It's the time of year that people and media outlets stop being creative and start rehashing the year's events, hoping to boil it all down to a few sentences and themes, and maybe make a few predictions or set a few goals for the coming year. Not wanting to be left out, here's my year in review.
January - Man visits north. Relationship has existential crisis. Woman decides to move south.
February - Hibernation. Valentine's Day. More hibernation.
March - Woman tells all that she's decided to move south. Friends derive fake (maybenotfake) sabotage of move south plans. Parents offer cautious encouragement and stern warnings about pension contributions.
April - Woman rehearses for final Temiskaming Festival of Music. Gravity of situation not sinking in because job search is going poorly.
May - Woman interviews for sort of crappy jobs. Is offered one. Declines because they don't pay enough. Parents' stern warnings about pension contributions echo through her mind on repeat.
June - Woman interviews for more crappy jobs. Is offered two. Takes one. Packs up northern life in whirlwind. Feels a little bit like she's giving up on her Northern Adventure, but gravity of situation not sinking in because of new job starting IMMINENTLY. Woman pays off student debt completely with vacation hours payout.
July - Woman discovers, on first day of new job, that it is a BAD JOB. Parents' stern warnings about pension contributions echo through her mind on repeat AT TOP VOLUME. Woman starts using recently paid-down line of credit to buy groceries. Woman has loud and messy crisis about inability to adult properly. Much ugly crying ensues. Woman thanks Jebus that she gave appropriate notice to terminate part-time contract at northern nursing home and still has some work through July, even though it means that she has to drive back up North to an empty apartment every weekend and pack. And pack. And pack.
August - Woman quits BAD JOB. Woman takes NEW GOOD JOB. Woman thanks Jebus even more that she gave appropriate notice to terminate part-time contract at northern nursing home since contract company descended from the heavens with NEW GOOD JOB at exactly the right moment. Woman watches mother and cousin get married (not to each other). Woman moves out of northern weekend apartment. Much furniture is broken. Man's skull is nearly broken during epic backwards fall from back of moving truck. Friends save the day and assist with moving truck tetris. Relationship survives! Woman joins Niagara Roller Girls. First practice involves 40 minutes of hard endurance on the hottest day of the year. Woman thinks that maybe she can't play roller derby after all.
September - Woman chickens out of auditions for local community musical, remembering bitterly previous community musical auditions. Woman has existential crisis about her new, non-piano-playing identity. Woman pounds piano with score from Les Miserables. Woman embraces new home by purchasing a bushel of plum tomatoes. Makes several litres of tomato sauce. Breaks glass tabletop under heat and pressure of pot of several litres of hot tomato sauce. Buys new table. Woman has existential crisis about inability to cease making major home purchases.
October - Woman starts second NEW GOOD JOB. Woman laments not having at least one weekday (and sometimes two) off. Woman has existential crisis about work ethic. Woman travels north for the first time in two months. Feels strange not driving to her old apartment. Celebrates impending parenthood of good friends. Participates in impromptu post-baby shower jam night. Feels like things are right. Woman and man and friends start cover band. Woman no longer subjects piano to fortissimo renditions of "One Day More" on a daily basis. Frequency now biweekly only.
November - Woman turns 32. Woman increases RRSP contributions. Parents' stern warnings about pension contributions become echo somewhat more quietly. Woman has existential crisis about aging and placing TOO MUCH emphasis on adultiness. Woman celebrates birthday by playing glow-in-the-dark mini-golf in all-but-abandoned Clifton Hill Midway in late November and narrowly avoiding the over-order charge at an all-you-can-eat sushi restaurant. Youthful vigor is restored.
December - Woman plays on winning roller derby team for the first time since beginning to play roller derby. Wins MVP Blocker award for the first time since beginning to play roller derby. Decides that maybe she can play roller derby after all. Sees northern friends making Christmas Concert-related posts on Facebook. Realizes she had almost forgotten it was Christmastime because she had been involved in exactly zero Christmas concerts. Becomes melancholy. Friends from October baby shower have beautiful baby girl. Woman becomes elated. Woman receives cornet from father for birthday/Christmas. Becomes confused, but not unhappy with this unexpected gift.
So that's it, folks. That's my year in review. My goals for 2016 are to play the piano at least 75% as much as I did in 2015 (with 50% as much Les Miserables) and have 10% fewer existential crises. And learn to play the cornet.
Happy Holidays, everyone! And a Happy 2016!
Sunday, December 20, 2015
Tuesday, October 20, 2015
11N - My Love Letter to the North
I've lost count of the number of Friday afternoons I've driven my sensible, reliable and kind of smelly '09 Yaris up and down the Highway 11/400 corridor to Blue Sky country, through the Muskokas, into the greenbelt, and to the bustling metropoleis of Toronto and St. Catharines...then back again the following Sunday night. I could (and probably have) done it in my sleep.
I know all the best gas stations. I can gas up, pee and grab another coffee in 5 minutes or less. I've performed some epic cover shows from the comfort of the drivers seat, accompanied by an all-star back-up band of whoever's streaming from the songza playlist. I've created gourmet road snacks from the best the Bulk Barn has to offer. Hundreds of hours. Hundreds of litres of gas. Thousands of kilometres. Why?
Something or someone kept pulling my heart away. I had to follow my heart. You die without it.
But even though my heart was pulled south, sooner or later, the magnetic north would pull me back up like the pointer on a compass. The north was the first place I could call home in a decade. It was the place where I truly discovered who I am and was comfortable with the person I discovered. The north taught me that I am a wise counsellor, a talented musician, a steadfast friend and a strong and resilient person. It taught me how powerful and rewarding a sense of community and sharing can be. It taught me that a plywood shed on a frozen lake with a backpack full of beer and your snowpants on is probably more fun than the most exclusive dance club. It taught me that a friend with a guitar and a good singing voice is always better than a dj. It taught me that I can make almost anything I want with my hands. It taught me that staying warm is always better than looking good. It taught me how I liked my coffee. And most importantly it taught me that, yes Dorothy, my heart's desire was really no further than my own back yard.
And then one day, when I was living in the moment without hope or expectation, I was smacked across the face with a two-by-four of serendipity and suddenly the poles switched and the southern magnetism was stronger than before. I was pulled from the north and though it was right, it was sad and scary and stressful and not without its moments where I felt like I had taken a leap of faith only to discover I'd jumped off a cliff into a river of piranhas. I'm settled now, and about the happiest I've ever been. And that's not because I've left the north behind. I haven't. I am happy because though my heart pulled me south one final time, a little piece of it will always be with the earth, water, campfire, music, and friends that are family I have in the north and I know I will have to go back because I need that piece of my heart too.
So this is not a Dear John letter, wishing the north well when I'm gone. This is my love letter, asking it to always have a place for me; the place I end up after tracing the curves and hills of highway 11 like the lines on my palm. Thanking it for everything it's done for me. I arrived a discontented youth, draping myself in layers and layers hoping to turn into something I could be content with. I left with the confidence to bear my true, (metaphorically) naked self to the world, utterly content with who I am. I love the north because the north helped me learn to love myself.
I know all the best gas stations. I can gas up, pee and grab another coffee in 5 minutes or less. I've performed some epic cover shows from the comfort of the drivers seat, accompanied by an all-star back-up band of whoever's streaming from the songza playlist. I've created gourmet road snacks from the best the Bulk Barn has to offer. Hundreds of hours. Hundreds of litres of gas. Thousands of kilometres. Why?
Something or someone kept pulling my heart away. I had to follow my heart. You die without it.
But even though my heart was pulled south, sooner or later, the magnetic north would pull me back up like the pointer on a compass. The north was the first place I could call home in a decade. It was the place where I truly discovered who I am and was comfortable with the person I discovered. The north taught me that I am a wise counsellor, a talented musician, a steadfast friend and a strong and resilient person. It taught me how powerful and rewarding a sense of community and sharing can be. It taught me that a plywood shed on a frozen lake with a backpack full of beer and your snowpants on is probably more fun than the most exclusive dance club. It taught me that a friend with a guitar and a good singing voice is always better than a dj. It taught me that I can make almost anything I want with my hands. It taught me that staying warm is always better than looking good. It taught me how I liked my coffee. And most importantly it taught me that, yes Dorothy, my heart's desire was really no further than my own back yard.
And then one day, when I was living in the moment without hope or expectation, I was smacked across the face with a two-by-four of serendipity and suddenly the poles switched and the southern magnetism was stronger than before. I was pulled from the north and though it was right, it was sad and scary and stressful and not without its moments where I felt like I had taken a leap of faith only to discover I'd jumped off a cliff into a river of piranhas. I'm settled now, and about the happiest I've ever been. And that's not because I've left the north behind. I haven't. I am happy because though my heart pulled me south one final time, a little piece of it will always be with the earth, water, campfire, music, and friends that are family I have in the north and I know I will have to go back because I need that piece of my heart too.
So this is not a Dear John letter, wishing the north well when I'm gone. This is my love letter, asking it to always have a place for me; the place I end up after tracing the curves and hills of highway 11 like the lines on my palm. Thanking it for everything it's done for me. I arrived a discontented youth, draping myself in layers and layers hoping to turn into something I could be content with. I left with the confidence to bear my true, (metaphorically) naked self to the world, utterly content with who I am. I love the north because the north helped me learn to love myself.
Monday, May 4, 2015
The Spring of Mild Discontent
I dip in and out of malaise. It's a problem.
I've alluded to the fact that there's been a new man in my life. It's a long-distance thing, which is fine. We met the old-fashioned way, which is to say we met in a bar. I guess it's old-fashioned because it was without the aid of online dating services or friendly set-ups. It was really like being hit by lightning only instead of a storm-cloud, he was a drummer and instead of lightning, it was a smile.
It's all very gushy.
Anyway, it's been 9 months. No, that doesn't mean anything except the length of time it's actually been since the moment when I, kind of bitchily, told the band in an empty bar in a town I was visiting that they should play something and the drummer zapped me with his smile.
Sometime in January or February, I made the decision to relocate from Northern Ontario to the deep south of Southern Ontario. It wasn't a decision I made lightly because, aside from the fact that my heart is with him, everything else in Northern Ontario is kind of awesome.
I moved out of my childhood home when I was sixteen following my parents' pretty messy separation. Since then, even when I've returned to the house I grew up in, I've never really felt like I was home. I've stayed with my grandparents, in residence, in my Dad's apartment, in my own apartment, and even back in my childhood home, and it's never felt like I belonged somewhere since I was 16. And then I moved here, and I finally feel like I'm where I'm supposed to be; friends are great, job is great, apartment's great, life is great. And then lightning struck.
All of this is to say that I didn't come to the decision to relocate lightly. It was a giant decision and involved a lot of internal flip-flopping and weighing of pros and cons.
And I'm STILL HERE.
I can't shake this feeling that I'm waiting for my life to happen. This isn't the first time I've felt this way. Not so very long ago, I was waiting for my life to happen so hard that the force with which I was waiting blew the part of my life I was waiting for away with the wind.
But now that I've made the decision to change towns, change jobs, change homes, make new friends, new habits, and new grocery stores, getting to do those things is more or less all I can think about.
I've tried to make some of the most ridiculous things work in my head. I nearly took a job outside of my field with no guaranteed hours and sometimes still feel twinges of regret for not having taken it. I find myself considering going back to school because I sometimes feel like taking a 2 year education hiatus will actually expedite this process.
I recognize that I'm playing a dangerous game.
I keep humming John Lennon's "Beautiful Boy." I'm not saying that to tell you that my biological clock is ticking (though I must admit that my ovaries are pinging significantly more now than they were two or three years ago). I keep recalling the line "Life is just what happens to you when you're busy making other plans."
That's the trickiest part.
I'm pretty sure the life I want is going to be pretty great.
But the life I've got in the meantime still rocks pretty hard.
I have to remember to remember that.
Monday, February 2, 2015
The Dietitian Myth: A Philosophy in Rant Form
At some point last week, I'd just about had it.
There are three things that, professionally (and personally), drive me just a little bit bonkers.
1. People who want me to help them lose weight, and are upset with me when that doesn't happen.
2. People who are hesitant to engage my services because they think I'm going to be all judge-y and shame-y about how they've lived their lives so far.
and,
3. People who are all judge-y and shame-y when they come to see me and realize that I'm not actually some waif subsisting on tofu and unrequited desire.
The truth is this:
1. I am not in the business of weight loss, body sculpting, or helping you fit into that dress you bought two sizes too small because you thought if you just buckled down for the next two months, you'd fit into it by the time you needed to. Some of these things might happen as a result of our time together, and if that makes you happy, then I'm happy to have been involved, but I would never guarantee you a beach body. Any dietitian who does is probably lying.
2. I am in the business of a better life. Though there is some research to back up a correlation between body composition and long-term health, there are so many other things at play, and there's an equally persuasive argument for fitness over fatness. Check out this lady for much more eloquent and researched discussion on that topic. Far more important (to me, anyway) than the number on the scale is how well you sleep at night, how good it feels to move your body, how crusty and crunchy your arteries are and how long they're going to last you, and how often and easily you poop (seriously, pooping is important and I want to make sure everyone does it). When I'm asked to help with weight loss, I start with a frank conversation about how I can't ever promise anyone that. A good relationship starts with reasonable expectations.
3. I learned to love my body a long time ago. It's the only one I've got, it's pretty strong and tall, though not very fast, my boyfriend seems to like it, and it does a whole bunch of really cool things. If your inability to accept my self-acceptance keeps you from learning to keep your arteries from being crusty, and keeps you constipated because you couldn't possibly imagine that someone my height, weight, size, colour, whatever would have a clue about what's healthy, then I'm sad for you. Pooping is awesome, and you may be missing out.
4. I do not care about the way you lived your life "before". The only thing I care about is that you're sitting in front of me asking me to help you change. I am never going to be judge-y and shame-y at someone who is looking for help. Change will happen as quickly or as slowly as you're ready for, and the only things that I can truly guarantee is that I will provide you with whatever help you will accept from me (within my scope of practice, of course), and you absolutely will not see results overnight. Because, you know, long-term health happens over the long-term.
End rant.
There are three things that, professionally (and personally), drive me just a little bit bonkers.
1. People who want me to help them lose weight, and are upset with me when that doesn't happen.
2. People who are hesitant to engage my services because they think I'm going to be all judge-y and shame-y about how they've lived their lives so far.
and,
3. People who are all judge-y and shame-y when they come to see me and realize that I'm not actually some waif subsisting on tofu and unrequited desire.
The truth is this:
1. I am not in the business of weight loss, body sculpting, or helping you fit into that dress you bought two sizes too small because you thought if you just buckled down for the next two months, you'd fit into it by the time you needed to. Some of these things might happen as a result of our time together, and if that makes you happy, then I'm happy to have been involved, but I would never guarantee you a beach body. Any dietitian who does is probably lying.
2. I am in the business of a better life. Though there is some research to back up a correlation between body composition and long-term health, there are so many other things at play, and there's an equally persuasive argument for fitness over fatness. Check out this lady for much more eloquent and researched discussion on that topic. Far more important (to me, anyway) than the number on the scale is how well you sleep at night, how good it feels to move your body, how crusty and crunchy your arteries are and how long they're going to last you, and how often and easily you poop (seriously, pooping is important and I want to make sure everyone does it). When I'm asked to help with weight loss, I start with a frank conversation about how I can't ever promise anyone that. A good relationship starts with reasonable expectations.
3. I learned to love my body a long time ago. It's the only one I've got, it's pretty strong and tall, though not very fast, my boyfriend seems to like it, and it does a whole bunch of really cool things. If your inability to accept my self-acceptance keeps you from learning to keep your arteries from being crusty, and keeps you constipated because you couldn't possibly imagine that someone my height, weight, size, colour, whatever would have a clue about what's healthy, then I'm sad for you. Pooping is awesome, and you may be missing out.
4. I do not care about the way you lived your life "before". The only thing I care about is that you're sitting in front of me asking me to help you change. I am never going to be judge-y and shame-y at someone who is looking for help. Change will happen as quickly or as slowly as you're ready for, and the only things that I can truly guarantee is that I will provide you with whatever help you will accept from me (within my scope of practice, of course), and you absolutely will not see results overnight. Because, you know, long-term health happens over the long-term.
End rant.
Wednesday, January 28, 2015
The Great Purge
I had grand plans to outline the great master-plan for simplifying my life today.
I was in Wal-Mart the other day buying two drying racks to replace the one my cat has been using as a jungle-gym for five years. Two is overkill if I keep up with my laundry on the regular. So really, it's not overkill to have two. Anyway, while I was waiting my turn in line, I saw a magazine with a headline promising me 62 ways to unclutter my life. 62! I bought it without even flipping the pages! Of course, I was somewhat disappointed in its claims. At least 5 of those 62 "ways" were ways to rid yourself of guilt and muscle tension. Because, you know, I don't need any help ridding myself of those things. Not.
One article was helpful in uncluttering my life from my actual physical chattles, and I really do want to get rid of a shit-tonne of my stuff without really knowing where to start. Wait. That's not true. The tube-television that's sitting in my car right now that the Salvation Army store won't take because they know they won't sell it. I want to purge that first. For sure.
When I read the other articles, though, I just find that many of the guilt-banishing, muscle-tension soothing, manner-developing tips just don't apply to me and my life. Or I just don't think the guilt and tension and manners I have really need much renovation. Does that mean I'm blissfully ignorant of my own shortcomings? Or does it mean I'm actually sort of content with my life right now? Or maybe both?
Huh.
Unsettling.
I was in Wal-Mart the other day buying two drying racks to replace the one my cat has been using as a jungle-gym for five years. Two is overkill if I keep up with my laundry on the regular. So really, it's not overkill to have two. Anyway, while I was waiting my turn in line, I saw a magazine with a headline promising me 62 ways to unclutter my life. 62! I bought it without even flipping the pages! Of course, I was somewhat disappointed in its claims. At least 5 of those 62 "ways" were ways to rid yourself of guilt and muscle tension. Because, you know, I don't need any help ridding myself of those things. Not.
One article was helpful in uncluttering my life from my actual physical chattles, and I really do want to get rid of a shit-tonne of my stuff without really knowing where to start. Wait. That's not true. The tube-television that's sitting in my car right now that the Salvation Army store won't take because they know they won't sell it. I want to purge that first. For sure.
When I read the other articles, though, I just find that many of the guilt-banishing, muscle-tension soothing, manner-developing tips just don't apply to me and my life. Or I just don't think the guilt and tension and manners I have really need much renovation. Does that mean I'm blissfully ignorant of my own shortcomings? Or does it mean I'm actually sort of content with my life right now? Or maybe both?
Huh.
Unsettling.
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