if you're wondering if i want you to

Driving to Nova Scotia this summer changed my life. I think about those drives every single day. Every day. And today, I realized something.

Those drives were the happiest times in my life. Looking back, there is not one time in my life where I have been more elated.

Waking up at 4AM, packing up the car and heading out onto the road. I had a special playlist I made--it was 18 hours long, just in case--and I listened to it on both trips. Watching the sun start to rise in my rearview mirror across Quebec at 6AM was a pretty sight.

I love every single moment of those 4 fourteen hour drives I did. They were incredible. I remember every gas station I stopped at. I'd never let the tank go lower than 1/4, since sometimes the gas stations were few and far between. I'd get out, swing my torso side to side to crack my back, shake out my legs and start filling the tank. I'd yawn and give my joints a few cracks, getting loose again. I'd reach into the back seat, pull out my 10-cup thermos and fill my travel mug with another shot of coffee--then it was back in the car and off I went.

I remember the 10-mile stretch of construction in Eastern Quebec that slowed me down a bit. It seemed to go on forever, winding up a dirt mountain with no rails. I passed a town called "St-Louis de Ha!-Ha!" and proceeded to crack up over it. "Sleeping Sickness" by City and Colour was playing on the radio.

I slipped into New Brunswick without ever really being sure when I did, since all I saw was "New Brunswick Tourist Information" on a street sign. Some highway signs in New Brunswick are blue. It seemed calmer than the ugly green Quebec insists on using.

My GPS lost signal for two hours crossing through New Brunswick. On my first trip I panicked, but when it did it again on my second trip, I knew to just keep going straight. I was on the "2" autoroute, and as long as I kept seeing that, I knew it would turn into the 104 in Nova Scotia and then I'd be "home."

It's weird, but that's how I consider Nova Scotia. It feels like home.

New Brunswick has winding roads through deep pink, red and orange rock formations. I had been driving for about 7 hours already, only halfway there, when I noticed what was surrounding me. My ears popped a lot, since it's so hilly and just beautiful. The speed limit there was 110, but I cheated and stuck to 118. It's not that I wanted to get to my destination faster, but with a leg propped up against the door to stretch my hips, the sunroof open and my sunglasses on, I wanted to go faster. I turned my iPod off driving through New Brunswick. I wanted to hear the wind.

There's a good stretch of about 70 miles through New Brunswick with no gas station or rest stop. Throughout the entire thing, on my left was blue, beautiful ocean and trees. Just nature. The giant rock formations on my right were red and orange and pink, leading you up the mountains and back down again. There's not a trace of civilization in sight.

I like being the different licence plate. I still saw a fair bit of Quebec licence plates when I just crossed into New Brunswick, but as I got deeper into the province, it became all New Brunswick and Nova Scotia plates. People would honk and give me a thumbs up on the highway. When I stopped for gas in Moncton, NB, the guy beside me whistled.

"Helluva drive, eh?"

I laughed. I wasn't even halfway done yet.

At 1:00PM I had already been driving for 9 hours. In the early afternoon, I tend to get really sleepy. When I gassed up I pulled to the side, reclined my seat and lowered the windows to take a little nap. I love long drives, but they're hard on the eyes sometimes. After resting for 15 minutes, I was refreshed enough to keep going.

I hit Nova Scotia after 10 hours of driving. The entry to the province is presented by a big lighthouse and flower arrangement. The road suddenly turns light red, and the 2 autoroute becomes the 104 and has a little Scotland flag underneath every sign. The road sign said Amherst, and I was confused since I had seen an Amherst in New Brunswick. I thought I might have been going to wrong way, but the fog cleared up soon enough.

I remember the road signs approaching Cobequid Pass, telling you to get your $4 toll charge ready. I paid mine with a roll of quarters. Once I passed through, I had no idea which part of Nova Scotia I was in...I'm still not sure.

Even after 10 hours, I felt like I could have driven 10 more. The air is different in Nova Scotia. It's vibrant. Vivid. It's incredible. It smells like ocean and trees.

After another hour of driving on the two-lane 104 East, I started to recognize some towns that sounded familiar. Lower Sackville, Bedford, and finally, Halifax.

Before I knew it I was, somehow, driving right through Cole Harbour. I'm not sure how I pulled that off, but it happened on both trips and it doesn't make any sense. The route that I was driving, I should have ended up smack in Halifax. Instead, I ended up across the Harbour in Dartmouth and had to cross the Angus L. Macdonald bridge to get into Halifax.

The bridge toll is 75 cents. There are four lanes and the fog makes it a little scary at night, especially since I had to make a sharp right turn at the end of the bridge onto a road that quite literally spits you into the middle of busy downtown Halifax.

At 8:30PM Montreal time--9:30PM Halifax time-- I remember pulling up to the hotel and reluctantly handing the valet my keys. He put my luggage on the trolley, closed my trunk, and let out that low whistle when he saw my licence plate.

"What've you been driving for a week? Jeez!" he laughed heartily.

I wish I had been.

I don't remember much about the drives home, mostly because I was sad to be leaving. I always ended up leaving Nova Scotia later in the morning than planned because I over-accounted for the hour I'd gain on the way back, and simply because I just didn't want to go back. It poured rain at some point during the drive.

I remember stopping at a Tim Horton's when I was at the most northern tip in Nova Scotia, nearing New Brunswick--I think it might have been Truro. After walking back to the car with my bagel, I popped the back hatch and sat cross-legged in it, watching the cars whirl by on the highway. I had a few sips of coffee and a cookie dough cupcake I saved from Susie's Treats on Dresden Row. I had gotten it that morning because I knew I'd need a sugar rush.

I remember pulling back into my driveway after 14 hours and feeling like I had just driven 14 hours in the wrong direction. I shouldn't be in Montreal. This is not home.

One moment will stick with me forever. It was at 10:30 at night, on the Halifax Harbourfront near where the ships dock. I was polishing off a Sugar's maple fudge ice cream cone, sitting on a bench. I was all alone, it was dark out save for a few lights lining the harbour. The lights reflected off of the ocean below them, casting an eerie yet comforting glow. I listened to the sound of the small waves. The air smelled like saltwater and summer. This is home, I thought, this right here.

And then, the three words that haunted my entire second trip came into my head in a manner so clear that I thought somebody had spoken them aloud to me. I haven't told a soul what those three words were. But when they happen, I will.

Those drives, those trips, changed my life. They are the happiest times I've ever had, alone for 14 hours, with nothing but open road and a faraway concept of home.

I can't wait to move there this summer. I think a part of me will die if I have to fly there.

meet me halfway

The holidays always make me a little melancholy. In a world that seems to be made for coupledom, being single is not only annoying, but it's completely impractical.

the more I analyze and try to figure out what I want, the more I realize the type of relationship--the only type--that I could survive in probably doesn't exist.

I want things from all ends of the spectrum. Companionship. I want somebody to run their hands through my hair, somebody that knows how I take my coffee and surprises me with one in the morning.

But I don't want somebody who has to constantly touch me because I like my own bubble of space, and I can't stand being snuck up on. I don't like it when somebody comes up behind me and puts their arms around my waist--it makes me so squeemish and visibly uncomfortable. I want somebody who is okay with being physically affectionate only when I'm okay with it.

I'm just not sure how what I want could ever jive realistically, I have too many "things". My friends know to never whisper in my ear or touch my neck, because for some reason, those two actions cause me to irrationally lash out. My parents used to tickle my baby fat as a kid and no matter how much I kicked and screamed for them to stop because I hated it, they just thought it was funny. Pretty sure that scarred me for life. But try explaining to your significant other why you just wolloped him in the face because he got too close to the area.

I think the biggest issue is that I want companionship--a relationship, even though I choke on the word--on my terms. And as soon as somebody else is involved, it can never just be your terms.

And I've always been far too stubborn to compromise.

climbing up on solsbury hill

I don't believe in monogamy.

That's not to say that I don't believe it exists, but rather I don't believe it works.

This is not to excuse cheating by any means. Cheating is a cowardly, dirty act and shouldn't be excused under any, ANY circumstances. I don't care how horrible your significant other is, break it off before you stoop low enough to cheat.

I don't believe in monogamy because people lie. More to themselves, which is probably more dangerous.

People lie to themselves that they're happy, satisfied. They lie and tell themselves that hey, it's okay to settle.

For awhile now, I have been surrounded with hockey players from the NHL and various other pro, semi pro and minor leagues. Hockey players can be great friends that will always make you laugh, but as trusted significant others, there's probably no worse scum out there.

I hate to generalize. But it's hard not to, when it's all I see day in and day out. There may be a few good--truly good--guys buried in the boondocks of the hockey world. But until I meet them, I'm entitled to generalize. I've seen enough to earn the right to.

Guys that you think are good can fool you. I've had some fantastic, intelligent conversations with ones that I thought had good hearts, a good head on their shoulders, only to have them come to me the next day and let me know that a newspaper might be publishing a sexually explicit photo of him and 3 other women in a comprimising position, taken the night before and please not to let his wife see it.

These men have wives. Kids. Families.

And they lie.

It's a little unnerving that so many of the wives know about the infidelities and hang around anyway, for the money. Almost every married NHLer has a pre-nup clause where the wife gets a few million if he's caught cheating. A few extra million if they have kids.

I'm no sap. I'm not even a romantic. But I've gotta feel something if I'm going to stick around--and that feeling has nothing to do with money or gold or luxury cars.

Then again, the people you choose to hang out with are a reflection of yourself. A guy who is no damn good isn't going to have a great woman at his side. he's going to have his female equal.

Being in that world jaded me.

People lie.

And yeah, maybe it's worth the try anyway. But to me, it isn't. I'm not going to jump off a cliff if I know my parachute isn't going to open.

It can be even simpler. The girl that falls in love with a guy she's been dating for 2 weeks. She's lying to herself, and to him. But hey, lying to yourself in that case is better than sitting down and trying to figure out why you form attachments so suddenly, almost desperately.

Because nobody wants to think about that. That's not pleasant. It's much happier to smack the "love at first sight" label on it than try to figure out what the hell is making you lie to yourself.

The girl that "chooses" to be single because there's no prospects right now. She's lying to herself. She's not choosing to be single--she's being forced to be single, and it drives her so nuts that she lies and pretends it's voluntary.

People lie. And until they stop, monogamy, relationships, trust isn't going to work.

I don't believe in forever, because I've never seen it. And if you
do believe in forever without ever having witnessed or experienced it, then guess what?

You're lying.

it's my biggest wish

I love baking for people. It was something I started a few years ago. I was never much of a baker, my cakes and cookies would somehow turn out gooey in the middle yet completely burnt on the bottom. When you're not good at something, you tend to give it up.

I poured my heart into it, and slowly I developed the baker's knack. The knack for altering recipes if something doesn't seem quite right, a knack for decorating, and more importantly I reached a truce with my oven when it stopped ruining my delicious endeavours.

Baking slowly started to make me very zen. There's something lovely about mushy butter and bright colours for frosting, about the whir of an electric mixer and licking the wooden spoon. Something about the smell of cookies or cakes in your house. About meticulously placing eery sprinkle and non-pareil so that it looks just perfect. I've never been a good artist, but decorating the treats is my favourite part.

I love giving them to people, too. It gets to a point where I just have far too many cupcakes and cookies lining my counters--more than I could ever dream of eating. When I used to travel with the boys on the team, I'd bring them all of my baked goods and they'd annihilate everything in 30 seconds flat. They'd get buttercream all over their silk ties and have chocolate smudged on their noses, but it made them so happy. It's what earned me the affectionate "Cookie" nickname. They all swear that my chocolate chip delights are the best.

I still pop in to practice every now and then and drop off some boxes of treats. I love the look on their faces and their groans of approval. One particular player was recovering from shoulder surgery when we visited him in the hospital. When the nurse had left, I gently pushed a single chocolate cupcake with raspberry buttercream into his hand. He bit into it and swore it was the best thing he had ever tasted. Moments like that make me happy.

If I didn't have a career goal set in stone, I'd open up my own bakery. I am completely blissful when covered in flour and concentrating intently on tinting the frosting to just the right colour. It makes me zen. I've been known to spend entire days in the kitchen, spending hours alone on decorating a mere dozen cupcakes. I'd open up a chocolatier and pastry shop, all in one. I love making my own chocolate truffles and chocolate cake and turnovers and it would just be so joyous.

I could spend hours in bakeries. Because of my insatiable sweet tooth, I try not to for obvious reasons. But I love ogling the bright pastel colours of crisp Macarons, or wanting to lightly squeeze a dense chocolate brownie to judge the degree of squishy. I love staring at decorated cakes and smelling the butter chocolatines.

It's all so wonderfully decadent.

i used to be love drunk, now i'm hungover

So much negativity lately. A torn hip labrum that put me off the running map for 2 weeks is giving me a heavy heart.

Bring on the cold weather and the ticking time limit on my days of running outside, and it's almost torture.

Fall is my 2nd favourite season, but I dread this time each year because it means one thing: winter is on its way. I appreciate all seasons, but the darkness of winter gets me every year. I go to class in the morning and it's pitch black, and return from class in the evening with the same gloomy view. So much darkness isn't good for the mind.

The thought of turning 23 on Friday is bumming me out, for the mere fact that I'm wondering where the 7 years went from the time I was 16. It's crazy.

Crazy to think how much I've changed...and how much I haven't.

To beat the blues, it's time to acknowledge the little things that count. What makes my day, each time:

(*) That first sip of piping hot coffee in the morning.
(*) A heated blanket.
(*) Sour candy.
(*) A nice-smelling boy.
(*) A big, comfy sweatshirt.
(*) A banana split. With exta chopped nuts.
(*) A huge swig of ice cold Gatorade after a tough workout.
(*) Running as fast as you can for 100 feet.
(*) Warm rain.
(*) Being barefoot.
(*) Running barefoot.
(*) Oozing into consciousness without an alarm.
(*) Gooey pizza eaten straight from the box.
(*) Steaming coffee served in dark mugs.
(*) A pumpkin spice latte, with whipped cream, from Starbucks.
(*) Fun socks.
(*) The smell of coconut.
(*) Flip-flops.
(*) Ice cold beer.
(*) Big, dangly earrings.
(*) Driving standard.
(*) Thunderstorms.
(*) Salty ocean air.
(*) Warm muffins with butter.
(*) Staying in bed all day.
(*) The smell of fabric softener on clothes.
(*) The post-race meal.
(*) Worn-in, muddy cross-country spikes.
(*) Smores.
(*) A morning stretch and back crack.
(*) Hugs.
(*) Nothing but open road and a tankful of gas.

what i mean is all i need is a little emotion

Funny how I used to despise running on the mountain. Now it's become my little (big?) sanctuary. There's no denying that the 15 minutes STEEP STEEP hilly run to get to the mountain is a pain in the ass--I don't think I'll ever like that one. And the fact that it gets death-defyingly steep at the very end--when your quads are all WTF ARE YOU DOING--is just brutal.

But once you're on the mountain, it's gravel roads, thick greenery and various dirt/rock trails intertwining. It really is something. I run to the lookout a lot--the place near the top of the mountain that gives you the best view of downtown Montreal.

Of course, I look crazy there. It's a place a lot of people go to for dates. It seems really romantic until you make it a stop along your workout path, but whatever.

There's a trail that leads right to the center of the lookout. So everybody's dressed snazzy and smelling nice, making lovey eyes at each other--and every night at the same time I trip and spastically flail my way out of the trail (that last tree root always gets me) red-faced, heaving, sweating, hands-on-knees in short shorts and a tank top. I'm sure it literally looks like the forest just spat out this crazy-lookin', curly haired, gleamin' eyes goon from the deep. They all just cease what they're doing and stare at me while I gasp for air--it never fails. Everytime, I scare the hell out of everyone.

I'm like the creature from the deep. Loch Ness of the forest. Only it's not a forest. It's the Monument trail. But they don't know that.

After a short pause I guzzle some water, inevitably snort because I get some up my nose, and trot off. It leaves everyone quite confused.

I AM GLAMOROUS.

Although I suppose the trail got its revenge on me today. I was pretty fixated on a particularly large tree root and rock about 50 metres ahead. I was doing a tempo run, so I was keeping a pretty fast pace. I was so focused on getting ready to leep over the big rock, that I failed to notice the little one. My toe caught and I went flying ONTO the big rock. I crushed my hand pretty good and my right knee is totally banged up and scraped. Ho hum.

I don't feel very girly anymore. It's kind of depressing me. I'm always in work out gear. My hair never stays nice because I tie it up when I'm running and I'm always running. And because I'm always running I also don't wear make up. My legs are big. My shoulders ache.

Boo.

i am capable of really anything

When did my life become one giant training log? Jeez. Sometimes I look at the upcoming week's workouts and my stomach sinks with dread. It can all get pretty overhwelming sometimes. Nobody enjoys running fast intervals up a steep hill. But then I flip through my actual training diary and see myself getting faster and stronger--better times, higher pace, and I think it's all worth it.


It's strange to think that I'm actually running a lot LESS, distance wise, than I was before-but my runs now are so much more challenging. Hills and intervals and fast fast fast pace. I'm adding stuff to the workout plan, too. I know my coach knows what he's talking about, but when he puts "40-minute jog" on my workout plan, I'm not going to do that. I'm going to do an hour easy jog with a few intervals at the end. It can't hurt.

I came to a realization the other day that I haven't come to in awhile.

I like to run. That thought has evaded me for almost 3 months now. Before I joined the team I got into a pretty serious running rut--I hated the daily drudgery. I lost my will to do it, I no longer looked forward to it anymore. But running in the mountain, listening to my feet and my own rhythmic breathing(I leave my iPod at home now), I've re-discovered my joy for it. Running is fun for me. That's why, 6 years ago, I laced up my shoes a second time. And a third. And a fourth.

A lot of people don't talk about the weird things that happen to your body though, when you run a lot. Like, run a lot. I addressed a lot of these issues with my coach because y'know, it freaked me out. But apparently it's all normal.

And I want to be real so let's TALK ABOUT THIS.

First off, you get struck with sudden, panicky bouts of thirst where you feel like you'll melt if you don't consume a litre of water RIGHT NOW. The thirst gets so bad that it will wake you up at night. I have bottles of water stashed in my car, in my room, and in every purse.

You get wicked cravings for salt. Wicked cravings, and I hate salt. You sweat so much running that a million bottles of Gatorade don't have enough sodium to replenish your supply, and craving salty foods is your body's way of letting you know it needs something.

That's another thing, too. You start to crave weird things, like a pregnant lady. Pickled beets. Sesame crackers--and I hate those darned things glued together with honey. But now I can't get enough. Coach says to always, always let your body have what it craves. Runners have this insane ability to always put mind over matter--running is damn painful--so when your body wants something insane, you have to follow it and heed it's demand. It's your body's way of trying to tell you you're not getting enough of something. For instance--those sesame crackers? Wicked huge sugars in them. But I don't eat dessert and sugars are still a form of carb that your body needs as fuel. Not a good carb to get too much of, but you still need some.

You fall asleep. Everywhere. I used to be an insomniac. Sleep is your body's way of repairing itself--muscle fibers, tissues, everything is regenerated when you're asleep. Train yourself into the ground and you'll have a lot of repairing to do.

You'll feel enough pain to eventually just go numb. Accumulated tiredness and fatigue is what ends up getting a runner in the end. You can sprint up a hill all you want for two, three days. By the fourth day, you're lucky if you can clear a mile. The fifth day, you don't even know your own name. A constant ache has been ever-present in my quads, hamstrings, shoulders and hips since I started running competitively. It just always hurts. I look like an old lady when I get up from a chair or climb the stairs. Everything is sore and tender--but you learn to get over it. Because in the end, you have two choices: you can dwell on the pain, or you can shut up and pretend it doesn't hurt. It's sure as hell not going away, so why dwell on it?

Saying that you're constantly hungry is an understatement. After my run yesterday, I had two humongous bowls of pasta for dinner. An hour after that, I was hungry again so I had a chicken sandwich. Half an hour later, when I was ravishing, I had a bagel and cottage cheese before bed. This morning, I woke up feeling as if I hadn't eaten in weeks. Food is digested in a half hour flat, and you're starving again.

Your body starts to do weird things, some of which are gross, some are not. That ankle never cracked like that before. Was my pinky toe always blue? My quad never bulged like that. The skin on your toes isn't skin anymore, it's rough, rubbery, leathery callouses that are pretty gross to touch. It's like rawhide. And let's face it--you've got sweaty, techno-fabric rubbing tightly against your skin for extended periods of time in extreme heat. That's going to cause some issues. My sports bras started irritating the hell out of the inside of my arms, where it rubs as I run. You know what I had to do? I had to go out and buy lube. I'm not even kidding. It's called Body Glide. It's a special sports lube. But still. Ew. The guys on my team wear nipple guards.

My muscles twitch like crazy when I sleep. Rather violently, too. A lot of the time my own thrashing will wake me up. It's odd, but it's fast-twitch fibers repairing and cells regenerating and just sheer power and energy trying to expend and rest. I pity the next person I share a bed with.

You start to hear your own heartbeat--and I mean hear it. Anymore, I get kinda nervous when a place goes really quiet because I can hear my own heart beating, and I'm wondering if anybody else does. The heart gets so much stronger when you push it. It beats slower, but it beats with authority. I can feel it in my chest now, and I can often hear it when I lie down at night.

SO, all in all, being an athlete is kind of gross. And I'm trying to say that more. I'm an athlete. I never thought I was one and I still have qualms with saying it, but I think it's good for my confidence and self-image if I stop denying that I am one.

she's gonna get her way

We ran the timed mile tonight.

The mile is one of the toughest distances ever to race because it's too short to pace yourself, but too damn long to sprint the whole way through. It's 4 times around most track circuits. You can sprint one lap. All of a sudden, you're starting the second lap and you're winded. The third lap, you want to die. The fourth lap you run the life right out of you, and promptly heave when you're done.

I have no pride left, so let me just say I got owned again.

Going in, I had a goal not to come in last.

I totally came in last. I came in last by half the damn track--a good 200 feet. It was pretty degrading. We were split into two groups, the faster guys and the "slower" ones. The fast guys went first and were jogging slow laps around the track while we went at it. They kept cheering me on and saying "Keep at it Lisa!" and "You're almost there!" but it made me feel even worse because it was pity cheering.

Pity cheering is really discouraging.

I came in dead last, but man did I run my heart out on that one. I gave it everything I had and held nothing back.

I'm pretty sure the coach has no idea what to make of me. I suck, there's really no hiding that, but at the same time I am damn determined. Usually people that really suck get discouraged enough and quit, go on to something else. I'm still hanging around, getting my ass handed to me on a daily basis and maintaining a semi-positive outlook.

Oh well. I have heart, you have to give me that. It had rained for awhile and we run on a dirt track. By the time we were done, everybody was sweaty and covered head to toe in mud. Running back downtown from the track covered in dirt and grime and sludge, I felt more like a runner than I had in years.

And the good news about this running process is that the more I do it, the better I will become. Barring injury, if I run like this for a few weeks, I am not going to get worse.

The tough part is keeping it up for the next few weeks. It's a really, really tough workout. But I'll get there.I may not have the lungs or the legs or the V02 maxx or the anaerobic capacity--yet.

But I have the heart. And so help me god, that's all I need.

"I may never be the fastest runner, but I can always be the hardest worker."

in between the moon and you

Self realization #287492838:

I love, love, love swanky hotels.

Make no mistake, I can totally slum it. I backpacked across Europe for three weeks, sleeping in overnight trains and youth hostels across Germany, Switzerland, Italy, Rome, France, Austria--everywhere. There's something really earthy and neat about travelling on a penny.

But man, there is something about a ritzy, luxurious hotel that makes me swoon. I've loved hotels since I was a kid, but the really plush ones give me such a thrill that it's shameful. This all started awhile ago, but I think it intensified when I went to Halifax a few weeks ago. After two nights of sleeping on the wooden-board-lke beds in residence at Dalhousie University, I checked into the Marriott all alone. The giant, soft, feathery beds with a million pillows and blankets, the giant rainfall showers...ohhh all of it.

I can't wait to get out of this city again and just drive into the sunset. If all things go according to plan and exams don't get in the way, I'll be leaving on Friday.

here comes that sun again

Every once in awhile I let my total fear of success consume me and I stay paralyzed in my comfortable, naive state.

And other times I kick my fear in its proverbial balls and dive headfirst into something that I really haven't thought about adequately.

I haven't decided which is a better way to live. Yet. Maybe I'll learn the hard way.

I bit the bullet and earned a spot on the ConU track & cross-country running team.

Me. A varsity athlete. It's weird to think about it.

I was pretty psyched about it earlier today when I heard back from the coach, but the more I thought about it all day, the more I became consumed with the thought of oh god, what have I done?

I know I can run. I know I can run for long distances. But despite this, I do not consider myself a runner nor any form of athlete.

And the more I contemplate it, the more I am overhwlemed with the feeling of dread that accompanies a person who is now in way over their head.

I am not a fast runner. And now I'm going to be running races. After thoroughly breaking down my current running workout with the coach, he reassured me that I was at the perfect fitness level to start training with the team, and that they'd help me build my speed up.

But still. Pace and intervals and exhausting timed runs Mondays and Wednesdays. 15km jogs through downtown Tuesdays and Thursdays. What if the jog is too fast? What if I can't keep up?

Then again, that's the whole point. The reason I joined the team was to challenge myself in the realm of running. Running was becoming monotonous, boring, and it never felt like I was working very hard.

I fully expect to be kneeled over, barely conscious, hurling into a grabage bin at the end of every workout with the team next week. And I'm a rare breed, because that thought appeals to me.

People are afraid to push their limits anymore. You're always hearing "go easy" or "don't push yourself." Why not? If you push your body, it will respond. What's the worst that can happen? You push so hard that you're physically sick at the end of the race? Okay, there's a garbage bin and a bottle of soothing Gatorade waiting for you. The pain will last a maximum of ten minutes. You run so hard that you collapse and pass out at the end? Okay--your coach will get you to come 'round again.

People are just afraid of pain, and in a way, afraid of their own success.

So I'm going to give it a shot. And a week from now, maybe I'll decide I suck and hang up my running shoes forever.

Or maybe I'll discover another small piece of myself.

it's so hard to do and so easy to say

It figures that as soon as I adopt a love-and-learn outlook, an issue with a boy would arise that has me thinking I'm crazy for believing boys are anything but dumb scumbags. The whole lot of them. Not a one seems to be any different from the dirtbag beside him.

It will pass.

Running over 100 miles a week is as gruelling as it sounds, but I'm trying to listen to my body more. I'm really making an effort.

I'm all for pushing yourself and your limits, defying boundaries and self-imposed limitations. Be better than yourself. Push your body, don't be afraid of pain--the human body is an evolving device. If you push it, it will respond.

But today, one kilometre into my run and my legs felt heavy like cement. My brain said "Yeah, we're done for today" and for once, I listened to it. I stopped and walked back home.

I'm trying not to beat myself up over it. The insane amount of guilt I feel over an incompleted run is something that needs to stop. The world will not end if I only ran one kilometre instead of 20 today. If I'm going to be brutally honest, the world still won't end if I only ran 3 out of 7 days next week. But putting the doomsday tag on the daunting task I complete everyday makes it seem more vital to my existence than optional.

Because if it was optional, I probably wouldn't do it.

Plans tonight include a Dairy Queen drive thru by the water with friends. And I'm not going to beat myself up over that, either.

The world isn't going to end if I indulge every once in awhile.

i want to wake up where you are

I am going to make a conscious effort to not take life so seriously. That's such a weakness of mine because I tend to get so caught up in the whirlwind that I completely forget to take a step back once in awhile and remind myself that it doesn't matter nearly as much as I think it does.

I'm too serious. Too regimented and concerned with the facts and truth in life that I feel like I've lost a lot of the little kid in me. That zest for life and carefree attitude--I need more of that.

Everything is so structured with my training regimen that I feel like I'm a clock sometimes. Eat this an hour before my run, drink this amount of fluid 30 minutes before, run, eat this many grams of carbohydrates after. Food isn't food but it's now fuel for the machine.

That really sucks.

I want to eat a massive piece of cheesecake. And I want to eat just because I want to eat it. I want to indulge more.

I'm going to remember what it feels like to spend hours on a swingset. What it feels like to lick an ice cream cone only to have the big ball of delicious ice fall smack on your foot, and to laugh uncontrollably about it.

I want to prance around in flip flops and play tag and stop worrying so much about the evil, hidden intentions of boys, what they really meant when they said what they said, if they're trying to trick me, if they're really a douchebag disguised as a nice guy who will viciously break my heart.

I want to fall in the fun, kiddie type of love. Not caring about someone's intentions or hidden motives. Taking things at surface value---taking people at surface value--and trusting that what they're presenting is a true reflection of who they are. And if it's not, sour grapes. But why assume that right from the start?

I'm going to stop being so guarded and experience things for what they really are--an adventure. A learning lesson. A stepping stone.

An experience.

i remember each flash

There's something strangely glamorous about passing out in a friend's apartment in a giant armchair, fully clothed, with empty wine bottles strewn about. Waking up with the stale taste of red wine still in your mouth, your hair sticking on end, and the feeling that you'd give away a kidney for a glass of cold water.


Odd as it is, I love the feeling of being hungover in cases like that. Head htorbbing, sunglasses on, dry throat, raspy voice, and big circles under your eyes, it's living the dream. The summer dream at least.

Slowly crawling into consciousness while all you can do is groan and ooze off the chair is rewarding, it means it was a night well spent.

Spending the following day at work attempting to serve clients while desperately fighting a losing battle with nausea is not so fun, but equally rewarding.

Once the initial dizziness, fog, and general feeling of still being drunk wore off (it took a few coffees) in came the classic hangover stage that requires massive amounts of grease to settle an otherwise very uneasy stomach. The neat part about working in a restaurant is that if I want to be totally gross and satiate my need for grease by eating a grilled cheese sandwich with bacon in it, the guys in the kitchen happily oblige--allbeit it with a few weird looks, but I'm sure I still smelled like wine so it wasn't hard to figure out what was going on.

I messed up a ton of orders today at work, I had a pounding headache all day and no matter what I did, the taste of wine wouldn't leave my mouth.

The summer dream.

i feel like i'm drowning in the ocean

I've been struggling with change for the past month or so. Usually change is never something that I struggle with--unless it's not happening enough. I started to feel monotonous for awhile. I went away to Cuba and when I came back, I realized that my life has fit in a mould for the past year or so. I hate that. I looked at the wall in my room and realized that I have been more or less staring at the same wall for the past 6 years.

So I tore that wall apart. Stripped it, washed it, and I'm re-doing it now. I picked up a cool sign in Halifax that I hung close to the ceiling. I bought paint and stencils and I painted one of my favourite quotes from Once a Runner on my wall. I bought two cool picture frames to surround the quote, and I'm going to stick seashells on the wall from every beach that I've been to, just as the final touches.

It feels better. Feels like me.

this is easy as lovers go

So. Learning experiences. Things to abide by.

.+. Flats will always prevail over heels. I'd so much rather zip around efficiently and show off my 5'2 height than totter on 4 inch heels I can't walk properly in.

.+. Curly is the new straight. BELIEVE. I love my curls.

.+. Don't be afraid to be alone. You've been single for 3 weeks, 3 months, 3 years? Good. Stay alone for as long as it take to know yourself through and through. What you'll stand for, what you won't put up with, what is non-negotiable. There's a lot of you to figure out.

.+.T-Shirts win over short, skanky outfits every time. You can't climb a tree in a short, skanky dress.

.+. Girls are so much prettier when they don't wear make up.

.+. Classy and elegant is great but quirky and clumsy is fun.

.+. Any girl that trips over her own two feet and laughs about it is a girl that you want close to your heart, trust me.

.+.No matter what you say or what you do, people are always going to perceive you the way they want to perceive you. The good news is their opinions don't matter.

.+. People are different. The situations are different. No two people will hurt you in the same way, so stop being scared. Learn from it, but be wise enough to approach each situation for what it is--brand new.

.+. Eat the damn cheesecake.

.+.Brains over beauty.

.+. Be hurt. But don't be scarred.

.+. Be vulnerable, but make people earn the right to see you that way.

.+. Everybody you meet is fighting a battle that you don't know about. Be aware of that.

.+. The grass isn't always greener on the other side. Your lawn is more than green enough.

.+.Women that can open their own jars, fix their own flat tires and understand the concept of most power tools are awesome.

.+. Girls that can spend a Friday night in sweatpants eating dodgy Chinese take out right from the carton are worth holding onto. The high maintenance beauty queen gets tiring after awhile--she'll leave you winded, frustrated and broke.

.+. Don't compromise yourself to make someone else look good. If he's that big of a man, then he's man enough to take you as you are--brains, intelligence, wit and all.

.+. Give it your all, every single time.

.+. A giggle is cute, but a big, boisterous gut laugh will make everyone feel good.

.+. Girls that need protection are overrated. Fight for a girl that can fight for herself--there will never be a boring moment.

So here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to be me, and nobody else. Just me. If I snort when I laugh, then I'm going to snort when I laugh. If I trip and flail over nothing, then I'm going to hope that somebody else finds it as hilarious as I do.

trial of miles, miles of trials

"Listen to my body? If I listened to my body I'd be at home right now eating a danish and reading the funnies. If I listened to my body, I'd be living off toffee pops and port wine. Don't tell me to listen to my body...it's trying to turn me into a blob."
-Roger Robinson, New Zealand masters runner


I broke up with running for three days, and then we made up again.

I mentioned before, but running has gotten tough for me lately. Everything hurt. My leg muscles, my back, my shoulders, everything. My heart hasn't been in it for a few weeks, and that made it hard. Hard to the point where for the past week, I seriously contemplating hanging my shoes up for good. That scared me. I was tired of missing dinner with my family, of saying no to coffee or movie plans. I was tired of working an 8 hour shift on my feet with no break, then coming home and pounding pavement for another 4 hours minimum. I was tired of being beaten down on by the sun, tired of reaking of sweat, just generally unhappy with a pastime that once made me free. I wanted to quit. For the first time in 6 years, I wanted to quit.

I agree with Robinson. If you listen to your body, it wants to do nothing except nap, eat, and rest. The body thinks you're crazy. You've gotta listen to the finely tuned machine that you've honed inside your chest for your entire running career--a horse's heart that says "thanks" everytime it beats forcefully.

That is what you need to listen to. Because it will always tell you to keep going. That it's okay to keep pushing.

Three days doesn't sound like much but I can't remember the last time I took three consecutive days off. I think I had started to forget the reasons why I run in the first place.

There's no denying that the driving force behind my running start was to lose weight--I think that was everybody's. Nobody wants to be a runner, it's way too difficult. But over six months, my reasons changed. I didn't run because I wanted to lose weight--I had lost all the weight I was going to lose. Actually, in retrospect, I don't even think I started to run to lose weight. People who run for that reason tend to give it up after a month or so, and choose something easier like the stationary bike. Running is way too painful, no matter how desperate you are to shed the pounds.

In my three day break, day one it was 9pm at night and I was lit with nervous energy. It was a crappy day at work and I was edgy and jumpy and ridden with anxiety from a fast-paced day. Day two, after a horrendous night's sleep, I spent the entire day with way too much energy and adrenaline and simply no way to expend it and tire myself out. Jumping jacks, sleepy tea, nothing worked. Day three, my skirt fit a little too snug. I felt heavy on my feet, my limbs felt like they were sagging and I felt out of breath all the time. I felt like my heart was drooping.

Day three, I rediscovered why I run.

It's not to be skinny. I'll never be skinny. It's to be fit-it's to have at least some mild say in what happens to my body in the end. It's about doing what I can, making changes that I can control, to avoid succumbing to diseases and illnesses that might otherwise plague me. High blood pressure runs rampant in my family. Mine is borderline high--but if I didn't run, I'd be on medication for it. That's how I get my say.

I run because of the feeling I get when I'm done. The feeling that I'm sweating, gross and absolutely crazy--but that I'm one small step up from the guy on his couch stuffing himself with Doritos. It might not even matter in the future--but for the right now, my heart thanks me for it. Every single time I get out there and torture my legs and lungs into running a 10, 20 or 30km, my heart thanks me for making it stronger. Better. Durable. For taking care of it, when my body yells at me to let it rot.

I run because I have more energy than I know what to do with, and running rids me of it completely. I run because not everybody can, but I've worked long and hard to be able to do it properly, and for extreme amounts of time. I run because I love being hit with that sudden wall of danger-level hunger and eating three times as much as the average person.

I run because it kicks my ass. No matter how fit you are or how long you've been running--if you push your limits or extend your distance while training, you're going to feel like you want to die. Every single time, until that becomes your new "regular" distance. And when you extend it again--it's going to kick your ass again. I run because I can never win against it.

A reporter once asked Juma Ikangaa, a world-class marathon runner from Tanzania, on the major difference between one's commitment to marriage, and one's commitment to running. He deadpanned "With a marriage, you have a choice. And you can change your mind." I run because at this point, I can't stop.

I run because I feel like I belong to an elite club. When two runners pass on a path, you will always see them greet each other. It's a runner's salute. A small wave, a broad smile--sometimes a word or two of encouragement if the runner looks tired. And a word of encouragement is never, ever "pick it up!" or "come on!". Encouragement is always "good pace, good pace" or "don't stop".

I run because, ultimately...it makes me free.

what i chase won't set me free.

Travelling has always done weird things to me. While I've always loved being abroad and out of my usual habitat, only in the last few years have I noticed that I actually started to dread coming home.

Home is a strange, unwelcome concept to me that actually makes me feel guilty a lot more than it makes me feel comforted. My family is a tight knit one, we all get along great and we're really supportive of each other. I just have such a need for my own independence and march to my own drum that I often end up feeling smothered by constantly having them around.

That sounds pretty terrible, right? It makes me feel pretty terrible, but I can't help it. I am so much happier when the people I love are a phone call away instead of being right upstairs--it allows me the freedom I need to function, but I also have their support when I need it.

I don't like "home". I don't nest. I don't create emotional ties that everyone always talks about--ties to people, places, triggers. The longer I stay in a place, the more uncomfortable I become and I'm driven by the insatiable need to leave. Go some place new. Discover something all over again.

My dad has always been a bit of a wanderer. I suspect that before he married my mom and had us, he was in the exact same place that I am now. Anybody that spends a large part of their life as a travelling musician is nomadic at heart.

Driving the 14 hours to Nova Scotia by myself was one of the best things I could have ever done to get away from the feeling of restlessness that I struggled with before I left. But now that I'm back, the feeling has intensified. Intensified to the point where I tore down more than half of the things in my room, with plans to reconstruct the entire thing.

I need change. Some things need to change.

It feels like everything in my life kind of bushwacked me all at the same time, really. I just realized that I am going to be graduating in December, and while I do have a plan, I do not have a Plan B. My plan is to nail my dream job in the NHL right out of school.

That is not a good plan.

My running has taken a hit lately. It has taken me weeks to admit that. Running is--or it used to be--my one sanctuary, my one time and place where it didn't matter what the hell else was going on in my life, I didn't care. I was running.

But now it's all pain and sweat and fatigue. Running has become the few hours in my day that I dread, and I hate that it has come down to this. The problem began when I asked myself the dreaded question that signifies the beginning of a runner's demise: Why?

As soon as a runner asks themselves why they do this, it's over. It's over because there is no logical, rational explanation as to why you are out there every gruelling day, sweating, aching, missing family dinners, TV shows, coffee with friends. It is not sane. It is not desirable. And a runner realizes that when they ask themselves why.

I am tired of being in pain. It's not even just my knees anymore, although they're the worst. I'm worried that I am doing damage to my body that I (or my orthopedic surgeon)won't be able to repair. You can mould muscles, stretch ligaments, lubricate joints. But pound around asphalted Canada long enough and you're going to wear out something real. Something that surgery can't make better. It's connective tissue, in the end, that gets us all. No runner ever retires because they want to. They retire because one final piece of gristle went pop and presto, they're a pedestrian. The Achilles sheath. Fascias.

I'm tired of everything hurting. My back aches. My lungs feel like they're going to explode. My legs are tired, my hip hurts on impact and my feet are a complete mess of calluses and broken toenails. I'm tired of being in a constant state of pain brought on by this idiotic sport that I do. And before, the pain was tolerable because I loved running so much. Now, I don't even have that.

Maybe I'll take a break from it, breathe for a little while. It seems easy to say that, and yet after I locked my shoes in the trunk of my car today, I trudged out a half hour later, laced them up, and still went for a run.

Running and I might need to break up for a little while.

the loneliness of the long distance runner

A long distance runner has always been a special breed of person. A person who almost relishes in solitude, since running is one of the only truly solo sports out there. A long distance also has an imagination greater than that of a small child's--they have to, in order to survive 3, 4, 5 hour runs with a pace as constant as that of a beating drum. The imagination has to be wild when every tree looks the same, every step is like the last, and there are still hundreds of trees and thousands of steps left to go. A long distance runner has an insane threshold for pain, and a mental toughness that is rivalled by none.

Long distance runners are often--not always--defyingly thin and lanky, but can out-eat a linebacker who was starved for days. They defy logic, they defy pain, and they defy all levels of comfort.

They're the kings of the pack. They sail by the usual joggers with ease, but also appropriate respect for the variation of their beloved sport...only jogging and running is about as much alike as a housecat and a lion. Theoretically, same family. Practically--worlds apart.

The usual joggers are always the same. The slightly hefty woman in a loose t-shirt with a ruddy, sweating face who's huffing and puffing makes you contemplate whether you should keep up a 5.33 pace or throw off your rhythm to administer CPR. The jock, thick with inflated, unnecessary muscle who starts off at a mad sprint, thinking running is the easiest sport in the world. As the long distance runner keeps up a steady pace, they can see the jock gradually slow down. In 50 feet, the mad sprint becomes a fast gait. In another 50 feet, the fast gait becomes a slow jog. By the time the long distance runner passes, the jock is bent at the waist, hands on the knees, sucking air. It's been 150 feet.

The sprinters are a fun specimen to observe, too. One burst of explosive power is over in a maximum of ten seconds, leaving the athlete hunched over and almost sick. Sprinters are usually nervous people, filled with an anxiety that permeates those around them. They skitter about in all directions before one common voice tells them to line up. They busily buster into place where they're forced to remain still for a few seconds, until a gun goes off and they explode in start as if fired from a cannon. It's all over in 10 seconds, and after a short period of repose, they are back to their usual jittery, nervously energetic selves, waiting for the next gunshot.


Medium-distance runners are lazy. They do not have the energy required to be a sprinter, nor do they have the tolerance (almost love) for pain, endurance, or the courage to be a long distance runner. Instead they toil in mediocrity for their entire running lives, never pushing the limits to either get their distance done in record-timing, or double their distance to enjoy the agony of being a long distancer.

Middle-distance runners procrastinate. They often have sagging shoulders less than halfway through their runs, put off workouts for another day, and fall behind in their mileage for the week. They are the reluctant runner, knowing that they'd miss the daily drudgery of running but also wishing there was a way to make it more enjoyable.

The long distance runner is an animal. One that defies all logical research about healthy exercise. If a muscle is sore and partially torn from a gruelling 20km run the day before, then another run will surely loosen it up and get it to come around. The long distance runner knows no boundaries. A marathon the day before is no excuse to take a day off the next day. A long distance runner considers a "day off" a day in which an easy 10km run is acceptable instead of a usually, gruelling uphill +20km battle.

Long distance runners can tune out pain that would kill most people. Muscle fatigue and lactic acid build up are obstacles to overcome, not barriers that will stop your run. Lack of toenails, knee surgeries and muscle tears become a part of the routine, an accepted sacrifice for a sport that they couldn't live without.

The mental toughness and focus of a long distance has no comparison. The first kilometre is always easy, with a light kick and a good feeling. The second kilometre is tough. The third one is tougher. The fourth kilometre, and you hit that dreaded wall. You snap back from your high and realize that your knee hurts. Your pace has started to slack. Your sock is digging into your toe and causing a blister, your back aches, and your shoulder have started to pinch. It's hot. You're sweating, your throat is dry and your mind starts to tell you that you should stop. Running like this is not good for your body.

The long distance runner will keep going. Keep going even though their muscles, their minds, and every fiber of their being is screaming uncle and begging them to stop. Their high will come back near the sixth kilometre, and they will tune out.

Until the tenth kilometre, where they hit the other wall. Their brain is now encouraging them to keep going, but their muscles no longer burn. They are numb. The pace becomes almost impossible to keep up with. Nothing hurts, nothing aches, but everything just....stops. Their legs want to stop. Channelling every ounce of their energy, they fool their body into thinking it's in a state of rest. Despite the steady pace they have kept up for ten kilometres, their heart inexplicably slows down. It starts to beat slowly, as if they were standing completely still. In the middle of a long, arduous run--the long distance runner is in a state of rest. The second wind.

Long distance runners are often withdrawn, self-reflective people. Never saying much, but always observing their entire surroundings. They often look as if they're not in the same realm, standing idle with a dazed, day-dreaming look on their face. Their entire lives are consumed with running. When they are not running, they want to be. When they are running, they never want to stop. Seeing a runner go by while they are completing daily tasks such as going to school or doing groceries is mental torture for the long distance runner. They crave the high, the burn, the muscle pain that their sport brings. The long distance runner cannot take a day off. It does not make sense. Graduation, wedding day, or vacation, the long distance runner will be out there at some point during the day, getting their mileage in. The long distance runner is beyond the point of running to lose weight or to be healthy. The long distance runner knows that people who run for these reasons are disrespectful and traitors to the sport.

The long distance runner balks at health concerns that govern most people. The long distance runner knows no boundaries, feels no pain, and can think of nothing else except their beloved sport.

i awoke only to find my lungs empty

2009 has been a strange year so far.

On the very first day of it, my handwritten journal was laced with thoughts that something really big was going to happen this year. It's a feeling I've only gotten a few times in my life, but it has always been bang on.

Lots of big things have happened to me so far, things I've worked really long and hard for. Getting the chance to work with the Montreal Canadiens was amazing. It was big. It's a career opportunity that will hopefully develop even more when I graduate, but for now I can only keep my fingers crossed real tight.

Finding a boy that I thought could keep up with me was big, too. I turned out to be wrong, but he had me fooled pretty good for awhile and it was nice to feel as if maybe there was someone out there who knew what I was about and get me to come around. He turned out kind of lame, but I enjoyed the turmoil of emotions and drama while it lasted. That was big.

Despite that overwhelming feeling in January, over the past few months I seem to have completely lost track of it and that excitement over what it would mean.

Fate is something that I grapple with a lot. I find a comfort in knowing that there's a force bigger than me out there, that ultimately decides what happens. It's soothing for me to believe that everything happens for a reason, and all the pieces will fall exactly where they need to be.

Other times, I get impatient with fate. I think it's not moving fast enough, or that it's going about it all wrong. Things are happening but they're not happening the way I want them too. Shit is getting mixed up, messed up, and maybe everything won't fall into place because it's confused. Sometimes I think I should hop in there and give it a helping hand, push it along. I'll try and put myself in the right place at the right time and force it, which completely defeats the purpose of believing in fate to begin with.

For a few months I think I've been trying to hard to make all the pieces fall the way I want them too, and it's not working. Someitmes things don't work out exactly the way I want them to because they can't, but that doesn't mean the way they will eventually work out will be any less amazing.

Spitting coffee out on an NHL player I idolize was definitely not how I envisioned our first meeting. But I interrupted a conversation he was having in the hallway with a mutual friend, he started to giggle at something the friend said as I took a sip of my coffee. I tried, with every fiber of my being, to swallow the coffee. But the sight and sound of a big, burly tough hockey player giggling in a high-pitched manner like a schoolgirl was too much for me and before I knew it, I snorted and the coffee previously in my mouth was now all over the front of his shirt.

Not as planned. But I wouldn't change it for the world.

I need to let go of my burning desire to control the outcome of situations in a dire attempt to get exactly what I want. I need to let it be, and maybe then I'll realize I'm getting everything I want. Maybe I'll realize that I sure don't want what I'm getting.

Either way, I'll learn.

mirror mirror on the wall...

"There are two things every girl must be: classy & fabulous."

Coco Chanel's slogan really irks me. I hate how there's so much emphasis that in order for a woman to be beautiful, she has to have a closet full of ridiculously uncomfortable shoes, the right words always on the tip of her tongue, and a way of manoeuvring through life smooth as butter.

I admire the girls that can walk in 4 inch stilettos, I do. And I respect a woman that can pull of a dress that looks like it's missing 3/4 of it's material on the hanger. I almost envy a woman who is elegant, classy, and perfectly put together.

At the same time, though, I think there's something ridiculously endearing about a girl who can trip over her own two bare feet, and probably take you down with her. There's something charming about a girl who doesn't always need to wear make up, and who is completely comfortable leaving her house in a sweatshirt and messy ponytail. There's something alluring about a girl in flip flops who sometimes chokes on her words or speaks in gibberish and finds it hilarious when you get that confused look on your face.

I've never been a classy or elegant girl. You can dress me up, but you can't take me anywhere. I'll trip, flail, tumble, and I'll think it's so hilarious that I'll sit on the floor loudly guffawing at the spectacle of myself. I don't always wear make up. I don't like make up. My hair is never perfectly in place--it's a wild pouf of messy curls that I can just barely manage on a daily basis. Give me a sweatshirt instead of a classy dress and I'll show you a good time. I love jumping in pools fully clothed, sometimes I snort when I laugh really heartily, and chinese food is best eaten right out of the containers.

I don't have the gorgeous, buttery gold skin and perfect legs. My legs are strong from years of running and my shoulders are usually slightly burnt or peeling from the long hours spent outside.

I've never been classy or fabulous. I've never even been elegant. And not so long ago, I'd look at the girls that were and I'd envy them. Now...now, I think there's something equally as beautiful and charming about a girl that is none of those things, but everything else.

forgetting why, remembering how

Coming back from vacation has to be one of the hardest things in the world to do. Spending a week in Carribbean paradise only to come crashing back to a world of summer classes, part-time jobs and boys who mess with your head is so unpleasant. At this time last week, I was sipping rum from a giant coconut and I had my toes digging in the sand.

Reality check.

Maybe the thing that makes vacations so sweet is the fact that they're so elusive.

When I came back on Saturday, I felt the burning desire to change something quite drastically. Travelling has always had a weird effect on me, I love it so much. Home is always a foreign concept because to me, home is wherever I am. I can make my home out of a few tree branches nd a lake and be happy as a clam. I'm at my best when travelling with no return date in mind--just a backpack of essentials, and endless possibilities.
Things had been a bit amuck before I left, between applying for internships that I desperately want to studying for midterms at the end of May (yuck) to a stupid guy who probably isn't worth half the amount of time I spend being angry at kind of liking him. I had forgotten about all of that while frolicking in the ocean, and when I came back I felt like I had my priorities pretty messed up before I left.
Something needed to change, I needed to feel different. So I did a classic thing that most girls do--I changed my hair.

My hair has alaways been my trademark, everyone knows me for my boisterous, obnoxious head of brown curls that can take over the stratosphere. While my curls are still in tact (they'll never change, I love them), I got bangs. I haven't had bangs since I was 8. And just that simple move of cutting a few inches off of a select group of hairs was enough to change my entire look and satisfy my need for something different.






Next up on the menu of change is a 14-hour road trip out to Nova Scotia with my best friend, in two weeks. Why? Because I've always wanted to see the Maritimes.