Opinion – Page 16 – Rant and Roll

We are all travelers here

I daydream a lot.

I think about the worlds and places that we have yet to visit. How we might fly far and away, up past the moon, beyond our stars; a one-way trip to distant isles, and unexplored realms; unsolved probabilities, and untamed possibilities.

I dream.

I close my eyes and breathe.

This past month I haven’t been reading much.

I’ve been too busy with different things – comedy, writing, work, running, volunteering. Things that I love, but things that take time.

On the metro in the mornings I wake my brain with crosswords.

The repetition.

Of synonyms.

Of puns.

I miss the feel of bound paper between my fingers.

At daybreak, my quiet commute, punctuated by the flipflipflip of pages, chapters, worlds.

At nightfall, crisp, cool sheets, and the sweet scent of sleep. My heavy eyelids and my frantic panic to read just one more (just one more) paragraph, before giving in to rest.

I miss this.

So tonight I will not daydream,

I will sit swaddled in blankets, surrounded by text, exploring a distant, but (not-so) long ago land.

And I will feel my fingers burn with envy. With passion. With zeal.

To create.

Break.

Participate.

To write. Read. Believe.

I think Ray Bradbury said it right:

And so to all of you, goodnight.

Safe flight.

The best things in life are free

So.

I’ve been trying to save up my sweet cash dollars for a while now, what with the upcoming summer months being chock-a-block full of fun and fancy things (like trips to NY, and Ashland; weddings galore, and my five-year wedding anniversary, to just name a few.)

Now, stashing all my hard earned moolah under my mattress hasn’t really been all that hard – what with how unbelievable busy I have been since the birth of the new year, and me not being an overly extravagant person (outside of my personality, of course).

But yesterday I was in London Drugs, hemming and hawing over two brands of nail polish – practically having a conniption fit over which one I should purchase – when my lovely husband turned to me and said, “Vanessa – they are $4.99 each. I think you can maybe splurge and get both.”

My response was rather short.

“Huh,” I said.

Huh indeed.

So I did. I purchased them both.

And I am (kind of?) proud to say that I only spent about five minutes worrying about whether or not I had gone overboard.

But that’s when it hit me –

I AM BECOMING A CRAZY OLD MISER.

For real dudes.

I am Scrooge McDuck, incarnate.

(The fear that this strikes in me is only partially quelled by my long-standing desire to go swimming in a giant vault filled with nothing but gold coins.)

Side bar: As a child, I used to think about the logistics of what exactly doing the front crawl in a pool of coins would entail. I thought about this A LOT. I mean, if you just dove right in (off of a diving board and everything) wouldn’t you just concuss yourself on the massive pile of coinage? And if you DID manage to break through, wouldn’t you just DROWN in the literal manifestation of your ridiculous wealth? For reals, that idea – of drowning in a giant pile of metallic (I know it’s gold, but I just think of how terrible pennies feel and smell) awfulness is enough to bring on a panic attack.

ACK.

Must. Think. About. Other. Things.

Okay, back my curmudgeonly ways.

This isn’t to say that I’m scrimping on the bare necessities (nor Mother Nature’s recipes). I like to think that I still exit the house looking swell, and I’m definitely eating foods filled with enough nutrients to stave off the scurvy and the rickets.

I’m just stopping myself from buying anything that I don’t absolutely NEED, even though there are tons of things out there that my little, silly heart so very much WANTS.

I mean, I think it’s normal to get to a point where you look at your clothes (in particular your work clothes) and think to yourself: I CANNOT EVER WEAR ANY OF THIS STUFF EVER AGAIN.

I think I’m also thinking this stuff because the weather REFUSES to cooperate and I’m still wearing much of my winter wardrobe despite the fact that we are almost at the end of April.

Let me break out the bare legs and dresses damnit!

And I really think there is something to be said for learning to really understand where it is your money is going, and how you can optimize your saving potential BLAH BLAH BLAH.

But then the other part of me is all: I’M TWENTY-EIGHT! LET’S PAAAAAARRTY!

*Eats peanut butter M&Ms and cupcakes for dinner*

So in an effort to find some middle ground, I went out the other day and purchased these amazeballs (YES I SAID IT) pants:

I mean, how epically fantastic are they OR WHAT?

AND THEY ONLY COST FIFTEEN SMACKEROOS!

(Or clams, or bones, or whatever the cool kids are calling them these days.)

Meanwhile Marc, being the HUGEST anti-fan of patterned pants is totally thinking, “She could have just bought three more bottles of nail polish!”

Alas, he will just have to walk two steps in front/behind of me whilst I’m out rocking these pantaloons.

And they will be rocked, oh yes.

I mean, I’ve got to look good when I’m out not buying anything, right?

There’s no other way I’d rather be.

Love in the little things

Things that I love.

Marc’s cold hairy knees pressing into the backs of my (warm, hairless) knees, as we spoon together at night.

That first sip of vanilla latte – all sweet steamed milk, espresso and foam.

Finally smelling spring in the air.

The funny way my big sister always says, “Oh hellooooo” at the beginning of our Skype calls.

Short sundresses.

Telling a joke and then pausing, so to let the audience’s laughter wash over me, like a wave made out of happiness.

Managing the trifecta of hair removal – leg shave, armpit shave, brow pluck – ALL IN ONE GO.

When my little sister calls me WAWA.

Finally watching 30Rock.

My poppy-red coat that makes me feel like Paddington Bear.

Kitten kisses.

Cleaning the shower REALLY WELL (and then using it right away.)

Eating chocolate covered cinnamon buns.

Sprinting so hard until I feel as though the only way to put out the fire in my lungs is to barf them right up.

My mum’s broken sarcasm detector. (“Oh that’s not true…IS IT!?”)

Looking at myself in the mirror and thinking I look really pretty today.

Laughing with friends until I think I am going to pee my pants.

Quoting Arrested Development, The Big Lebowski, A Fish Called Wanda, Rushmore, Love Actually, and Mean Girls all the gosh-darned time.

She doesn’t even go here…

Having a mad dance party in my underwear, in a Top Shop change room because the song playing at that very moment was just too good not to.

Boardwalk brunches.

This.

My brilliant friends.

My amazing family.

My beautiful man.

You.

Never forget.

Always, always you.

For Boston

I’m having a hard time finding what it is I want to say.

I started Running when I was ten years old. I capitalize the R because anyone in my family will tell you that I have been running since the moment I started to walk.

My formal training didn’t start until the summer after grade five when my dad would take me out with him on short routes on Saturday mornings.

I absolutely loved this time we spent together.

Those minutes, hours, kilometers, miles, defined by an intimate ease, a shared love. Moving our legs in unison, marking our way in the world with nothing but a simple stride.

Sometimes we talked, sometimes we didn’t.

We’d run the length of Jericho beach, past the old concession stands, and the gleaming, gorgeous, newly erected “Beach Cafés.”

We’d watch the gulls swoop and glide overhead, listen to the roar of the surf, hear the shrill trill of an approaching bicycle bell.

Our sun-baked skin, glistening in the heat.

Our quiet breath, constant.

Arriving home my skin would smell of sweat, and sunscreen, and the sea salt air, and my shoes would crunch underfoot, coated with a golden sand.

I would stand exhausted in the middle of the entranceway, feeling the remains of the run course throughout my legs, my arms.

With each pump of my heart: around, and around.

Around again.

Seeing what has happened today in Boston has struck a chord inside of me and – I just don’t know.

I don’t know as a human being.

As a sister. As a wife. As a daughter. As a friend. As a runner.

I just don’t know.

I have run so many races.

I have loved each experience so much that I’ve always found it hard to properly communicate what it means for me to participate in these events.

They are camaraderie.

They are fearlessness.

They are grit.

They are endurance.

They are excitement, and heartbreak, and exhaustion, and triumph.

They are love.

They are human beings getting together and doing something that they love.

Together.

Running may be a predominantly solitary sport, but come race day, those other runners are your peers.

They are your friends.

They are your support, your energy, your kick, your drive.

They encourage you, they test you, they make you run harder, and faster, and longer, and better.

They make you better than you ever thought possible.

And for someone to see this, and decide that they are going to take this away – that they are going destroy a peaceful event that serves as a support and conduit for all these amazing traits of humanity – well, it breaks my heart.

And I see these pictures everywhere and I cry.

But I also know that nothing can come from my tears.

So I think about how one day I will have a child.

And I will teach them to be a kind-hearted, open, supportive, loving person.

And I will take them running with me.

You’ve got to put one foot in front of the other

Question:

Do you make the first move?

I do.

I have only had three relationships in my relatively short time here on planet earth (the last one being my very happy – and enduring – marriage to my completely bonkers husband), and in all three instances I was the one to initiate the formal courtship proceedings.

Writer’s note: I did not in fact propose to my husband – he was the brave one to take that leap. However, had I not been the one to first declare my attraction, said proposal may never have happened.

To me, there is only so much angst that one can go through before reaching that crush crossroads: either declare your love for the person, or do everything in your power to get over your quivering loins (and moony eyes) as quickly as humanly possible.

While most would say the former is pretty much one of the hardest (and scariest) things out there, hot damn, I cannot even IMAGINE taking on the latter. Sure, there is the chance that you will be left with a relatively heavy heart, especially if your plans to profess your love fall short of a successful outcome, but COME ON.

Never knowing if the other person likes you back? Constantly destroying yourself by wondering, “What if?”

That, my friends, is Dante’s ACTUAL tenth circle of hell.

The first boy I ever asked out was a dude name Jacob*. He was a year older than me, and we did improv and theatre together, sat next to each other in chemistry and physics, and just generally had a great time.

He was really into skateboarding and making movies, and I was into pretending I was into skateboarding, but I did like to make movies, so our friendship was pretty stellar.

One day after school he was in the editing suite, piecing together the score for his latest project when I thought to myself, IT’S NOW OR NEVER.

I awkwardly stood in the doorway and mumbled through my much-practiced lines. Our dialogue was something along the lines of:

V: Hi.

J: Hi.

V: Ummm, do you want to go see a movie with me this weekend?

J: Ummm, sure.

V: Like, just the two of us?

J: Okay.

V: Okay, great!

I leave. He then follows me out a few seconds later and qualifies:

J: Uh, were you just, like, asking me out on a date?

V: Um. Yes.

J: Oh. Okay. Yeah, so, I really like you as a friend, but I don’t think it’s the best thing if we go out.

V: Okay. Sure. No problem.

END SCENE.

Okay, I would be lying if I said that this exchange didn’t leave me feeling REALLY bummed out, but truth be told, I would much, MUCH rather have endured that short (intense) grieving period then never knowing if he liked me or not.

And hey, in the end, our friendship survived, and I ended up dating his (much better looking) friend Ryan*.

JOKING.

About the better looking, not about dating him.

(Kind of.)

My solid-steel guts were also the catalyst of that relationship. After months of extreme back and forth ICQ flirting (holy crap ICQ!!!) I accosted him as we were exiting the gym after our high school’s annual holiday square dancing jamboree.

I basically just dropped all of my Christmas cards, gifts, exams, and papers on the floor before turning to him and blurting out:

“Soooooo, I don’t know if you like, but if you do well, that would be awesome, and if you don’t, well, that’s okay, because I really like you as a friend, and I don’t want to lose you as a friend, but if you like me more than a friend, well, I think we could have something great, and…yeah.”

To which he replied: “Oh. Yeah. Great. I’m totally in the same boat.”

SUCCESS! SUCCESS!

I was so happy I practically started crying. Then we went ice skating and didn’t kiss for a week.

Ahhh, young love.

My next boyfriend I snagged by asking him to go for a late-night walk down at the beach, which was actually just a smoke screen for me to seduce him into kissing him under the moon AND GUYS SERIOUSLY IT WAS SO ROMANTIC.

Oh, and I also told him: “I like you.”

(In my head I was thinking – PLEASEPLEASELIKEMETOOANDKISSME)

And he did! (Like me AND kiss me!)

SUCCESS AGAIN!

Finally, my last foray into making the first move was when I told my beautiful, brilliant husband that I liked him, by literally doing just that.

We were eating dinner (AS FRIENDS) and I wasn’t saying much. When he asked me what was wrong, instead of lying, I took a huge gulp of water, looked him square in the eye, and then said:

“I REALLY LIKE YOU.”

To which he replied, “Oh. Thank you!”

What a gentleman.

And then Ilikeyoutooblahblahblah…

SUCCESS TIMES THREE!

Now, I’m not going to lie and pretend that letting these guys know how I feel didn’t make me sweat like a glass blower’s arse. And sure, my track record is pretty good.

But I swear it – I felt a million times better just saying those words, rather than having them fester away inside of me like a rotten banana peel made out of feelings.

Because dudes, that is just the worst.

So I implore all of you – take your love and run with it! You never know what amazing relationship adventure (short or life-long) you may end up on.

And then when you do, please be sure to tell me all about it.

*Names have been changed to protect the innocent. And nerdy.