The Litmus Test

I have a litmus test of sorts that I apply to all my suitors. Whether the actual weight of it has any merit is really beyond me -- but it is something that I keep in the back of my mind none-the-less. On my dining room wall I have three framed chinese characters that have significant meaning to me. They are the focal point of the room.

It takes me a while to invite/allow a man into my home. My home is my sanctuary. I fill it with treasures and photos that are a reflection of my life. I don't want just anyone having that access.

Now, I'm not talking about "no boys allowed". I consider myself fairly social and have lots of impromptu gatherings of both sexes when the mood strikes. I'm talking here about someone who is trying to show me that they are interested in me.

For me, a simple interest isn't enough. I think I'm pretty interesting. I have an interesting life. A good career. A bevy of friends. A whirlwind of life experiences. I'm cute - despite being a little chubbier than I would like to be. Taking a simple interest in me is not impressive enough.

But if I invite you into my home -- I'm actually saying: look at me. These things are important to me. Do they have any meaning to you as well? I figure the litmus test is a good indication for me to have an idea of where this gentlemen suitor may or may not be at. It's a fairly easy test: three large poster sized chinese characters beautifully framed, and the focal point on the east side of my wall. For me they beg the question what do those mean? Unless of course, he can read chinese. But I have yet to meet anyone (suitor wise) who has (to date).

So there we are sitting on my couch chit chatting amidst a room filled with monuments of my life -- monuments which scream out my passions and adventures. I don't expect him to take note of the little things; like the rocks I've collected from the tops of various volcanoes around Italy -- or the fertility dolls that I snagged while in South Africa. That would just be mean. I'm pretty sure my emotional walls aren't that high.

But the three large poster sized focal points on my dining room wall -- now that should be simple. And yet, one after the other they fail to take notice. In essence, I feel, that they are not really noticing me. And I think my litmus test works on some level.

The lack of deep curiosity about another person is an indication of your intention towards them. I seem to have a real knack for attracting the "let's see where this goes" guy, or "I don't know what I want" man. Both of them come with their own headaches. And so, in an effort to avoid going down that path yet again -- I hope (each time) that at the beginning, when it's all exciting and the energy is electric -- I hope that amidst the whirlwind of possibilities that I have some sense of stability to see if this interaction has any real merit. So I have my litmus test.

Every time I've ignored my litmus test I've been faced with the inevitable slap across the face. So, I believe, on some level it is a red flag as to how serious I can take someone in the beginning. I've learned every time (the hard way) that the level of someone's intentions in the beginning is directly proportionate to the foundation of a relationship -- and it's future.

But sometimes you have to go out on a limb right? And so I did -- going against my better judgement. A litmus test for the litmus test if you will. It was heartbreaking. I ignored my litmus test when I knew I shouldn't because I wanted to give someone a real chance. I did what we all did -- made excuses for the things I wasn't getting in a relationship.

There we were on the day we broke up. As he was about to walk out the door forever he looked over his shoulder and asked, "What do those characters mean?". Holding back the tears I told him, "That one means 'wa' or 'chi' -- the essence of life. The one in the middle means 'love'. And to it's right, that is the symbol for 'dragon', after the year I was born".

If only he had done that in the beginning.

C. Bailey Rae - Till it happens to you
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The Mausoleum

My favourite pair of jeans ripped on me the other day. It was a sad moment. Having gained a lot of weight in the recent past I was down to a rotation of three pairs of pants that still (somewhat) looked decent on me. I was now down to two.

The good news is that I've recently committed to losing the weight that I've gained over the last few years. After all, to quote Lily Allen: "everything's cool as long as I'm getting thinner". So I try to look on the bright side of the two gaping holes on both sides of my inner pant leg. I now have a tangible reminder that things have gotten out of control.

You think I would have been motivated to lose the weight when walking became difficult. Each thigh panting out of breath as it squeezed past the other in an endless battle to move forward. Sticking together in the summer. Uncomfortable friction in the winter.

Somehow I seemed to toss this information aside amidst the friction and chaos beneath my zipper. But alas, the truth finally bore it's ugly head: like the critter ripping through that guy's stomache in "Alien" so were my thighs through both pant legs. Both images are horrific.

Since I have to toss the jeans out, I venture into my closet to see what else I can purge. It's sad really. My closet is a mausoleum of sorts: of a younger, slimmer me. I try on one thing after another only to be mortified that it no longer fits the way that it used to. One by one I try on items hoping to have some reconnection to an earlier time. But there is little to no success. One after the other I fail. My arms can't fit into sleeves. Wrap-around shirts aren't able to cope with the expanded mass of fat on my mid region.

And so I lay the clothes back in their tomb - not wanting to disturb the dead. Hoping at some point in the very near future that they will all be resurrected.

Lily Allen - The Fear from Alex Gilbert on Vimeo.

The Love Tango

There's a dance that most of us have done in our lifetime. I like to call it The Love Tango: two steps forward, one step back. The thing about this particular dance is that you, unfortunately, have to go it alone. It's probably the most frustrating life dance to be entwined in because it fools you into thinking that you have a partner, or that one is going to see you dancing by yourself and miraculously join in and save the day. The most painful part of this dance is that you can never do it quite right on your own. Either your tempo is off or your swing just isn't right -- and there you are in the dance studio we like to call Life dancing by yourself. Two steps forward, one step back.

The Love Tango can catch you at any time. For me it usually occurs when I enter the realm of should -- such a dangerous place to go. There I am having just made a nice dinner for myself. Staring out the window and eating alone I think: is this all there is? I should be enjoying this with someone else. The should is the part of the dance that leads to the back step. Should can also be interchangeable with shouldn't have to.

Shall we dance?

I shouldn't have to be sitting here on this beautiful night eating this nice meal that only I can appreciate. I should be enjoying this with someone else. Meals should be enjoyed over a nice conversation with wine and a little footsie followed by a walk around the block.

After the backstep you must go forward two steps. This is usually led by phrases that start with I'm fine or it's fraternal twin; I'll be fine.

Let's continue.

I'm fine on my own. I like my own company. I don't need anyone else to enjoy this moment. This moment has value all on it's own -- even if I'm the only one who can appreciate it. I'm just feeling sorry for myself. Snap out of it! I'll be fine in a minute.

Then the backstep.

But we're social creatures and we shouldn't have to live in isolation.

My personal flare to The Love Tango is a nice lift at the end of my last backstep -- it is here where the delusion of the dance takes me hostage. Sweaty and exhilerated from dancing off-kilter to the wrong tempo in this lonely ballroom, I get carried away and backslide hoping to spin -- knowing that a partner isn't going to lift me. It is this last step backwards that leads to the ulitmate consequence of a failed lift in this solo dance: the phone call.

The Love Tango always ends with a reminder that you are dancing the dance alone. That the partner you had hoped would join you to even out your tempo or keep you in balance, will not be in attendance. They don't even like to dance.

As I get off the phone and head back to the dinner I haven't finished I have no choice but to do what comes naturally and go two more steps forward.

Do what I say, not what I do

It's funny how we can give advice on relationships in a completely rational manner, but when it comes to actually putting it to practice in our own lives we stumble. I've noticed over the years that I'm a very good councilor and friend, but a very bad practioner. My poor heart. My poor spirit. I've trampled them through so much muck over the years.

Last night a friend stopped by. Having just got out of a relationship that crashed and burned a couple of months ago she has begrudgingly re-entered the dating scene. I sat across from her while we drank tea on my balcony and thought: God, I'm so glad I'm not in your shoes right now. It's so much easier to be single than to make yourself emotionally vulnerable to someone else. I find that no matter how hard you try to maintain your cool - eventually, as with all things in life, the issues that need to be addressed within your inner psyche will start to spill out. Funny how relationships do that to us. Our innevitable mirrors into our own neurosis.

So there we were chatting. Well, she chatted and I listened. It was the typical situation: sparks fly, guy seems interested, she reciprocates, he pulls away. A complete classic. I listened very carefully to what she said and it occured to me that she was doing what I have done so many times in the past. She was asking this new man in her life to make all the right choices for her so she could proceed with the relationship.

You see, he had already sent her many signals of his lack of interest within their first month of dating: not calling regularly, backing out of plans, making excuses for not being available. And the reality is: all this is perfectly fine. After all, they just met. But here is where we all seem to stumble -- or at least I have. Even though she was seeing all these signals she still wanted a relationship. Not because this guy was worthy of it -- but because she desperately needed to make up for the past. Make up for all the failed relationships. Erase the pain.

Instead of setting a standard for herself and waiting to see if he will rise to the occassion, she started getting angry at him for not treating her the way she expected. She had already decided to go "all in" and upped the anti by putting her heart on the line.

So I said to her "don't get angry with him, read his actions and if he's not performing the way you like then you need to make a choice about whether or not you want to see him again". I told her to tell him "I'm not interested in continuing to date you unless we are able to see each other more during the week".

Her jaw dropped. "Isn't that a bit harsh?" she asked. "Nope" I said.

The thing is, we all have needs. Maybe this guy needs to only see his girl once a week. But the truth of my friend's situation is that she needs to see her guy a couple times a week -- at the very least. And she shouldn't settle for less. There is no point wasting her time on someone if he can't bring the same energy to the table that she requires.

Besides, the truth of the matter is; if any man is really interested in pursuing things with you --and you tell him what your standards are -- unless he is mentally retarded, he will rise to the occassion. If he doesn't, then he wasn't really interested in you and you need to focus your attention on someone who is at the very least interested in you in the same capacity. It's a bare minimum.

As we talked she started to feel/think that maybe she was afraid of not meeting anyone else anytime soon. So I asked her, "well, can you do casual with this guy?" and she didn't think she could. "So" I said, "if you can't do casual, then you need to be honest about what type of relationship you are looking for and if this guy doesn't step up to the plate then chances are he won't for a while. If you are ok with waiting, dating other people, and seeing what happens, then fine. But you're not. It's not what you want. So tell him matter-of-factly what it takes to be with a girl like you and if he's really worth his salt he'll get his act together".

The thing is - we know instinctively when someone is or isn't serious about us. The hard part is admitting that to yourself and being strong enough to walk away from a "sort-of" potentially good situation. "Sort-of" doesn't make a very good foundation.

I was pretty blunt with my friend because I didn't want to see her second-guess her worth for another year only to be disappointed -- when she has the opportunity now to set a standard with this guy. A very clear standard. One that he could respect enough to say "yeah, ok, I'd like to see more of this girl and she seems like she has some integrity so I could bring more to the table -- or at least bring more integrity to this dating situation because I now have a bit of respect for her". That's what a mature man would do.

Men want to make their women happy. But it can't be from a place of weakness (ie. whining, crying, nagging). Demands have to come from a place of respect and love for yourself. Calm but firm you should always be able to speak your mind in a relationship. You should never be afraid to lose him. You should be more afraid that he will never change.





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Love Me, Love Me Not

So I was thinking, if God is love a la the Holy Bible and other religious texts, and love is the law of the Universe a la The Secret, then we are basically swimming internally and externally in a love membrane. A cytoplasm of sorts. I think for some reason I've accidentally become stuck in the vacuole. And I'm probably not the only one.

Vacuoles are important. They're the clear blobs within the cell and I've always thought of them as points of clarity. They juxtapose all the other squiggly mechanisms that exist within the cell. The interesting thing about the vacuoles is they store both food and waste. Food the cell needs to survive. And waste that the cell needs to expell.

Are you following me?

I'm stuck in the vacuole because it has all the food and water I need to survive. But it also has waste that can poison me. If I were to somehow step out of the vacuole into the cytoplasm, the cell would naturally feed me because I am part of that cell. I don't need to be in the vacuole with the waste to be fed. By being in the cytoplasm I can move around in a more natural state. The homeostasis of love within and around me would flow naturally, uninhibited by toxins.

I need to get out of the vacuole. I need to have enough courage that the natural state of love that I was born with and that exists spiritually inside of me will naturally draw all the food I could ever need. Food which I can actually grow from. Food that feeds my soul instead of poisoning it.

So I poke around the clear membrane, stepping over the corpses of relationships past. Waste that was disguised as food because I was floating in the wrong part of my Universe. I pause for a second and look at some of my former favourite binge foods: the guy with the flowers, the guy with the insatiable need to party, the guy with the intriguing conversations, the guy who adored me a bit too much. All of them corpses floating around in this vacuole -- never able to offer the nutrients that I need to thrive and flourish.

The wall is thick. I press my hands against it in hopes that the pressure I apply will create a tear that I can squeeze through to the other side. To my true environment. It's daunting really - stepping over all these waste products while trying to poke through an impervious wall. Not to mention how hungry I am. It's been a while since I've eaten anything in here because I know that the poison is more harmful than the food it is disguised in.

I push the thoughts of hunger (now starvation) to the side. The excitement of eating real food is what fuels me now. I can't wait to flip around in the cytoplasm of my natural Universe. My arms are weak from pushing and my legs exhausted from the endless dance around the waste of my former choices. But I keep on pushing against the wall because I know that despite how much the fatigue sets in or the hunger weakens, I do not belong here. And I also know that if I push against the wall long enough I will find a weakness.

There's blisters on my hands and cramps in my legs but none of that matters. I'm hungry for the real food. The food I was born to eat. The food that will flow within and through me. The food that can only come from the homeostasis of pure love.

Madame, one day you will be Queen.

I celebrated my 25th birthday in typical Asian style: Karaoke. For the past two years I had been living in Southern Japan, escaping the innevitable fate of my first degree while deciding what my second kick at the can would be...a dream career, if you will.

But now we were in Thailand, half-way through our journey through South East Asia. By "we" I mean whomever I happened to be travelling with at the time. Currently it was two friends from highschool who had flown out to meet me at different points along the way. And a guy. A sole remnant of a larger caravan of Danish men that we had been partying with while trapsing through Malaysia.

As we ingested Singha and vodka in copious amounts that only 20-somethings can endure we stumbled on to the street in downtown Bangkok. It was the height of summer vacation and the popularity of The Beach (which was released the year before) had made this once quieter area of town a "must see" tourist attraction. It was hot and I was very drunk.

For those who haven't had the pleasure of visiting Thailand, specifically Bangkok, I can tell you that the swirl of energy bouncing off young tourists and ex-pats alike is electric. Explosive. The heightened intensity of backpackers downing buckets of vodka and redbulls intermixed with swarms of children working the streets (begging for money) combined with very loud Israeli youth who have finished their military service, leads to a kinetic interaction that turns into a deafening blur. Specifics become difficult to focus on. And the heat combined with this nauseating energy is overwhelming to say the least.

"Madame, can I read your fortune?" I heard to my right. A voice came from the alleyway. It was another component to the chaos of this street: A fortune teller from India. Turban and all. "No thanks", I said and continued a step. But he stopped me. "Please, let me show you" he said. But I wasn't in the mood. "I'm sorry, but I'm very drunk" I said as I side-stepped him.

"Madame, the next time you see me I will tell you something very important". And with that he receeded back into the dark alleyway. And I continued on with my night.

I had forgotten about this random drunk encounter during the midst of a chaotic birthday celebration -- until two months later. Walking down the same street, alone this time, I heard the same voice. "Ah, I see you are heartbroken" he said. It was daylight now and I could see him very clearly. There was a familiarity in his approach. We exchanged looks and he grabbed my hand. "Come, come" he said. So I followed this man down an alley to a little stool set up near a tap on the side of a house. He motioned for me to sit on the stool and he sat in front of me crosslegged.

"Sir, I really don't have the money for this" I said. But I sat on the stool anyway and he proceeded to read my hand. This was the second time I had my hand read by a fortune teller. The first time was in grade 10 science. A boy from India sat beside me and one day he stared at my fingers. "WHAT!?!" I snapped, slightly creeped out by this. He too grabbed my hand and began to read. He told me that I would have a successful career, that I would have many relationships - some good and some bad - but mostly good, and that I would marry a very rich man. "Very rich?" I squealed. "How do you know"? He turned my hand over and showed me where my pinky finger lined up against my fourth finger. To him that meant that I would marry rich. "Are you sure?" I asked, wanting to verify. He conquered. He also told me that his family were gypsy's in India and that the reading was accurate. I wish I could remember his name. In any case, ten years later I am now being seduced by a pro-bono swami in a back alley in downtown Thailand.

"Sir, I really should be going".

"Please, madame" he said. And so I watched him observe my hand meticulously. Squinting and pondering while he examined. A toothless woman sat two feet away from us and smiled. Her laundry was hung for the day and I suppose we were her entertainment. "What do you see?" I asked. Now I was intrigued. I tried to figure out how I could spare some extra baht to give this guy. Most of my money was stashed in my money belt tucked into my sweaty underwear for safe keeping - and I wasn't about to pull that out in public.

He pondered a bit more and said, "Do not worry about your heart being broken, you will see this man again. But he is not the one for you". It turns out he was right. I did run into the German lawyer I was travelling with the following week. He had dumped me on the island of Koh Samet because he heard that his ex was coming to meet up with him -- but that's another story. The sting was still fresh and I suppose the swami could see it in my face. I've never been good with hiding my emotions. "Oh, madame. Do not worry. I have good news for you".

"Sir, I really don't have any money -- only a few baht that I was going to use to make a phone call". He smiled. "Don't worry, this is not a real reading. This is my gift to you". I sized him up but he seemed fairly genuine. At this point it was either get a free reading or have my throat slit. The point of no return had already passed. I acquiesed.

"Madame, one day you will be surrounded by good fortune and love. True love. But it won't come easy - but do not fret. You will marry a very rich man who will love you. You will die quietly of old age in your bed surrouned by your family. You will live a rich life. You will be loved dearly".

There had to be some element of truth. This was the second Indian fortune teller who now has confirmed that my husband will be wealthy.

"True love?" I said. The optimism must have been shining from my eyes. "Oh yes. He will treat you like gold. Madame, one day you will be queen". I was satisfied with my free reading at that point. The bitterness of my recent break up (if you could even call it that) was now fading. I handed the swami all the money I had in my decoy change purse: 4 baht.

Being the starving opportunist he immediately shot up and said "For 50 baht I can tell you his name!". By now I was walking back down the aisle. The woman reached out her hand for money as I passed her - but I didn't have any. So we just exchanged smiles. The swami followed me back out to the main road and jumped in front of me "For 10 baht, I can tell you his first letter". I told him that I didn't have any more money and thanked him for the reading. He waived me on and said "Remember Madame, one day you will be Queen!". I turned around and said, "How will I know when I find him?" and my swami smiled and said, "You will be fooled many many times".

So now what?

Have you ever woken up not knowing who you were...I mean really not having a clue about who you are? Well, that was me this morning. After tossing and turning most of the night I resigned to start the day with yet another hangover. Somehow through the gaze of sleep deprived eyes I realized that my life, thus far, is a joke. Not "ha ha" funny - but a conglomeration of misery and disappointment none-the-less. I threw the covers off my bed and stood up. Looked in the mirror: still fat. Fatter than I want to be - but well on my way to slimming back down again (I hope -- oh, God! I really do hope so this time). I am a cliche, it seems. 32, single, and overweight. Those are my boxes (for now).

Sigh. Another deep one: Sigh.

So it seems that at this very moment I am having an existential crisis. How deep. How pathetic. Who am I? Can anyone really answer that question? Female, oldest daughter, a writer, brown hair, hazel eyes. But those are all just labels - classifications of who I am on a superficial level. Deep DEEP down, what am I? I can't label that. So I'm walking around now zombie-like from the fatique of a restless night and frustrated that I'm in this place to begin with.

Sigh.

Must create an action plan: Go to gym. Hit the sauna to sweat out excess toxins. Come home. Shower. Go to look for a bike. Price a dehumidifier. Come home. Get ready for a dear friend's birthday dinner. Go to dinner (perhaps with new bike?). Come home. Try and get a good nights sleep. Reflect on the person I want to be.

That's an okay plan for now.