I've been going through waves of feeling as my full-time job nears the end of the line. I'm scared to death about money. I'm nervous about having to go into interview situations and babbling about how qualified I am. I'm also sort of excited to have a few weeks of free time - so far, none of the lines I've cast out into The Sea of Jobs have had any nibbles, so I feel like it's kind of inevitable that I'll have some downtime.
The thing I'm most excited about is getting to try new things. I made a point of finding a fitness class that I loved in 2013 (so far, Nia has been doing right by me, and I even made it through a Zumba class without getting suicidal), and some friends and I have committed to a monthly writer's group. Those little creative steps have left me longing for new stuff to put on my life-resume: I keep daydreaming about stained glass classes, about paper crafts, about knitting, about writing out workshops plans, about applying for grants, about painting our apartment, and about a thousand other things.
A few weeks ago, I vowed to myself to stop reading wedding blogs. It was a colossal waste of time, because it left me fixated on a thing that wasn't for me. And I'm not mad at married people, or engaged people, and I'm certain that I'll sneak a peek here and there, but the mental energy I was expending on reading about floral crowds or how to handle nasty bridesmaids has now been transferred to thinking about projects that are for me: knitwares and pottery, how to incorporate more sculpture into our house, and texting my mom every time I kill it at a workout. And, you know, never say never: when I do get engaged, I'm sure I'll head back to that blog, but for now, I want to focus on stuff I can make/do.
And there's so much out there! My brain is doing the dance of the happy synapse. I read Northlanders and realized that Becky Cloonan's gorgeous, heavy-lined art would make an amazing jumping-off point for stained glass. I'm creating Valentine's cards in my head. I'm thinking about training to teach Nia.
I'm considering my options in a way I haven't really done since high school. In university, being an English major meant that everyone assumed I wanted to teach; nope, I just wanted to read, preferably in bed, and off the syllabus. I want to try different things and I know that I won't be great at many of them. But I recently read (on a wedding blog...sigh) that "the best is the enemy of the good," and I definitely need to put that backwards on several tee-shirts and then stare at myself in the mirror until I get it.
So I have a curious brain, and I'm learning to trust my instincts, and I want to play. And learn. And so that means shopping at new stores, making new dishes, figuring out a way to spend a Wednesday night that doesn't involve turning on the TV. I'm experimenting with style. I'm thinking outside the nine-to-five box. And it feels invigorating, like maybe, I was waiting for this the whole time.
Thursday, February 14, 2013
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
Nia Now
Nia classes have been blowing my mind lately. For those who don't know - 99% of everybody ever - Nia is a fitness class based on a few different styles: dance, martial arts, some yoga-style moves thrown in there. It's cardio with choreography, not unlike, say, a step aerobics class. But unlike at a step class, if you screw the pooch on the moves in Nia, the instructor is likely to laugh gently and say something like, "Yes, you just do you!" whereas in step aerobics, the instructor will scowl and say, "Even babies can do this! Harder! FASTER" and then you just want to crawl under the elliptical machine and die.
Nia originally stood for no-impact aerobics, and is generally practiced by well-heeled white ladies who don't have day jobs - many of the Nia classes currently on offer in Toronto are held at 10 AM on Tuesdays or 5:10 on Thursdays, when us drudgers are drudging home. There are a lot of Lululemon pants at Nia. There are a lot of natural greys, a lot of warm hugs. I sound like I'm making fun of that, but I'm really not.
I always feel a little silly at the beginning of a Nia class: there's a lot of free-dancing, which, for me, involves hopping around and feeling stiff. Then we start to flow into the choreography, much of which is intense enough to make me sweat. Vocalization is encouraged, so there are plenty of zips and growls as we move through a class. The music is soaring, bassy, earth-mother, primal. By the end of a class, I feel emotionally open and physically powerful.
Growing up, I was never much of a dancer - I took a couple jazz dance classes in middle school, and the outfits we had to wear for the final recital (black bodysuits and blazing yellow sateen raincoats; we were dancing to "It's Raining Men") were humiliating and made me feel pudgy. My sister has always been the dancer, since she's lithe and flexible and confident. The shame I felt over my body was enormous; although I love, and have always loved, moving to music, performing dance was just never something I enjoyed. I felt singled out and shamed. All eyes on me.
Besides, there isn't a lot of joy in working out sometimes. If you're in the best shape, fitness classes are a maintenance need. And if you're trying to lose weight or tone yourself up? Forget it. Each step reminds me of where I'm not, and how much work I need to do to get there. I've left aerobics classes on the verge of tears, unable to enjoy myself because I was busy hating that my roly-poly body needed cardio in the first place. It's self-defeating.
Nia changes the rules for me. It's making me feel empowered in my body (practically a cliche, but cliches are lined with truth). It makes me actually kind of love my body - because Nia is based on what you want to/can do in the moment, I feel less bad if (actually, inevitably when) I fail to meet the instructor's benchmark of "how it should be done." Instead, I'm grooving. Still sweating, still working out, but not left out. And my body loves it too. I can feel how my muscles have become more toned, how I feel flushed and pink after a good class. Moreover, I feel grateful for my body - imperfect as it may be - and, miraculously, at peace with it. It makes me feel at good.
Nia originally stood for no-impact aerobics, and is generally practiced by well-heeled white ladies who don't have day jobs - many of the Nia classes currently on offer in Toronto are held at 10 AM on Tuesdays or 5:10 on Thursdays, when us drudgers are drudging home. There are a lot of Lululemon pants at Nia. There are a lot of natural greys, a lot of warm hugs. I sound like I'm making fun of that, but I'm really not.
I always feel a little silly at the beginning of a Nia class: there's a lot of free-dancing, which, for me, involves hopping around and feeling stiff. Then we start to flow into the choreography, much of which is intense enough to make me sweat. Vocalization is encouraged, so there are plenty of zips and growls as we move through a class. The music is soaring, bassy, earth-mother, primal. By the end of a class, I feel emotionally open and physically powerful.
Growing up, I was never much of a dancer - I took a couple jazz dance classes in middle school, and the outfits we had to wear for the final recital (black bodysuits and blazing yellow sateen raincoats; we were dancing to "It's Raining Men") were humiliating and made me feel pudgy. My sister has always been the dancer, since she's lithe and flexible and confident. The shame I felt over my body was enormous; although I love, and have always loved, moving to music, performing dance was just never something I enjoyed. I felt singled out and shamed. All eyes on me.
Besides, there isn't a lot of joy in working out sometimes. If you're in the best shape, fitness classes are a maintenance need. And if you're trying to lose weight or tone yourself up? Forget it. Each step reminds me of where I'm not, and how much work I need to do to get there. I've left aerobics classes on the verge of tears, unable to enjoy myself because I was busy hating that my roly-poly body needed cardio in the first place. It's self-defeating.
Nia changes the rules for me. It's making me feel empowered in my body (practically a cliche, but cliches are lined with truth). It makes me actually kind of love my body - because Nia is based on what you want to/can do in the moment, I feel less bad if (actually, inevitably when) I fail to meet the instructor's benchmark of "how it should be done." Instead, I'm grooving. Still sweating, still working out, but not left out. And my body loves it too. I can feel how my muscles have become more toned, how I feel flushed and pink after a good class. Moreover, I feel grateful for my body - imperfect as it may be - and, miraculously, at peace with it. It makes me feel at good.
Friday, January 25, 2013
"Um, miss? Your hair?"
The following is the text of a monologue/stand-up comedy routine/story that I told as part of Pressgang Theatre's ongoing storytelling nights. The theme of the most recent evening, where I performed this story, was "Love vs. Smut," a collection of funny, embarrassing, unusual and otherwise strange romantic stories. Please imagine yourself slightly drunk, in a warm room full of well-dressed strangers, laughing loudly.
About five years ago, I was dumped. Like, D-U-M-P dumped. Hard. And there’s this thing that happens, when you get dumped hard, where you go out and have what clinicians call, “a slutty phase.”
So there are two driving forces in a slutty phase. First is the need to prove to yourself that you’re still viable, you’re still attractive, you’re still sexy - people definitely want to put their tongue in your mouth! The other is proving those same things to your ex, which you do by sending them a psychic message every time you make out someone., Something along the lines of “Neener neener, I won.” So you go out, and try to pick up basically every piece of tail you see. Hot, ugly, old, young, male, female, doesn’t matter. Every cree, every colour, every race - it’s quantity over quality, for sure. Incidentally, this is how I ended up making out with a guy who only had one hand - literally, the other hand was a hook - which my friend would be happy to tell you all about if you buy them a drink after the show.
And what’s the engine that drives our slutty periods? It’s booze. Alcohol makes things so much better - you feel more attractive, your standards are lower, and, at least in my case, I actually believe that my crazy psychic messages to my ex are getting through.
So when my friends ask if I want to go to a house party, I’m like, Duh, because house parties combine alcohol with attractive strangers, which means, you know, the game’s afoot. So I go to this house party and I promptly spike my red wine with gin, because that’s the kind of night I’m going to be having, and then I have like seven more drinks, and then I get out on the dance floor, because this party has a dance floor, just like the parties on TV. And I’m dancing, which, when you’re drunk on gin-spiked wine, is basically just putting your head down and throwing your ass around, when I see this guy. And he’s looking at me.
So I dance over to him, and then we’re dancing, and then we’re touching, and then we’re grinding, and then we’re making out. And we do this for a while, and I’m pleased, because he’s hot, and I’m kissing someone. Score!
Before he takes off, we trade names - this is what you do, in the age of Facebook, you trade names with the promise to “friend” the other person. And before he leaves, he says, I want to take you out sometime. And I realize that, despite the fact that I’ve been making out with a metric shit-ton of strangers, I haven’t actually been on a real date since my boyfriend left me. This feels like a big deal. It’s a chance to prove to myself that I’m still charming and dateable, and also send out a doozy of a psychic message.
We go to the late and not lamented Las Iguanas, on Bloor Street. It’s dark, pool tables in the back, booths along the wall; the vibe was sort of cheerfully divey but also had the possibility for romance. Sort of. If you squinted. We hop into a booth, ask the waitress for burritos and beer, and start chatting.
The date is horrible. It’s totally clear from the first few moments that we have nothing in common and no chemistry, and so we’re reduced to the kind of inane banter that you perform at office parties where you get introduced to, like, your boss’s cousin and have literally nothing to say. “Oh, yeah, I also....have parents. They’re...people.” And it’s awful, but we’ve ordered food, like idiots, so we’re basically holding each other hostage because we’re trying to be polite.
And, to be fair, my dating instincts aren’t so rusty that I’m not trying to salvage something out of this. I’m like, gamely interrogating him about where he grew up, and how he likes studying engineering, and oh, you’re from Mississauga, and you live with your parents? How...unique! So there are a couple dynamics working at cross-purposes here: the desire to be found sexy, the need to not be rejected, the wish that somewhere, somehow, my ex knows about this date and is sighing in regret; all these things are working against my desire to flee the fucking scene before I slit my own wrists just so we have something to talk about.
Now obviously I have a lot of hair. And I tend to use it as kind of a sexy prop in dating situations: I’d like, pile it all on top of my head, and then let unfurl in this sexy cascade, you know, put it, up it down, play with it, that kind of thing. It is totally not original, but hey, I was working what God gave me.
And so, at one point, I piled and then released, and it fell down the back of the booth. Unbeknownst to me, there was a table behind me, and that table had a candle on it, and so I basically dipped the bottom third of my hair into the flame.
I did not realise that I had done this until good Samaritans who were choking on the stench of my burning hair leaned over and said, “Um, miss? Your hair? Is on...fire? And it was. It totally was. I pulled the hair around so I could look at it, and I sort of patted myself out - like I’m Miss America, I’m looking I’m fondling a little sash or something. “Oh, haha, I AM on fire! How droll!” So, I put myself out, and excused myself and went to the bathroom, and did what any normal human girl would do, which is have a cry. I had cry, in the crummy basement bathroom on this horrible date where I had just set my hair on fire. Then, like a champion, I squared my shoulders, wiped my eyes, and went back upstairs to finish the date.
The worst part was, it continued to be horrible. My self-immolation had not broken the ice one bit - he was still stilted and awkward as can be. It was, hands down, the worst date I’ve ever been on, even before the whole flammable hairdo episode.
He walked me home after dinner, gave me a peck on the cheek, and asked, incredibly, if I wanted to go out again sometime.
To my everlasting credit, I didn’t laugh in his face; to my everlasting shame, past the embarrassment of setting myself on fire, and the conviction that somewhere, my ex was laughing at me for hitching my wagon to this winner’s star for the night, what I said was... “You know, I just don’t think there’s a spark.”
About five years ago, I was dumped. Like, D-U-M-P dumped. Hard. And there’s this thing that happens, when you get dumped hard, where you go out and have what clinicians call, “a slutty phase.”
So there are two driving forces in a slutty phase. First is the need to prove to yourself that you’re still viable, you’re still attractive, you’re still sexy - people definitely want to put their tongue in your mouth! The other is proving those same things to your ex, which you do by sending them a psychic message every time you make out someone., Something along the lines of “Neener neener, I won.” So you go out, and try to pick up basically every piece of tail you see. Hot, ugly, old, young, male, female, doesn’t matter. Every cree, every colour, every race - it’s quantity over quality, for sure. Incidentally, this is how I ended up making out with a guy who only had one hand - literally, the other hand was a hook - which my friend would be happy to tell you all about if you buy them a drink after the show.
And what’s the engine that drives our slutty periods? It’s booze. Alcohol makes things so much better - you feel more attractive, your standards are lower, and, at least in my case, I actually believe that my crazy psychic messages to my ex are getting through.
So when my friends ask if I want to go to a house party, I’m like, Duh, because house parties combine alcohol with attractive strangers, which means, you know, the game’s afoot. So I go to this house party and I promptly spike my red wine with gin, because that’s the kind of night I’m going to be having, and then I have like seven more drinks, and then I get out on the dance floor, because this party has a dance floor, just like the parties on TV. And I’m dancing, which, when you’re drunk on gin-spiked wine, is basically just putting your head down and throwing your ass around, when I see this guy. And he’s looking at me.
So I dance over to him, and then we’re dancing, and then we’re touching, and then we’re grinding, and then we’re making out. And we do this for a while, and I’m pleased, because he’s hot, and I’m kissing someone. Score!
Before he takes off, we trade names - this is what you do, in the age of Facebook, you trade names with the promise to “friend” the other person. And before he leaves, he says, I want to take you out sometime. And I realize that, despite the fact that I’ve been making out with a metric shit-ton of strangers, I haven’t actually been on a real date since my boyfriend left me. This feels like a big deal. It’s a chance to prove to myself that I’m still charming and dateable, and also send out a doozy of a psychic message.
We go to the late and not lamented Las Iguanas, on Bloor Street. It’s dark, pool tables in the back, booths along the wall; the vibe was sort of cheerfully divey but also had the possibility for romance. Sort of. If you squinted. We hop into a booth, ask the waitress for burritos and beer, and start chatting.
The date is horrible. It’s totally clear from the first few moments that we have nothing in common and no chemistry, and so we’re reduced to the kind of inane banter that you perform at office parties where you get introduced to, like, your boss’s cousin and have literally nothing to say. “Oh, yeah, I also....have parents. They’re...people.” And it’s awful, but we’ve ordered food, like idiots, so we’re basically holding each other hostage because we’re trying to be polite.
And, to be fair, my dating instincts aren’t so rusty that I’m not trying to salvage something out of this. I’m like, gamely interrogating him about where he grew up, and how he likes studying engineering, and oh, you’re from Mississauga, and you live with your parents? How...unique! So there are a couple dynamics working at cross-purposes here: the desire to be found sexy, the need to not be rejected, the wish that somewhere, somehow, my ex knows about this date and is sighing in regret; all these things are working against my desire to flee the fucking scene before I slit my own wrists just so we have something to talk about.
Now obviously I have a lot of hair. And I tend to use it as kind of a sexy prop in dating situations: I’d like, pile it all on top of my head, and then let unfurl in this sexy cascade, you know, put it, up it down, play with it, that kind of thing. It is totally not original, but hey, I was working what God gave me.
And so, at one point, I piled and then released, and it fell down the back of the booth. Unbeknownst to me, there was a table behind me, and that table had a candle on it, and so I basically dipped the bottom third of my hair into the flame.
I did not realise that I had done this until good Samaritans who were choking on the stench of my burning hair leaned over and said, “Um, miss? Your hair? Is on...fire? And it was. It totally was. I pulled the hair around so I could look at it, and I sort of patted myself out - like I’m Miss America, I’m looking I’m fondling a little sash or something. “Oh, haha, I AM on fire! How droll!” So, I put myself out, and excused myself and went to the bathroom, and did what any normal human girl would do, which is have a cry. I had cry, in the crummy basement bathroom on this horrible date where I had just set my hair on fire. Then, like a champion, I squared my shoulders, wiped my eyes, and went back upstairs to finish the date.
The worst part was, it continued to be horrible. My self-immolation had not broken the ice one bit - he was still stilted and awkward as can be. It was, hands down, the worst date I’ve ever been on, even before the whole flammable hairdo episode.
He walked me home after dinner, gave me a peck on the cheek, and asked, incredibly, if I wanted to go out again sometime.
To my everlasting credit, I didn’t laugh in his face; to my everlasting shame, past the embarrassment of setting myself on fire, and the conviction that somewhere, my ex was laughing at me for hitching my wagon to this winner’s star for the night, what I said was... “You know, I just don’t think there’s a spark.”
Saturday, January 19, 2013
Dressing for the End of the World
Rachel and I recently made mood boards to try to jump-start our style - we both feel like we've gotten stuck in a jeans/t-shirt/hoodie/cleavage out/hide the belly rut, which means a lot of empire waists and jersey knit. And I've been slowly trying to clean out my closet, getting rid of ugly Christmas sweaters and hedging my bets on aspirational pants that I bought a size too small with the idea that I would lose enough weight to fit into them....one day.
ANYWAY, we got upscale fashion magazines and cut out pictures of outfits we liked, because we are teenagers. Eventually, I got bored with just the outfits and figuring out what a post-apocalyptic farm girl might wear, and started working on where she might actually wear it. Enter the cacti, and the vintage sci-fi book covers, and the skull masks and the hair cages. Enter the vinyl crop tops and the galaxy leggings, the cotton sundresses and the protective scarfs. Enter braids - so many braids! - and sky-blue hair and teenaged boys ganged together under powerlines as an unlit city rises behind them. Enter roving packs of cyclists. Enter juicy peaches plucked directly from the trees, campfires, and eyes squinted against the dust.
Are you into it? I know I am.
FACE: I love a good smoky eye as much as the next girl - maybe more! - but one perk of wearing red eyeliner is that you look like you've been crying, or are high, which can make you look mysterious and brave when it's really just repurposing your lipliner in unorthodox ways. Also, gold eyeliner is the very best if you have blue eyes. After the apocalypse, you'll definitely want to invest in a good sunscreen and moisturizer, especially if now you have to grow your own food in the hot, non-indoor sun.
CLOTHES: Durability is key. Skip Forever 21 and H&M because their clothes are landfills waiting to happen (the only exceptions are the tank tops: so flimsy that you'll feel like you're topless, which is great in the heat). Invest in some good indie designers, who often oversee most production steps and wear their own clothes. I've been obsessed with two designers lately: Pipsqueak Chapeau for their cotten/linen flowy stuff, and Plastik Wrap for their amazing goth-ish clubwear. I realize that these clothes don't go together, but in the apocalypse, you are the new Anna Wintour!
I adore hakama pants, tight tanks, cross-body bags, apron dresses, leggings, hoods (...just hoods), small jackets, boatneck shirts, miniskirts, legwarmers, handknits, flat boots and lots of black. You may find that you like a different style - maybe you're going to go with "eccentric water collector," "fierce shotgun-totin' mama" (usually accessorized with a dirty baby or two), or "dazed Bay-streeter" for your look. I like clothes you could hike in, or attend a hostile corporate takeover board meeting in, preferably in the same day. I like clothes that stand up to a bit of wearing, not needing to be replaced every season. And, in the post-apocalyptic mall raids, all the good stuff will go first. Stock up now.
ACCESSORIES: Start with the basics: sunhats, sunglasses, light scarves to block the sun in the summer months; wool socks, thick scarves, gloves, and legwarmers for the brisker seasons. And while you might have to get used to pooling resources, a good bag for you to keep your own personal stuff is always a smart idea. Stuff it with your favourite book, irreplaceable family photos, and your sanity-totem (mine is a baby blanket!) to help adjust to our horrible new world. Wear it constantly. Fill it with snacks. Sleep with it as your pillow.
TRANSPORT: I've done a lot of thinking about the post-apocalyptic world - probably more than is strictly necessary, but reading and re-reading The Stand and Y: The Last Man a dozen times will do that to a person. I totally believe that bicycles will become the cars of the apocalypse: they're quiet, easy to repair or replace, don't require fuel, and can be kitted out to haul all your stuff. Plus, biking keeps you fit! Start now, and you won't be complaining as your convoy has to hump itself over the Niagara Escarpment - you'll have the thighs of a champion!
SKILLS: It would seem like fashion-related skills would be the first to get chucked in the apocalypse, but I beg to differ. Makers and fixers will be in high demand in a time of upheaval. Folks who can knit, sew, repair leather, make soap, make sunscreen, and have other skin-care and clothing knowledge bases won't go unnoticed. Bike mechanics and farmers will also be in demand; if you're not careful, you'll end up tethered to those annoying anarcho-freegan bike punks who hang out your favourite dive bar. Don't let that happen. Learn to DIY.
While I don't quite believe that the apocalypse is coming in our lifetime, or any time soon, thought exercises like these can be useful in defining a sense of style. If you found yourself recoiling from the idea of calloused hands and sunburned shoulders, perhaps your fashion template is more in line with "1970s psychelia groupies/hazy drug-den" or maybe "1980s NYC lesbian punk rocker." Don't let piddly details like gender or era stand in your way - if you loved the look of the just-joshing frat boys that the Beastie Boys embodied in 1987, get on it! Take cues from images you love - cacti on a windowsill, a sweaty moshpit, the Australian outback - and incorporate their colour and mood into your outfits. Let yourself fail. And play - I mean, it's only clothes, right? See you at the end of the world!
ANYWAY, we got upscale fashion magazines and cut out pictures of outfits we liked, because we are teenagers. Eventually, I got bored with just the outfits and figuring out what a post-apocalyptic farm girl might wear, and started working on where she might actually wear it. Enter the cacti, and the vintage sci-fi book covers, and the skull masks and the hair cages. Enter the vinyl crop tops and the galaxy leggings, the cotton sundresses and the protective scarfs. Enter braids - so many braids! - and sky-blue hair and teenaged boys ganged together under powerlines as an unlit city rises behind them. Enter roving packs of cyclists. Enter juicy peaches plucked directly from the trees, campfires, and eyes squinted against the dust.
Are you into it? I know I am.
FACE: I love a good smoky eye as much as the next girl - maybe more! - but one perk of wearing red eyeliner is that you look like you've been crying, or are high, which can make you look mysterious and brave when it's really just repurposing your lipliner in unorthodox ways. Also, gold eyeliner is the very best if you have blue eyes. After the apocalypse, you'll definitely want to invest in a good sunscreen and moisturizer, especially if now you have to grow your own food in the hot, non-indoor sun.
CLOTHES: Durability is key. Skip Forever 21 and H&M because their clothes are landfills waiting to happen (the only exceptions are the tank tops: so flimsy that you'll feel like you're topless, which is great in the heat). Invest in some good indie designers, who often oversee most production steps and wear their own clothes. I've been obsessed with two designers lately: Pipsqueak Chapeau for their cotten/linen flowy stuff, and Plastik Wrap for their amazing goth-ish clubwear. I realize that these clothes don't go together, but in the apocalypse, you are the new Anna Wintour!
I adore hakama pants, tight tanks, cross-body bags, apron dresses, leggings, hoods (...just hoods), small jackets, boatneck shirts, miniskirts, legwarmers, handknits, flat boots and lots of black. You may find that you like a different style - maybe you're going to go with "eccentric water collector," "fierce shotgun-totin' mama" (usually accessorized with a dirty baby or two), or "dazed Bay-streeter" for your look. I like clothes you could hike in, or attend a hostile corporate takeover board meeting in, preferably in the same day. I like clothes that stand up to a bit of wearing, not needing to be replaced every season. And, in the post-apocalyptic mall raids, all the good stuff will go first. Stock up now.
ACCESSORIES: Start with the basics: sunhats, sunglasses, light scarves to block the sun in the summer months; wool socks, thick scarves, gloves, and legwarmers for the brisker seasons. And while you might have to get used to pooling resources, a good bag for you to keep your own personal stuff is always a smart idea. Stuff it with your favourite book, irreplaceable family photos, and your sanity-totem (mine is a baby blanket!) to help adjust to our horrible new world. Wear it constantly. Fill it with snacks. Sleep with it as your pillow.
TRANSPORT: I've done a lot of thinking about the post-apocalyptic world - probably more than is strictly necessary, but reading and re-reading The Stand and Y: The Last Man a dozen times will do that to a person. I totally believe that bicycles will become the cars of the apocalypse: they're quiet, easy to repair or replace, don't require fuel, and can be kitted out to haul all your stuff. Plus, biking keeps you fit! Start now, and you won't be complaining as your convoy has to hump itself over the Niagara Escarpment - you'll have the thighs of a champion!
SKILLS: It would seem like fashion-related skills would be the first to get chucked in the apocalypse, but I beg to differ. Makers and fixers will be in high demand in a time of upheaval. Folks who can knit, sew, repair leather, make soap, make sunscreen, and have other skin-care and clothing knowledge bases won't go unnoticed. Bike mechanics and farmers will also be in demand; if you're not careful, you'll end up tethered to those annoying anarcho-freegan bike punks who hang out your favourite dive bar. Don't let that happen. Learn to DIY.
While I don't quite believe that the apocalypse is coming in our lifetime, or any time soon, thought exercises like these can be useful in defining a sense of style. If you found yourself recoiling from the idea of calloused hands and sunburned shoulders, perhaps your fashion template is more in line with "1970s psychelia groupies/hazy drug-den" or maybe "1980s NYC lesbian punk rocker." Don't let piddly details like gender or era stand in your way - if you loved the look of the just-joshing frat boys that the Beastie Boys embodied in 1987, get on it! Take cues from images you love - cacti on a windowsill, a sweaty moshpit, the Australian outback - and incorporate their colour and mood into your outfits. Let yourself fail. And play - I mean, it's only clothes, right? See you at the end of the world!
Saturday, January 12, 2013
Resos
You know, I never did get around to figuring out my new year's resolutions, and almost two weeks into January, I'm not even sure if we're still doing them or not. Are we? Can someone let me know? I would hate to lose out on a really good opportunity to feel bad about my choices.
To me, NYRs are a to-do list all dressed up: I'm going to quit smoking, lose 20 pounds, write more letters, actually email people back, and be nicer to strangers on the streetcar. and yet, by February 1, I'm on the couch eating Reese's Peanut Butter Cups in my muscle tee (not pictured: actual muscles), trying to google which season I am instead of job hunting. I know that people who publicize their resolutions are more likely to both succeed and continue to succeed six months down the line, and I'm certainly not so hubristic that I'm going to say "I'm perfect!" on the internet (not pictured: anyone perfect). But I also desperately wanted to get off the hate-my-body treadmill that NYRs often seems to inspire.
So BIRT, as the board-director kids say:
To me, NYRs are a to-do list all dressed up: I'm going to quit smoking, lose 20 pounds, write more letters, actually email people back, and be nicer to strangers on the streetcar. and yet, by February 1, I'm on the couch eating Reese's Peanut Butter Cups in my muscle tee (not pictured: actual muscles), trying to google which season I am instead of job hunting. I know that people who publicize their resolutions are more likely to both succeed and continue to succeed six months down the line, and I'm certainly not so hubristic that I'm going to say "I'm perfect!" on the internet (not pictured: anyone perfect). But I also desperately wanted to get off the hate-my-body treadmill that NYRs often seems to inspire.
So BIRT, as the board-director kids say:
- Find and attend a Nia class I love. Nia is a dance/exercise form that combines martial arts, free-dance, mind/body integration, and the chance to throw my elbows around to Enya's mid-tempo beat. I love it. I am too inflexible for yoga, I'm a slow and plodding runner (not that that stops me from getting out there - I actually have fallen in love with running with M, which is nice), but Nia's emphasis on good body feelings is right up my alley. My mom got me into it, and while there are great Nia instructors in Stratford, Toronto seems to have a dearth.
- Continue and re-commit to the paleo diet. I've cut wayyyy down on grains for the last six months, and dudes, it has changed me. I am lighter. My poops are better. I sleep better. My acne has basically cleared itself up. I feel awesome. But there are things that simply can't be replaced with zucchini noodles, like delicious, chewy ramen, and red-velvet cupcakes with cream cheese frosting. And so I face a choice: either learn to live without, or figure out the replacements that make me just as happy. Sure, there's no ramen in the paleo diet...but there's a million pounds of kimchi. There are no cupcakes, but the occasional meringue or six isn't going to break the bank.
- My work contract is up in a few weeks, and I feel...stressed. Not quite panicked, but you know that rictus grin you put on in moments of hold-it-together-and-cry-later-in-the-bathroom? That's me! So I resolve to stay calm. Things will work out. They don't even have debtor's prisons anymore...right? (Don't answer that!)
- Make more things with my hands. I love crafting and knitting, but instead of doing them, I spend hours glued to little screens. Crafting means an actual step back, a physical shake-off of routine, until the act itself becomes routine. But I recently made a hat, and you know what? I felt damned proud of myself. It felt good. But knit hats - and time for knitting hats - don't just fall out of the sky.
- Be more open. I wrote recently about struggling with envy and jealousy, especially with my female friends and acquaintances. That post did wonders to help me see past the feelings and actually connect mentally with those women - to see them as humans with their own foibles and internal messes - and as much work as that is, it does seem worth it. I'd also like to figure out how to approach close friend who are weirding me out, because there are a couple backburner issues that seem close to boiling over, and it makes me nervous and sad.
- Write more! I'm starting a writer's group and attending another, and writing for a bunch of different places, which feels good. But I would love, as always, more. I'm greedy that way.
Thursday, January 3, 2013
Marriage and Mothers: The HIMYM Wedding Blues
How I Met Your Mother has always felt, to me, like it was a runner-up to Must See TV. It's funny, it's got charm, the wit is free-flowing and the characters have become, over the years, genuine pop-culture touchstones (Barney Stinson's bro-isms have, in particular, really taken off), but it's never been "appointment TV". I came late to the game, watching the first two seasons on DVD and then catching the rest on-air (or, let's face it, on-hard drive), and have been as invested as I get in a TV program: binge-y weekends, followed by months of ascetic ignorance. Wash, rinse, repeat. But unlike, say, Louie or Community, whose brilliance demands timely viewing, HIMYM holds a second-tier spot. I catch up on long train rides, or when I'm home sick with the flu.
For those who have never watched an episode, the premise is simple: Ted Mosby is telling his future children about how he met their mother. Bob Saget plays Future Ted in voiceover, laying his hindsight over the show's present-day action. Ted is friends with married couple Marshall and Lily, bachelor Barney and career girl Robyn, and they do most of their socializing in a bar. The show plays heavily with timeline, and there are dozens of flashforwards and flashbacks sprinkled throughout each season. In the past seven seasons, Ted has dated a whole bunch of women, but none have turned out to be the Mother.
The show is remarkably plot-heavy for a sitcom - if you miss a few episodes, you're left out in the cold. Characters meet, get engaged and break up in a few short months, and marriages unravel inside of a season. The Russian nesting doll-timeline can also make it extraordinarily difficult to pin down where, exactly, we are in the story.
But I kept up with Mosby 'n' friends because I could identify with them. The show was always careful to balance each character's personal and professional story arcs: characters often had to give up some of their dreams and struggled to find their workday joy. As a 20-something, I knew how the gradual narrowing of professional options feels, and it was refreshing to see it reflected back to me.
And as far as the relationships went, I dug that. In the first few seasons, Ted Mosby is an unrepentant romantic, convinced that his future wife will be coming around the corner aaaaany second now. But it's tough to keep that buoyant hope alive in the face of multiple failed relationships, and Mosby slumps in the later seasons. Of course, we know that he eventually finds love - hello, it's right there in the title - and so we half-heartedly keep rooting for him even as he falters.
So I have no problem with the premise of the show. Romance, sure. Comedy, sure. (Time-warping? Love that!) But in recent seasons, the show has been serving the premise that Marriage Is Always the Way, and it's to the detriment of the characters and the show.
Take, for example, season seven's framing device: Barney Stinson's wedding. As the season opens, it's the future, and Barney the bachelor is getting hitched, but we're not sure to whom. S7 marches Barney through no less than three relationships - Barney: who has always wolfishly played the field, whose pre-nups insultingly specify that his fiancee not gain any weight, who has a heart but thinks caring is as sexy as a pap smear. If the show was being true to the character, Barney and his bride would have settled into a mutually open co-habitatation set-up: Barney, the wolf who now has a den.
The show treats marriage as a salve for relationship woes, and when marriages fall apart, it's not because of conflict, but because someone falls out of love (Ted's paramour Zoe), or the love isn't there in the first place (Ted's parents). While we see plenty of mopey sadness when relationships fail, there's rarely anger. Two of the show's best scenes involve characters screaming in rage at (or about) their exes - death threats, irrational paranoia, crossing boundaries, it's all in there, and it's great and honest. But those are mere moments in a sea of wishy-washy emotions. And then a few seasons later, the feels are back under the rug and marriage is proposed and everyone is so happy!
The Shakespearean trope of identifying a story as a "comedy" by whether or not it ends in a marriage doesn't mean that all your characters need to get hitched. Late-season Friends also fell victim to this (remember when Phoebe got married? Remember how little anyone cared?), but HIMYM is the worst for it. We know that eventually, Ted will get married. Why shove your other, more commitment-averse characters into the same little box? What purpose does it serve? And wouldn't this tightly wrapped show feel so much more diverse if everyone wasn't slowly converging on the altar like it was the nexus of the universe?
For those who have never watched an episode, the premise is simple: Ted Mosby is telling his future children about how he met their mother. Bob Saget plays Future Ted in voiceover, laying his hindsight over the show's present-day action. Ted is friends with married couple Marshall and Lily, bachelor Barney and career girl Robyn, and they do most of their socializing in a bar. The show plays heavily with timeline, and there are dozens of flashforwards and flashbacks sprinkled throughout each season. In the past seven seasons, Ted has dated a whole bunch of women, but none have turned out to be the Mother.
The show is remarkably plot-heavy for a sitcom - if you miss a few episodes, you're left out in the cold. Characters meet, get engaged and break up in a few short months, and marriages unravel inside of a season. The Russian nesting doll-timeline can also make it extraordinarily difficult to pin down where, exactly, we are in the story.
But I kept up with Mosby 'n' friends because I could identify with them. The show was always careful to balance each character's personal and professional story arcs: characters often had to give up some of their dreams and struggled to find their workday joy. As a 20-something, I knew how the gradual narrowing of professional options feels, and it was refreshing to see it reflected back to me.
And as far as the relationships went, I dug that. In the first few seasons, Ted Mosby is an unrepentant romantic, convinced that his future wife will be coming around the corner aaaaany second now. But it's tough to keep that buoyant hope alive in the face of multiple failed relationships, and Mosby slumps in the later seasons. Of course, we know that he eventually finds love - hello, it's right there in the title - and so we half-heartedly keep rooting for him even as he falters.
So I have no problem with the premise of the show. Romance, sure. Comedy, sure. (Time-warping? Love that!) But in recent seasons, the show has been serving the premise that Marriage Is Always the Way, and it's to the detriment of the characters and the show.
Take, for example, season seven's framing device: Barney Stinson's wedding. As the season opens, it's the future, and Barney the bachelor is getting hitched, but we're not sure to whom. S7 marches Barney through no less than three relationships - Barney: who has always wolfishly played the field, whose pre-nups insultingly specify that his fiancee not gain any weight, who has a heart but thinks caring is as sexy as a pap smear. If the show was being true to the character, Barney and his bride would have settled into a mutually open co-habitatation set-up: Barney, the wolf who now has a den.
The show treats marriage as a salve for relationship woes, and when marriages fall apart, it's not because of conflict, but because someone falls out of love (Ted's paramour Zoe), or the love isn't there in the first place (Ted's parents). While we see plenty of mopey sadness when relationships fail, there's rarely anger. Two of the show's best scenes involve characters screaming in rage at (or about) their exes - death threats, irrational paranoia, crossing boundaries, it's all in there, and it's great and honest. But those are mere moments in a sea of wishy-washy emotions. And then a few seasons later, the feels are back under the rug and marriage is proposed and everyone is so happy!
The Shakespearean trope of identifying a story as a "comedy" by whether or not it ends in a marriage doesn't mean that all your characters need to get hitched. Late-season Friends also fell victim to this (remember when Phoebe got married? Remember how little anyone cared?), but HIMYM is the worst for it. We know that eventually, Ted will get married. Why shove your other, more commitment-averse characters into the same little box? What purpose does it serve? And wouldn't this tightly wrapped show feel so much more diverse if everyone wasn't slowly converging on the altar like it was the nexus of the universe?
Look, I'm a fan of marriage - some of my best friends are married! - but when you're writing a television show, your story must serve your characters. Barney's been gradually transformed from a suit-wearing feelings-free douchebag to a schmoe with a nice wardrobe and some daddy issue, and that's not okay. Sure, give him an emotional back story. Give him a yen for a stable woman! Give him that woman, but don't force him down the aisle, and don't make it seem like his life will be lame if he doesn't get married. Just let him be.
Friday, December 28, 2012
Green-Eyed Monster
I suffer from jealousy. This isn't an attractive trait - unlike "perfectionism," which is often offered as one of those eye-rolling humblebrags at job interviews, jealousy is a seething, complicated, stomach-churning feeling. It creates distance, ruins burgeoning friendships, and makes me feel lousy.
My jealousy isn't centred around my boyfriend - I trust him, and despite occasional Weird Feelings about late-night drink-a-thons at fun bars when I'm out of town, I generally keep a lid on that kind of thing. The jealousy I feel is often directed at other women, and it's a dirty, soul-yuckifying emotion that serves nobody. (I'll sidebar to parse jealousy from mistrust: jealousy is wanting what another person has, while being suspicious of your partner's out-on-the-town behaviours is another, but equally gross-feeling, phenomenon. If my special roommate went out and rollicked around with a bunch of fun-sounding ladies, I would probably be jealous of his experience, but not necessarily of the women, since he, presumably, at some point, came home to tell me all about it. Jealousy, on the other hand, might arise when I hear all about their hot-looking leather dresses and their book deals with Random House.)
There's no real way for me to dump this on the table without feeling supremely weird about seeming to name names, so I'll speak in generalities. Forthwith, there are three specific areas that inspire my jealousy: bodies, romances, and professional success.
"Bodies" is simple - they're mostly hotter, skinnier, more interesting to look at, better dressed, have more manageable skin/hair/teeth, or lack those things but exude a confidence that renders them magnetically interesting no matter what their appearance. "Bodies" is also incredibly complicated - I didn't suffer from an eating disorder for a decade+ because fashion models inspired wistful longing. There is a hard, radioactive nugget of fear inside me, that one day I'll wake up and and find that I've become totally hideous; there's another part of me that is convinced that day has already come. So women who seem comfortable in their own skin remind me of how much more road I have to walk before I can even approach that feeling. The women who seem comfortable and can pull off a crop-top just made my spirit feel broken, because even if/when I get there, that's still a ballsy move.
"Romance" is a little more complicated, because it has nothing to do with the reality of my own (lovely, healthy, much-appreciated) love life, and more with feeling behind. I didn't marry my high school or college sweetheart, setting me apart from a lot of my social circle. My own parents met when my mom was 17 years old, and 35 years later, they're still together. I didn't date in high school - I was several people's "secret make-out companion," a role that, at the time, I had convinced myself was romantic (or at least proved that I was sexy enough to kiss); in retrospect, I can see that it served my dude friends with a way to get their rocks off without ever having to acknowledge, in public, that they might have been attracted to me, or that I was a romantic option.
I didn't have a boyfriend until my early 20s, and that went down in such spectacular flames that all my subsequent relationships have been coloured by the expectation that somewhere, there's another shoe waiting to drop (trust issues! So fun!). And as I watched my friends date, and meet their loves, and be successful long-term, I felt a sour-belly jealousy working through my system. To this day, I feel like I "should" be married, be planning a family, be committed. I can get a little crazy with my boyfriend, constantly asking for reassurance that those things will happen someday for us, which is tiresome and not really the point of being in love. But when I look the couple around me, I feel like I'm working on someone else's schedule, and brother, I am late.
The professional jealousy is pretty self-explanatory, and again stems from the idea that I "should" be at some career milestone at this point. I'm especially vexed by the talented squadron of younger writer-types that run in my social circle; young women who have been published in national magazines, who pay their rent with their words, and who could, if they bothered to go, be cool at their high-school reunions. And while I genuinely like my job, I feel the tug of writing almost daily. It's tough to balance your creative calling with your credit card statement, and the folks who can make me feel crazy.
The real problem with this sick little list is that I don't really know the women who make me feel jealous. When you get to know someone - really understand their foibles and their flaws, along with their strengths and successes - they become actual human beings. I perceive the girls who make me see green as cartoon characters - not that they are shallow, but that my relationships with them are shallow. I don't see the crippling weeks of paralyzed first drafts; I see the magazine by-line. I don't see the screaming late-night argument; I see the wedding ring. I don't see the careful mathematics of dieting; I see the flat stomach. And unless I can get to know these women better, that might be all I see.
The salvation are the women in my life who might have provoked jealousy, but who have instead turned it into inspiration. My friends - not all of them are besties, either - who have let me in. They are funny, mean, sarcastic, generous, self-deprecating, and honest. They talk about their life-work - how hard they work to achieve all that they do, which makes me realize, over and over, how much of a process everything really is. They feel their own jealousies, celebrate their successes and lament their failures. In doing so, they open a space for me to do the same.
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