Resolutions

The week between Christmas and New Year's Eve always feels so oddly paced. With the breathless rush to Christmas taking over so much of December (plus November and maybe October, if you're psychotically festive), and the quick turnaround to the champagne-and-President's Choice-finger-food event we know as New Year's Eve, there are only a few days to try to regain our footing in normalcy. Most of us choose to eat our way through it, resolving to start dieting or look at the credit card statement in January, when winter really sets in. Of course I'm one of these people; I can't believe you even had to ask.

I usually find myself thinking about New Year's resolutions this week: those promises we make to ourselves to become better people, to lose weight, quit smoking, stop eating so many hotdogs wrapped in puff pastry, what have you. I love resolutions, because they represent the person I want to be; I hate them, too, because inevitably I let myself down.

But 'tis the season, am I right? And since my last few large-scale experiments in lifestyle change have been relative home runs—weight loss, booze hiatuses, creative projects—I think adding some more personal challenges to the mix might be fun. And at least, in January, I have company (although by February, the gym is awfully empty once more).

I'd like to swear less. I swear a lot: when I'm cracking a joke, when I'm expressing frustration, when I'm angry, when I'm having sex. I favour the F-word, maybe because its shock value is high and it sounds exactly right when I need a word to spit out of my mouth with anger or disdain. But I'm a writer. I should be able to replace fuck with a word that expresses my sentiments without alienating my mother. And the other, lesser swear words—crap, hell, shit, damn—are low-sounding and vulgar. This is perfect when I'm a bar that has, for instance, a mechanical bull that patrons are invited to ride; or when I join a gang of rag-tag but good-hearted sailors in the 1940s. This is less appropriate when my webpage is slow to load, or when I accidentally drop a container full of lefter spaghetti squash on the floor. I need something that expresses the mundane, acutely suburban/21st century annoyance factor of those moments. Not the f-bomb.

I'd like to submit more writing. I think this is best done with measurable, concrete goals ("more" is pretty vague when my current track record is "not a lot"), so I'll put it out there that I'd like to submit at least six pieces of short fiction this year, along with at least one monthly pitch for a non-fiction or journalism market. This makes is less of a wishy-washy idea and more of a to-do list. I like to-do lists.

I'd like to keep a gratitude journal. One of the key indicators of happiness the ability to recognize joyful moments and be thankful for them. Saying "Hey, that was a really great time" is so important. When it's because of other people, thanking them—out loud, with words—for creating those moments is paramount. Sometimes, it's just important to remember that nice things happen and to pay attention. Even just taking a couple moments before bedtime to jot down a good moment enlarges the moment in the day's lens. It makes the good seem bigger.

(There are, like, three or four depressed people in my life that could probably benefit from this kind of thought exercise. It seems like every time I see them, their lives have somehow become even more hopeless and nothing good has ever happened, not even once. It's terribly selfish to admit, because depression is difficult to surmount, but those people are exhausting. They create this vacuum around themselves where nothing good can live; quite frankly, I'm never excited to enter their spheres, because there's no air in there. I'm not sure if there's a resolution in there—after all, I can't do their soul homework for them—but I can recognize the good in my own sphere.)

I'd like to continue my body work. God, what a eye-rollingly Gwyneth Paltrow phrase; what I mean is, re-commit to my successful paleo-ish diet, to lifting weights, to running, to stretching, and to dancing. I love moving my body, I enjoy working out, I like cooking, and I really like the benefits of all those things. I like my flattish stomach, my well-defined shoulders, my ability to wear short-shorts and to eat cheesecake whenever I want. Lord knows maintaining a strong and healthy body will only get harder as I get older, so laying the foundation when I was 28 was likely the best gift I ever gave myself.

I'd like to live with more art. Art is so unapologetically non-functional that it can be tough to rationalize in the face of, say, groceries, but I think its value is so high. I admire and engage with the creative process in my own life, in several facets (writing and writer's groups, knitting, stamp-making, collage, and other, more nebulously define activities), and I come from a long line of creative types. Supporting other artists in their endeavors by buying their stuff and putting up in my house is one important way of saying firmly, "I believe in the value of this work."

Successfully resolving to change depends on paying attention, to commitment, to discomfort and making different choices than the ones that feel safe. They push our boundaries, in other words, and they can be tough to pull off. But I want to try. Change is good. Changes is the place where growth comes from. Let's get a little more grown in 2014, right?

A Letter to 35 Year Old Me

Getting mail is so delicious, isn't it? This week, I read "A Letter to Future Me," a note penned from perennial single writer Katrina Kieltyka to her future, dating self. I swooned over this idea, because playing with the time-space continuum and letters are two of my favourite things.

I think it's also important to recognize that change brings about both positive and negative fallout: the author of this piece, for example, reminded her future self that she loves to read in bed, and dating someone who would be uncool with that would be a major bummer. Katrina's married friend said wisely/weirdly, "Girl, the person you love will bring a new you out of you," but hopefully, that new Katrina will also enjoy reading in bed. She also recognized that, if/when she gets all coupled up, she will continue to have single friends, and they will likely not enjoy feeling like a third wheel; indeed, some of her best friendships are with couples who don't make the shell of being with The Two of Them hard to crack. Promising to carry that intention forward is a way of honouring both her present and her future self: recognizing today when being with couples is an onerous chore, and promising tomorrow to be aware if she ends up creating that same chore for her friends.

So, here's my letter to myself, at the age of thirty-five.


Dear Future Kaitlyn:

Hey girl hey. I'm writing to you from December 2013, two weeks after your 30th birthday. It's 2018 now. Did we ever get hoverboards? Or even self-lacing shoes? (If you didn't buy those hideous self-lacing shoes, just know that I'm disappointed back here.) Since you have so much free time now—lacing your shoes takes, like, minutes, every single day—feel free to kick back and relax with this missive from the past.

First up: work stuff. Remember your 29th birthday, when your mom made business cards for you? They said writer on them, and you cried a little because it felt powerful and real? I know since then, you've done lots of writing, and lots of emotional work to feel worthy of that business card. I hope that, at 35, your business card says something about you that feels true. I bet it says writer, but if it doesn't, that's okay. We'll get there. You've always searched for a vocation—the thing you feel called to do—and recognizing that feeling when you sit down and open up a fresh, blank document was a major milestone. Don't take it too personally if you needed to learn Adobe InDesign to pay the bills. Consider yourself someone who thrives in the slash: a writer/event planner, or a writer/research assistant. Keep the slash alive for as long as it's useful, then ditch it.

Secondly, I bet kids are happening. Maybe we had some kids, maybe it's all our friends—and when it starts happening, I bet it's going to feel like every single person we know is pregnant simultaneously. I really hope it happens for us. If it doesn't, it's okay to be sad. It's okay to feel betrayed. And it's okay to spend a bunch of weepy months at the therapists/reproductive specialist's office. And it's also okay to take time away from friends with kids, as long as we eventually get back to them. But try not to reduce yourself to the kids/no kids binary. Be gentle with the people in your life who don't have kids, yourself included.

(And be gentle with the people who do, yourself included. I bet they're all really, really tired. Remember, when the baby is crying and the toddler just pooped in the laundry basket wearing a grin of spiteful glee, that this is damned hard work, and it will feel like nobody is giving you any credit. So go ahead and give yourself some. And take your babies traveling. I don't know why I feel so strongly about this, but I do.)

I recently heard maturity defined as being okay with imperfection, and it made me think of my relationship. Mike and I are 98% awesome, but sometimes that 2% looms large and black and evil in your mind. Knock that shit off. Be okay with the 2%. The imperfection is the black soil where things grow from. Don't strive to wipe it out, and don't get so sad when it pops up. It happens. It's okay.

I bet that, at 35, your body looks different, especially if you did have a couple kids. Mazel tov! Remember realizing that you didn't need to be afraid of slasher films, because only teenagers die in those infernal movies, and you're not a teenager? Apply this thinking to your body: you aren't a fashion model/teenager/movie star, so you don't have to look like one. Keep yourself healthy by eating good food, dancing with your friends and family, and remembering that Walter Miller quote, "You don't have a soul, Doctor. You are a soul. You have a body, temporarily." Feed your soul and your body with only the best, and don't let anyone shit down your neck. Especially your own self.

Above all, remember that it's okay to ask for help. There will be days when everything is stupid and sad: people will get sick and die, your relationship will seem like a sheer cliff that can't be climbed, your friends will move away or get busy, and you will probably always struggle for money. It's okay to say, out loud and to an audience, I feel crazy. I feel sad. I feel left out. And when things are good, it's important to say, This is great. I'm so happy! I made a good choice. The value in this is immense: connecting with the people around you by being honest ("I'm having a terrible day!") gives them a chance to dig in with you. ("I can't fix your problem, but I am making some cookies and would love to see you eat some.") And it also gives you a chance to do the same with them. These connections will be the measure of your life: more than money, or kids, or bylines, or boarding passes. Knowing what you need and asking for it is tough; give yourself credit for how tough you are when you're vulnerable.

And that, really, is where we want to be at 35. And, you know, right now.

Grateful

In the wake of my burning ship—sorry, of my 30th birthday—and in preparation for the holiday season, I've spent most of this week sitting like a Buddha. It's been nice: I've read most of the Arctic issue of Monocle, I've take myself out for lunch with friends, and I've done some freelance work and made more progress on The Long StoryⒸ. It's been nice, and I feel solidly in place in my life: good relationship, good friendships, good work, good outlook on life. 

In the spirit of this feeling—strong, stable, supported and able to be supportive—there are things and people that I need to express gratitude for.  So here, in no particular order, are some of them.

• My parents. They are truly the best. I love that they kid around with my pals; it turns out that, in my adulthood, my parents have become my friends. But also so much more: my confidants, my eternal cheerleaders, and my role models. I'm supremely lucky they are they people they are, as they've helped make me the person I am. And I'm grateful.
  
• My boyfriend. He is amazing, full stop. I love his unshakeable faith in us, as a unit; I love his passion and his energy; I love his sweet and curious nature. He is my partner in every sense of the word, and even in the moments when my crazy brain insists I would be better off alone—in a pit, made of tar! Hashtag self-loathing!—he knows to stick around. That is a rare and much-appreciated talent in this house.
  
• My friends. I am ungodly blessed by the people in my life, who always show up with food and gifts and time and energy, who give me so much and who allow me to give them my heart, too. That reciprocity is one of the engines that drives me; an emerging "friendship" that feels much too one-sided is now getting some serious scrutiny from your truly, and that scrutiny feels like good, soulful work. I just feel like I don't have enough time for surface relationships anymore.
  
• Nia. Is it weird to be grateful for a dance form? I don't care. I am: it's given me my body back, made me confident and strong, and, shown me a way to age gracefully into my 40s, 50s, 60s, and beyond. At a time when I'm looking for role models that make me feel good about myself, practicing Nia offers answers to questions I was afraid to ask, like "What can I do to feel pleasure in my body?" and "How do I act when I'm vulnerable?" (I cry a lot, as it turns out.)
  
• This city. Rob Ford aside, "winter is coming" aside, I really do love this town. I'm excited to see more of it: to live in different neighbourhoods, to drink in bars and eat in restaurants all across town, to keep my Annex roots alive and encourage new growth. I'm lucky to live in a place where I can eat fresh food all year round, where I can get around without having a car, where I can buy things at every price point and amuse myself for free.
  
• Writing. I do a lot of different kinds of writing: blogging, interviews, reviews, short fiction, long fiction. I'm a member of a writer's circle and I do a lot of the administrative work for that, which is fun. I have friends who encourage me to take risks in my writing, by trying new gigs or passing on promising leads. And the daily or several-times-weekly practice of getting creative has turned out to be a true personal sacrament. Sometimes, it takes the form of knitting or crafting, and I'm grateful for those things as well, but writing has allowed me to be so honest and true to myself. It's been challenging and difficult, it's been vertiginous and raw, but it's always been necessary. And I'm grateful for the place it holds in my life.

On Thirty

I started telling people I was thirty years old back in August, even though my 30th birthday is actually this Saturday. I remember doing this when I was a kid—stretching out the time I could conceivably be thought of as "older," which might confer "older"-type privileges like, I don't know, an extra library book or more cookies. Now, as my birthday looms, I'm doing it because I'm having a hard time wrapping my head around what it means to be thirty years old.

First up: I have regrets. My twenties were a time of massive upheaval, and the last decade wasn't easy. I took eight years to do a four-year degree. My sister was sick, my brother was sick, I was sick, all with various ailments; health-wise, we were probably averaging a 7/10 on the Holy Shit scale, overall. My parents fell apart and then, blessedly, back together again. I had an ovary taken out (I miss it). To be honest, it was kind of a gong show for a few years. I've never been the most "together" kind of broad, and my twenties threw some stuff at me that was really, really fucking hard.

It's funny, because while I've totally shared this stuff before, I've never really reflected on why. I feel maybe they're the reasons I feel like the slow, fat pony out of the gate—you know, the one behind all the glossy stallions who are all busy tossing their manes at the finish lines and comparing notes on their successful adulthoods while I toddle along behind, freaked out by my own tail. I'm oddly protective of the weird hiccups I suffered/created for myself over the last decade: they're as much a part of me as the whorls of my fingertips. And the people who have never experienced a hiccup or a major life catastrophe—or who don't talk about them, as if they're something to be ashamed of—are as smooth and impenetrable as a billiard ball. I need, and I need my friends, to be open about our cragginess. It took me a long time to learn not to apologize for that.

I also wondered why I keep reflecting on these events. I think it's because I recognize that they may have played a part in diverting me from the marriage/homeownership/kids/graduate degree/career common among the people I consider to be most successful. "If only I hadn't struggled with an eating disorder and social anxiety," I tell myself, "I, too, could have had a house in the suburbs. If I hadn't had a three-year nervous breakdown about the end of my first major relationship, I could be married by now." Etc., etc., because the truth is, I feel ashamed that I haven't done those things yet. Even though marrying my first boyfriend would have been a trainwreck, and even though there's no way out of ED than slogging through it. Meanwhile, all the other horses are at brunch, comparing notes about their nannies and retirement plans.

That's not to say I haven't learned things during my twenties. I learned about love, about loss, about sickness and health. I learned about working through bad spots in good relationships—at times, this has felt less like "working through bad spots" and more like "lashing yourself to the ship in the midst of a hurricane"—and I learned that one of my favourite things to see is my best friend/boyfriend on the couch in his sweatpants (the ones I gave him for our two-year anniversary), playing Nintendo with a half-eaten bowl of ice cream beside him. I started this blog and learned about writing. I talked to upwards of a dozen different therapists and counselors and started to untie some of the knots that have plagued me since childhood. My relationship with my parents and siblings has deepened. I've made new friends in the past decade. I've learned the value of vulnerability in connecting to others, and I that need some degree of reciprocity in that vulnerability; otherwise, I'm just oversharing into the void, which is supremely unsatisfying.

Lately, I've been thinking more about the idea of a forest fire than of a horse race. Forest fires, for those of you who have never lived in California or seen Bambi, are bad news. Australia, which is generally on my "places never to go" list (giant spiders! Poisonous snakes! Horrifying human rights policies!), is rife with them. They can burn for weeks or months, ruining the air, lowering your McMansion property values, and melt your car tires. Fun! My twenties often felt like a forest fire: out of control, burning too hot for me to handle.

But after? That's something altogether different. A burn can help preserve the health of a forest's ecosystem and enrich its soil. Scientists think that Eucalyptus plants evolved to encourage fire—its oils are, of course, flammable, and its leaves are hardy are hell—so that it could grow more abundantly in the wake of a huge burn. Eucalyptus is the prime example of a species that's taken something terrible—forest fires, your twenties—and turned it into something that really sings. Horse races? That's passe. This is the image I want to take with me into my thirties: the sprouts of seedlings coming from an earth that has been enriched by the fire that came before.

Un-Drinking

Nearly five months ago, I woke up with a hangover. It was the day after my boyfriend's 30th birthday, and we had gone out the night before. We had gone out hard: drinks at home, followed by several different bars, and a final cap-off at a grimy local diner. By the time we staggered back home, it was nearly five in the morning. Most of my buzz had worn off—some drunk drama students at the diner had decided to engage with our table in a way that had involved much shouting and threats—and when I woke up at nine the next morning, I was still exhausted.

That's the last hangover I've had.

Giving up alcohol for six months was a personal experiment. I spent a long time wrestling with the problem of binge drinking, but by the time I was ready to become a teetotaler, I felt more on top of my relationship with alcohol. I still drank, but rarely during the week. I still drank, but only occasionally to excess. I still drank, but I could go to social events and not get schnockered. I had made progress.

So I figured since going from "drinking like an asshole" to "drinking like a normal person" was on lock, I was ready to try "drinking like an Mormon." Also known as not drinking at all. I made exceptions, but only a few: a shot at a friend's going-away party, a glass of wine at my boyfriend's mom's milestone birthday, and a couple more up North (vacation and 20th anniversary of buying the cottage, respectively). But birthdays, housewarmings, goodbye dinners, Friday nights, anniversaries, and what-have-you: I abstained.

Well. For the amount of bewilderment this decision was met with, you would have thought I had proposed we start all socializing in Richmond Hill. I kept going to social events (without my other signature drink, Coke Zero, because this is a time of great personal challenge), but instead of vodka or wine, I drank tea, water, Fresca, kombucha, club soda or ginger beer. After about a month of adjustment, I was able to stay out until last call. (I learned to bring a snack: club soda has no calories where alcohol has lots, so I would be famished by midnight while everyone around me was fine.) I danced sober, I did karaoke sober, and I hung out with lots and lots of drunk people. Sober.

It wasn't always easy. I didn't drink on my sister's birthday, and she's still mad. I often found that, as the night went on and the folks around me got more buzzed, I felt lonely: I was solo off the coast of Margaritaville, unable to radio in. One of my most vivid memories of the past few months was going to a friend's party. When I declined her offer of a beer, she snorted and said, "When are you going to be fun again?" I have been guilty of secretly (and, in some cases, loudly and publicly) opining that my sober friends would be more fun if they got into the tequila; getting that thrown back in my face felt kind of shitty.

But there have also been massive upsides to this experiment. My relationship is softer and kinder because we don't have to negotiate the stupid things we said when we were both drunk. My body is slamming right now, because even a few beers a week can add up to a lot of calories—and time spent on the couch recovering from the night before is time not doing things like yoga or running. I've never been more productive: I write more, I work out more, I see more friends and I feel happier.

My birthday is next weekend, and the experiment will come to an end. As a bonus, it's my champagne birthday, so the bubbly will be flowing. I'm kind of dreading it: I feel like many, many people will try to pressure me into having a drink with them, and I'll get blotto as a result. I don't want that. I don't need thirty shots for thirty years. I want to wake up the next morning feeling fantastic. If I'm sore, I want it to be from dancing too hard, not from throwing up. I want a fun night with maybe a couple drinks.

And I think that's all I want from here on out. I want to keep this body, this lifestyle. I want all my drinks to be special occasion drinks. And if anyone feels like that's not good enough—well, I can't throw my vodka/cran in their face just yet, but I think that water will get them just as drenched.

#MoreThanFord

Homies, I’ve been pretty upset about this whole Rob Ford debacle. It's become more than just the man—although he is, undeniably, a trainwreck—and more about the culture he's creating around him. A culture where council has to meet especially to curb his powers, where American talk show hosts are making sport of his various vagina-related soundbites, where even the Ford Motor Company needs to pull us all aside and say, "Um, we're not with him." You know: the culture in which we currently live.

I went to the Save Toronto rally this week, sign in hand, feeling sort of foolish for even showing up, because it's not like he's going to look out the window, see the 1,200 people who have turned Amy Winehouse into a protest cheer just for him, and think, “Hmm, I ought to step down now.” I went because I wanted to vent some of my frustration, to showcase my disgust, and to be in the company of others who felt the same. It was a powerful but ultimately short-lived catharsis.

When I went back through the photos of the event, I noticed that a hashtag was popping up in a few different places: #morethanFord. It came from Torontonians defiantly refusing to be defined by the mayor’s clown-college theatrics, and refusing to let their city be defined by him. It was on Instagram, where parents snapped photos of their kids playing in city parks, and on Twitter, where folks tweeted reminders that fun, important stuff was still happening in the city. In the spirit of #morethanFord, here are some of the things that I, personally, love about this place.

• The sound of the trains roaring past my apartment late at night; even though Toronto is, technically, a lake town, most of us live far enough from the water’s edge that the blue haze to our south is more of a concept than a geographic reality. But the sound of trains, which I've loved since childhood, is a comfort that crisscrosses the city more democratically than the sound of lapping waves.
  
  
• That city council is finally starting to wiggle, even just a little bit, on it's no-bike-lanes-on-Bloor stance. When the city is mired in a transit boondoggle (LRTs? Subways? Both? Neither? I suggested everyone gets their own helicopter, but it seems nobody's listening to me), even baby steps on a formerly contentious urban issue is a breath of fresh air.
  
  
• The Grid's recent article on child-friendly plates at fancy restaurants. We're a city that eats, a lot and often, and training our kidlets to be curious and open-minded eaters—and guides to how to accomplish that—are important for creating a next generation of tripe-buying diners. Plus: nary an overhyped taco on that list!
   
• I'm a little obsessed with a pair of Parkdale boutiques, Crown Flora and Cambie Design, along with Mjolk in the Junction and Good Egg in Kensington. To me, they represent the pinnacle of a certain type of aspiration: constant access to beautiful, well-designed, functional things. And while they are often quite expensive, these shops also let me feel locally connected to tangible beauty, which is a certain type of pleasure.
  
  
• The glory of this city as the seasons change is so wonderful. There are flaming red trees in unexpected places, bare bushes that are tipped with ethereal-looking white buds, hardy grasses, and drifts of crunchy yellow leaves. There are blushing sunrises, spooky moonrises, and golden sunsets that make me catch my breath. There are hordes of good-looking men and women who have embraced flannel shirts, knit toques, and wool socks—hoser chic, if you will—to brave the last minutes of patio season. And there's the collective knowledge that it's going to get bad before it gets better, so we'd all better get our big boots on now.

So there we go. Five things that I love about this place, regardless of what His Honour has been up to. Five things I can hang onto, regardless of how inappropriate and unwise it is for Ford to remain in his seat. And five things that will still be around long after Rob Ford is nothing more than a nauseating entry in Toronto's vast and varied biography.

#MORETHANFORD

Fears

Last week, in honour of Halloween, I was going to write a post on fears—my fears, specifically. And then, you know, Rob Ford happened, and washed that idea away in a huge tide of crazy. But I still think it's a good idea to examine what makes one afraid, and anyway, maybe the darkening days of November are better suited to being afraid than Halloween's more festive jump-scares. Who's ready to take a plunge into the inky side of the psyche?


I'm afraid of never being alone again. People usually say they're afraid of being alone, and I know from experience that too much time spent by myself isn't good for me. I like my time, though. And as my relationship deepens and we start talking about having a family someday, my personal Klaxons start blaring: trading in huge chunks of me-time in exchange for snippets of solo time wigs me out. Louis CK does this great bit about little vacations from his kids—not, like Caribbean cruises or anything; no, his "vacations" are the seconds it takes him to walk to the driver's side door after buckling his kids in the backseat of the car. That's scary.

I'm afraid of job interviews. God, there's something about the banality of evil on that one, eh? "Come, in your finery, to sit in this windowless room with a jug of flat-tasting water to answer questions about how you handle conflict!" I sweat. I get light-headed. I become supremely self-conscious. It takes all my white-knuckled energy not to flee the room. The only good part is the rush of endorphins that flood through me after I walk back out into the sunlight. I. Fear. Them.

I'm afraid of spiders, deep space, and deep water. As all good humans should be.

I'm afraid of my parents dying. I've been hounding them for the last year to update their will, and they keep accusing me of being macabre. I'm not. I just want them to never die; having a solid will feels like they'd be taking care of me from the great beyond. It's childish, I know. I can't help it. The thought of being without them makes me breathless with sorrow.

I'm afraid of getting fat. Ugh, I know, I know. After a lifetime of grappling with my weight, and a decade-plus of living with an eating disorder, I went to treatment and got better. Still, I'm not at a yogurt-commercial level of joy with my body, and I suspect I will fight my entire life to not ascribe negative value to my double chin/upper arms/rubbing thighs. And yet, it's impossible to let go of the death grip this particular fear has. I check myself out in every mirror I pass, and am constantly calculating what needs to be hidden, what needs to be flaunted, and what can only be despaired over. Jesus, how tedious. Thank god I got rid of my scale, or who knows how crazy I would get?

I'm afraid of having kids. Jeez, there's just so much that can go wrong! From the moment of conception to, basically, forever; I'm afraid that I'm going to leave some sort of toxic imprint on them, pass them a variation of my illnesses, damages, and flaws. I'm afraid I'm going to miscarry at a family reunion. I'm afraid I'm going to sleep through their midnight cries. I'm afraid I'm going to back over them in the driveway, or forget them in their car seat on a hot summer's day. I'm afraid the dog is going to lick them to death, or I'm going to drop them on a stone patio, or they're going to develop an eating disorder or start drinking when they're twelve or slice their arms open to feel their feelings. I'm afraid of nut allergies, of creepy neighbours, of falling down the escalator at the mall. Oh my god, how does anyone ever live through having a kid?

I'm afraid of never having kids, or never getting married, or owning a house. I'm afraid I'm going to stay in perpetual 29-year-old limbo for eternity, my favourite black tank tops and miniskirts rotting around me. Even as I examine my life for what I need (maybe a good mutual fund portfolio is a better financial path than a house in Toronto? Maybe marriage sounds wicked but gala weddings leave me cold?), I'm afraid that somehow, I'll wake up one day to discover all my eggs have gone rotten, I still live above a bar, and my relationship has turned into the one my upstairs neighbours have—they seems to communicate primarily through name-calling and blasting pointed Fleetwood Mac songs. Shudder.

I'm afraid that I'm actually not a very good writer. That all the work I've put into writing this blog, and writing fiction, and writing interviews, will have been for naught. There will always be writers who are much, much better than me—I'm not afraid of knowing that. I'm afraid of being one of the actively bad ones. I'm afraid of being boring. Or worse, of being trite. I can't imagine a worse fate that of the middling creative type with aspirations of grandeur.