The Special Olympics

They're at the gates. Number 17 looks oiled and limber. Ooh... do you see the exchange of loving glances between 17 and 36? They've been in constant training for 8 months. They may take it. Or maybe 33 Squared will. They did well in the Finishing Each Other's Sentences prelims earlier. It's all very exciting. A beautiful day for it, ladies and gentlemen! Thousands of athletes all lined up for Love's Race.

And they're off!

Though the course waivers, the beacon continues flashing throughout the course, of course. They can see their goal if they're looking really, really hard. What's that? What do you mean they can't? There's zero visibility? They're going to crash and burn! God, I can't look.


No one in my relative proximity, who has been in a romantic capacity for 2.5 years and under, is currently running that race without the surprise element of oil spills, hurricanes, (quick)sand traps and unseen walls that love-runners slam full force unawares into.

Who is laying those deathtraps?
Who the hell designed this obstacle course?

Rubbing a flea market lamp, nicked from the set of Disney's Aladdin.

The Comrade: Genie? Geeenie? Ollie ollie oxen free. Come out, come out wherever you are. C'mon buddy. What do you think?

Tones of a xylophone cascading like waterfall.
A poof of white, dry ice smoke.

The Comrade: [cough, cough] Pride? False sense of entitlement? Weird ego emanations? Survivor? The series? Really? That's what you see?

The first season had been the only one I had ever watched. Contestants converged from all over a country, placed in a desert island scenario eating and performing heinously for alleged "survival". The commonality was consistent performances of one-upmanship from all. Well, only one person could win the prize. So, the girls stuck it to the girls who stuck it to the guys who stuck it up each other. Blur providing musical accompaniment.

We're sticking it to each other
Because we want to win a million dollars?
Is that what you're saying, Genie?

Oh.
Metaphor.

We're born alone. We die alone. It's as if we're preparing ourselves for the inevitable.

Sometimes I'll watch Chicken, my Sweet Sixteen cat, walk across the room with his tongue at half mast and a grumpy/bewildered look on his face. It sends me into a neighbour's state of heaven's. I'll think: If I was scared of loving something because I was scared of losing something eventually, I would never have known how much joy and love a 6 lb, yelling, little dude could bring.

I also have no expectations of Chicken.

Chicken doesn't have to be on time, doesn't have to clean the washroom, doesn't have to protect me. I don't hold him to his word. He makes me no promises. He just simply loves me. And there isn't a doubt in my mind that he doesn't.

The progression trajectory between myself and Fatty has looked like this:
Platonic friends for 4 years. A beautiful kiss. Moving in with me within 2 months of that first kiss. Regularly scheduled fighting like coed WWF wrestlers who had also vigorously enjoyed their high school's debate club. Truth, beauty, floods of tears, great love, the greatest embraces, and alas, more fighting. It's like a strange continuous loop, inside an old Sears wringer washer.

It's also only been 11 months.
Prior to that we'd been ourselves by ourselves for a hell of a lot longer.
It makes sense that we're still figuring it out.

Last week I was talking to Ed, a new regular whom I met while A) working and B) intoxicated. Apparently. Ed had been seeing a girl a while back, but they were currently friends, one whom Ed occasionally goes out for cocktails with.

Ed: We were never that serious.
The Comrade: How long were you seeing each other for?
Ed: About a year.

I don't know how things can not be serious after seeing someone for a year. But maybe that's just me.

Sure, it would probably be easier to just have good times with a fella, ask nothing of him, be nothing to him, and make no plans for the future. Unfortunately, I'm not that kind of person.

And then there's the whole being 37 thing. Not asking the advice of my mother, yet getting advised nonetheless, I get nuggets like this: So you want to get pregnant? You'd better hurry up. The longer you wait, the greater the chances of a Baby Retard.

Verbatim, though translated.

My friend the Doyenne, my original boss at my tenure at the Cheer's Equivalent Bar, said, "I was trying so hard not to become my mother that I didn't even see the turning into Dad thing coming."

So, being a serious person who has potentially found the man she wants to have as the future father of her children, culminated with the clock ticking and 2 marriages under her belt, she feels the need to quickly nip buds and waste no further time. You'd better be it. And if you're not, you better make yourself known pronto lest I live with yet another grave error in judgment.

I can't afford to do that again.

Testing, testing, one, two, three.
He keeps getting 87s.

We are a continent of big kids. Me, me, me. We got used to living alone, by our own rules, until living alone served us up a rather large platter of loneliness. That was uncomfortable. But then, if we were lucky, we met someone to love. Sharing our sandbox or our toys for an afternoon is much different than sharing them indefinitely. We wanted it all yet we wanted to sacrifice nothing.

When two people converge, they have to do so from different parts of the world, or just the city. Either way, there are individual roads, travelled alone, that each takes to meet the other. Once the roads intersect, one person, in order to meet the other, needs to merge into the other's lane. Succumb might be a nasty word for the Millennial Girl. Or emasculating for The Metrosexual. Maybe yield is better. Yield's got that cool yellow sign appeal.

Somehow we've been having difficulty adjusting to the other person.
There's been a lack of providing our lover with what he/she really needs.
We know what's best for the other.
Aren't we clever?
Somehow our inherent generosity fled and control began to dominate.

Men somehow forgot how to be men, and women don't know how to be girls because we're too busy being a strange combination of both. Anytime I see an example of girlishness, even though it tickles a man, I catch myself viewing it simply as manipulative.

But maybe it's not. Not when I see the resulting delight on a man's face.

I need to remember to tell him how wonderful I think he is, and not just point out the things that need to be done. I need to remember that what I have is rare, and that I'm truly fortunate to have someone love me so much, and to have an opportunity to practice love.

With the exception of Valentine's Day diners, their one day off, I've seen, in the eyes of young lovers, passport holders who unwittingly became visitors to the Twilight Zone, whose ticket was purchased by the one who loves them.

If you really loved me, you wouldn't be driving me fucking nuts.

I see the exasperation in their eyes. I see, "Is it worth it?" flash momentarily nearly every day these days. I have personally ignited magnesium, having the phrase pop - overexposed - on my own expression.

Is it worth it?

He dared to hold a mirror to my face to show me my imperfections, wept that I could not see them, still vowed to continue to love me, but if I didn't want his love, or his presence, he would go, granting my wishes. He just wanted my happiness. Pushed away for the countless time, then pulled back, he would consistently demonstrate longevity by not leaving me until my last heaving, snotty tear was shed. Every single time. He never grows tired of holding me. Or telling me how much he loves me. Or how much he wants this to work.

Is it worth it?
He's everything I asked for.

At the end of my marriage to Ack, the now ex-husband/ best friend, I promised myself that next time, if there was to be a next time, I wanted to have someone who fought back, who didn't just extinguish my flame with baking soda. I wanted someone equally as passionate as I.

All of the girlfriends that Fatty had prior to me were girls who hung on his every word, never challenged him, could have easily been taken advantage of. He wanted someone challenging, someone strong, someone who fought back.

It's everything we asked for,
Just not the way we'd asked for it.
It was supposed to be easier.
Wasn't it?

Something we'd both shared in common was going if the going got too tough. Yesterday we made a pact that we're not allowed to leave because it's too hard. The rewards will be there if only we stick it out. Besides, I want us to demonstrate longevity to our children.

So, maybe it wasn't supposed to be easier.

Oh, this Universe, who thinks us so special as to grant us everything we ever wished for.... In the future, if you're just as generous, I wouldn't mind a little black Mini Cooper with white racing stripes, please. Or a cheapo 4 day journey to Cuba. That might be nice.

Maybe there's not a finish line in this race, just a target to keep stabbing at.

Darling Universe, for the next event I'll take a handicap with a Special Bus pass on a par 14, if I could.

Reset Command

[From an episode of an Australian DIY television programme, as witnessed by Ack, the ex-husband/best friend]
Average Looking Aussie Male: Ugh! I cannot be part of this any longer! You people are all plastic!
Perfect Looking Aussie Female: (to an equally attractive male counterpart) [blink, blink, mouth agape] What does he mean plastic? I do yoga!

Sigh.
I do yoga too.
Right now I kind of have to. For a couple of reasons.

As I have successfully quit smoking for 21 days, I have come to accept that there are things that go along with this much lauded success: expanded hips, protruding belly (combined with accompanying cavernous button), and a penchant for, well, everything edible. The other reason, the real one, is to calm the savage beast.

Here at the target coordinates 44˚N / 79˚W, the weather outside is not frightful. It's closer to Postal Service's bleak yet plausible Sleeping In; now we really can swim any day in November. It's not right. Everyone outside is parading H&M's spring collection.

I believe true Canadians are the ones who don't complain each year about How cold it is or say stupid things like Why do I live in this country? during the bleaker months of the year. I count myself among the contingent True. We've wholly accepted the fact that this, our home and native land, is a 4 season festivale. Some seasons are longer than others. Others are very much like a magician's disappearing act. With no wand in sight, spring, with bunny, vanish into thin air. We're lucky to catch magnolia in bloom, the perfect shade of pink, the tree that takes the cake 2 out of 52 weeks of the year. With premature petal loss, branches seem to cradle, curving down, mourning, trying to recollect. God, I love that tree.

Blink.
Mouth agape.
I do yoga.

Canadians get used to our seasons. Expect them. Fall means going back to school or starting something new and scary, leaves kicked all the while. Winter means snow forts, hibernating, dutch ovens, soups, stews and chili. Spring is smelly and everything is possible. Summer is frolicking and sweaty, dunking bunions into cold lakes with tadpoles nipping at your heels.

We don't really have winter this year. We have Finter or Wring, a far less satisfying combination than, say, brunch. I know it's only February, but now we've got 2 more months of not knowing what to expect. I'm not sure, but I think somehow this new weather, which is conceivably manufactured (a new paranoia), could be wreaking havoc on lovers in my vicinity. That and the sudden stop of the Chandler wobble last weekend.

Fatty I have been fighting a lot lately.

Without a winter, gone are the cozy nights of running in from blizzards panting and half frozen. There's no need for collective foot stomping to rid boots of slushy matter. Unnecessary are hands to run up and down bodies to recirculate. No need to bring the duvet out to the sofa to snuggle warmly together. No need to exchange Eskimo kisses. Nothing's frozen for things to thaw. With thaw comes examination and putrescence.

Mr. Holmes: Damn it Watson, give me back my magnifying glass!
Mr. Watson: If I may say, sir, perhaps you should examine the world less scrupulously.
Mr. Holmes: Whot? Would you like a sacking?
Mr. Watson: You can't actually sack me, Holmes. We're fictional.

You're not perfect.
I'm not perfect.
This is what's wrong with you.
I'm avoiding what's wrong with me.
You're wrong.
I've been wronged.
You hurt me.
And I will hurt you back.

This has been going on for a month. It doesn't matter who said it because the parts are easily switched around. Boy in italics. Girl in plain font. Girl in italics. Ordinary font boy. Doesn't matter. The end is the same. No end.

But you can bonk a snake on the head when you see that it's trying to eat its own tail, telling it there are healthier menu choices.

I believe in breaks, in breathers. Reset time. Especially when things are too volatile and situations are too close to be able to see any truth or real solution. I have to step back from macroscopic. Choose letterbox. It all gets in then. No sides are cut off unwittingly because of screen deficiency. Step back, step away. Not forever, just for a while. Gain some perspective. Cry on someone else's shoulder. On many shoulders. Hear different opinions. Work. Watch other people. Mediate other lovers' fights.
When you do that, sometimes you're lucky enough to learn:

We're all varying degrees of broken.
You can't change other people's behaviour, but you can make better choices.
Lose the battle to win the war. [If I was the tattooed type, this would be the one.]
I am not too proud to read self help books.
You're doing no one any favours if you're helping with resentment.
Maybe yelling and screaming is a bit self-indulgent.

I have friends that I wholly accept. They are all quirky. They all do things that are slightly irritating, but I don't take offense to them. I don't gutturally attack them because I know them intrinsically. I know that any uncharacteristic behaviour of theirs comes from another place, another planet perhaps, certainly from another time in their life's cycle. Luckily my gift is empathy. My gift, however, has been charred and rendered useless while in a romantic situation.

This week I'd discovered something I'm not terribly proud of. There are things I've picked up from my father. Things like treating strangers or pals with more consideration and more patience than the one(s) closest to me. Expecting perfection from that poor one. Punishing him if I didn't get it.

And I set out to be exactly everything he wasn't.

Luckily these things have all been unconscious behaviour. If they had been conscious decisions, I'd have to check myself into a Walk-in Sociopath's Clinic. I'm out of Bay Street's clutches this week, at least, but now that I know that I've been doing wrong, I have to do something about it. I can't just go on the way I have been. What I can do is change my behaviour, my response, which has the power to change everything.

I had a conversation with my boss's boyfriend the other day. He's not only gay, he's Sicilian, which means he's not adverse to yelling.

Sicili: I can't HELP IT! It's because I'm FRUSTRATED!
The Comrade: I know, sweetie. I'm the same way.

But there are those who hear no words beyond the roar of rising decibels. Maybe they learned that yelling really meant something hellishly fierce and brutal. Wait 'til your father gets home. Maybe they learned it was the aural blast just before being hurled into a freshly painted wall by a single clenched fist.

Somehow my body had been impervious to harm. My flesh was knight's armor protecting my soul. Besides I was doing the 20 Minute Workout during high school. I'd jumping jack anyone's ass... while yelling and screaming.

But yelling and screaming, though expressions of frustration, are ungenerous to the ones we love, as well as self-indulgent. I suppose it's a bit caveman.

Sicili: But that's how I am! I can't change it!

I had been a smoker for 24 years. A pack a day. Then one day I decided I didn't want to smoke anymore, mostly because I felt these filtered friends had fucked me over and made into a junkie. I didn't want to label myself Former Smoker Now Ex-Smoker. I don't really like labels unless it's a Sexy Stinky Cheese™ label that more than likely doesn't exist. I don't want to have been this and now that. I happened to have smoked before and now I don't smoke anymore.

I want to be able to say, "I happened to have yelled out of frustration before and now I don't anymore." It's an issue of a bit of self control.

If I had to pick one distinguishing feature from 2005, it would have been this: I allowed myself to feel sorry for myself. And I've allowed myself to express pain to the ones who dispensed it.

Giuseppe, the ex-boss who fired me because his disgusting transient partner didn't like what I'd written about him in a blog past, came into the Cheer's Equivalent Bar a few weeks ago.

Giuseppe: You don't call. You don't write. You don't visit. Aren't you happy to see me?
The Comrade: Do you want the truth, Giuseppe?
Random Drunken Darling at the Bar: NO! Not the truth!

But he knew. He knows. He lives with a lot, which is just fine as he's always welcomed failure.

It was also the year that I had finally realised that I helped others who were afraid to help themselves. I've always spoken out on injustices, defending others. But when injustices happened to me I've historically made concessions for those transgressions. But they get stored. Filed. Released after due reset time.

Over the Christmas holidays Fatty and I were invited to my brother Vince's house for dinner. His whole family was there: wife, 3 kids and him. We brought booze. On the way up I gave Fatty a brief debrief about what to expect.

The Comrade: Vince is the whitest Chinese man you'll ever meet. Baritone robotic, if you can imagine. He used to be really funny. He's very serious now. He once asked me to tell him if there was anyone bothering me at school. If there was, he'd go beat them up for me. He'd tell me this as he steered me on handlebars to grade 2.

At dinner my 44 year old brother had produced a flowchart outlining the ongoing life cycle of my father. This exercise was more than likely one dispensed by his therapist to gain empathy towards someone who was less than the idyllic example of paternal.

Vince: See? From this year to this decade he was starving; his mother had died 6 months after he was born; he was in the care of abusive women...
The Comrade: That was when he was straining corn from cow dung to get any nutrients?
Vince: Correct.
Anita [Vince's wife of 20 years]: My father went through a similar situation during the war in Germany. He made the best of what he had and became a good and patient man, an excellent father and doting husband.
The Comrade: Yes he had. [To Vince] She's right. Because our father had been mistreated, he thought he was entitled to mistreat.

And I was doing the same.

Later Anita, whom I've grown to really like over the years, expressed empathy to me about my situation at home.

Anita: Knowing the family from which you were raised, I don't know where you came from. I have no clue. You were left alone after everyone hightailed it to university - their salvation, their freedom. You had to stay. No back-up. That must have been so hard.
The Comrade: Thank you, Anita. Thank you for acknowledging that.
Vince: I've acknowledged that before.
The Comrade: Not to me you haven't.

And silently she wondered where he had been when she needed a bully beaten.
In absentia.

Because it was said, it was assumed that the grief was over now. But sometimes when an unnamed thing is finally christened there emerges something really dark and unforgiving within a person who was once light and forgiveness. And that darkness took her show on the road and became the most caustic girlfriend in the Greater Toronto Area.

But I hurt!
Everyone does.

New lesson plan. A morphing plan created by the Universe.
I have some work to do.