Ifs

I was as sure then as I am now that it was the best choice I could have made at the time and I am as certain now as I was then that I did the right thing.

It was the path that was going to lead me to a new life, and it did, just not the life I thought I wanted to walk into. This one is much better. This one has different limitations.

If it had lasted. If I hadn't caught him in bed with a young woman I knew from high school who was mainly trying to get even for me dating her ex-"fiancé" 9 months after they had broke up. If hadn't been drinking so much. If I hadn't been drinking so often. If hadn't been trying to cram myself into a gender stereotype that didn't fit.

If I hadn't been trying to find a way to live with myself and what I was told I should be ashamed of.

If I hadn't learned the lessons...

Today would be my 19th wedding anniversary. The 19th anniversary doesn't come with a traditional gift, so I can't even crack wise about missing out on the "papier maché"or "aluminum foil" anniversary.

I could have been married for exactly half my life today had he not had the sense to cheat on me and treat me so terribly that I had to go looking for Plan B. That's the truth of it. I would be someone completely different than I am now if he hadn't done that.

For the record, my Plan B was terrible. But it got me to the place where I read the books that changed my mind, which led me to the place where I learned about the internet and through the internet I figured out how to use my words. And when I finally, FINALLY, learned to use my words I realized that the guy had done me a favour. I had limited my life to what I thought was expected of someone of whom little was expected as soon as he handed me the ring. The failure of our marriage after seven and a half months (plus three additional months of drama, emotional blackmail, threats, violence, reconciliation, more drama, more threats and spending a night in jail) was the humiliation I needed to reconsider my future.

Not that I saw it like that at the time. Oh no, I was mad. Mad in the English sense of the word, not the North American one. I was broken and fallen and tired of living and I would not turn 20 until the week before the drama ended.

I didn't know it then but I know it now, my divorce was the first step I took toward saving my own life.

Rob, I have no clue where you are but I hope that you are happy. I also hope that you are as happy as I am that this isn't our wedding anniversary.

Pep talk

I need a new job. I just can't take the chaotic upheaval that happens every time my boss shows up feeling like he's late or missing something. It's exhausting.

So...

I've been trying to talk myself into turning out a serious, serious job hunt; complete with networking events, cold calls and harassing everyone I know well enough to harass about my job hunt.

The thought of it is exhausting and spirit smashing all at once.

I can do this. It might take forever to be successful, but I can find a new job.

I hope.

"And that, of course, is a cat."

I went to the TheatreSports Improv drop-in class at the community centre on Granville Island yesterday afternoon with an old friend that I've known since kindergarten. We haven't seen each other in over 20 years, and have lived about 30 minutes apart for the past 5 years. Yesterday we finally made plans to do something, and improv class, food, drink, gelato and a long walk were the order of the day.

We talked about the past in ways that made me extremely grateful I started dating smarter men in my 20s and relieved I decided to get the fuck out of my home town so many years ago.

Improv class was fun, challenging and tiring. Playing "Build a Story One Word at a Time" is exceedingly difficult when your partner is there because his ESL teacher has suggested it as a fun way to work on his English. It's also difficult to play a game that has ONE RULE with someone who can't seem to remember that single rule. It's maddening to be left hanging out to dry like that. There is also a tonne of walking in improv class. I had to sit down twice that I remember. Maybe three times.

We met a lovely young man named Ed from Salisbury, Wiltshire, England. He is 28. He loves it here in Vancouver but his girlfriend most decidedly does not. He had a drink with us before heading off to meet up with his girlfriend. That is pretty much everything I know about Ed.

I don't want to be an actor. That much is clear.

It happened again.

I went on "vacation". I went back to work.

I've just finished my second week back and I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror in the bathroom at work... and it hit me like a tonne of bricks.

Let me fill you in on this. I work for an elderly man who should have been retired 20 years ago. Or more. He has no clients come to the office. He solicits no new business. He has not changed his business practices since 1976 and hasn't upgraded any of his technology or software since 2003. His office is still on dial-up.

So, all I have to do is shut up and type, file, make statements and answer the phone. He does not care what we wear to work, he cares that we show up for work.

I'm fairly certain that his assistant accountant has come to work in her pyjamas multiple times.

I'm really certain that his office assistant who's working on the archival/document destruction project wore the same clothes to work three days in a row last week.

After looking in the mirror at work I'm pretty sure that I stopped giving a shit. My clothes are clean and I don't look like an unmade bed. I didn't, however, put product in my hair or put on make up. I wore board shorts and skate shoes, a tshirt and a hoodie, a baseball cap and a pair of knock off Wayfarers. I carried a massive black and white tote bag because it is big enough to hold all my crap AND two bottles of wine or four liters of soup.

I realized that I wore something similar on Wednesday and Tuesday and pretty much all last week. I stopped giving a shit about how I look the day after I returned to work.

I have been here before, and I'm kind of pleased that I noticed after only two weeks. I am treating this as a wake-up call. I need a new job. I need one now. I can't have this job suck the life out of me for a second time.

***

The last glass of wine (well a little shy of a standard serving) was not as yummy as the first and second nights, but still drinkable.

***

I have never considered doing improvisational comedy as a hobby or interest (I'm more of a stand-up kinda woman) but I am apparently going to the TheatreSports League Open Drop-In tomorrow afternoon. What the hell, I've got a husband trying to finish an album using his brand-new and completely awesome Reason software and who's started Week One of The Year of Calculus; it's not like we had plans.

Under the Weather

My hips are on strike today. I can barely walk. They are better than they were at 6 AM  but man they just suck. They hurt a little bit, but mostly they just don't work.

I hate having MS. I never can get comfortable with my routine because today my body just broke for no reason. It was fine yesterday.

"You were fine yesterday."

"You were fine this morning."

"You were fine an hour ago."

How many times have I heard that - said that to myself too - and it always sounds like I'm having a failing pointed out. It feels like an accusation of cheating or faking. It feels like I'm just not good enough.

***

I really like Joe Biden. I don't care who knows that.

***

What's left of this wine is still really good.

***

I understand my thoughts aren't rational. But I hate using MS as an excuse. Then I remember there is a big difference between an excuse and a reason.

MS is a reason why I can't do things. I hate it. Though I think that I prefer to have a reason than the excuse of my own procrastination or neglect.