Grey Skies

Wow, I haven't blogged in a very long time.  Well, since my last blog, I've come home from my beloved Buenos Aires.  Life has become a mundane cycle of work, eat, sleep, repeat as I try to catch up on all my bills.    These last couple months have been difficult, I live from paycheque to paycheque, ever grateful that I work for a deli that saves me from being hungry most of the time.  But I see this as a lesson, a learning curve.  I realize now that I can have nothing, and still maintain a semblance of happiness.

Spiritually I have changed.  My view on life and what is really important is radically different from what it was before my time in Palermo Soho. And so, although I know that a five week trip was not the best choice for a woman of my means, I believe it was a trip I couldn't afford not to take.

I was going through my things the other day, and found my little notebook that I used to jot down notes from the dance classes I took while I was there. I had forgotten that I had begun writing a journal entry.  It is unfinished, but gives a bit of a glimpse of how I was feeling the evening I was writing it:

"It's Tuesday evening.  After having spent the day walking around Centro and Retiro, I'm lying in bed at 8pm, staring out the window.  We had arrived to find that our entire area was out of power.  Restaurants, houses, street lights.  And we knew that a storm was brewing.  All day the air sat on our shoulders like a wet towel, damp and heavy.  The sky was bright, but still a shade of grey I had never experienced in Vancouver, the grey city.  We knew there was no point in going out again, because in a matter of minutes we'd be stuck in a rainstorm so thick we'd be soaked to our bones in a matter of minutes. So all that was left to do was call it an early night and hope that the storm will have passed by the morning, and that the glorious Argentinian sun would be on our backs again.

But I can't sleep.  I've gotten so accustomed to the youthful portena lifestyle- disco nap in the afternoon, dinner at 11pm, then dancing until the sun rises.  Going to bed at 8pm just does not agree with my body anymore.

So I lie in bed staring out the window.  Watching streaks of lightening light up the sky.  Feeling the rumble of  thunder shake our little apartment.  Listening to the rain.  Buckets and buckets of rain.

I went on this trip hoping Buenos Aires would change me.  Nearly three weeks in,  I believe it already has.  But not in the way I had imagined.  I feel like Eliza Doolittle, not able to fit in at home, not able to fit in here.

I'm still a typical Vancouverite.  The rain does not scare me, only the thought of being stranded where I am. I say "lo siento" and "gracias" more often then most people here are comfortable with.  And although I am slowly learning Spanish, language is still a huge barrior.

But I am no longer a typical Vancouverite.  I smile and talk to strangers.  I've developed the confident and slow swagger of a young Buenos Aries woman..."

There are days I long for Buenos Aires with the sadness of a jilted lover.  I will go back again.

La vida en Palermo Soho

Day seven in Buenos Aires. Nights are hot. Days are hotter. I’ve spent most of my time in my little neighbourhood of Palermo Soho. It is so beautiful here; the cobbled streets are lined with giant leafy green trees. Attractive people, young and old, lazily walk through the streets with sun kissed skin. Buildings old and new blend together with such symmetry that it is as though life here was timeless.

And life here does seem timeless. At least for me it does. I think the hardest part of my trip so far has been getting accustomed to the Argentine lifestyle. Dinner at 10, drinks at midnight, clubbing at 2 am. And I know for the average porteño, this is not the way life works 7 days a week. But still, my poor body is already starting to feel the effects, and a regular 2 hour siesta has become a daily ritual in order to survive my new lifestyle.

Even though I’ve only been here a week, I’ve learned a lot about Buenos Aires. Traffic here is an art. Lanes are not a law but a guideline. Cabs almost outnumber savillions. Pedestrians do not have the right of way. Cars don’t seem to have indicators, and will not stop just because you are crossing. But you learn quickly how to cross the street and stay in one piece. It starts with the number one rule, always cross with the locals. After a while, you learn to cross as though you were a local. You venture out into the intersection. You look directly at the driver, show you are not afraid, and then give him the stink eye for not stopping as he whizzes past you. It’s a delicate and intract game of chicken essential to life in the city.

People here too are so different from the people in Vancouver. I can’t get over how different porteñas are from Vancouver women, and porteños from Vancouver men. And I hate to admit, Argentines make Vancouverites look like country bumpkins.

The women in Buenos Aires are beautiful. They are all beautiful. Even the unattractive women have a je ne sais qoui that can make any foreigner rubber neck as she passes by. I think the secret is Argentine women do not try to be beautiful. They just are. Yes they are into fashion like the rest of us. And even a poorer Argentine woman in her outfit she bought on the cheap in Once is more put together than any woman in Vancouver heading to the grocery store or doing her day to day things. I think it’s in the culture- to dress and behave as best as you can afford. I’ve seen babies in outfits better than me. This has to be the way. And it’s not just how the women in Buenos Aires dress. It is how they behave. I think they’ve mastered what Vancouver women have been trying to master for decades- they are strong independent women without the hard edge. Ok, yes I know women in Buenos Aires hate other women. Especially beautiful women. And they are the first to be rude to another woman simply because she’s jealous of her outfit. At the same time, a smile can change everything, and once you’ve simply made acquaintances, women in Buenos Aires can be the most gracefully friendly people you’ve ever met. Unlike Vancouver, where, if you smile at a woman she either gives you a look that could kill, or desperately digs through her bag to find her “ringing phone”. Honestly, I think women in Vancouver could learn a whole lot from women in Buenos Aires.

The last time I was in Buenos Aires, we all joked about how we should bring back an Argentine man to teach men in Vancouver how to romance a woman. This trip, I feel the same. Argentine are lovers through and through. They are gentleman. Today I had my first trip on the subte. There was one seat available- one man was standing closest to it, the rest of the standees were women. The man made a point of offering the seat to every single woman before he himself sat down. Then, as soon as another woman got on the train, he offered his seat to her. He did it in such a natural way, and everyone around acted as though this is the way to do things. In my week here, I’ve had men open doors, let me a head of them in line, all things polite short of carrying my groceries to my home. And I know it’s not because I’m an obvious foreigner, because I’ve seen them do the same things to Argentine women. And even when they shout out cat calls, they say things like “Good afternoon. You look so beautiful today. Have a great evening.” The closest thing you get to “hey baby” is a kiss sound, which is usually followed by “Buenos tardes preciosa”. My friend believes they behave like this because they all live with their mum’s until they are married. But I think it’s something more. I think a bit of old fashioned courtesy that hasn’t yet been lost in this great big city. I will miss that when I return home.

I love living here. It has only been a week, and I’ve taken to the Palermo Soho lifestyle like a fish to water. I can’t even imagine coming home right now. But we all have to come home sometime. For now, I will absorb as much of this amazing city as my little body will allow.

Lady of Leisure

It is day 4 of my month long holiday in Buenos Aires, and I already can’t remember what it was like living in Vancouver. Yes I miss my friends, my cats, my family, my co-worker, but being a lady of leisure suites me very well. And I know with each passing day, coming home is going to break my heart.

Every day I am over whelmed with emotion, knowing that, for the first time in my life, I’m doing something I have always wanted to do. I am living my dream. Since 2008 I have wanted to spend an entire month in Buenos Aires. To pretend I am a porteña, to walk the streets in my cute summer dresses and cute summer shoes. To drink café con leche on restaurant patios as I watch the world pass by. And here I am, actually living it, actually experiencing something that I have longed to experience.

Unapologetically and unquestionably happy.

Maybe it’s me, or maybe it’s the fact I’m a woman, or maybe it’s even Canadian culture, but when good things happen in my life, I always feel guilty and undeserving. Not anymore. Don’t get me wrong, I am eternally grateful. I feel incredibly blessed to be able to live in a part of the world where I have the opportunity to fulfill long life dreams.

Ok, I did work my ass off for it. Yes I did bleed and cry and ache and loose copious amounts of hair due to pushing my body and mind into some of the most stressful situations of my life. But I did it with a goal in mind. And, for once in my entire life, I reached a goal that I set out to accomplish.

The amount of satisfaction I feel right at this very moment is unmeasureable.

So today when I stroll past Plaze Serrano and down Borges to my favourite Supermarcedo to buy orange juice and wine, I will smile with my face in the sun.

Incredibly happy, satisfied, and blessed to be me.

Year Of Bliss

January 2nd, 2012. After a raucous New Years Eve, I’ve spent the better part of the last two days in my pajamas. My hair in a messy bun. My eyes raccooned by both over an indulgence of alcohol, and by thickly placed eyeliner that just won’t quite wash off. I have surfaced only once, to stumble to the local Starbucks in order to obtain one of my 31 free cups of coffee, a gift given to me by my mum, who understands the tight relationship I have with Caffeine, my dark sultry mistress. My house looks as though I’ve thrown the party of the year, yet it’s just been me and the cats bumbling about the top floor of a house that I share with an equally busy roommate. And still I sit on cushions on the floor, not motivated to do anything but watch tv, eat salty snacks, and religiously check facebook.

Is this a good way to begin a new year, unkempt, and unproductive? Yes, I say it is. For this is the year that I do nothing but things that make me happy, things that bring me pleasure, things that relieve all the stresses in my life.

2012 is The Year of Bliss.

I have named all my years since 2008, the year that I graduated university, moved out of my parent’s house, and declared myself a grown-up. Ironically, I’ve done a great majority of my growing up in these last four years. Every year I take as a blessing, and with even the bad experiences, I am grateful for all the lessons learned, even those lessons that came with several bumps and bruises. They are scars that I carry with pride, marks that say to me- don’t go there again, Michelle, don’t go there again. Yet, with the bad came the good. I met friends that i will love for life, and had adventures that I will charish forever.

2008 was Year of the Party. Now I had been going out to clubs for many years before, but it was 2008, right after I graduated, that I took to clubbing like a bird takes to air. I spent the summers of 2008 going out Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and sometimes even Mondays. I had the stamina of a 19 year old and the savvyness of a 28 year old. I had never been a big partier in my teens, nor was I in my early 20’s. Although I did go out once in a while, I was fairly conservative and spent most of my time at home practicing dance or studying. I was a good kid. But graduating university was like breaking a seal. It was as though I had all this pent up rebellious energy that I needed to release, and release it I did. There was not a dance floor that I didn’t burn up, not a drink that I didn’t buy. 2008 was my Studio 54.

I deemed 2009 Year of the Flirt. Obviously, with all the clubbing and partying I was doing in 2008 I had many encounters with the opposite sex. But in 2009 I took it to a new level. For some reason, I had it in my mind that moving out of my parents house meant that I was supposed to obtain a boyfriend. And so I went hunting. I hit night clubs, house parties, even tried online dating. Some was successful, some not so much, but I never did find the boyfriend that I had wanted so badly. Which led to 2010:

Year of the Broken Heart

I had so many romantic blunders in 2010 I almost considered giving up on men altogether. Almost. I kept dating one bad guy after another, and began to believe that there was no such thing as a good man. It was the end of 2010, when I was hit by the biggest heart break of my life, that I realized I was searching out bad men because I didn’t believe I deserved any better. I decided that I was better off on my own then trying to be good enough for a man who didn’t deserve me in the first place.

That is why I called 2011 Year of The Bitch. It was not just because of all the crap men I was allowing step all over my life, but because I realized I was a push over in almost every aspect of my life. I never put myself first in anything I did, and I was becoming more and more unhappy because of it. So, in January of 2011, I decided that I was going to put myself first in EVERY aspect of my life. It was a difficult thing to do, and I didn’t always follow my own rules. But I ended 2011 feeling so good about myself. For the first time that I can ever remember, I am satisfied with myself. I enjoy spending time with myself. I think of myself as beautiful, smart, fun. It’s a level of confidence that I never believed I could obtain.

And so, with my new found confidence, I will commit myself to seek out the bliss that I know I deserve. So I name 2012, Year of Bliss, for it will be the year that I will unabashedly and unapologetically seek out the pleasure and happiness that I should have had many years ago.

My first step, I am taking my dream vacation- 35 days of heat and sunshine in my most favourite city in the world, Buenos Aires. I plan to drink the best wine I can afford, meditate on bright patio’s, slowly sip café con leche as I watch the world pass all around me. I will dance till the wee hours of the morning and chat with beautiful latin men, let them woo me, to romance me, then giggle my way home, all on my own. It will be grand. And the best part will be knowing that I am allowed to be happy. This is the year that I find bliss.

My next few blogs will be about my travels. Technology willing, I hope to keep an online journal about my adventures in Buenos Aires. So keep checking in if want to keep up.

It's going to be a fast ride.

Lets Talk About Debt Baby

So much of this blog has been about my romantic blunders, my longing to find meaning in life, my coming to terms with being perpetually single. But I have a dirty little secret that I haven't shared with even my closest of friends.

I am in debt.

Lots of debt. Debt that haunts me at night and makes me wonder why I even bother debt. And I wonder why, of all the things they could be teaching in school, no one taught us how to avoid debt.

I remember in grade nine guidance class spending an hour learning how to put a condom on a wooden penis. I remember each and every one of us in partners, nervously giggling as one person held the penis down while the other awkwardly rolled the slimy piece of rubber down the unrealistc wooden shaft, all of us red in the face and avoiding eye contact.

I do not remember being taught how to make a monthly budget.

I do realize that avoiding debt may not be the school systems responsibility, that household management is something your parents are meant to teach you. But, having grown up with parents so deep in debt that we lived in fear of creditors, that to this day I avoid answering phones, I was doomed from the start.

I know I really shouldn't be blaming anyone, that I brought all this on to myself. No one stuck a gun to my head and said take that trip to Seattle, buy that outfit, take that cab ride home. But society did tell me that I had to go to univerity, that I had to rack up a giant pile of student loans in order to be a functioning adult.

And so here I am, a university graduate with a degree that does nothing but impress people at parties, and a chunk of debt that I will be paying for the next twenty years.

Maybe that does make me a functioning adult. Lord knows I can never be without work, that I will forever be contributing to the tax man as I spend more hours in the workplace than I do with my own family. But maybe debt is an integral part of being a grown-up. Of all my friends, probably seventy to eighty percent of them have some kind of debt, whether it be student loans, car payments, mortgages, or even borrowing from friends and family. It seems debt has become a normal part of living in the privileged first world.

But if debt is so normal, why can't I sleep at night?

I look back at that day in class, learning how to use a condom, feeling so squirmy and uncomfortable in a room full of 14 years olds who were just as squirmy and uncomfortable as me, and I think maybe that time could have been better used.

At least condoms come with instructions.

Money comes at your own risk.

Year of the Bitch

Valentine's Day and my birthday has come and gone, and I am left feeling reflective. It’s funny, because last year I started 30 feeling a little desperate, like I’ve already hit an important mark in my life and have nothing to show for it. At 31, I feel more grounded, more in control. I don’t know if it’s because of my age- have I over night become, finally, mature?

Or is it because my approach to life in general has changed?

Last year was terrible. Last year was awful. I have never in my life been so happy to see the back of a year.

2010 was the pits.

It was the first time in three years that I didn’t get a holiday. The summer, which I had longed for all winter, flew by in a flash. I barely had a moment to stick my face in the sun. Romance was terrible. I was dumped at least three times, maybe more but I’ve chosen to block it from my memory. I gained way too much weight to feel comfortable in my own skin. One of my co-workers passed away. And I had to put my childhood cat to sleep. So when I tell people that 30 was a shit year, I really do mean it.

The worst was near the end of the year. That was my rock bottom. I had believed that it was finally my turn, that I had met “the one”. I thought that soon I would be the one posting sappy facebook statuses. But in late November that all came crashing down.

One day he decided to visit me at work, and coldly tell me that he was going to have another go with his ex-wife. He did it in the cold matter of fact way that an employer would let go an employee who was no longer valuable to the company. He did it in public. On the street. In front of passersby who clearly knew what was happening, and so politely avoided eye contact as I desperately looked for a proverbial hole in the ground to swollow me down into the depths.

That hole never appeared, and I was left standing there, a watching as he walked away, leaving me feeling as though I had been fired from a job I was not qualifed for. As though I was just not quite enough (Just before he left me alone on the street, he said “If it wasn’t her, Michelle, it would have been you.”)

For weeks I felt this ache inside. Of course it was Christmas, and in retail you can’t show any signs of depression, no notes of sadness. Everything has to be sweetness and light if you are going to make a sale. And so I kept up my customer service smile and carried on, one day at a time, even though I felt as though I was carrying a rusty bullet in my gut.

My good friend, who I confided in, gave me a bit of advice that I have heard all my life, but it had never clicked until just then:

You should never let a man make you feel like you are not enough. You should always be number one in his mind.

And I realized then that it wasn’t him making me feel like I was not enough, but it me making me feel like I was not enough. I was not number one to me.

That was my ight bulb moment, and all the weight of the world left my shoulders.

The last week of December, everything changed. I bought a new wardrobe. I cut off all my hair. I began to meditate. I began to practice my dance more regularly. I made a vow to return to the gym (which, amazingly, I’ve kept up so far!) and eat more healthily. I’m more assertive in life. I ask for what I want, always, and I no longer feel bad about doing so.

I declared 2011, my 31st year, Year of the Bitch.

And so far it’s been good. I haven’t been dating, as I still don’t feel I’m in an emotional state to do so... yet. But I have been getting more attention from men. And I’ve reconnected with a couple of the men of my past. Yet, I feel I’m seeing them from a different place, a place of no expectations, where I can be sweet with them without that pushing need to ask “What are we doing? Where is this going?” They seem to be responding to my more relaxed approach, and so are just as sweet to me. Making me feel like, yes, I am enough.

I am enough and more...

Don’t get me wrong, I still want a family. My biological clock is still blaring in my ear. But I am better able to tell it to calm down, that there is no real rush. I’m approaching everything in life that way, it seems, taking it easy. Taking a breath to enjoy what’s around me, instead of always questioning where everything is going to lead.

Maybe I won’t accomplish everything I had planned for myself at the wise age of 16. Finally, I’m beginning, just beginning, to be ok with that.

“The best-laid plans of mice and men/ oft go awry”

Quiet please, I think my uterus is trying to say something.

Mr. Stork has dropped a bomb on my world. Don’t worry, I have avoided his successive fire, but it seems everyone all around me is spontaneously reproducing. Ten, yes ten, of my facebook friends are pregnant or have just had a baby, not to mention the dozens of my friends who are recently engaged, married, or attached at the hip to some perfect partner. And it leaves me left to wonder, did I miss a memo or something?

Am I to assume that once you hit a certain age, my age, that you are meant to couple and make little couplettes? Did I miss that guidance class which taught students that by the time they’re 30, the biological clock should be in full swing? All I remember was getting condoms and maxi pads and told to be successful. Go to school girls, find a career girls, be independant girls, make lots of money girls. No one told me about starting a family. So why does everyone else around me seem to know something about this time of life that I don’t?

At first, I was oblivious to it all. Oh look, Jane’s engaged, that’s wonderful. Wow, Suzy is pregnant with her first child; I can’t wait to see the pictures. Lynn and David are having their second child, what amazing parents those two are. It was all warmth and sunshine until all of a sudden, every time I logged onto facebook, there was another announcement, then another, then another.

I was beside myself. I was fucking mad.

I logged on one morning, and the first thing posted on my wall was a picture of an overly expensive piece of jewelry with the comment “this is what my wonderful husband bought for me for birthing our beautiful baby. I’m so lucky.”

That was it. That was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I was furious. I angrily called one of my few single friends, ranting and raving about how my facebook page, my safe little connection to the outside world, my little place to be an asshole without consequence, was being bombarded- downright invaded- by familial bliss. It was disgusting.

I barred the woman who posted the picture, and anyone else who put similar posts on my wall.

And I was happy. I was once again the quirky single gal on facebook, making asshole status updates and laughing at suggestive comments and links posted. But eventually I began to facebook stock those women who I had barred from my page. I began to peruse pictures of their little ones, and smile at their adorable smiles and outfits. And a little thought popped in my head…

Am I jealous?

No! Never! Why would I be! I’m a free woman. I sleep in till noon when I like. I go to bed at 3am when I like. I can drink champagne on a week night. Why would I be jealous?

Now I’m passed the halfway point of my 30th year. I’m now closer to 31 than I was to 30. And with the coming of autumn, I’ve felt a shift in my body. I can no longer party till the sunrises. After three glasses of wine, I feel like going to bed, not going dancing. The idea of spending two nights in a row away from home makes me a little nauseous.

And babies make my uterus leap.

It’s embarrassing. It’s uncontrollable. But now, when I see a baby, my heart flutters and I can’t help but grin from ear to ear. And I’m left with this confused, what-the-fuck, feeling in the pit of my stomach. Frankly, it’s gross.

Now there are some rational reasons for these crazy feelings. First, the colder weather always makes me feel like staying at home with a good book. And I do enjoy a good cuddle with my fluffy cat. So how is wanting to cuddle with a baby any different?

And I will admit now that I have been dating someone on the regular. Nothing super special yet, no monogamous promises made. I’m just simply spending time with someone who is worth spending time with. But we are at that “we just met and can’t get enough of each other” stage, that stage when a couple holds hands at inappropriate times, and stare into each other’s eyes saying nothing while the waitress awkwardly waits for them to order. The stage that is so uncomfortable for outsiders to watch, yet feels so glorious for the ones involved. Maybe it’s because I’m enveloped in these new feelings of affection that I’ve begun to feel new warmth for little ones.

Or maybe it’s because I’m quickly realizing that my days of youthful fertility are numbered, and if my thirty’s pass by as quickly as my twenties did, then I, in my singledom, am hooped!

But could this really be my biological clock ticking? Has television been right all this time and women, when approaching their mid thirties become desperate to procreate? Is this really my body sending my brain subliminal messages that it’s time to make babies?

Excuse me for a moment while I pop another pill.

picture taken from http://monkeyworks.wordpress.com/page/4/