tales of a traveling librarian

I’m not really sure what to write. First of all, I’m home. In Toronto. A mite early, you might say. Unfortunately, things did not go exactly as we planned for us in Panama City due to some extenuating circumstances and we decided that the best thing for me to do would be to return home and for us to take a break to regroup. Although Court and I have parted ways for now, we haven’t closed any doors (how’s that for cryptic?) and we still love each other very much. This is one of the most difficult things emotionally that I’ve ever had to do and while I might write more about it as time passes, for now, well, I’m having trouble just typing it out.

But I kinda had to. Because I plan on blogging from the cruise my Dad and I are taking as of tomorrow. And I thought maybe you’d read this and be like, um, dude, a cruise? Aren’t you in Central America? And so I didn’t want any confusion. So, yes, a cruise. We’re going to Key West, Jamaica, and the Cayman Islands. Is it last minute? Yes. Is it exactly what I need? Yes. I plan on bringing several mystery novels, my running shoes, and my elastic waist pants to allow for all of the buffet-y. I’m trying to put a positive spin on this. And if coming home means that I get to spend a week with my Dad, well, that’s worth something greater than many many other things. And I’m willing to trust, for now, that everything happens for a reason, and that, well, (God! The cliches!) if we are meant to be together, then we will work things out.

Just in case my calmness doesn’t last though, I’m asking Dad to bring some extra hydromorphcontin. I’ll either take it or turn it into some cold hard cash.

For most things, the more I do them, the better I get at them. If I run often, I get faster and I build endurance. If I bind books more often, I can sew without thinking and my corners become much closer to perfect. If I read more, I read faster and I remember more with less effort. If I type more, I miss less keys and make less mistakes.

But with relationships, the more I’m in them, and out of them, the less I feel like I know. And even as I see my friends in relationships, some happy, some not so happy, some serious, some not so serious, and even as I try to glean knowledge and experience from them, I’m left with feeling like I have no fucking clue what is going on. I’m don’t know when to draw the line. I don’t know when being there for them is more hurtful to me than it is helpful to them. I don’t know when to be friends and when to let it go. I don’t know when to ask for more if they aren’t giving enough. Or when they are asking for more, I don’t know how to say: “I just can’t give that.” I try to, and sometimes I think I betray myself a little bit to make other people happy.

Seriously…what exactly does it take to find someone who wants the same things as you? More, at the same time? In the last few months, having broken up with someone and having been broken up with, having dated casually, and having been totally and completey single, I’m left at a loss. I know what I want: I don’t want to be with someone who doesn’t want to be with me and I don’t want to be with someone who I don’t want to be with. But, each time, it just seems to all end with crying and rejection and hurt. It seems to leave both people diminshed, and just a little bit more jaded and cynical. Why does it cause so much change? How come, when the relationship ends, you can’t even keep the friendship, even when that was the best part in the first place? It makes me tired and sad to think of the people who are no longer in my life because we could not date romantically. It just seems so unfair to not only lose a partner, but to lose a friend.

Too often it seems that the person I want to be with doesn’t want to be with me, and the person who wants to be with me, I don’t want to be with. Not for the silly reasons, but for the big reasons. Reasons that are bigger than our relationship. Reasons like they aren’t in love anymore. Like they don’t want that life. Like there are other things that come in between. It all seems very dramatic. And it all seems like real happiness is hanging by this tiny tenuous thread that anyone at anytime can just cut. Its both terrifying and exciting. I suppose it is this fact, the fact that it might be possible to meet someone who can be that someone in my life, that it might be possible to meet someone who is on the same page, heck, who is living the same book as me, that keeps me coming back for more. Even if, when it ends, its a pain that is worse than anything I’ve ever known. Even when, after seven months, it can reduce me to tears.

Sometimes, I think its all going to be okay. I really do. Sometimes, I think sure, it’ll just take time, or it’ll just take the right person, or, and this is not something I’m proud of, I think that if I can just be that much better–funnier, prettier, thinner, smarter–then, yes, I too will have that constant love and affection in my life. And then sometimes, I wonder what it is exactly that makes me want, want, this relationship thing. Not so much the ring and the wedding and the checking accounts, not stay at home and raise the babies, not the mini van, but the companionship. The Best Friend part. I mean, I have best friends. People I love. And I like to pretend I’m pretty tough, that I’m pretty cool. That I have other things to worry about, other people to hang out with, other activities to keep me busy. But, I know I’m not tough or cool. That whole humour thing? Yeah, its a cover to hide the fact that I have no idea what the heck I am doing. I think I’m trying to act with integrity, but, mostly, I just feel like punching someone, something, most of the time. In stupid impotent frustration. Because what I want, deep down, is to be happy, and somehow, somehow, I’ve attached this being truly happy to be in a happy relationship. Now, I know that’s not the case. Rationally, I know. But, and maybe I’m wrong here, isn’t there just something about it? Some appeal we all feel?

Really, I’m blaming this on nature and biology. All those damned natural urges driving me to mate for life and reproduce. Fortunately, I’m about ninety percent sure that alcohol actually negates one bazillion years of evolution. And that is why we all like it so much.

Well, I’m twenty five, and really, considering how soon my birthday is, I’m really probably twenty six. I’ve been around the proverbial block a few times, in a number of things, but especially when it comes to relationships. I’ve been dumped, and I’ve dumped others, and neither one feels particularly swell. But, I’ve survived, and for the most part, remained close friends with the boys that I’ve had relationships with. I am not dating anyone right now, and I’m not sure that I will have the desire to do so in the near future, however, any inclination whatsoever to even step into the dating pool, even at the wading end, has been drowned by this post. I’m still cringing.

Women who were left at the altar will weep reading these stories of fiancees who just stopped calling. Or who impregnated women, only for these women to find out they weren’t the only girlfriend in that man’s life. Or even the only pregnant girlfriend in that man’s life. Or the woman who attended her godchild’s christening, and, on the way to the reception, had her live-in boyfriend break up with her in the parking lot. Or the woman who’s boyfriend just looked at her and said, “I don’t want this life.”

I feel their pain. I can remember the hurt and the loss and the fear. I can remember how it felt to have that happiness snatched away. I remember how their was no control and no hope and no idea what to do. Do I have break up horror stories? Nothing too particular. The first boy I ever loved dumped me by saying that I had dumped him. I remember calling him, thinking that we were continuing the (albeit serious) discussion we had started that morning, and him saying, “So, how was your first day of being single?” And me being flabbergasted. I called my mom every morning for two months after that one. I’ve been told that I was too young, too smart, that there was no chemistry, that I was too good a friend to lose for the possibility of a relationship. It certainly does not make my pain any less to read these other stories, but it does make me feel less alone about it all.

And I would happily, happily, take being dumped over being the dumper. Any day of the week. I can handle picking myself up off the floor. I can only barely handle forcing someone else to have to. I feel like I made a mistake, that I should have predicted this happening. I feel almost malicious, as if I was doing it on purpose.I think we could all do with a little bit more consideration. A little bit more “Let’s put myself in the other person’s shoes.” This means no just not calling anymore. This means no pursuing only to be unhappy when you catch. This means honouring promises and not impregnating more than one person at a time. I can forgive all the others (especially since they are sins I have committed as well), but the multiple pregnancies? That one I just can’t get over.

I can’t imagine going through, once again, the pain of a break up. I am sure it will happen, and perhaps with time passing, I will remember the pain less and the good stuff more. And feel tempted to try it all again. For now, I’m just going to enjoy being single, in whatever shape or form it takes. I certainly am far from figuring it all out, or even, what exactly it is that I want, but, I’m going to enjoy it. Of course, if you ever, ever, see me wearing this, for the sake of everything good, kill me. Wait, unless it becomes trendy, in which case, I’ll just be cool.

I know, I haven’t been posting so much since I’ve gotten home. You might think that that is because I’ve been busy getting back into the whole swing of regular life, but, its also because I’m moving. Sort of. I’ve been living with my parents for almost five months now, which is how long I’ve been all broken up for. And now, since Robin is back home (our fourth room mate), and the boys are moving into Chris’ girlfriend’s place, its time to get my things back. Things like my bed. And my desk. And, you know, the stuff you accumulate after seven years of living on your own.

This is seriously the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Even five months later, even after a trip, even after seeing other people, even after nine million gazillion fights, this is still hard to do. Now, its not nearly as hard as it would have been in January. Of course not. But, its still surprisingly hard. I think he and I can both admit that these past few days have been incredibly draining and sad. And its hard to balance that with a genuine excitement to have my own space back. I’m going to have a desk. And a few book shelves. And my white table that’s perfect for using a lap top in bed. Oh, a bed!

I would never say that living with someone was a mistake. I learned an incredible amount about myself, about what I want in a relationship, and about what I want in my life. But I’ve also learned that no matter how I see things, how I think things just obviously are, there is no objective truth when it comes to a relationship or when it comes to breaking up. From his point of view, every word I utter is matched with his own views, and I am constantly amazed at how differently we can interpret the same events. I don’t mean to say that I think I’m right. Hell no. I’m the first to admit that I’m incredibly stubborn. And hard headed. And I’m a bit foolish and I jump to conclusions and I take things very personally, even when perhaps they are not meant to be. I can also be insecure. Wait, why am I volunteering all the reasons why I suck? I don’t know. Because people can become completely and totally irrational with people they love. I shudder to think of other people seeing the girl I become. But, this isn’t the way I am with all people. Or even the way I’ve been with all boyfriends. Perhaps I have giant buttons and J. just sees them better than other people. I mean, don’t the people who know you best know your weak spots?

I honestly do not know if he and I will remain friends. I hope so. There’s a lot of history there. But, there’s still a lot of resentment as well. And  a bit of anger. And now, we’re at the point where there’s nothing to do the old “holding us together.” There’s no apartment, there’s no more running into each other. It’ll have to be on purpose now. And I am really not sure that either of us want that right now.
I probably should have included, “does not know what she wants” in the above list of faults.

Wait, I do know what I want. I want to enjoy the summer with my friends. I want to finish my last course and convocate as soon as possible. I want to go up to the cottage, a whole lot. I want to work out regularly. I want to read all the books I’ve started and never got around to finishing. I want to play more poker, and maybe win a little bit, once in a while. Its simple, but it does it for me.

I bought my first little bottle of face cream tonight. This makes me not only emotionally, but habitually, a girl. Its winter, and my skin is dry, and I’m breaking out. I’m also freaking out a little bit. I mean, in high school, I was fat, but, at least I had nice clear skin. Its amazing how vain you realize you are when something marrs what you didn’t even know you were proud of. I had a cold sore the other day (bane of my existence) and, when it was almost gone, I woke up one morning and convinced myself that my whole lip was turning into a giant cold sore (it turned out to be an allergic reaction that went away quickly) which would mean that no one would ever want to talk to me, kiss me, or spend time with me ever again. I stared at myself in the mirror, tears welling up, and was late for book binding so that I could show my mom and make her make me not cry. Surprisingly, neither of my parents seemed to think a cold sore was that big a deal. Dad looked at me and was like, “Uh, Alli…I just had this giant cancerous tumour that was ravaging my body taken out, a steel hip put in, and this week I have to go for tests to determine if there’s anything else going on.” (Okay, this quote might not be entirely accurate. But you get the gist.) Pish. He clearly doesn’t understand how I’m feeling because he didn’t seem to think that mine was worse because you can actually literally see cold sores manifesting themselves on my face which everyone sees the second that you look at me. (Oh yes, boys, I’m a catch.) Apparently you need serious illnesses around here to get sympathy.

Apparently, I take my skin seriously. So seriously that I went to a drugstore and…asked someone for advice on which facial cream product to buy. She asked me what I currently used, and I’m assuming the blank expression on my face demonstrated that I use, currently, nothing. Why would I be buying something if I…oh, I don’t get beauty stuff. But, she took a close look at my skin and was like, yeah, you’re totally breaking out. And you’ve got freckles, so I’m assuming you want something with sunscreen to prevent more. Ouch. First of all, its not that bad at all. I’m just vain. Second of all, I like my freckles. And sure, I’d like sunscreen, but mostly to prevent cancer (see above–sorry dad), not freckles. Now, I hate to make it seem like the woman was not helpful. She really was. And I mean, she was condescending the same way that I am condescending at the desk. I can’t help it if I know more about computers than you and think you’re an idiot, and she can’t help it that she knows more about face creams and makes me feel like an idiot. The circle of life continues.

Sometimes I think I worry about things like cold sores and pimples because it seems so much easier than worrying about things that are really wrong. Or things that are actually really stressful. And although the panic attacks have gone away (thank you, time!), I still worry about my life and my choices, in weird ways. I was looking through old photos, old journals, and I’m just shocked at how although the people in my life change, I still seem to worry about the same things. Boys. Relationships seem to have been a focus in my life for years (even before I was in a relationship, I wanted to be in a relationship. Or, at least, I wanted to be having sex.) and for years, they have just made my life more stressful. Now, I’m not saying that I’ve figured things out this time around, goodness knows I can still pull an excellent pity party (and did so today!). And I’m not saying that my journal isn’t still somehow angst-y relationship issues. But I am saying that I don’t really want to be like this anymore–either stressing about face creams or stressing about what my friends think of my boyfriend. And that if i could go back in time and tell myself, my younger self, something, anything, it would be to worry less about who my boyfriend was and worry more about who I am. Maybe I should tell my now self that as well. I have this funny feeling though that she ain’t going to listen.

I went to the gym tonight. Mostly because I went out for dinner and ate deep fried calamari and sweet potato french fries, with some kind of delicious garlic dip that I could not get enough of. Somewhere along the line, I picked up the mentality that eating two appetizers is better for a girl’s waistline than eating one entree. Now, between you and me, I know this makes absolutely no sense. But, since its tradition, I allow it to slide. if there’s anything that people say about me, its that I’m traditional. But its kinda in the same vein as how I believe that calories don’t count on road trips, nor on your birthday.

Sometimes, when its been a while, I forget what a natural high going to the gym is. Now, I know there are those of you out there who hate the gym, or exercising, or anything that causes perspiration. And see, really, I do too. Like, in the summer, when its humid, and you’re wearing a light cotton dress? It is unacceptable to be sweating. The only time I find it acceptable to sweat is while running. And, if that is the activity I am partaking in, then I do like a good sweat. They go hand in hand. Things that piss me off: people who walk on treadmills. In my opinion, if you’re going to be there, you might as well make it count. And make it count means breaking a sweat. I’m not saying run for two hours. But I am saying, push it lady!

So, dinner. I went out with a good friend from undergrad (we lived together for a year and she is the only one of my room mates that I would happily live with again. That’s not to say she’d live with me, but, as with all relationships, how often are they equally reciprocal?) She’s a lively girl, a real little spark plug, and I always, always have a fun time with her. In my opinion, those are the people that you keep around, even if it is only dinner every couple of months.

Seeing as what is going on in my life right now, relationships were a large part of our conversation. Okay, we’re female, relationships are always a large part of our conversation. Since both of us are avid watchers of Cityline (and Marilyn Denis), I remarked that I had caught the “Valentine’s Day” show. (I pulled a snow day yesterday and didn’t leave the house. But don’t worry, I had still had a very nice Valentine’s…) They had a few shrinks on, and of course, they were discussing relationships as well. One of the guests said something that really resonated with me. He mentioned that women (and probably people, but, I think women more so than men) can go out for a three hour lunch with their friends and spend 94% of the time bitching chatting about their men and their faults, and then, follow it up with “but I love him, so its all okay.” And then my new favourite psychiatrist said, “You can love someone and they can still not be good for you.” And, not to be sappy about it, but I kinda felt a weight lift. I mean, I really did love the man I was with for two years, and for a while there, I was kinda feeling like I was a stupid girl, an idiot, a fool for loving someone who, well, didn’t share many of the same dreams that I have. Someone who, although wonderful in their own way, was not wonderful for me. And this isn’t to say that I get a “get out of responsibility” free card, but, it does make me feel a little better to think that although love is there, it doesn’t mean that two people are right for each other, and it doesn’t make me a bad person to say that I need more than love.

I feel like women take on a lot of the responsibility for a failed relationship. It seems to send us inwards, analyzing, wondering what wrong and what we could have done and what we should not have done. It takes us a long time to get over it, even when we’re absolutely sure about it and the decision we’ve made. Men seem to take a bit more in stride, ready to get back in the saddle. Even when they are crushed, they are always ready to move on. As a friend once told me, “The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.” When I found out my ex was seeing someone else, it hurt more than the break up did. Not because I doubted my decision, but because it sent me even farther inside. It shocked me. The one thing that I counted on was that he loved me (as per the above three hour “this is what is wrong with him but I love him” type of conversation). And, to think that he was out there, moving on, while I was still wallowing, well, that did not make me feel very good. But, that’s the nice thing about self reflection: you realize that you can count on yourself and that all of a sudden, it matters less how other people felt about you and more about how you feel about yourself.

Luckily, my life has been on an awesome, and often hilarious, upturn (is that one word or two?) lately. I got to spend the dinner going on about what odd and unusual things happen in life when a relationship ends, when a new relationship starts, when the oddest people come out of the wood work (I blame you blog!) while she sat in rapt attention, eating my sweet potato french fries (maybe I didn’t have to go to the gym). After I was done, she commented that she felt like she was at the movies, chowing down while watching, with rapt attention, the feature presentation. Sometimes, when life provides the right material, I really put on a good show. I think this is also the quality of a great friend. Someone who really gets into your life, even though its not their life, and listens and laughs and comments, right along with you. I’m lucky enough to have several such friends, and a good mom, and good aunts, and the conversations with them, after the break ups, makes the heart break almost worth it. Hey, I said almost.

I’ve been getting panic attacks. I hate panic attacks. This is how it goes: fine, fine, good, fine, fine, panic. And then, after either tears or conversation getting me through, more of the fine/good path. I do try to justify it to myself, saying that my life is suddenly very different, and blah blah blah. I am so frustrated with myself that I upset myself about it this much still. And then being upset makes me even more frustrated. Basically, I’m annoying myself to death. Well, not death, but you know what I mean. I’m usually a very happy, upbeat person. I would not go so far as to say, oh, pleasant, but, wallowing is not a shirt I take from the closet very often.

Sometimes, my dad steps in and give me the tough love. This is something that I appreciate more than I can possibly say.

Its funny how we do this to ourselves. I was telling Stephanie yesterday how I just felt unexcited about my life, nervous about it, actually afraid of how things would turn out. I was worried about not being able to do things, to accomplish things, things that normally I could do easily. Things like, travel or take chances or move to another city. Another friend mentioned how she wished that she was already an old lady, and I could not help but second that I wish I had already figured all this hard stuff out. I wish I was already doing the sitting on the veranda thing, reflecting back on a life of mistakes and adventures and love.

And then, I shake my head. Because, this is my life. And, I am determined to be happy. And there’s no way I’m going to get to be my little old lady if I don’t cheer up now. And start doing the things that I want to remember so fondly. So, the little old lady that I so badly want to be is actually motivating the young woman that I am right this second to stop throwing such a drawn out pity party.

So, these are my statements for today: I am happy. I make good decisions for good reasons. I am confident in myself. These are the things that I suddenly doubt most, and I refuse to have any doubts anymore. And until I really really believe it, well, fake it till you make it, right?

I’ve been having a hard time posting lately. Usually, I try to write posts that are fairly light and airy and impersonal, but lately, my life hasn’t been light and airy and impersonal. Its actually been pretty emotional. Now, most of you who read this know me, and the news that my boyfriend and I broke up, while being the first time that I’ve typed it on here, is not new to you. What is new is me talking about it. On here. I’ve tried to separate the public from the private, and usually it works out okay. But lately, I just feel censored. I’ve been feeling a whole whack of everything lately and I need to talk about it. I don’t like feeling censored. So, I’m going to admit it: I’ve been down. Or, up and down. I’m doing okay, and he’s doing okay, but, its only been three weeks, and its hard. And then, sometimes I’m not doing okay, and I need people, even at work, even today, to calm me down. And then I’m okay again.

I’ve been busy though. Last week, our faculty had its first, although I’m sure not last, Karoke night. There is nothing like a group of librarians singing. Terribly. No, that’s a lie. Some people had mad skillz. Yeah, I said it. I think one guy was actually a singer by trade. And by think, I mean, one of the girls who brought him mentionned that he was a professional Beatles impersonator. Man, I have to teach that girl about acceptable people to bring to events like this. Acceptable people being terrible, but funny, singers. Not professionals. I mean, I managed to feel quite bad about myself without the help, thank you very much. However, I had a fantastic time. Even though I had to buy beer by the can, for five dollars. It was a little tough on the way home, because I had to walk by the apartment Jarrod and I shared, and some friends and I even ended up grabbing food at a place we often frequented. I know, these are difficulties that are to be faced head on, but, the pangs, sometimes…there are times when everything reminds me of him. And I am desperate to erase those and make new memories. And then, I am desperate to preserve them exactly as is, and keep them forever.

On Saturday, for the first time, I had the condo to myself. There are several wonderful things about living with the folks–the food, the space, the tv…and usually, the company. There’s nothing like coming home to people who take you in no matter what you’ve done to your personal life. And, I hope they know how much I appreciate them being here for me. (Though, I have to admit, there was no offer of a trip to Mexico this time around.) The thing is, we’re often all home together. And, I enjoy my alone time. I’ve always enjoyed my alone time. And, its best that I get it, otherwise I turn into a heinous bitch. No, really, I do. I’m grumpy and bitter and not at all pretty. So, Saturday, I bummed around the place in pj’s during the day, doing completely nothing, and later, a couple girlfriends came over and we watched “Flip this house” and “Movin’ on up,” two classic TLC shows. I normally enjoy watching them even alone, but, with friends, everything is better.

I got myself all crafty on Sunday. Its hard sometimes to keep up with my crafty and talented friends Stephanie, Lorien, and Tasha, but, I try. Robin and I each made a book shaped like a star (to give credit where credit is due, the Patriotic Star Book). They turned out excellently, even if they were both less patriotic and a little more pointed. Its hard to follow Internet instructions. I tried to take photos of the book, but, my mom’s digital camera’s charger seems to be MIA and I had enough battery to take about four. When I looked at them on the computer, I was shocked to see a giant stain on the carpet beside two, and a giant hair, which I mean, must have come from my head, but seemed extremely large in diametre, beside the other two. I’m not too embarrassed to type about it, but I am too embarrassed to post them. I’ll get them up eventually, I’m sure. I’m never one to pass up the chance to brag. Other than the pictures, I was feeling quite proud of myself, a feeling I had lost a little bit, and the feeling only grew when I didn’t get knocked out first at our first work poker game. That was pretty much my only goal, seeing as how I trashed talked everyone all week. I didn’t win, but I didn’t do too shabby either.

What does all this mean? It means I’m doing okay. It means that I feel right about the decision, and that though it still brings tears to my eyes, I know this decision, in the long run, was the right one for both of us. I don’t know if he is reading this right now, because, somehow I still keep reading his livejournal, and I don’t know if he believes me at this second in time, but, I suppose, that’s okay too. We both get to express ourselves, in the ways that are needed, and I respect him very much for the way he’s handled me lately. I’m not really very good at this: either expressing the way I’m feeling, or, limiting what i do say. I promise that I’m working on it. And I promise to be light and airy and impersonal again, just as soon as I can manage it.