Category Archives: single life

Write through the fear

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I was at the glass studio tonight and one of the women there (aka new friend) said to me, “You’re  a writer, right?” Without thinking – because that’s how I usually respond to questions – I said “Yes”.

And then this other part of my brain, the part where the thinking happens, went “Whhaaatt?!” And then I backtracked and explained what my “real” job is and that I only write as a blogger.

But saying I was a writer just felt so … right. Maybe the unedited part of my brain was onto something. Because there is a part of me that has to write. I don’t always have to share but sometimes I feel the need to write like there is a presence in my chest demanding to be given shape and form and to be released. Kind of like those creatures in Alien that burst out of people’s chest.

Except that the writing process, while equally messy, hasn’t yet resulted in my death. Yet.

OMG, did you see what that guy wrote?

I’ve been having trouble writing for the past week or so and it’s because this post has been growing in my chest, or maybe in my heart, and my fear has been making me not want to let it out. So, inspired by the courage of Sigourney Weaver, I am taking a big breath and am going to let it out.

Decided not to shave my head, though, in case it was a bit more Britney Spears than Sigourney Weaver.

I started this blog as an exploration of what it meant to be single and happy in a world that tells me that these two things don’t go together. That being single means being lonely and that the state of single-hood is a sad but hopefully temporary place when you’re young and a sad and pitied place once you are too old to be in the game.

And here’s the green and scaly fear. If I put out a blog about being single and happy am I closing the door on ever being part of a couple? Or, maybe more accurately, will I be perceived as closing the door? Am I saying to the universe and the twitter verse, I have given up on love, see how much I don’t care!

Not that I’d want to write a blog about being lonely and single and looking for my perfect soul mate. I’d rather be dead on that table.

Although, to be fair, Sex and the City did make A LOT of money!

I also don’t want to always have to be happy. I mean, the worst thing a single woman can be is single and NEEDY!

But, the truth is, I AM lonely sometimes. I have days when I feel like the cold meaninglessness of this world leaves me  disconnected and invisible. And when I finally crawl into bed at night I just need to feel warm loving arms around me to reattach my heart and my spirit.

I’m not sure where this leaves me or my blogging. It’s clear it’s not just about being single and happy.

But after some serious pondering – and a late night viewing of Alien – I think my writing might be about being visible.

Being visible in this exploration of how to be singularly happy with who I am right now. Being visible with stories of single-hood that aren’t just about waiting for couple-hood.

Because I think the most important relationship I will ever have in my life is the one that I have with myself. And, turns out, myself is actually a writer.

Feel free to quarantine me now before any more of us become infected.

Single by the numbers

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Last week, Statistics Canada released data on the family from the 2011 Census. There was some interesting stuff in there, at least for those of us who accept that interesting and statistics can ever be lumped together in the same sentence.

Turns out, for the first time, there were more one-person households than households of couples with children. In fact, there is now a whopping 27% of households that are singles in Canada. Either we singles are on the rise or some couples are seriously slacking off by not having children.

But this got me to thinking – am I my own family?

Statistics Canada would say no. Their definition of a family is any married or common-law couple, whether they have children or not or any lone-parent households with children. So, I’m not a family.

My sister kindly pointed out that in the “olden days” an unmarried woman would move in with her sister’s family and help raise the kids. But, personally I think she is just looking for cheap help with the cleaning and the cooking.

But aside from the raising of kids (unless the large amount of pet-sitting I do counts) and having someone who occupies space on the other side of the bed, I do lots of family type things.

I bring money into the house to pay the mortgage, I decorate and celebrate all the major holidays, I do the chores like taking out the recycling, doing laundry and putting together IKEA furniture (okay, I didn’t do that last one ALL by myself).

So, surely that makes me my own family, even if there is only one butt-dent in the couch cushions. And, I can be proud of my little family and the contribution I make to Canadian society.

And just in case you think Statistics Canada is completely useless for singles, they have thoughtfully compiled a map where you can look up the percentage of singles in your neighbourhood. Single men of both sexual preferences in my age range in my neighbourhood? 6% of the population. Good thing I’m a happy household just as I am.

Now, if I could just get someone in this damn family to do the grocery shopping!!

If you like it then you’d better put a hex ring on it

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Last week I faced the ultimate test of the single girl. IKEA furniture.

Round One – IKEA 1,  Single Girl 0

Now, I am not the most handy girl. I do some stuff around my home but somehow everything that other people say is “so easy” turns into “wow, I’ve never seen/heard of that before” when I attempt it. Trying to change my beige plugs to white resulted in 5 days of no electricity in my kitchen. The one weekend reno of my fireplace surround resulted in a 5 month hole in my wall, (im)patient waiting for free help from a friend and finally paying someone else to finish the job.

But, thousands of people put together IKEA furniture every day. I am determined to be a competent, independent single woman and put together two small bedside tables.

Table #1 – got the piece almost all together but the top drawer won’t close. One screw is sticking out just enough to catch on the roller bit.  Feeling proud of myself for figuring out the problem, I promptly strip the screw trying to fix it. And then I chipped a nail. My fingernail not a hardware nail.  And then I walked away before I threw the bedside table out the window.

Sidebar here to explain why chipping a nail is more than just a shallow first world complaint for me. I was a nail-biter all my life. I tried countless times to quit. It’s a disgusting habit and I felt ashamed that I couldn’t stop. I spent thousands of dollars and countless hours of my time getting fake nails done. But two years ago when I was seeing a therapist to help deal with my anxiety I realized that my nail-biting was a response to anxiety.It’s always great to pay your therapist when they help you realize the blindingly obvious.

So, on my 42nd birthday I decided that every time I caught myself biting my nails I would stop and ask myself “what do you feel anxious about right now” and deal with that.  That was 18  months ago and I haven’t bitten my nails since. So, having nails is a bit of a new thing for me.

Okay, back to Round One. I wisely walked away from the bedside table before I also had a broken window. I texted a friend about my frustration. Her response? “yeah, my husband had trouble putting together the IKEA furniture I bought last weekend”. I walked away from my phone, too.

Round Two – IKEA 1, Single Girl 1

I’ve evened the score. Table #2 resulted in success. It was a close call, though. If this was a real fight, I would have lost a few teeth in this round. I spent 10 minutes looking for a screw that had mysteriously ended under the couch (did I mention I’m cat-sitting?). I spent a few moments cursing IKEA for not aligning the holes better as I struggled to fit the top on. And, when I finally got the whole piece together, carefully NOT stripping any screws, I discovered I had put one piece on backwards and now the screws showed on the front. Which lead to me having to TAKE THE PIECE APART AND PUT IT TOGETHER AGAIN!

For all those times when I have cursed my stubborn personality – beat a dead horse? Why, thanks, don’t mind if I do! – at that moment I gave thanks and gratitude for my stubborn streak that is as wide as an IKEA parking lot.

I debated giving myself extra points for being able to deconstruct the piece without breaking anything but I figured I also probably lost a point for putting the piece on backward in the first place.

Round Three – IKEA 1,  Single girl 1.5,   XY friend 0.5

Ladies – you can strip on a pole, strip your leg hair off with wax, strip off your gaunch to go skinny-dipping but do not, under any circumstances, strip a screw!! Men apparently already know this since all my male friends just nodded with the obviousness of the whole thing when I explained my situation.

One of the things that I hate about being single is doing my own home repairs. In these moments, especially in Round One, I just wanted to hand the whole mess over to a husband with the knowledge that in the cosmic order of gender assigned tasks, this one is his.  Gay friends – I have no idea how you sort this out.

I know this is a fallacy. When my girlfriends talk about their husbands, I AM listening. I know that not all men are good at home repair and that not all women are, well, me.  And that the reason the grass is greener on the other side is that it’s fertilized with bullshit. But, if you can find a husband/partner who loves to do home repairs, baby put a hex ring on it!

It’s hard for me. Probably more accurately, I am hard on me. I think I should be able to do everything for myself and by myself. I hate asking for help. Single women should be strong. Right? Cause otherwise we’re weak. Bad enough to be pitied for the stigma of singlehood without being unable to do home repairs. Or, car repairs (yeah, I suck at those, too).  I feel like I should stand by with smelling salts when I admit to my male friends that I take my car to the dealership for servicing.

I think we are taught that independence is supposed to equal freedom. But I am learning that being unable to ask for help when you need it is a particular kind of prison.  A cage of isolation made of pride and ego and maybe some fear thrown in there for good measure.

When I moved into my place, lots of friends came over and helped me renovate. When I look around, I don’t think “I am so weak for needing help with this”. I think how lucky I am to have people in my life who love me enough to spend 5 hours stripping wallpaper for me.  (remember – stripping wallpaper? Okay.  Stripping screws” NOT okay). That love and generosity is imbued into my walls and fills the air.

So, I asked for help. And, a very wonderful  XY friend (with freakishly strong wrists) unscrewed the stripped screw and screwed in back in properly. I think it took him all of 15 seconds. Problem solved.  So, I gladly give him a half point for that and I am giving myself a half point for asking for help.

When I look at my bedside tables, I have the perfect balance. One table put together all by myself – feeling proud of that one and for my stubbornness perseverance. One table put together with some help from a friend – feeling blessed to be able to ask for, and receive, help.

Perhaps IKEA is really Swedish for “learn about yourself while putting together inexpensive home furnishings”.

Only one problem … there is a really nice dresser that matches the bedside tables …

A solitary happiness

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“Because her original pattern was so worn
the last time she flew apart,
she was forced to let the pieces
reattach as they pleased.
Once the shock wore off,
she welcomed the change.”
~Susan Mrosek

A year ago today, my heart got broken.

I’ve been a bit scared leading up to today. Scared that this day would plunge me into feeling exactly like I did last year; that it would send me spiraling into a dark, grey place of depression.

A friend commented to me that I could just treat it as a day like any other day. But to me it isn’t. It feels like a passageway that needs to be marked in some way. But not by bleakness and despair.

So, I got to thinking about what the journey over the past year has meant to me. What do I want to mark? It has been a year of incredible transition and transformation. It led to me starting to share my writing and my photos. It led to me signing up for a glass sculpting class; and then one on glass beads. I started going places and doing things on my own. I learned to stay home with the TV off and enjoy spending time with myself. I started to say “no” to things that I was doing only because they met others expectations of me. I took a deep breath and let go of the people-pleasing and I stepped back and trusted others solve their own problems.

But more importantly, it led to me trying to answer the question “how can I make my life be a happy one”? In this world which tells me that couplehood is the answer to my life’s happiness, what does it mean to be happy and single?

I read a great blog post (which I sadly can no longer find or I would reference it) about why everyone should experience a heartbreak. Certainly it sucks. It really sucks. I still have moments where I can’t catch my breath. Where I feel like a giant hole has opened in my heart and I keep wondering where the missing pieces have gone.

But, looking back over the last year, I now know that this heartbreak taught me valuable and precious things about myself. I realized that I had been pinning my happiness on that magic state of couplehood. Because surely it would cure any loneliness I have and give me status in this world as a successful woman. After all, doesn’t our culture tell us that a happy marriage is crucial to being a successful woman? In the saga of Brangelina, how many tabloids tell us of Jennifer Aniston bravely facing her future of loneliness (and childlessness) while Angelina is blissfully happy with her man (and their children).

Thing is, I thought I was happy with my life. I have friends and family who love me, make me laugh and support me, I have a spiritual community in which I am deeply connected and I have a job that I love and which keeps a roof over my head and allows for some travel money. What right do I have to be unhappy?

But amidst all that there is sadness. There are times of loneliness and tears, of fear and anxiety. Of anger and frustration and failure. Of screw ups and confusion. Of disappointment and grief and despair.

And in the last year of letting go of judgement (mine and others) to explore this landscape of my inner self I realized that the answer to my question was not in how to be happy with my life. It was how to be happy in my life. With who I am and not what I am.

Because life comes with heartbreak and happiness, with laughter and loneliness, with silliness and sorrow. Regardless of whether you are single or in a couple.

Yeah, it sucks that it was a broken heart that sent me on the painful journey into the landscape of myself. And, I am eternally grateful to my friends and family who supported me and held space for me while I slowly put the pieces of my heart back together.

But what a gift to to know – to really know – that I am truly happy with who I am and with how I am in this world.

I’m okay with letting the world see me through my writing, my photos and, maybe, my glass creations. Through words and songs and connections. If you like them, I am touched and pleased. If you don’t, that’s okay too.

In the words of Brené Brown, my hope is to live authentically; to have the courage to tell my story with my whole heart.

And, on the one-year anniversary of my heartbreak, I think that’s worth celebrating.

Single seating only

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This fall I am going to Los Angeles for work and I have one free night to explore. Saturday night. I was trying to think of what to do and facing the fact that I am extremely unlikely to do something “wild single girl” like and dress up and go clubbing on my own. But, I don’t really want to sit in my hotel room alone, either.

My brilliant friend S suggested I see what music or shows are playing on my one free Saturday night in L.A.  So, I hopped on Ticketmaster, typed in the date and guess what popped up!! (well, the photo kind of gives it away).

The touring production of the Book of Mormon is in town that night!!!  I’ve been wanting to see this show for the last 18 months. We were in New York for Easter Weekend and couldn’t get tickets (although we did see Avenue Q, which I highly recommend).  I checked – there was a SINGLE TICKET left for the show. In the front row of the Mezzanine!!

This single girl now has that single ticket in her hot little hand.  Squeee!!!!

A growing vision

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Last night I finally completed a task that I have been struggling to get around to all summer. Well, since last Fall really. I finally hauled all of the planters with dead plants and weeds from my rooftop patio down 5 flights of stairs and to the garbage. By myself. It was hot, tiring, sweaty and dirty and I am proud of myself.

I have lived in my condo for 6 years and I have never managed to get the rooftop patio in a state I am happy with. I live in a rainforest. For 3 months of the year it is hot as Hades on the roof and there is no shade. The rest of the time it is cool and the rain pours down until even the moss grows moss. I’m not sure what kind of plants grow in that kind of environment but nothing I have ever planted has survived.

I have never been able to really get a vision of what the space could be. Plus, the patio is in bad shape – the railing is rusty and the decking needs replacing. But, as the decision on what to do with the rooftop patios is linked to what to do about the aging roof which means the whole building gets to vote, it’s taking time to sort out. I kept thinking that when I get a new patio, I’ll have a vision of how to pull off this tiny rooftop Garden of Eden.

Each year I spend money on new plants, soil and planters, drag everything up there and hope I can pull off the kind of rooftop garden that you see in magazines or on Pinterest. Each year, I try to remember to water each day and usually when I go on holidays everything is dead by the time I get back. I don’t spend much time up there despite the wonderful view. It’s hard to sit up there and relax on a nice summer evening surrounded by all that death and failure.

Last fall, after another summer of wasted money and greenery-turning-brown, I decided I was done. It is my space and if I don’t want to grow stuff in planters, then I don’t have to.  If I am a life-giving gardening failure then so be it. Growing plants may be what I’m supposed to do but I am not having fun. And life is too short and comes with enough un-funness on its own that I don’t need to add to it.

Lo and behold, as soon as I mentally swept all the plants and expectations away I suddenly could feel a vision for the space start to emerge. What about some outdoor art? Or sculpture? A stone fountain? Some lanterns or fairy lights? A pile of beach treasures clearly designed by Mother Nature to revel in the sun and the water?  I started to find and buy artwork I liked. I started seeing things indoors in my condo that would be perfect outdoors. But first, I had to get rid of all those heavy planters and soil and dead things. By myself.

They say many hands make light work. I’m not sure if that’s true but at least it gives you someone to complain with. Subconsciously, I kept hoping someone would come along to help me with this annoying and difficult task. But, I have company coming this weekend and it’s hot here so if I want a nice space to sit on a summer evening then I had to accept that this task was going to be a one-woman job.

And so, I pulled on my big girl boots and got to work. It took many trips but it got done. And, afterwards I hung some of the art and placed a few items where I think they should be. There is still a lot to do. But, my vision is well on its way to becoming real. I sat up there last night, in its stripped down and clean state, watching the sun set and the stars come out. I saw a few falling stars since the Perseid meteor shower is happening in the night sky here right now. It was peaceful and wonderful and I was happy.

Turns out, all I needed to do was sweep aside what I thought was expected of me so that I could see my own vision. And then put in some of my own hard work to realize it. I’ve got a long way to go still but I’m excited about what the future space will hold.

Outdoor art by Lori Dee of Inside Out Art –

Table with shells and a sky spirit –

Dragon in the sun –

Beach treasures –

Morning coffee me-time

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For years I have gone for weekend morning coffees with a good friend. But, last summer they started dating someone who lives out-of-town and so our weekend morning trips to the coffee shop have become much less frequent. So, I’ve been “forced” to go on my own. And, while I still do enjoy company, I’ve discovered I quite like going by myself! In fact, it’s now one of my favourite times of the week (and not always limited to the weekend).

I have never really been a “get out of bed and fling myself into the day” kind of a person. When I do that, I kind of resent it and I am grumpy. I like to ease into the day. To slowly piece myself carefully together, reassembling the parts that have dissolved and separated during the unconsciousness of sleep. Constructing myself each day to be who I want to be in the world.

Morning trips to the coffee shop are the perfect way to do that. There is enough bustle and other people to make me feel somewhat part of the world. To offset the emptiness of the apartment where loneliness can lurk, ready to spring on me in the morning like an unwanted house guest. But, the other coffee shop people do their own thing leaving me to do whatever I need to do in order to set my day on the right track.

I often journal, I read the news on my iPad, browsing around to my heart’s content, and I read e-mails and Facebook. Sometimes I update my status. Sometimes I read a book. I text morning hugs to friends and I check in with my sister.

And then, caffeinated and reconstructed, I head out into the world to do what needs to be done that day.

Claiming my space

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Last night, I climbed into bed after a long day. I was warm and clean from a shower, the sheets were freshly washed; it was lovely. As I set my alarm for the next morning, I braced myself against that feeling I sometimes get right before sleep. That feeling of the space next to me in bed where nobody is. Not feeling a comforting arm slide around my body. That feeling of loneliness.

I wasn’t lonely. I had a great day in the sunshine. A morning walk with a good friend. Some time in the afternoon to get chores done and then relax on the couch with a good book. And then, an evening with more friends and a refreshing dip in a pool.

So why brace myself against that empty space next to me? In fact, why a space next to me at all?!

I always sleep on only one side of the bed. Even though, most nights I sleep alone. Even the occasional one-night stand goes home (a good rule for one-night stands, I find).  Who am I saving the space for? It’s my bed and it’s my space.

I read a great interview in Maclean’s magazine a few weeks ago with Michael Cobb, a professor from the University of Toronto who just released a book called Single: Arguments for the Uncoupled.  He points out that even though single people outnumber married people, we still live a culture that views being in a couple as the ultimate goal. And, while I didn’t agree with everything he said, this part had me nodding, “being part of a couple is the thing that’s supposed to save you, as it does at the end of almost every single romantic comedy.”

Well, I don’t need saving. And I don’t need to save space in my bed.

So, I claimed that space. My space. I rearranged my pillows (why have two pillows on the bed when I only use one?) and moved myself into the middle of the bed.  I stretched out and snuggled into my space. It’s just me right now and I am okay with that.

And yes, I had a great nights sleep!