Annamas has come and gone, the drinks drunk, the booty shaken, and my time to make resolutions is again here.  Every year, rather than waiting for our Judeo-Christian calendar to dictate when we ought to be considering our life changes, I take the bull by the horns and do it after my birthday.  Birthdays are interesting times, a time to celebrate coming out of our little pods, but also a time to reflect the passage of time and the changes we’ve made.  Or not.

And here’s to change.

And goodness, there’s been a lot of that in the air.

This year, as every year, I resolve to continue embracing absurdity in all its forms, from doing little dances in hospital hallways to dressing like a treasure troll/dragon/bunny/robot because it seemed a good idea at the time.

I will hold my friends close, and make new ones as often as possible, not neglecting the ones I’ve had for years.  Friendship is a rare gift, and not one to be taken lightly.  And it’s best to always hold dear those who’ve helped us grow and change.

That being said, I will remember to take care of myself first- a detail which often gets missed.  How can I take care of others if I’m falling apart?  There is no shame in being the help-ee, and I have to remember, on occasion, to suck it up and ask, or just to take what’s being offered freely and lovingly.

And realizing that things change and people change and needs change.  I will learn to more easily let go the things that have been hurting me, and revel in the feelings of freedom, rather than wallowing in the guilt change, however positive, can bring. 

Above all…

I will remember that every single day is the best day ever, if I choose for it to be.  Even if it’s the shittiest day imaginable, it has the potential to be the best shitty day ever.  Because there’s always an opportunity to learn from it.  Because, no matter what happens, it could always be worse.  Because every single instant that I breathe and walk and think there is the potential for a split second that could change my life forever.  So why not live in the moment?  And why not make that moment something wonderful.

Thank you all, old friends and new, for continuing on this journey with me, and for sticking it out through all the times, growing together.  I love you all so much, and am grateful everyday. 

And 32 is going to be my most magical number.  Ever.

it's time to make use of this thing.  and make some writings go.

I wrote my ex an email today.

Now, for some people, it's an everyday thing.  They're good ol' buddies with their ex partners and lovers, and never think twice about dropping them a line.  Others would rather poke sticks with burning embers embedded in the ends in their eyes before having contact of any ilk with those with whom they used to bump nasties.  And others, like me, have wanted to for ages, but just needed to grow the balls to do it.

So, as I was listening to CBC today, a familiar song came up on the radio.  Lo and behold, it was his band.  I took it as a sign, and rattled off an email....

"Over the past few weeks, with the huge changes that have been happening in my life, there's been this compulsion to get in touch with you.  And when Mum was in town last month, she encouraged me to just do it already.

It's been a long while since we've spoken, or had any contact, to be sure.  And it's mostly my fault- I just wasn't able to handle seeing you, after so long of being together, and both of us changing so much.  But really, changed for the better.  You've been able to be more you than I could have let you be, and I'm all me again.

I wanted to pass on a few year's worth of good lucks, congrats, and good on yous.  And to wish you well on all your current and future endeavours.  Gigi Wunderkitten is doing well- fat and sassy and still into the nose licking. 

And that's about all about that.

Hope you're well, and if we run into each other on the street, let's say hello..."

And that was it.

And you know, it was strange.  I agonized over hitting the send button for hours.  Wondering if there was anything to be read too far into the email, wondering if it was too brusque.  Sitting and reading and rereading and wondering if I ought to tweak and rewrite and finally deciding to just hit SEND already.  And then I did.  And then I cried and cried and cried.

Because, no matter what the response would be, it was a letting go of that part of my life forever.  Those seven years, those years that started off my entire live in Vancouver, they might keep going on, but finally, I was able to let go of the reason why I came here in the first place.  It's been almost four years since we split, and I haven't been able to talk to him at all, even socially, even running into him on the street.  And finally, finally, I feel self-actualized enough to be able to face my past and realize that his involvement in my life helped to mould me, and will continue to make me who I am, however I choose to use it.

That part of my life, that dewy-eyed innocent and bouncy candy coloured part, it's over and done with.  That isn't to say that there won't be candy coloured bounciness in the future, but it's informed by these past years and the learning that's been done.

I thank Mr. Ex so much for all the wonderful things he taught me about myself, and all the not-so-wonderful things too.  He and I raised Gigi Wunderkitten, he sang songs to my bosoms, he made a wicked spaghetti and he made me laugh until tears ran down my face on more than one occasion.  While he loved me, he really loved me, and I loved him back just as much.  And even though it's been over for so long, sometimes it feels like it's over just now again.

But wherever he is, and whatever he's doing, I can honestly say now that I wish him well.  And that might be my growing up lesson for the day.

I had creme brulee last night.  I cracked the top of the vanillasugary shiny crust with my spoon, and reveled in the perfect snappy smack it made, and the sweet vanillabeany smell that tickled my nose a little.  And then I spooned the still-warm custard into my mouth, and felt the velvety smoothsoftness of it on my tongue, crunching the sugar, feeling it getting caught a little in my teeth, before letting it slide slowly down my now-glowing throat.

It was delicious.

I was listening to the Smiths tonight. Always a maudlin and melancholy experience (shut up. we all have our guiltily sophomoric musical pleasures). And the song that kept repeating was “I won’t share you”. Not one of my favourites, but it has its charm.

Now, sharing is fun- at least that’s what I tell the kids. I’m open minded, and understand as well as, if not better than, most that we primates have certain… urges and ideas. Which make us do things, often involving the removal of our trousers or whatnot, which we may or may not later regret. And, well, we really ought to make rules and negotiate and act like grownups before things happen. I’m choosy- might be pervy, poly, busty and bi, but damnit, I’ve discriminating taste and these days, prefer to discuss before deeds are done.

Now, this is tough to admit, but I kinda wasn’t the most monogamous mama whenever tightly coupled up. I have a tendency to kiss other people, a little more often than is considered socially acceptable, and on occasion, let curiosity and that funny feeling in my pants get the best of me. But subtlety was my strong suit, and quite frankly, it was more than likely that all parties involved were involved with other parties. Mutual muckery, if one will.

These days, things are a little more complicated. Grown-up thoughts and feelings and goals and things all tend to get in the way. Is it so bad to want to be the special one in the fray? Or to want to perve around blithely and with impunity (but ohsovery very carefully!), knowing that they’re doing the same, but closing my eyes and ears to any evidence of others that may or may not exist? I really don’t think so. Is that so strange?

But it’s so damned hard sometimes. Although admitting it is awful, I am only (only!) human. I miss that special someone. I get a little green. I act out in rather immature and reprehensible ways that seem to be a good idea at the time... And often are a good idea at the time. And all those other times. And really, see above re: the kissing of other people.

So, why go on?

Well, to quote the big book to my own ends, you ought to do unto others as you would have them do unto you. You give people cake, you expect cake in return. I ask to be able to fiddle and interfere with others, and cannot deny that special someone the same. Does this mean I’m going to grow old and bitter and lonely?

Well, according to some to whom I’ve spoken, yes. But really, I beg to differ.

I’m going to grow old anyway- why not enjoy frittering away my youth? Isn't youth MADE for the frittering? And will participating in said frittering make me more bitter, or more *better* when it comes to telling tales to my canasta club when I’m shrunken and pruney? As for the loneliness, well, everyone deals with it on occasion. And really, in my mono days, I found it much more wrenching to be lonely with someone than lonely by myself. Although loneliness does suck. Ergo, see above re: the kissing of other people.

So, for now, bopping along blithely, I shall continue to kiss other people. And miss certain people. And have a grand old time figuring it all out.

I was talking to a young man a while ago, discussing our storied past. And he asked me an interesting question…

Did I remember that time that we’d kissed?

I just stared at him for a little while…

Thus prompted, he set to reminding me everything about that brief (too brief!) encounter. Where we were, the fuzziness of my shirt, how he kept trying to fumble with my buttons, how lovely my hair had smelled to him in his amazingly inebriate state. In incredibly, small, minute, loving and cherished detail. It was obvious that it was a memory he’d taken out, cupped in his hands and run his fingers over and over and over, moulding some parts into new shapes, wearing others sooth and polished.

It was a little blushmaking, this incredible reminiscence, and a little disconcerting.

Now, I had my own recall of this event. And it was a little bit different then his, but no less sweet or poignant. Just not quite the same.

I remembered how cold his hands were, how his breath smelled so sweet from the pink wine we’d been drinking that night. His drunken clumsy attempts at charm, and my equally drunken clumsy attempts at coyness. And how silly this awkward courtship ritual seemed, even at the time. How he fumbled at my buttons, how I let him, then stopped him, and how I promised him, pushing him away and pressing back to him “this will continue”.

Would it be untoward of me to admit that I feigned ignorance, just to see what his perception had been? To check if the same things I found so evocative, the parts that stuck out bright shiny hot red and sparkling, were the same for he and I both?

Some were, some weren’t. But then again, I think he was doing the same thing, testing those waters.

We will see what we will see. But, of course, this will continue.

You were someone with whom I had worked when I was sixteen. Wandering by my counter, peeking at me out of the corner of your eye. Entirely too shy to ever say anything. So you started writing.

The first note appeared in my locker one day, on February 4th, 1994, to be precise. We'd chatted, awkwardly, over lunch- I think the subject was either Naked Lunch or Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. It was to let me know said book would be awaiting under the counter as I started my shift that evening (ps: your hat is absolutely beautiful). And so started the correspondence.

You would blush and stutter every time we spoke, but never in those missives.

But I had a boyfriend (i am so enraptured that my heart goes sick because we can't be together, filled with angst, salt water rushing to my eyes). So, through notes and letters, we carried on, innocently(ish). And then came the night we went for coffee. We whispered and talked and so very almost held hands over bitter strong drip in thick white mugs (… i was literally shaking as I felt your breath on my face). And then you drove me home, listening to Morrissey… And of course, the lyrics were most fraught and apropos.

On Valentine's Day my boyfriend and I split up. And the next morning, I awoke on that frigid February day to find flowers planted in the snow all over the lawn, and another note, tucked between the front doors (oh, dear anna, my wishes and dreams have come true, but your heartbreak makes me ache for you…). Overwrought, I wept with joy.

We would go for picnics in the winter at the legislature, freezing to death and clasping hands desperately. You would come over for dinner at my house with my family (maybe tomorrow, i will kiss you for five minutes straight. it depends on if your pater is home). We would go for tea late at night (we could spend hours with each other, passing books back and forth, breaking for tea and other pleasurable diversions…), and stay up with each other until all hours, whispering and kissing (to kiss your soft lips and pull gently on your tresses…). You would sit across from me at the kitchen table, and scribble notes to me as I studied (do you know how intently i am staring at you right now? if you did, you would blush.) And through notes, you told me that you loved me (*if* you receive this note, don't mention it to me. ever.).

You would write two and three a day (you also also also realize that i will continue to write you letters which will embarrass me horribly if read aloud?), cataloguing the time we had spent together, and making every wish into a present (i hope this note fills you with brightness and pleasure and the promise of many more days to come). And so it went, until it was time for us to part ways.

Rather than taking the coward's way out, breaking up with me in a letter, we went for coffee. Sitting in that café during my high school spare, awkwardly, you explained how we could not be any more. Your words failed at that point; I would rather have had a note written in your cramped accountant's hand than have it end that way.

But to have these prosaic presents, to stumble upon them in an accidental way, to have them to read and reread and forget about until found in a box at the back of a closet, to read them again, is one of the most sweet and wonderful things in the universe. I shall take them with me tonight, to read myself to sleep. And tomorrow, will put them back in their box, to stumble across them again when it's time to sigh, dewy-eyed, again.