letting go ain't easy

I am so very tired.

Never in a million years would I ever complain about working for Hockey Night in Canada. It is a dream come true and I enjoy the hell out of every day that I get to work for them.

But it is tiring work, running around all day like that. When you wake up the next day feeling as if you're hungover and you didn't even drink, that's usually a sign that you're hauling ass.

So tired.

17 days until I blow this town and leave all the drama and heartache behind. 17 days until it's my summer.

taking it day by day

I never really considered myself naive. I'm a lot of things, but naive definitely isn't one of them.

And for all of my distrust in men, most of my best friends are guys. And I've known them since I was 3. Sometimes, my level of comfort around the male gender can lead to things that were not at all on my agenda, but were carefully plotted out by the crafty opposite sex.

At one of the games last week, the strength and conditioning coach for one of the teams askedme for a copy of the notes I was running to the CBC journalist. The notes were readily available on a table in the next room, but I figured this guy probably has a lot to do, so I gave him a copy.

I am naturally a very smiley person. I can't pull the sour puss face without it looking ridiculous. In general, I find girls who scowl constantly to look ridiculous anyway. Everyone looks so much better when they smile. So, being me, I flashed him a big grin and puttered on my way.

Next time I breezed by, he jokingly tossed a football at me. I caught it, ;put my things down, and tossed it back. Thus ensued a 20-minute game of catch. We talked about a lot of stuff--school, where we were from, what I was doing working for CBC, summer plans, etc. At one point, he said to take down his number in case I was ever in ____. When I couldn't plug it into my phone (because I am technilogically inept), he asked me for mine.

Everything about the interaction, to me, was platonic. I grew up with boys. Tossing a football around is nothing out of the ordinary for me--it is not flirtatious, it's not seductive. It's "I really don't have anything pressing to do right now, and OOO! A FOOTBALL!" That's how I viewed it. I interpreted it for what it was. Two people playing a game of catch in the boring time between pre-game warm ups and the actual game.

Even when he asked me for my number, nothing in my mind sent up a red flag. In this industry, your phone number is one of the firs things people ask for when they meet you. It's a form of communication, and more so, it's a way of reaching you when there's an emergency. Because in journalism, there's always some form of emergency. When I met the two hosts last Monday, the first thing we did was swap phone numbers. It's just common practice, it's NETWORKING. So I thought nothing of it.

And I was naive.

It wasn't until I got a rather suggestive text message from him later on that night, that it clicked.

I'm mad at myself.

My reputation is everything to me. As a 23 year old girl in a brutal, chauvinistic guy's world--your reputation is all you've got. It's what earns you their respect. I have worked so hard on my reputation, to keep it pristine. And that says a LOT. I have travelled with a varsity men's team, across Canada, for 3 years. I have gotten propositioned crudely and genuinely asked out more times than I can remember. I have worked in the NHL for 3 years. If a person can go digging for dirt on me and come up with nothing--NOTHING--then I know I've kept my rep in tact. And I'm proud of that. I'm proud of not having a spec of dirt in my past with anybody related to this world. It earns me respect and it puts me on a level that other people aren't on.

And it's not like I never wanted to. I have had genuine connections with guys in the past--I have truly liked some of them. And I would never let myself give in, not even a millimetre, because I knew somewhere down the line it would bite me in the ass. I made it a point to never become involved with anybody in the hockey world.

Now I feel as if I've tarnished my reputation by sheer accident. This guy seemed nice enough, but who knows what was said on the team bus. He could have claimed I was a puck bunny and he scored my number just by asking. I know the truth, but that doesn't mean much when I'm not even there to defend my honour.

And that's not fair. When I gave him my number, it was innocent on my behalf. There was nothing in my mind except a platonic interaction. But to him, he probably zeroed in on me and scored big time when I so easily handed out my number.

It could all just reflect very, very badly on me if the word gets around. I know people on that team. And I can only hope that they know me well enough to know that whatever he's spreading around isn't true. That I'd never give out my number under that pretense.

I shouldn't be so naive.

what you see is what you are

Have you ever had somebody look at you--just look at you--and it was strong enough to electrify you? I'm talking hair-raising, balled-fist type of shivers down your spine that made you close your eyes and shudder?

I am in some kind of trouble.

just let go

I've always loved airports. There is something about the vibe of a airport that entrances me every single time. I can never pinpoint it, but I love it. I could spend days on end in an airport, watching the people at the gates, the people waving to loved ones boarding planes, the anxious women biting their nails and checking their watches at the arrival gates.

I love planes. I love flying. I don't think I'll ever get tired of it, which is a good thing considering the career I'm aiming for.

Cuba was fantastic, it was so great to be by the ocean again. Words cannot express the joy that is sitting outside with a warm carribbean breeze blowing your hair, listening to the palm trees rustle as you sip your fourth mojito. It's just soul food.

But when it came time to leave, the old haunts of leaving started to creep up again. I'm not sure why I don't like the concept of "home." Courtney was anxious to get back into the swing of real life, to see her kitten again. Was I anxious to sleep in my own bed? Sure. But could I have gone another month without it? Absolutely. Could I have taken my suitcase, chosen a random terminal in the airport, and taken off again? Without hesitation.

I have no ties. These binds and pulls that other people have towards home--going back to familiarity, the comforts of routine--I don't have those. I have friends that are my life support, but I keep them with me wherever I go. Friendship is as fluid and malleable as the concept of home, friendship can follow you.

Sometimes I wonder if it's a bad thing. Eveyone thinks I'm crazy to hate going home from wherever 've been. I can't remember a time where I was ever anxious to get back once I had been away--which probably means that wherever I feel my home is, it's not Montreal.

Because when I left Halifax last summer, my heart broke into pieces.

On Thursday night, the weather in Cuba was stifling even at midnight. It's the kind of heat that just envelops you all over and makes you think there is a God. The beach was dark and desolate. The sound of the wavs crashing the shore is one of my greatest pleasures in life. The ocean is my muse, my temptress, and it's a sound I could listen to forever.

I asked my friend to hang back near the passageway. I kicked off my flip flops and walked down the sand to the shoreline. I waded a foot deep into the water and just stayed there for a few minutes, taking it all in. The stars were out, neatly dotting the dark sky in constellations that I didn't recognize. Standing on that beach, alone, is something I will never forget. A few thoughts that crept into my head were powerful enough to give me shivers, but the sense of fate and the unknown was the most powerful force that overtook me.

Last summer, sitting on the Halifax Harbourfront at 2AM, three words kept repeating themselves in my head. On that beach, the three words came back, but they were different this time.

Everything is going to be okay.

I'm as atheist as they come, but there's something really comforting about knowing that I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.

I don't believe in accidents.

leaving on a jet plane

When I said I needed out of this town for awhile, I really wasn't kidding. The urge to leave was so bad last week that, on a whim, my best friend and I booked a trip to Cuba and we leave tomorrow. It still hasn't really clicked that in 24 hours, I'll be digging my toes into the white Caribbean sand. It'll be so nice to just get away for awhile.

I should probably pack. That might be a good idea.

There are a million things going through my mind and not nearly enough time to try and process or deal with all of them. But it's time to get away.

trading in who i've been for shiny celebrity skin

Yesterday was the big athletic banquet at Concordia. 300 Stingers athletes, all gathered in suits and ties and dresses, the girls bobbling awkwardly on heels that we all weren't accustomed to.

I was hesitant on going. I didn't want to see the men's hockey team.

I had a great 3 years travelling with those guys. I was the only girl around them, and the only reporter to travel with them to all of the road games. I learned so much from being around them--lessons related to journalism but also lessons about life, things I learned about myself, and I learned to just let things slide. I learned how to earn respect from a pack of wolves that never have respect for a girl. A girl, to them, wasn't something to respect. It was something to lie to, toy with, sleep with, then laugh about it the next day.

If I hadn't travelled with that team, if I hadn't learned the rules of the game(and I'm not talking about hockey)--then I never in a million years would have one-upped an NHL player like I did last month. In the locker room in North Carolina, he went on a good 2 minute schpiel in french about how hot he thought I was, since he figured nobody around him spoke french.

I went over, called him out on it, and we all thought it was hysterical. But you know what? He'll never forget me. I would never have that kind of courage, that kind of guts, if it wasn't for what that team has taught me.

But at the end of the day, they're all hockey players. And that's saying enough. At the end of the season, I was propositioned so many times that I lost count. All of these guys have steady, long-term girlfriends. At the clubs, I'd get groped and lost in the gang of them.

I'm so tired of these boys. Of this scene. Of these guys who think that it's their right to have any girl they want, without even asking. And not just have any girl--but have them all. These douchebags that have a steady girlfriend and who still sleep with any girl that so much as glances at them.

I skipped the after-party at the club. I want to get away from this world. Clubs are fake. People put on a facade and bump and grind against each other, all after somehting so fleeting and superficial that it's not worth half the effort or time it took to get ready for the night. I'm tired of the fake interaction.

I want someone real. Someone who probably would have skipped out on a night of clubbing with horndog athletes too, because of how ridiculous and shallow it all is.

I need a break from hockey players. I need a break from boys who think it's okay to put their hands on a girl without asking. Boys who have a girlfriend but still think it's okay to sleep with other women. Boys who think the world should worship the ground they walk on, boys who are full of themselves and cocky as shit, boys who swagger when they walk, boys who are dumb and can't pronounce a word that has more than 3 syllables.

Please, god, tell me there are men out there who don't play hockey.

I need believe there are still some decent boys left.

The next man I date, the very first question I'll ask him is "Do you play hockey?"

the in between is mine

Sometimes, not even I understand myself.

I don't know where I got this vagabond nature. I don't know when it started. I don't know why I'm this way.

I haven't met anybody else inflicted with this...instinct, I guess you could call it, either.

But every few months, sometimes weeks, I need to leave. I need to pack up and go somewhere, and I have to fight and drag myself back to the place I left. And it's strong. God, is it strong.

I can't even explain it. When it first started, I used to really think it was the ocean calling to me. The ocean was, and still is, all I think about. The smell, the spray, the taste, the sound. It consumes me. But the more it continued, the more I realized that it wasn't just the ocean.

I just needed to leave.

It's not triggered by anything. It doesn't have a pattern. It strikes suddenly and is powerful enough to knock me off my feet. Powerful enough to drive me to insanity, if I don't heed its call. I'll become obssessive about it. I will give myself panic attacks thinking of how monotonous, blinding, how stifling Montreal is.

And when I leave, it all gets better. Until I have to will myself to go back.

My dad calls me a wandering soul. I'm not so sure that's it. Wanderers flitter about on their own will.

When this feeling hits, I feel like I'm caught up in a tidal wave. I'm not wandering so much as being pulled somewhere, usually wherever gut instinct takes me.

I don't know why.

But it's here again. And it's time to go.