Que Sera Sera

I was feeling particularly sad for a single friend last night as she nearly broke down in tears explaining to me how lonely she felt.

She’s a successful, accomplished, intelligent and attractive 40-year-old woman, never been married and with no children.  All she’s wanted, desperately, her entire life, is someone she can love and who loves her back.
I understand her pain. I’ve felt that way before and it comes and goes.

It’s just this overwhelming feeling of how unfair it all is. You look at your friends, family members, people on the street, and they all seem to have someone to love and hold hands with; someone to grow old with.  Why not me? You ask yourself.

I told my friend that I can certainly empathize with her; I’ve been paddling along in the exact same boat for years. But then I told her that over the last few months, I’ve been able to make peace with it all to some extent.

“Yeah, you seem really happy,” she said. “Why?”

“Well, why not?” I responded.

I’ve spent many years blaming myself for being single: something’s wrong with me; I’m a failure; I made a colossal mistake when I broke up with so-and-so or threw in the towel with what’s-his-name, etc.  Whatever society might have to say about single women and why they are that way, I could beat myself up better in my own little noggin’!

But gradually, sometime over the past year after finally arriving at the other side of a terrible break up and dealing with the long, heart-wrenching process of my dad’s illness and subsequent death, I decided that I don’t feel like being part of the cast of Les Miserables anymore. It’s exhausting to be miserable all the time. And so, so boring.

Besides whether I’m miserable or content, whining all the time or just trucking happily along, will not make a difference in the final outcome of it all, so why not be happy?

I used to agree with my friend, thinking that it’s so unfair that some people meet the love of their lives and live happily ever after, while some of us remain single and destined to be alone. But as a really smart person once said and as we all well know in our heart of hearts: Life is not fair.

Is it fair that I have a good job that I enjoy, a nice place to live in, a loving family and dozens of wonderful friends while some toddler in Africa is starving to death and will likely never have to worry about the petty struggle to find a mate? No, not really.

It’s not really fair either that one of my most beautiful and sweet friends, married a very beautiful and lovely man, they had two beautiful and healthy children, became successful in two amazing careers which afford them many of life’s pleasures and they won cash for life. Yes, that’s right, cash for life. Sometimes you’ve just gotta shake your head in amazement and smile and say, “Wow, they’re really lucky.”

Nor is it fair that 12 unsuspecting people just hoping to enjoy a midnight showing of the latest installment in their favourite movie franchise ended up the butt of someone else’s sick joke or nightmare, shot up and killed before getting halfway through their popcorn.

None of it is fair. And so much of it is about chance and luck.

Of course, there are things you can do to increase your chances of luck in love, or luck in life, like getting out there, being friendly, outgoing, optimistic, working hard, taking care of yourself, and being open to new things and new people.

However, maybe it’s best to always carry around a healthy dose of ‘Que Sera, Sera’ because in the end there’s only so much you can do before luck and chance step in.

In the end, whatever will be will be so why waste your time being miserable?

Solo Traveler

The happiest thing I’ve discovered this year as a single is that traveling solo is not only manageable, but possibly even preferable.

Sometime in March, I made the decision that this would be the ‘summer of fun’ since last summer was certainly not that; in fact it was pretty much the opposite of that.

So after searching around the interweb for a few days, I booked a decently priced flight to Italy: Leaving July 6^th, returning July 20^th.

I had no idea what I would do there but ever since reading Eat, Prey, Love (I know, cheesy) two summers ago, I had dreamt of sitting on the Spanish Steps in Rome, eating gelato for breakfast and tucking into a perfectly cheesy, margherita pizza.

Never having traveled totally solo before, I booked a tour with Gadventures (formerly Gap adventures) that would find me situated directly under the Tuscan sun.

Since I would have to write a novel to get into all of the wonders that unfolded over my two weeks in Italy, I will keep it short saying that I came home 5lbs heavier from all of the pizza, pasta, gelato and buckets of fine Chianti that I consumed. But some of the highlights include: riding a bicycle through fields of glowing sunflowers; eating the best gelato I’ve ever tasted while wandering the streets of Florence; swimming daily in an aqua pool overlooking the rolling hills and quaint villages of Tuscany; cruising the bustling waterways of Venice on the city’s public transport boats; finding the perfect pair of Italian leather boots in a medieval Tuscan village; and watching a spectacular fireworks show in Venice’s San Marco square.

In addition to all of these wonders however, were the great new friends I met along the way and the freedom I felt being just on my own.

In the end, traveling solo, I realized I was not really alone at all.

On the eight days of my group tour I met 12 lovely people who kept me happy company through wine tastings, wanderings through cobblestone streets, pasta making, and cappuccino drinking.

Then I set off for Venice with a sweet couple I’d met on the tour and ironically, I think it was they who desired the company of another even more than me. The young twosome had been traveling around Europe already for 4-5 weeks and had another 5 weeks to go.  Although they seemed very much in love and happy with one another, the young girl admitted several times that it was nice to have someone else to talk to besides just one another for a while. We spent three happy days touring the streets and canals and simply marvelling over the sheer wonder of the place. I found I had to make a concerted effort to find time for myself and when I found it, I enjoyed it.

The final leg of my trip was spent at a Toronto friend’s family vacation home in Umbria where I again spent quiet mornings and hot afternoons soaking in a pool overlooking olive groves and grapevines, listening to the crowing of the neighbours’ roosters across the valley and sharing delicious meals with my hosts.

By the end of my 14 days in Italy, I had probably only spent two nights alone and found that I treasured those moments, mostly because I knew there were potentially hundreds of friends all around me at any given moment.

On my last night in Rome a young man on business from Milan sat at a table next to mine on the patio and soon started chatting, asking me where I was from and what I was doing in Rome. I was happy to meet him as he seemed to be a friendly and harmless enough guy, but after spending two weeks with so many new friends, I wanted my last night to be just for myself. I got the sense he would have continued the conversation throughout the evening but I already had my own plan in mind. I asked him the best way to get to Trasteverre, a part of town I had yet to explore, thanked him for his help and went on my way.

The best part of that evening was drinking a peach Bellini I’d bought on the street, sitting in the evening heat on the Spanish Steps, reflecting on my adventures. All by myself, but surrounded by hundreds :)

My Dad

I know this is totally off topic, but it’s Father’s Day and I’m just thinking about my dad.

And I guess to connect all of it, my dad is the reason I am who I am when it comes to relationships, dating, men.

I might be struck with a bolt of lightning for saying this, but he was kind of a jerk of a father.

He was controlling, unkind, selfish, self-centred, immature;  an alcoholic.

In the end, that’s what took him down.

After so many years of wishing he would just go away, he died, quietly, just ten months ago.

His liver finally gave in. He was diagnosed with cirrhosis of the liver just four years ago. His doctor said he probably had three or four years to live. He was put on the liver transplant list but his doctor said he may not survive long enough to benefit from a transplant. He died about three years and a few days after that diagnosis.

Last year on Father’s Day, my mom just reminded me from looking in her journal, I went over to their place and had an earnest discussion with my very sick and sometimes delusional (liver disease causes toxic build-up in the brain to the point of dementia) father. I had discussed being his liver donor with him before and he didn’t seem too keen on the idea so I’d left it alone. On this occasion, I guess I wanted to clear my own conscience and give him the final chance to refuse the offer of part of my liver. I didn’t even know if I would be a match, but something kept nagging at me to try because I worried that I would regret it afterwards if I didn’t.  I told him I’d been thinking about it and that I didn’t want him to think I had abandoned him. If he wanted to have the transplant and wanted part of my liver, I would do it. My mom and sister were absolutely against this idea, worrying for my own health and future. But I felt that I was the only one in the family who might be an option as a live donor, being single, young and having no dependants. I felt it was my duty to consider it.

When I broached the subject, he looked at me with surprise and said that he absolutely did not want or expect me to do that. I know that originally he wanted to protect my sister and I from that sort of challenge and was adamant that he would not allow us the option. But as he grew increasingly sick, it felt like I was watching him drown. I couldn’t get the image out of my mind that he was drowning in his toxic waste and hoped someone would soon toss him a life raft: I wondered if he felt abandoned.

In the end, I realized that not only did he not want me to donate my liver; he did not want a transplant at all. He did not like the idea of the surgery and months of recovery, rehabilitation and medication he would have to go through. But I had to ask one final time, more to clear my own conscience than anything else.

It was only two months later that he died, and what a strange experience it was.

One morning, when he was still living with my mom in their condo, he came to the realization that he was dying.

“Am I going to die?” he asked my mom through tears, scrunching up his face.

“I don’t know, I think so,” she said, crying herself and not knowing how to respond. They held hands and cried together for a time.

“Can you call the girls?” he finally said.

As I recall it was a hot July morning,  and I got the call from my sister saying that we needed to go see mom and dad. I think it was a Sunday, or at least a day when I didn’t have much else on, so I took the Go train out to their place and my sister and I spent the day there with my dad. He was in and out of sleep and consciousness by this point but for a few minutes he was lucid and we all sat around his hospital bed in what had become his nursing room.

The four of us – my sister, mom and I – sat with him and held his hands, stroked his hair and face. He said to us, in a jumbled string of words, “I will always love you” with his face scrunched up into tears, and, “Take care of your mother.”

We cried, held hands, and cried some more.

A week or so later, he was accepted into Dorothy Ley Hospice and at the hospice they tried to make his days comfortable but discontinued the medication he’d been on to combat the symptoms of his illness.

There were times I was in that room with him when he would talk about his sisters, father and mother as if he were a kid again. “Where’s Sheila?” he would say. “Did she come home from school yet?”

Or, “Where’s dad? I think he’s looking for me, I think he’s angry at me.”

He was like a little boy, confused about what was happening to him.

I held his hand and stroked his arm to try and comfort him, but I’m not sure he even knew who I was at that point.

The day before he died, in the hospice, my sister called and said, “Dad’s wide awake, totally alert and sitting up in bed, you need to come see him.”

She had arrived early in the morning and was shocked to find him fully conscious and awake after many days of being almost completely uncsonscious.

When I got there, he was indeed wide awake and conscious. It was a strange sight after so many weeks and months of sleeping.

He was sitting up and talking but his eyes were far away; they were glassy and glazed over as if he were already in a different world. He was a bit agitated and seemed anxious and frightened. He easily answered the questions we asked but seemed unsure of his answers and unsure of what was happening to his body.

The best way to describe him is that he was like a child, a frightened child.

We spent the whole next day by his side and he slept and slept and slept. He did not rouse a bit even if we spoke to him and asked him questions, touched his hands or face. He was very far away by that point.

Early the following morning, I got a call from my sister that my dad had died. She was in tears at the hospice and had been the first one to come across his motionless body at 7 a.m.

She was always so good about visiting, every day, and spending any available time she had by his side. Even though they fought like nobody’s business, they always had more of a father-daughter connection than he and I did. She loved him fiercely, despite his flaws and saw past what I refused to. She always saw the good side of him and he was lucky to have her as his daughter.

So I went, and what a strange and foreign feeling that was to go into the room and see him lying cold and motionless. His face had fallen into a bit of a smile, simply due to gravity and the fact that he was lying on his back. His left eye was not completely closed and it seemed as if it could still flutter open at any moment.

When I went into the room, my emotions overcame me. He hadn’t always been the best dad, in fact he wasn’t very nice to me a lot of the time, but in the end, he was still my dad and I loved him all the same.

It was the sheer ending of it all and finality that hit me so hard. I sat for a long time, looking at him and crying and crying and crying and crying. I felt like I could cry forever and fill up a river with tears and sadness. I cried for what he was and what he wasn’t and never could be for me; I cried for what he was and what he wasn’t and never could be for himself. I cried for the fear he must have felt, for the loneliness and for the anger and frustration that may have lingered within him, ever so slightly, for what he had done to himself. I honestly think he had no choice but to be exactly what he was. I know he wasn’t happy with it and for years he wrote notes and journals, encouraging himself and pleading with himself to change the way he was.

But in the end, he was who he was, and there was nothing he or any of us could have done about it.

So today, I think about him, and wish that he could have been the person that he had wanted to be. The person he might have been. Underneath many layers of frustration, agitation, impatience and anger, there was a man who really loved his wife but didn’t know how to be a good husband, who really loved his kids but didn’t know how to be a dad, and who just wanted to be so much more than he ended up being. He didn’t know how to get there and didn’t know how to ask for help.

Happy Father’s Day dad, I love you, just the same.

Men Behaving Badly

Not unlike Gretchen Rubin's 'Happiness Project', this is a Singleness Project. Basically, an attempt to live as happy and fulfilled a life as possible, while flying solo.

It’s been a while. I know.

But I have a few recent, really good reasons to blog it up again.

A couple of weeks ago I made out with a 25-year-old at a bar.  A week later I turned 37. Just wanted to put that out there because………well…………….. I’m proud of myself.
Anyway, it didn’t turn into anything, a few text messages after the fact and that’s about it; which is good because I’d hate to think of myself as turning into Demi Moore, because we all know where that road leads.

So I have a couple of beefs.

A friend and I went out for St. Paddy’s day, just to have a good time and a couple of drinks. We met three cute guys at a bar, one of them was all over her, one of them was all over me, and one of them was all over both of us. Later in the night after talking to a fourth, the quiet, not so attractive wall-flower guy, it turned out that the third guy was actually married and had a couple of kids. I watched him with disdain as he flirted with my friend and placed his hand on her ass. I said to him at one point, “How old are your kids?” And he very awkwardly said, “Six and eight, how did you know I had kids?” I noticed the ring on his left hand which he was trying to keep in his pocket a little bit later.

So, long story short, my friend hooked up with guy #1 and I hooked up with guy #2. We went back to my place, fooled around a bit, and my friend and her guy left because they live on the other side of town. My guy stayed. But in fact, I didn’t even really want him too. He was cute enough, but kind of a sloppy kisser and it was late and I just wanted to go to bed and not wake up with a stranger next to me in the morning. The thrill of that kind of wore off somewhere in the late 90s and random strangers in your bed is just not all that fun anymore.
My guy woke up around 6 a.m. and immediately got up and put on his clothes. I said, “Oh, I guess you’re on your way?” and he said. “Yep.”

He was supposed to be staying at a friend’s place down the street and was trying to remember the address and number. Then, as if he felt like he was supposed to, he said, “Can I get your number?” I gave it to him but felt like saying, ‘don’t bother’, I knew he wasn’t going to call.
The following week, my friend who had hooked up with the other guy, got a text from him asking her to go out for drinks. She did, they had a nice evening, he was just as into her as he was the first night and she quite liked him. The next day he texted her saying that he was really confused and messed up because he has a girlfriend. He said he really liked her but wouldn’t be able to see her again.

He also told her that the guy I had hooked up with had a girlfriend...............
Surprise, surprise.

Stay tuned for my next, even more shocking intallment, of Men Behaving Badly.

Man-batacle

I give up. I quit. I’m taking a man-batacle (a term wittily coined by a friend and colleague who ended up in the same fed-up place as me several months ago).

Maybe there isn’t actually a lid for every pot, as the saying goes. Maybe some people are just meant to live out their lives a little differently, alone and available for others to lean on, hang out with, call on for babysitting.

Maybe my purpose in life is just to be the best babysitter and auntie on this side of the Atlantic!

All I know for sure is that there’s only so much disappointment that one gal can take.

My most recent dating fiasco, the one that has prompted this all-systems-shutdown reaction, was confusing and disappointing beyond belief and clearly I didn’t come equipped with the correct decoder to make sense of the strange man-haviour.

Our first date was a coffee date and we hit it off immediately. He was funny, smart and even a little bit dorky: all good signs.

Since it was Canada Day, we then took our date to my apartment’s rooftop patio where we sat on a bench and watched fireworks in the neighbourhood. We chatted and laughed some more and then he started to become a little intense. He was gushing all over me and couldn’t stop telling me how beautiful and amazing I was (not the worst thing to have to endure!) and soon got on to the topic of marriage. I thought this was a bit much for the first date, but decided to let it go and just enjoy the moment.

Our second date started off slow ( I guess I was a little weirded out by the intensity of the first one and wanted to be cautious), but it ended off well with some ice cream, a wander through Yorkville and then a nice goodbye kiss.

Over the next few days he was away for work but he called every day and we talked for several hours at a time. I had so much fun talking to him and actually started to think he might be someone I could get serious about.

He became more and more intense during these conversations, talking about marriage and about how perfect I was for him and how beautiful, wonderful and amazing I am.

I kept telling myself just to enjoy the kind words and not get freaked out. But I started feeling concerned when the conversations took a turn and he began to focus on sex, talking only about how much he wanted to sleep with me. At first I just laughed it off but then it started to bother me.

When he returned we went on another date, a movie date, and he was still very intense. He held and kissed my hand throughout the movie, had his arms around me constantly, and stared lovingly into my eyes when we went for a drink afterward. I felt a bit uncomfortable but still decided to let it go. This is what I want right? A guy who really likes me, not some cool jerk who can’t express himself.

Our fourth date was where it all came crashing down.

It was a Thursday night and we hadn’t made plans to get together, he had a class and I had an appointment. However, he called around 10 p.m. and asked if he could come and see me. Up until this point we hadn’t had any ‘at-home’ dates even though he’d been pushing for it since date #1. But I’d wanted to hold off on the inevitable for as long as possible.

I gave in at this point and told him he could come over and hang out.

I kind of stupidly assumed we’d actually be hanging out.

But from the moment he walked in the door he was all over me. I laid some ground rules which he didn’t really pay much attention to. He was pushy and aggressive and it all ended with me having to push him off me and say “Stop!” three times.

I wasn’t so impressed but still, in between the pushy parts, he was sweet, complimentary and caring. Or so it seemed.

When he was leaving he told me he’d call me Monday (he was going to be away for the weekend but I wasn’t sure why that meant we wouldn’t talk for the next four days, it didn’t seem to be an issue the last time he went away).  

Still giving him the benefit of the doubt, I texted him the next morning to say have a good day and ask what time he’d be leaving. He was very abrupt and curt in his response.

Finally I texted saying, “Okay, have a good weekend, talk to you soon” but got no response.

In fact, I haven’t heard from him since.

And so my man-batacle begins. 

What does that mean exactly, you might be asking?

I'm not sure yet, but basically all I know is that I intend to live my life man-free until further notice.

On Being Picky

I’ve become more discriminating in my dating choices.

In the past I’ve made the mistake of dating or being in a relationship with someone just because they like me. Or even more so: he’s cute and he likes me?!! I’ve wanted a boyfriend, or wanted something to just work out, so I’ve stuck with it even when it’s not the best match.

I don’t know what’s changed, maybe it’s the (somewhat) perkier weather or just that I’m tired of making all the wrong choices, but lately I’ve allowed myself to be picky and truly make the effort to find someone who’s right for me.

Last week for example, I went on an online date. In his profile and pictures he seemed attractive, successful, intelligent, athletic and so on. But like I’ve mentioned before, everything on paper goes out the window when you actually meet.

With this guy, I’d had a couple of indications that he may be a certain type that I’m not all that interested in – I won’t get into details – but when we met,  my concerns were verified. Still, he was attractive, athletic, intelligent and successful, but I felt right away he just wasn’t for me.

Oftentimes I’ve waited for the guy’s decision on whether or not things would move forward, but this time would be different.

We ended the meeting with a quick hug, neither of us offering a: “Give me a call” or “Let’s go out again sometime.” It just ended.

After some thought and a glass or two of wine later that evening, I emailed him to say ‘it was nice meeting you, I don’t think there was a romantic connection, but you seemed like a really great person and good luck in your search’.  He responded with a curt: “Nice meeting you too. You seemed nice. Take care.”

I was left wondering whether he’d felt the same way as I’d suspected, or if he’d been interested but was hurt by my rejection.  However I forced myself to instead of wondering how he felt, decide on my own how I felt. Something I haven’t given myself a chance to do in the past.

Some people might say the reason I’m still single is because I’m too picky. I would have to disagree though and say that the reason I’m still single is I haven’t been picky enough.

I’ve spent weeks, months, even years in relationships that weren’t really going anywhere from the beginning; denying myself the chance to meet someone who actually could be ‘the one’, or one of ‘the ones’ at least!

At the end of my last relationship, when I was clouded by sorrow and disappointment, good friends pointed out the age-old sentiment that it’s better to be happy on your own than unhappy with the wrong person. At the time I didn’t believe it. I didn’t want to be single again; it seemed a fate worse than death.

Now that I’ve dug myself out of the depths of despair and am content living life again, all on my own, I believe the sentiment to be true.

Why settle for something that isn’t great?

Street Meet

I would like to meet someone on the street.

I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve walked past someone who I think is cute or looks interesting, maybe we look at eachother, exchange a smile or a bashful look and then we carry on.

It’s hard to meet someone in such a fast-paced city and Toronto has a culture of anonymity. Everyone goes about their own business and tries to avoid everyone else, because there are just too many people. It’s too busy and if you took the time to say hi or chat with too many people, you’d never make it to your destination. Also, the destinations are generally so spread apart that people have no choice but to be in a hurry, else they be late.

I used to have bad feelings about Toronto because it always seemed so impersonal and unfriendly, but unfortunately, I think that the busyness has just become the culture of the city. People just don’t have time to stop and exchange niceties. It’s not that they don’t want to it’s just not what we do.

I lived in Halifax, Nova Scotia for a few years and the vibe was the complete opposite. People chatted on the elevator, in the store, on the street. It was chattyville.

It was nice, but just to an extent. In some ways you felt like you never had your privacy and being a Torontonian, that was difficult. It was exciting and new at first and felt so warm and welcoming, but after a while it kind of got on my nerves. In Toronto, we ignore eachother and I like that. However, when there’s an emergency or someone needs help, I think Torontonians are quick to step up. I don’t actually think they’re rude or inconsiderate at all; I think they’re a bunch of really nice people who are living their own separate lives and mind their own business but when someone needs help, they’ll be there.

Anyway, I digress.

The point is, when living in a city such as this, it’s difficult to just meet people. Sometimes I wish it was easier or more part of the culture to just start talking to people.

Maybe I should start a revolution and just start asking people out.  Sometimes I see someone cute or interesting on the street and I wonder, quietly to myself, what would happen if I just went up to him and said: “Hi, how are you?”

Here’s what would happen: he would think I was crazy.

It’s unfortunate though.

Sometimes I think that you can get more from a person in the five seconds you spend walking past them on the street and giving them a shy smile than spending 20 minutes reading their online dating profile.

*(Oh, and just in case you were wondering, I won’t glaze over what happened with the last guy………….as I expected nothing really changed. He still didn’t want a real relationship or a future with me or a family etc. etc. etc., so that was the end of that. No hard feelings. We just wanted different things. And The Dating Project continues!)