A Positive Moment.

A twenty minute walk got me to a friend's place where we sat in her living room, looking out at her view of the city while listening to a New Zealand Indie band. From there, another twenty minute walk brought us to another province, and switched the official language from English to French.

Booze and conversation about movies, including one called "Fingersmith" (apparently meaning "seamstress", however it has a double meaning which I will allow you, my hypothetical non-existent reader to figure out for yourself) from BBC, and it was time for food.

Later that night, while stepping out to find a place to dance, the snow began to fall, large wet flakes which cooled on our faces.

Growing up, I always meant to leave this place. High school, I had plans; I'd move to another country. I'd go somewhere with a language so different than any of the ones I knew just so I could experience culture shock, and the appealing challenge of learning another language while surrounded by it, rather than learning it in a class room. Things rarely work out the way you mean them to and I am still here.

If I hadn't been, I never would have had the opportunity for a night like last night. Over time, I've learnt that my hatred and boredom of this city were manufactured out of all the things I knew about it, and really, all the things I didn't. I lived in a place that fit me poorly, the suburbs, and then later, more suburbs as my boyfriend-then-husband-then-ex, insisted on his hatred of the city, even of the places where we finally chose, which frankly: oh honey, you weren't in the city at all.

Now, living in a heritage building with high ceilings in the middle of one of the yuppiest neighbourhoods, I love this city. The diner on my block has waiters who know my name, and remember that I went on vacation and ask me how it was. I sometimes go to a restaurant and have a drink bought for me by the owner of a business I frequent. I am surrounded by high, old trees and unique buildings and people who look out for each other and businesses run locally. I can walk everywhere I need except for work.

Lately, I've been spending a lot of time feeling downtrodden. I hate my job (sorry, job!), I hate my lack of options, my lack of upward mobility. I hate the way it feels relentless, just one moment after another after another, with only brief breaks in between where I try desperately to rest up and prepare myself for the next five days.

(slightly dramatic: but dude, my blog, I get to be dramatic. Also: IT REALLY IS KIND OF CRAPPY, k?)

Sometimes, I have trouble appreciating what I've got, and this is it: I live in a place I love in a neighbourhood I love. I have friends who care for me, for whom I care. I have music, the opportunity to play it, and the chance to get feedback on it.

It's probably a good thing for me to remember that from time to time. This is me, sharing that moment with (the non-existent) you.

A Particular Type of Attention.

In every bar I go to, there always seems to be a certain type of man.

Let me add more details: The bars to which I refer are generally pubs, completely music oriented and I am there with my guitar to sing and play with a group of likeminded people.

They are always pushing 50 or maybe even sixty. They are always a little too touchy. Never actually offensive, they are simply men who put their hands on my shoulder, who touch my hand or my arm when they speak, who put their hand on my knee. Or in one particular case, while I am eating a quick dinner, they put a napkin across my lap.

(????)

They're always very complimentary. Polite, sometimes a little drunk. Sometimes a lot drunk, sometimes just admiring and of a particular personality type.

There always seems to be at least one at every bar.

Once or twice, it's been the worst. There will be me, two or three of this particular brand of man, and perhaps a single friend who whenever they mention going for a smoke or to the loo get a stricken glance from me over the heads of my erstwhile admirers. They always return quickly.

This particular brand of attention is not flattering. It's not insulting either. It's merely a weight on the evening. Something with which I must deal, something which appears inevitable. It's difficult to be rude as they are not rude. Mostly, it is thirty, forty minutes, maybe an hour of saying thank you to compliments, to holding slightly circular conversations. To having my drinks bought for me without my permission.

I imagine I have some complicity in this. I could surround myself with other friends, refuse the drinks when bought, but somehow, the attention, while not welcome is not unwelcome either, and the effort of actually actively, pro-actively rebuffing something which happens for musicians playing in bars ALL the time seems unnecessarily cruel.

So, this post is not a rant, not a complaint - I have, after all, accepted this position by not railing against it. It is instead more of a rumination; a consideration of the way things are, right now.

(though that one guy did put his hand on my left just a LITTLE too long. Which would be when I left. FLEEE!)

Migraine Day 3

Cats have abandoned ship. None have been sighted for at least an hour. Send help, fuzzy stuffed animals or maybe a really heavy hammer which I can use to slam my head into sweet unconsciousness.

Plans for tonight: cancelled.
Food eaten so far today: none.

Work done: 2 hours before abandoning it for the sweet oblivion of a darkened room.

(despite that, apparently, my laptop and writing blog posts appears to be OKAY. whatever.)

The Timeline of a Migraine

Day 1 - Hour 1 - This is not a migraine! no way, no halo, no how! just a headache! a really... really bad headache. With light and sound sensitivity. And naus...fuck.
Hour 1.00003 - This is totally a migraine.
Hour 1.00031 - lay prostrate on couch and hate the world.
Hour 6 - Man, I should go to bed so I can get a lot of sleep and then get up for work tomorrow.
Hour 8 - ... I am not working tomorrow.
Hour 9 - FEND FOR YOURSELVES, COLLEAGUES. (or at least that's what I said in my head. I don't actually remember what I wrote. It may have been: me no workee tomorrow migrayne snuhbuhguhgglezzzzz....)
Hour 9 - cats are ecstatic that I am in my bed and poised for cuddles, which is to say curled up and not moving a lot.
Hour 11 - oh god oh god, why did I throw out my migraine medication?
Hour 12 - maybe I didn't. I should check the medicine cabinet.
Hour 12.05 - AUGH BRIGHT LIGHTS.
Hour 12.06 - ... mediiiiicaaaaate.
Hour 12.30 - sleeeeeeeep

10 hours pass.

Day 2 Hour 1 - wake up sleeeeep.
Hour 5 - starving. The only thing that will do is spanokapitas. Greek place probably traumatized by the crumpled looking woman in her pink ice cream pyjamas who opens the door.
Hour 6 - sleeeeeeeeeeep.
Hour 11 - wake bleary eyed and hungry again. Love the warmth of my bed. The cats! they are so happy I am here. There are cuddles and pets and paws on face and snuggles. Find myself not quite so light sensitive, though still very sound sensitive. Read approximately 1 million blogs. order spanakopitas again.
Hour 16 - sleeeeeeeeeep.

Day 3 Hour 1 - wake up. sleeeeeep.
Hour 4 - wake up hungry. Eat pizza.
Hour 5 - cancel guitar lessons.
Hour 7 - sleeeeeeeeeeeeeep.
Hour 9 - write subpar and uninteresting blog post because the cats are no longer interested in me in my bed unless I am getting out of it to give them food.

If People Could Hear My Thoughts They Might Hear...

• The opening riff to REM's Losing My Religion in C#Minor.
• A mental vent about certain work aspects which gnaw at me.
• It's a Small World After All (which, simply by writing out the title is now stuck in my head)
• My millionth reminder of when my next workout will be.
• The minor plot points of a story I am working on.
• And possibly this

Ow.

Yesterday, I forgot how to walk.

It was actually rather embarrassing. I was moving along, heading for yoga, not a care in the world - well, except for avoiding the sprinkler which caused me to walk out on the street rather than say, on the sidewalk.

Did you know that picking up your feet is necessary for day to day walking? Yeah. Well, sometimes I forget.

I caught my foot on an uneven part of the pavement and pitched forward. Some people looked at me with very concerned gazes, but did not actually help me up as I staggered back to my feet, checked my knees for gushing blood and found only two very large and unpleasant looking welts.

And then I went to yoga.

A towel on my mat made for a more comfortable cushion, but also! helpfully showed the blood seeping gently from my open sores. This is probably the only time yoga's been a blood sport.

About ten minutes from the end of the class, my hip seized. I could no longer lift my leg, which including lifting it to bend my knee. The remainder of the class was spent in corpse pose, waiting for it to be finished so oh god, I could go home. Dreams of ice danced in my head.

--

Today, I woke up with my hamstrings complaining, an aching hip, sore skin on my knees and a rather sore toe. Also, sore abs from yoga, sore shoulder from ... hm. Yoga and falling and just general achiness.

So I went for a run.

...

If I had been smart, I would have replaced that last word with "long bath" or something equally pleasant.

I have a massage tomorrow. Dreams of THAT are currently dancing in my head.

Is This Thing Still On? (Pithy, I know)

I composed this post in my head, and at the time, the stream of consciousness seemed to fit. I was filled with the need to write something! reopen the blog! Give it another try!

Well, why not.

hi.
--

I'm teaching myself to be a runner. Until this year, I sort of thought that I should just be able to throw on my running shoes, wander on outside and off I went! Following this brilliant idea was three weeks (if I was lucky) of relatively ineffective attempts at jogging, all the time, thinking about how much I hate running. The running shoes were tossed into the closet and ignored, and I went back to ... whatever it was I decided to do to keep in shape instead. I promised myself that I would REMEMBER this time that I hate running.

Cue next spring. Cue dusting off the running shoes yet another attempt. Cue sore hips, and every stride, thinking 'I hate this, I hate this, I hate this'.

I read a lot of random blogs, and of course, the wave of people finding ways to learn to run always kind of made me wonder if I just had it wrong (what do you mean, I can't just ... go out and run?!). I found the couch to 5k, but couldn't figure out how I'd get the timing right. I'm obsessed with minutes and seconds and hours on a clock. I cannot just "guess". But with that obsession would mean repeated checking of a timer, and that would just never do.

The iPhone solves all. (Steve Jobs, I still hate you for your most recent 'technical advice' to iPhone 4 users. 'Just don't hold it that way', my ass.) That cheesy line 'There's an app for that' is actually true. An application! which will tell me when to run and when to walk. An application which already has the Couch to 5K loaded, so all I have to do is pick the week and the day of the run, and off I go. They even check off the runs when they're done! My goal oriented brain is appeased.

A few hitches: Forgetting to do certain stretches results in a week of knee pain, resulting in a stop of all running until a conversation with an occupational therapist reminds a certain random person that she needs to stretch her quadriceps. A problem with the schedule of working running in with everything else I do.

But you know, I'm not thinking 'I hate running' with every stride.

--

Ironically, this was not the post I composed in my head. Perhaps the rest will come out another day, eh?