
Friend (5:39pm): ?
Friend (5:39pm): You're funny
Friend (5:39pm): What the hell is wrong with you? It clearly says 6 right there (ok, she's too nice to say that but she was obviously thinking it.)

Recent in-car conversation, on the way to Tim Horton's.

Friend : So, the amount of money you spend on coffee if you buy it every day really adds up.
Me : God, I know. I used to go to Starbucks every day and the coffee there was, like, $2.50 every time. That's $7.50 a week!
Friend : ??
Friend : Where do you get $7.50 from?
Me : Well, $2.50 times two is $5, plus $2.50 is $7.50! Duh, obviously.
Friend : and how many days a week did you work?
Me : Five! (thinking about how dumb that questions  is .... )
Friend : So .....
(long amount of time elapses)
Friend : ..... that wouldn't be $7.50
Me: Right! Of course, it would be less than that.
Me : (finally getting it.) Oh, haha. ha. $12.50. Obviously. I knew that.
Friend: .......
Me : Hey, I never said I was good at math!
Friend: .......
Me : (oh my god. Die.)

Recent in-front-of-TV conversation while watching cheese horror sci-fi-ish movie set in some old era, where rediculous things happen like a horse transforms into a wolf right in front of our eyes. This one, actually.

Friend: This is a true story, you know?
Me: Oh my god, really? That is so scary! Those poor people!
Friend: *baffled* No, obviously I was joking. Horses don't actually turn into wolves, you know.
Me: Ha! I knew that. Obviously. Joke's on you, sucker
Me: (BAH! look cool! Don't let on that you feel like a total idiot right now! Talk about something else! Pretend to watch movie!)
Me: ...... (long awful silence)
Friend: (Why is she doing that thing with her eyebrows?!)
Me: ..... erm .... yeah.

Reading: The Book Thief

(I'm writing these short bits in an effort to keep track of what I've read this year and maybe it will give other people some ideas on what books to pick up as well.)

I've read a lot of good endings but this book has possibly the best final chapter and final line. That's not to say the rest of it wasn't good -- it was. Actually, the whole thing is was amazing. Highly recommended.

I'm haunted by this book.

Reluctant Yogi

These days, Tuesdays are yoga day for me, and today, a lady walked out of the class after 20 minutes. It was her first time doing yoga. And from my tree posture, I knew where she was coming from. Hoo, boy, I've been there. It sucks big time the first time you do it, I thought. The first time I did yoga, I wanted to quit during the first downward dog, which was actually the first pose of the entire practice that didn't just involve standing there. My little chicken arms were shaking more than a rickety second-class Vietnamese train carriage and there was no way I could have made it to 10 breaths in that position. And then that harlot of a yoga teacher went on to explain that this was actually a resting posture. Resting my ass. I was in pain, and the fact that people three times my age were holding the pose like they were born in it wasn't helping. In fact, if that had been a drop-in class, I probably wouldn't have gone back. I'd paid for each of the 12 sessions up front, and as it happens, the only thing I hate more than excruciating pain is wasting money. Fact.

So I went back each week for three long months, each time making a point to tell myself and anyone who'd listen that it's not for me. Of course, I didn't use the fact that I was weak as shit as my reasoning. Instead I made up stories about how it was too slow and what with that whole sleeping for five minutes at the end of the class? Did I really pay all that money to a snooze? La-ame!

But then, at the 11th hour -- also known as the second half of what I was sure would be the last class of my life -- yoga made a surprising comeback. While I was going through the motions, I suddenly came to the realization that I could touch my toes while standing without bending my legs at a near 90-degree angle. In fact, I didn't need to bend them at all. This might not seem like a big accomplishment, but it was something I hadn't done since I 10. I even complained to my dad about it when I was a teenager -- he told me if I wanted to touch my toes, I had to practice every day and I was all Pffffft, as if I'm going to do something stupid like bend over on a regular basis for flexibility. Boring. And yet here I was, doing it. And the downwards dogs weren't excruciating anymore, just mind-numbingly uncomfortable.

And I thought: If I can do that after 12 classes, what will I be able to do after 24? And 36? And so on?

So it was out of curiosity that I plunked down another $80 for the next session of yoga, and then the one after that, and then a membership to a yoga studio where I went four times a week. And I'll admit, after five years and god only knows how many downward dogs, I still can't do a headstand or the full wheel or half moon with any semblance of grace. But I had made little victories over the years -- I finally figured out that my inability to do tree posture wasn't because my pants were too slippery; now I'm a pro at it. And I can do the proper upward dog, without my knees on the floor. And perhaps the best achievement was being able to conquer those downward dogs. I can do all of them now, with one foot even. And I finally get what that ho-bag nice yoga instructor was saying about it being a resting posture -- It does sometimes feel good after you've been bending yourself like a pretzel.

Hell, the fact that I've done something healthy on a regular basis for five years is in itself an achievement. It's something I can and do feel good about all the time, especially when I touch my toes with my legs straight.

If I had that woman's email address, I'd definitely tell her all of this. Yes, it's hard, and yes, maybe it really isn't for you. But you never know -- maybe if you give it a chance, it will be worth it.

Reading: Wild Swans

This book, by Jung Chang, is one of those ones that will haunt me for ages. It's an incredible, first-hand look at communist China from someone who grew up there under Mao. Being Canadian and from such a spoiled, consumer-driven generation -- one that assumes freedom is a given and flaunts that at every opportunity -- it always shocks me when I delve into what it's like to not be free, to not have opportunities, to not be able to speak your mind. It's a long one and it can be a bit tedious but I highly recommend ti.

one more thing

In my list of things North American that I can't get enough of, I forgot one of the most important one.

Being able to shop past 6 o'clock or before noon on weekends.

Every store in the area I lived in -- aside from corner shops and convenience stores -- closes at 6pm every day. Which, considering I didn't get home from work until 6:15, was a bit annoying. Even the big grocery stores closed early -- if it was 8pm and you suddenly had a craving for, say, frozen yorshire puddings, you were outta luck. I got used to this, but the thing I couldn't get used to was nothing being open on a Sunday before noon. I can't even count the amount of times I'd dash to the store on a Sunday morning to do my weekly shopping and be totally annoyed to find out I still have a couple of hours to wait until the stores opened. The pubs were open, but not the stores. Go figure.

Now, I can grocery shop my heart out at 10pm on any day of the week. I don't, because I'm lame and am usually in bed reading at that time, but  the point is, I could. I have options.

Overdosing

Since I've been back, I've been making a concentrated effort to enjoy all the things I didn't have living in the UK. Ok, 'enjoying' isn't really the right word -- more like 'squeezing every last inch of use out of them by employing them in every possible way, kind of like how you use your fist and all your  upper body strength to squeeze every last bit of toothpaste out of that tube'. It's all part of savouring what you've got, right?

Here are some things in Canada I can't get enough of:

Fucking eh, My car.
I used to enjoy walking on warm winter days. I would make a point of walking my ass over to the bank or the Starbucks or whatever because, hey, sunshine and exercise and all that. Nowadays, after a year of not having the option to drive, of having to balance huge grocery bags on my aching shoulders, of having to always leave the house on time because I don't have the option of driving like a maniac to make up for lost time, my subconscious has decided that walking is clearly for chumps and as a result, I'm well and truly overdosing on driving. Case in point: I went to the gym the other day, and then decided to go to the Canadian Tire next door afterwards. I drove there. Yep, from one parking lot to the one next to it. Then I drove to the front of the parking lot so I could get the closest space possible, thus eliminating the extra pesky steps I'd have to take if I parked towards the middle. I hate people who do this. Or at least, I used to.

Hoodies.
In London, hoodies were for hungover Sundays when I was heading to the grocery store to pick up the bare essentials for my workweek. Or really cold sightseeing days when practicality outweighs the desire to look fashionable. Or for the (two) nights out when I intentionally wanted to look 'Canadian snowboarder cool', in which case I'd take extra precautions to do my hair and makeup just right, so that doesn't really count. London's just not really a hoodie kind of town when you're pushing 30. It's too stylish. And I'm not even a person who usually cares about such things but for some reason, heading to funky pubs or even just going on the tube in a hoodie felt wrong. Now that I'm back in good old casual Canada, I wear a hoodie every single day. And I'm not going to lie, it's usually the same one. Hey, I wash it. Sometimes. On a related note, working from home kind of rocks.

Sushi.
When I first arrived home, I had sushi for five meals in a row. That includes a couple of breakfasts. Enough said. Except I'll say this: I missed the raw seafoodfrom the Canadian prairie -- over a thousand kilometres from ths ocean -- when I was living on a small island? That's fucked.

Downtime.
In London, I felt like every second I spent on my sofa was time wasted, time that could be spent doing something fabulous. I don't feel that way about home. I've done it all. Ok, that's a lie but I've lived here long enough to do all I care to do. Now, insteading of spending my weekends on some mad, frantic tourist crusade mission, I spend my time on the couch watching Jersey Shore.

On that note, Oh my god, Cable.
I have 111 channels here and it's true -- there's usually nothing on. But after a year of having a do an extensive antenna dance every time I wanted to tune to the right channel to watch something, I'm happy just flicking through with the concentration of a zombie-like drone.

Half and Half.
They don't have half and half in England, much to my chagrin. Milk in coffee just doesn't cut it, and full cream is kind of appallingly digusting and overindulgent. Therefore, half and half totally rocks my world.

A dryer. And a normal-sized washing machine.
I can wash my clothes in the morning and wear them that afternoon. The insanity! And the washers here are so big, I can wear three different outfits every day for two weeks and still fit everything in the machine with room to wash my duvet too. I'm pretty sure I don't even own enough clothes to fit in that thing. It's crazy. Sure, it's probably killing the environment but oh, the convenience!

Not sharing a bar-sized fridge with three people.
I loved my roomates and we made it work but the fridge was fecking tiny. Where I'm living now, there are two fridges that are three times bigger for half as many people. I'm tempted to buy perishable food I have no intention of eating just because I can.

Reliable internet.
What a novelty. Again, amazed that I have better wireless in the countryside of the Canadian foothills than I do living in one of the biggest cities in the world, but I'm definitely not complaining.

Lessons Learned

Things I Learned This Year:

Italian hotel hair dryers are weird. 

How to drive standard (learned the hard way, by lying to the car hire agency in saying that I was an old pro, then praying to god I didn't stall on the way out of the parking lot. I pulled it off -- with a few minor glitches)

When someone lets you drive their car and the first thing you ask is which pedal is the clutch, it generally does not evoke a good reaction

'Nought' is, in fact, a number and can be used in sentences as such.

I rock at the game of cows.

Incidentally, there are a lot of cows in Ireland. And horses that look like cows.

I am unable to carry a clutch as a purse. Such actions will result in me doing something effing stupid like leaving in the bathroom of a three-story packed bar in Dublin on St Patrick's Day. Money and passport-carrying devices must have a strap that I wear on my person at all times.

Canadians must be incredibly resilient to handle snowfalls of an inch or more on a regular basis and still be able to function.

Although a bar fridge (North American term for what British people just call a 'fridge) seems small, you can actually fit about three times as much food in it as you thought was humanly possible. That's the inevitable conclusion when four people share a fridge of that size.

A tumble dryer is not a necessity. Nor is working TV. However, Coronation Street is but it can be listened to on a broken TV.

Hot water, however, is an absolute must. We were forced to survive without it for a mere 12 hours and did you know how many pots you have to boil to fill a bath tub? The correct answer is all the pots you have in your house time eleven. For what is essentially a sponge bath. Fucking eh.

In England, pants and trousers are two different things.

Frozen yorkshire puddings that are ready in the time it takes you to boil water for tea just might be the best thing ever.