An old friend is getting married this summer, and I couldn't be happier for her. Like me, she's had a history of making bad relationship decisions. I've known this friend since we were kids, so we've been privy to each other's entire dating lives. I've met a number of her exes and watched her live and learn, tweaking what's she's looking for, adjusting her own attitude towards dating and relationships, about what's really important, and who might truly make her happy. And it worked for her!
She found her fiance online. They met a couple of years ago... they moved in, they got a dog, they took trips together... they're still so happy. They're saying "I Do" next month. The wedding is going to be pretty low-key - they're doing a tiny private ceremony at City Hall, and then hosting guests at their reception downtown - the standard dinner, drinks, DJ and dancing.
Now, this old friend is someone I've kept up with since grade six, albeit kind of in a vaccuum. It's not like there are a bunch of us from grade six that are still friends. It's sort of just her and I. We meet for drinks, or brunch, or to walk the dogs, just the two of us. We talk about our lives, share our stories, discuss current events, vent about our frustrations together. Or I go over to her condo and hang out with her and her man. We have our core values in common, but we've gone in different directions in life since those elementary school days for sure. She has a group full of girlfriends who kind of remind me of the ladies of Sex and the City. They wear heels, and lots of make up. They regularly visit the spa, they always have fresh manicures, they go out dancing or to fancy lounges, they drink martinis. Whereas, I'm pretty low maintenance, I avoid the club district like the plague, I like to drink beers with my friends in tiny dive bars where there is live music. I think banjos and mandolins are pretty cool. I like bluegrass and some old school country music. And the thing is, I think she likes my low keyness. She likes that we're different, that she can meet me with her hair in a pony tail and wearing the jeans she wore yesterday and not feel judged. I'm a break from everything, I think. And I'm happy to be that for her.
Today is the wedding shower, and in a couple of weeks, the bachelorette. I've met some of her friends over the years, but don't really know them. Showers and bachelorettes are always a little awkward - a bunch of women thrown together to celebrate the bride-to-be. I guess that's why all the silly games and traditions - to keep people engaged, interacting together, to keep it inclusive.
And here's hoping I find some people to bond with. Because my wedding invite arrived in the mail this week, and it looks like it's just me that will be attending this wedding reception shindig. No plus one.
Now, I know I don't have a boyfriend to speak of, but I had been counting on bringing one of my many male pals. At least to have someone to sit beside me, to bail me out of those times where the dance floor is packed and I'm sitting on the sidelines, downing a drink. Sigh. I know nothing about wedding etiquette, I'll admit, so maybe this is par for the course. But I won't know anyone at this wedding except for the bride and groom, the bride's family, and everyone I'll meet at the shower and bachelorette. Is this weird? Will I be stuck at some lame-ass singles table with the widow-aunts and uncles? Gulp.
I once went to a wedding with an ex-boyfriend where he was the Best Man. An old high school friend of his was getting hitched, so my ex sat next to him at the head table, while I was left to fend for myself all night at a table of random strangers. Awkward.
I'm thinking I should talk to my friend, the bride to be. Maybe this was an oversight? Maybe if I offer to pay for his plate, she'll let me bring a date? Maybe?
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Slanted and Enchanted
Yesterday I went to see one of my most favourite bands from my indie-rock days, Pavement, on their reunion tour. Back in my university days, I worshipped these guys. I still own all the records, the imports, the EPs, right down to 7" singles. I hold with me memories of going to see them in small clubs in the 1990s, of following their side projects, of reviewing their releases in my crapola little 'zine that I would cut and paste and copy and snail mail out on request. Heh. I was a total indie rock dork, yes. And I probably still would be if I didn't have to put in so much effort into staying on top of new music. Things like life, and work, and paying the bills get in the way.
So, Pavement announced last year they were going to regroup and do this reunion tour. Which made me pretty damn ecstatic. A friend and I scooped up tickets and commenced the countdown, immediately. They were playing as part of a huge festival type thing, with a few bands that seemed promising and a lot of others who were pretty hipster-ey and next-big-thing or current-big-thing-that-I-have-no-idea-about. I was working anyways, so had to miss almost the whole day of music festivities. We arrived about five minutes prior to Pavement taking the stage, which was a-okay with me. Pavement was the important part.
Well, the sound was kind of crap, and the boys of Pavement were a little sloppy but Internet? I didn't care. I think I knew all the words to every single song they played. Even though I hadn't listened to them in years, everything came back. Every intro, every guitar solo, every chorus, every clever lyric they've ever written. And I wasn't the only one. I was surrounded by people who adored this band at the same time as I did, and with the same degree of passion.
What was strange though, was that this was fifteen years later. We were in our thirties. Every third woman seemed to be pregnant. There were kids running around, Pavement fans' children, who came along for the day. Everyone was sporting wedding rings. I ran into an old co-worker of mine who whipped out her IPhone and started showing me pictures of the baby girl she'd had six months ago. What was up with me, she asked, after blabbing on about her husband, her little girl, how fabulous maternity leave was. Well, I just graduated from college. I'm making $30,000/year less than I was the last time she saw me, and by choice. I'm working at an animal hospital and an obedience school. I'm not with my ex (who she knew also) anymore. Uhhh, yeah. She smiled and asked how Siris was doing. So I was happy, so things were good? she asked. Things are so good, I said, and smiled. After that it was a little awkward - I think she wanted to understand, but I don't think she did. It was clear that I had no babies to bond with her over. I had no flashy web-enabled mobile phone to whip out to show her. I was glad to run into her, and I ooohed and ahhed over her adorable little girl, and I meant all the nice stuff I said. But I couldn't help but feel a bit removed, and I have had this exchange many times over the last few years, running into people I've known over the last ten years of my life. It is always clear: I am on a different path than you. I don't fit in anymore. I am single and in my thirties and I am doing my own thing.
Pavement themselves, on stage, so many metres away and obscured by flashy lights and smoke machines, looked the same to me. I was way too far away to spot any grey hairs, any beer bellies. I like to think they hadn't aged. But we all had. And I felt a bit...old. Because also present at the show, were today's generation of music dorks - probably there to see the it bands of the day, but taking in and appreciating my beloved Pavement for the genius they were in their heyday. Skinny jeans abound. I'm not sure where I fit anymore, Internet, but I bet there are tons of us out there, feeling this. Let's meet up at a Superchunk show, when it happens.
So, Pavement announced last year they were going to regroup and do this reunion tour. Which made me pretty damn ecstatic. A friend and I scooped up tickets and commenced the countdown, immediately. They were playing as part of a huge festival type thing, with a few bands that seemed promising and a lot of others who were pretty hipster-ey and next-big-thing or current-big-thing-that-I-have-no-idea-about. I was working anyways, so had to miss almost the whole day of music festivities. We arrived about five minutes prior to Pavement taking the stage, which was a-okay with me. Pavement was the important part.
Well, the sound was kind of crap, and the boys of Pavement were a little sloppy but Internet? I didn't care. I think I knew all the words to every single song they played. Even though I hadn't listened to them in years, everything came back. Every intro, every guitar solo, every chorus, every clever lyric they've ever written. And I wasn't the only one. I was surrounded by people who adored this band at the same time as I did, and with the same degree of passion.
What was strange though, was that this was fifteen years later. We were in our thirties. Every third woman seemed to be pregnant. There were kids running around, Pavement fans' children, who came along for the day. Everyone was sporting wedding rings. I ran into an old co-worker of mine who whipped out her IPhone and started showing me pictures of the baby girl she'd had six months ago. What was up with me, she asked, after blabbing on about her husband, her little girl, how fabulous maternity leave was. Well, I just graduated from college. I'm making $30,000/year less than I was the last time she saw me, and by choice. I'm working at an animal hospital and an obedience school. I'm not with my ex (who she knew also) anymore. Uhhh, yeah. She smiled and asked how Siris was doing. So I was happy, so things were good? she asked. Things are so good, I said, and smiled. After that it was a little awkward - I think she wanted to understand, but I don't think she did. It was clear that I had no babies to bond with her over. I had no flashy web-enabled mobile phone to whip out to show her. I was glad to run into her, and I ooohed and ahhed over her adorable little girl, and I meant all the nice stuff I said. But I couldn't help but feel a bit removed, and I have had this exchange many times over the last few years, running into people I've known over the last ten years of my life. It is always clear: I am on a different path than you. I don't fit in anymore. I am single and in my thirties and I am doing my own thing.
Pavement themselves, on stage, so many metres away and obscured by flashy lights and smoke machines, looked the same to me. I was way too far away to spot any grey hairs, any beer bellies. I like to think they hadn't aged. But we all had. And I felt a bit...old. Because also present at the show, were today's generation of music dorks - probably there to see the it bands of the day, but taking in and appreciating my beloved Pavement for the genius they were in their heyday. Skinny jeans abound. I'm not sure where I fit anymore, Internet, but I bet there are tons of us out there, feeling this. Let's meet up at a Superchunk show, when it happens.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Distance makes the heart grow fonder. Or not.
This is a post about distance, and by this I guess I mean the physical distance between a person and a destination.
I consider myself a commuting expert, after my two years going to school in a township one and a half hours away from where I live, not to mention working a job in another municipality. And sans wheels, I am a public transit champion. Toronto doesn't have the best public transit system, for sure, but you can get around from A to B, with a little effort.
During my school days, I moved north from downtown to the area known as "mid-town." It cut my commute to school from 2 hours one way to 1.5 hours one way and was purely a move of convenience. I am right on the subway line and can get downtown usually in less than half an hour. The plan is to move back downtown once I get past my three months probation at the new job. But for now - living here is isolating as hell.
Home is where I sleep, walk the dog, and store my crap. For everything else, I'm required to travel. My baseball team plays in a park that's an hour commute. My clinic is about a thirty minute commute; obedience school is forty five. For the next four weeks, I'll be teaching the dog part of Fetching, a bootcamp exercise program for dogs and owners which Ola's launching with a personal trainer friend - that's in the Beaches, an hour commute. Between two jobs, baseball and this temporary fill in gig at Fetching, I'm booked Monday to Thursdays, morning to night.
And on the weekends I've got to, yes, head downtown again, if I want to see anyone. Which, I love downtown. I do. But sometimes...sometimes it's not about where you're going, it's about the person or people that will be there. The backdrop can change, but you're still having meaningful conversation over a pint. You're still catching up, you're still laughing with each other, right? Right?
Well, lately I find myself pitching an idea - meet for drinks here, go see this band here - and am met with "that's too far", or "all the way out there?", and then inevitably, "nah. I think I'll pass." Like, if the destination is not within walking or biking distance, or in the person's neighborhood, they're not interested. Am I being too sensitive that this offends me? I read into this "I just don't like spending time with you enough to sacrifice a short subway ride, or a longer walk." When for me the distance is double or triple what they'd be travelling.
So in short, the politics of distance have been getting me down. I don't always want to have to cater to everyone else. I have limited time available, to begin with. Why is everyone so fucking spoiled? I'm not even asking people to come down to my lame hood (although sometimes, admittedly, it would be nice to not have to go downtown for everything). From Queen and Bathurst to Queen and Roncy is not that far though. Or from the Annex to High Park. It's like people have developed zones - little unspoken radii - that they will not venture out of. If I want to hang with them, it needs to be on their turf. My radius is the whole damn city.
I've recently decided, fuck that. I'm too busy for that. I'm going to be more insistent, or I'm going to start making plans with people who will make the journey to where I want to be. Because I don't think I'm wrong. The physical destination should not be the point.
Also, I really need a car.
I consider myself a commuting expert, after my two years going to school in a township one and a half hours away from where I live, not to mention working a job in another municipality. And sans wheels, I am a public transit champion. Toronto doesn't have the best public transit system, for sure, but you can get around from A to B, with a little effort.
During my school days, I moved north from downtown to the area known as "mid-town." It cut my commute to school from 2 hours one way to 1.5 hours one way and was purely a move of convenience. I am right on the subway line and can get downtown usually in less than half an hour. The plan is to move back downtown once I get past my three months probation at the new job. But for now - living here is isolating as hell.
Home is where I sleep, walk the dog, and store my crap. For everything else, I'm required to travel. My baseball team plays in a park that's an hour commute. My clinic is about a thirty minute commute; obedience school is forty five. For the next four weeks, I'll be teaching the dog part of Fetching, a bootcamp exercise program for dogs and owners which Ola's launching with a personal trainer friend - that's in the Beaches, an hour commute. Between two jobs, baseball and this temporary fill in gig at Fetching, I'm booked Monday to Thursdays, morning to night.
And on the weekends I've got to, yes, head downtown again, if I want to see anyone. Which, I love downtown. I do. But sometimes...sometimes it's not about where you're going, it's about the person or people that will be there. The backdrop can change, but you're still having meaningful conversation over a pint. You're still catching up, you're still laughing with each other, right? Right?
Well, lately I find myself pitching an idea - meet for drinks here, go see this band here - and am met with "that's too far", or "all the way out there?", and then inevitably, "nah. I think I'll pass." Like, if the destination is not within walking or biking distance, or in the person's neighborhood, they're not interested. Am I being too sensitive that this offends me? I read into this "I just don't like spending time with you enough to sacrifice a short subway ride, or a longer walk." When for me the distance is double or triple what they'd be travelling.
So in short, the politics of distance have been getting me down. I don't always want to have to cater to everyone else. I have limited time available, to begin with. Why is everyone so fucking spoiled? I'm not even asking people to come down to my lame hood (although sometimes, admittedly, it would be nice to not have to go downtown for everything). From Queen and Bathurst to Queen and Roncy is not that far though. Or from the Annex to High Park. It's like people have developed zones - little unspoken radii - that they will not venture out of. If I want to hang with them, it needs to be on their turf. My radius is the whole damn city.
I've recently decided, fuck that. I'm too busy for that. I'm going to be more insistent, or I'm going to start making plans with people who will make the journey to where I want to be. Because I don't think I'm wrong. The physical destination should not be the point.
Also, I really need a car.
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