Life Is Not a Punctuation Mark

I had this major epiphany the other day. Part of me wonders if I am excruciatingly slow on the uptake not to have realized this before.

I think I have always thought of "life" as a series of events:

"When I turn five, I get to go to kindergarten."

"When I turn 13, I won't be a little kid anymore. Maybe I can start using makeup!"

"When I turn 18, I won't be a kid at all and I will have to vote. What if I mess up and choose the wrong person?"

And of course, everyone has their "When I...." moments.

"When I get married...."

"When I buy my first house...."

"When I get a dog...."

"When I have a baby...."

"When I go to Africa......."

"When I take over the world..."

"When I figure out how to properly blow dry my hair...."

No? No one has that last one as a life goal? Whatever. You lie. Everyone wants to know how to blow dry her (or his, I suppose) hair properly.

My point is this: if you approach life from the point of view that you are living it only when you have achieved that milestone, and the next one, and the next one....you aren't really living life at all.

Am I just sounding super obvious here? Did everyone else know this but me?

Those milestones, those goals, are just the punctuation at the end of a sentence. They are exclamation points, questions marks, periods. They aren't the story. The real story is everything that happens in between. The real story is the words filling up the page, not the marks that end the sentences.

How absurd would it be to insist that the heart of a book lies in the placement of its periods and question marks?

No: the heart of the book, of the story, lies in the magic of the words.

When you think about life that way, it makes walking to the store rather important. Walking to the store isn't merely to get a chicken so you can impress your cute co-worker, so you can date him, marry him, and then have his triplets.

No. Walking to the store is a whole page unto itself. It's something that must be lived through - and why not joyfully? - on the way to whatever punctuation mark you come to next.

In a way, this makes everything kind of important, because everything you do is your life, and you only get one chance. I'm not saying that you get all hyped up and nervy and act as if on every choice rests the future of the free world. Oh no.

But what I am saying is that whatever you are doing, whatever you are in the middle of: this is life. So enjoy it. Love it.

And stop trying to find the next exclamation mark. Just settle for hopping to the next word.

Private Sin?

I tend to have a problem with sleeping. As in: It's very rare that I get more than four hours at a time, and so, as a result I:

a) spend too much time thinking

and

b) need afternoon cat-naps in order to survive.

Having spent the last week in the throes of intense insomnia,  which attacked me for various reasons that are probably not interesting to anyone but me and a team of Psychiatrists, I decided that this afternoon I really needed to take a nap if I wanted to make it to my next Birthday.

I'm not positive, but I am pretty certain that 18 hours of sleep spread across five days PROBABLY shaves some time off of your life expectancy. Also: it makes you crazy. Like, really crazy. Like...."I don't want to know that girl," crazy.

So, after having plowed through a bunch of work, I laid myself down with my Kindle and the intense desire that I fall asleep just for a little bit. Just for enough time so that I could gain the concentration to put eyeliner on without poking my eye ball out.

Unfortunately, I chose to try and finish Madame Bovary as a method of pre-sleep relaxation, and this hit on sensitive topic dear to my soul. Damn it, instead of sleeping, I laid in bed and thought about many deep, dark things. So much for successfully putting on eyeliner this evening.

Here's the thing. Something that I have known about myself for quite some time is that I have "issues" with trust. Everyone does to varying degrees, but this little problem is especially strong in me. I knew it was there and  I nodded to its presence, but it's not until you actually get really, really close to someone else that you see how any personal "issues" you might have can really affect your life and the other person's life in many deep and undesirable ways.

By the time I was 24, I had successfully avoided the messiness of getting close enough to someone so that my own insanity was reflected back to me and slapped me square on the face. Any relationship beyond the purely casual or completely superficial was something I was just not interested in. Anything headed into anything more would immediately be moulded into the "just friends" category.

Possibly it was because I hadn't met anyone I liked enough. Possibly it was because I had a list of things I wanted to do before actually committing to anything, let alone on any serious level to another person. Possibly because I was just too scared to open up that much. The thought of trusting someone to hold all of me in his hands - what is great and what is bad and what is downright scary - was something seemed too risky a thing to plunge in to.

And then like some cliche out of a "find yourself" chick-flick, I went to Greece and came to the realization that no matter how many amazing experiences I could have, if I experienced them alone, they would be just a little empty. No matter how much I desired to protect myself, if it came at the cost of never actually living the full extent of what it requires to love and be loved, then what a truly empty life that would be.

So, I went "Oh FINE. If someone good comes along, I'll at least TRY."

Four weeks later my heart did backwards flip in a little cafe in Paris (can you GET any more cliche than this?), and I went "Oh. Shit. OHSHIT. I promised I would try."

So I did. And thus began the process of coming to truly know myself: that self reflected back to me by someone who loves me, and is trying to wrap his head around my....own unique brand of crazy.

Which brings me full circle to my initial point (Insomnia does NOTHING for the ability to stick to a point):

I have major trust issues.

In bed today, after delving into Madame Bovary, I was reflecting, yet again, on this sad truth. I kept asking myself why? Why? Where does this come from? Some of it is, of course, the accident of my temperament combined with various formative influences that made lasting impacts on me.

And then part of it has to do with the direct experience of seeing trust broken, over and over again, in romantic relationships. In my own experience, one married man has directly propositioned me (yep, for an affair), one married man has obliquely hinted at it, two men with serious girlfriends have informed me that if I showed any interest they would move over to me, and three men have thrown it out there that I, for some obscure reason which I have not figured out yet, am someone they would love to keep on the back burner for future extra-marital action.

Yeah. I have no idea why either.

And don't get me started on the women who have told me - in the past year alone - of the affairs committed by their well loved husbands.

This, my friends, has instilled quite a strong sense of terror in me. I think any woman who desires faithfulness from a partner would feel the same way, at witnessing such repeated and overt attempts at unfaithfulness, or least an open willingness towards it.

Here's the rub: there is absolutely nothing I can do about the experiences I have had or the stories I have heard. I can't run away from the very real truth that it's a twisted messy world out there, and that shit happens. It really does. I can live in fear of that, or I can just do my best to choose wisely, and trust that whatever happens I can handle it. Because  - and this is rather heartening - in that moment I will have the grace to handle it.

But here is the point of this long ramble: There is a direct and very tangible reason that we all should try really hard not to sin. Yes, it hurts God, but that's a rather fuzzy truth for most of us to get our minds around. What is true, and what might make a bigger direct impact, is that sinning - your own personal sin - really hurts other people.

Someone told me a while back that he didn't regret much any anything that he had done wrong. In that moment, I had to agree in some small part: if you've had a lot of fun being bad, it's really hard to regret it. It's really hard to feel sorry for it.

But...for example - and keeping in our theme of the day - if a man shows a willingness to be unfaithful, he not only destroys the trust he should be building with his significant other - a horrendous thing in itself -  he also risks causing the object of his prospective unfaithfulness to apply his gross standards to all other men.

This could, potentially - not that I have direct experience or anything - harm the woman's ability to trust, and also does a huge disservice to the many truly good men out there.

That "private sin" turns into a chain reaction affecting who knows how many other people.

Conclusion - and you NEVER thought we would get here!......

When you think that what the bad thing you are planning to do will affect no one but yourself, think again. It's really not possible. Give me any "private sin," and I can tell you how it will hurt someone else.

On the flip side: any good thing you do touches someone else as well. So really, the world isn't as bleak as all that.

So go forth and do good.

 .....And try not to stare at the dark circles under my eyes. There is no concealer that will cover what I have going on over here.

NOT the Eiffel Tower

Quite often, I hear my elders rant about the current state of the education system.

No one learns multiplication tables anymore.

No one knows geography.

Grammar? WHAT'S GRAMMAR?

I know I have some holes in my educational background, but for the most part I consider myself at least a little better off than most, since I have always been a voracious reader. Reading covers up a multitude of sins. At the very least you have big words to use and interesting characters to talk about, at the drop of a hat.

But.....

then things like this happen, and I start to think I need to hire myself a private tutor.

A few days ago I was standing on a rooftop patio very near St. Paul's. The view of the London was magnificent. The sky was clear for once, and a beautiful shade of blue. The few clouds in sight were whispy and fluffy. A mellow breeze drifted through the air.

Sigh.

As my eyes scanned the horizon, my insides did an excited little jump. "Cool," I thought to myself. "You can see the Eiffel Tower from here. How ROMANTIC!"

I was about to point this out, when I paused. "Wait a second.....Is that possible? What direction is France? What direction am I facing? How far away is Paris? Is the landscape between here and there flat enough for me to even see anything in Paris from here?"

The thing is, I had the answer to none of those questions, and my Blackberry wasn't connecting to the internet, so I couldn't do a quick search to find out.

And I certainly wasn't going to ask anyone. No. WAY.

Because....while it LOOKED an awful lot like the Eiffel Tower, the logical part of my mind told me it couldn't possibly be. But the flaky part of my mind REALLY WANTED IT TO BE TRUE. However, I had no hard facts at hand to help me reach any kind of conclusion whatsoever.

So I took a surreptitious picture with my phone, as a reminder that when I had access to Google, I was going to do some investigative journalism, and I went on my merry way.

And then I forgot.

Until the topic of Geography came up with my friend, a few days later. My friends and I try to have cultured conversations.

"Can I ask you something? Is it possible to see the Eiffel Tower from a tall building in London?"

"....................I don't think so....."

"Are you SURE?"

"Well...the English Channel is between England and France, and then there is the distance from both London and Paris TO the Channel.....so I don't think it's possible."

"I need to check Google."

So I did. And I went to six different sites. And according to my research, no: It is not possible to see the Eiffel Tower from any point in London. Not even the London Eye.

So...there goes THAT romantic occurrence from my life.

At least I didn't embarrass myself by excitedly pointing out the non-Eiffel Tower from a random rooftop in London.

I Almost Became A Fifth Wife

A few weeks back, I was in Oxford.

It was as beautiful and romantic as you might have imagined it to be. But that's not what I want to talk about. What I want to talk about is the fact that I almost became the fifth wife of a 57 year old Saudi Arabian man.

Not. Joking.

I promise.

It was a lazy afternoon, and after wandering around looking at colleges (that's a lie, I was shopping), I was reaching that mid-afternoon slump. So I did what any civilized person would do, and took myself to a tea shop and ordered tea.

I sat down, savouring the silence, which was a nice contrast to the bustle of the streets outside, and decided that it was the perfect moment to write in my journal. I know: Oxford, Tea, and Journal Writing - they just go together.

My warm tea by my side, a feeling of contentment oozed through me. I should have known it was too good to be true. Very suddenly, I became aware of a dark swarthy man, repeatedly turning from his table to look at me.

"Don't make eye contact. Don't make eye contact. Mary DON'T LOOK UP."

I looked up.

He leaned over. "Sometimes, at the beginning, things are difficult. But as time moves on, they get easier."

You know what my first thought was? "That's so TRUE! I needed to hear that. Maybe this is my guardian angel! I wish he was better looking."

I am not sure normal people have thoughts like that.

I just nodded, because I was not in the mood to have a conversation with a stranger, not even if he happened to be my guardian angel. I turned my attention to my tea and pen, assuming that it would be obvious I was not willing to chat.

Somehow, it wasn't.

An hour later,  after having been asked if I was married or not - "Ahh! You aren't!!" -  I was in possession of an invitation to Saudi Arabia. I was further informed that he had not successfully had any children with any of his wives thus far  but was certain it would happen soon. Possibly he might have a problem, and not the multiple women he is married to - but this is not something I actually wanted to suggest to his face.

As I made a move to leave, he asked if he could show me around Oxford's Covered Market. Having lost the ability to say "no," I slowly nodded yes. He showed me his butcher's and his cheese man, and the place where he buys his bread, and as we entered into the sunshine on the High Street, he asked if I had been into the quads of any of the Colleges.

Having lost my brain, I dumbly shook my head. So he escorted me around some lovely college quads, and tried to explain some gorgeous college chapels to me.

Seeing as how I was the Christian of our dynamic duo, I am pretty sure I should have been doing the talking.

A further hour later, he was informing me that we would see so much more of each other in the future, and his hand had somehow found its way onto the small of my back. *Shiver.*

If the man you like does that, you want to kiss him. If the man who is informing you that you would look lovely with a head covering on, who is as old as your father, and very obviously not your guardian angel does that, you want to castrate him.

We entered a bookstore so that my eager suitor could show me some atlases, and I took this an opportunity to frantically text a Spaniard for help. Seeing as how he was in London, I am not sure what exactly I thought he could do to help me, but seeing as how he is my boyfriend, I thought he better do something.

My phone rang shrilly, disturbing the staid silence of the bookstore.

"Walk away."

"What?"

"Just....walk away."

"Just like that?"

"Yep. And if he follows you, ask for help."

"Oh."

I walked past the Saudi gentleman, motioned to my phone and told him I needed to take the call outside, and walked out the door of the bookshop.

"Oh my gosh. I'm on the street. And I am walking around the corner. And he isn't following me!!"

"So. Why didn't you just say no?"

".....I'm Canadian? I don't assert myself? Maybe?"

"Wow. I need to give you 'no' lessons or something."

And that's that. Except the next morning, the friend who I was staying with was getting a coffee. As she was waiting for it, a man approached her, started chatting, and asked her where she was from. Having been informed that she was from Canada, he did a little jump and said that he had met a Canadian girl named Mary the previous day, and was looking for her.

Shannon, having as she said "No time for drama like that," simply shrugged and told him she knew of no such person.

Somehow she escaped the Saudi man without having to lose three hours of her life to him.

I think I might have to take my Spaniard up on those lessons.

The American Invasion

So, I've been in London since the beginning of June: I know, I get around.

Obviously I was meant to be a gypsy of some sort.

I am not the biggest fan of London. In my head, it was the place of Holmes and Wimsey and Wilde. I suppose, somehow, I expected it to be stuck in the late 1800's/early 1900's.

This, my friends, is not the case.

London is chaotic. Always busy. Kinda smelly. Quite muggy. And full of incredibly unfriendly people.

Or perhaps it is just the famous British reserve.

It is a bizarre thing to be in a completely packed tube station.....and to hear nothing but clicking heels and rustling news papers. No one talks to each other. No one makes eye contact. Strangers don't strike up conversation.

Sometimes I just want to moan really loudly, or shriek some swear words, and then step back and see what happens.

I bet you everyone would pretend not to notice.

A few days ago, a rowdy American jumped on a packed train car and yelled, "Who here is from the U.S.?"

*Cheers*

"What about from the UK?"

*Silence*

Talk about complete and total inhibition.

What with the Olympics, London is suffering under the influx of the rest of Europe, as well as an invasion of Americans.

I am here to inform you that there is absolutely nothing in the world like watching an American abroad.

For one thing, they dress horrendously. Like, you kind of want to walk up to them and vomit on their fanny packs and polo shirts. I am pretty darn sure that it would help.

For another, they are so loud. SO. LOUD. Foghorn voices.

Also: they can't pronounce anything.

"Hey darlin, what you say we go to Pret ay Mayn Ger and grab something?"

In case you were wondering: "Pret a Manger."

"Ok, our stop is the Glock es ter one."

Gloucester (Admittedly: tricky. But, it's fun to watch the Brits try not to smirk.)

And get this: they are always eating. Always.

Sandwiches. Chocolate Bars. Chips. Cookies.

Crumbs down the polo, nestling on the fanny pack.

Hawt.

Attractive.

Yummy.

I really think there should be a reality show, in which Americans are followed around as they travel.

Purpose. YOU NEED PURPOSE, BLOG.

By my calculations, I have not written on this blog for about 3.2 Million years.

Or, almost five months.

One or the other.

I have never been good at math, but that's kinda sorta the same thing, yes?

You know how sometimes life gets in the way, and somethings gotta give? Well, this blog gave. I know there has been weeping and gnashing of teeth at my absence in the blogosphere.

And I'm sorry. Truly. Because weeping is awful, and gnashing....well, your dentist won't be happy.

Here's the thing:

I have this love hate relationship with bloggers and blogging. When it comes right down to it, what's the point? Ok, if you have a food blog you post yummy recipes which make people drool into their key boards. Speaking of which: try wiping spit out the little crevices between the keys. It's a pain the ass.

I'm just guessing here. I don't actually have first hand experience.

Or, I suppose if you have a design blog, you post amazing pictures of clothes, or houses, or rooms, or whatever your particular design fetish happens to be, which can occasionally make people sit in the darkest corner of their closets, moaning in despair at the complete lack of beauty or hipster-coolness in their lives: "WHERE IS THE TURQUOISE? WHERE IS THE LEMON YELLOW? WHY DO I ONLY HAVE FIFTY SHADES OF GREY?" (Actual grey, not the book.)

I'm just guessing here. I don't actually have first hand experience.

So, yes. A blog can have a purpose. Food. Art. Clothing. Animals. Ornithology (??!). Stamps. Religion.

But...say you have a blog written by someone who may or may not be lying in her bed, listening to a high school "Battle of the Bands" filtering in through her window, and all she really wants to do is hang out in heels, get covered in diamonds and eat chocolate for the rest of her life? (It's possible. I swear!)  (Not that I have thought about it for any extensive length of time.) What then? What's the point of her blog?

Because here's the thing: a blog needs to fit into a specific niche which gives it purpose.

Why?

Because you are human, damn it. And so, given a platform at which you believe the eyes of the world are directed, and from which you can spout absolutely anything because you are your blog's own boss and the centre of its universe....

you run the risk of becoming a whiny, namby pamby, self centred, egotistical, fake self deprecating, narcissistic piece of....work....

who should really just fly to Africa and dig a well and gain some perspective outside of your belly button.

I'm talking to you, girl lying on the bed in her underwear who really needs to pee but is too lazy to move. (Where is a catheter when you need one?)

Anyway: YOU IN THE BED! Does your blog have a purpose?

Oh. Whoops. We'll have to wait until next time for the answer to that, because no longer can she pretend that, if she delays thirty more seconds,  she won't end up peeing in her pants.

Until next time:

Thank  you, and goodnight.

Ordinary Moments

From one of my favorite lecturers and writers:

We miss what is truly important because we are on the quest for what is extraordinary, not understanding that in our ordinary lives, in the ordinary moments of our lives is really where we can find the most joy.

Brene Brown

If that isn't something to sit down and think about, I don't know what is.