Category Archives: Personal growth

Exercising Judgment

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Long, long ago (about a month), my friend Michelle and I were going to morning gym classes twice a week. I would wake up at 5:30 a.m., be out the door by 5:50 a.m. and squeak into Body Pump for 6:30 a.m. — where Michelle, bless her, had already set up my weights and yoga mat.

After sweating, squatting, jumping, lifting and crunching for about an hour, I always felt fist-pumpingly triumphant. And towards the end of my gym career, I was looking trimmer and sleeping better.

 

Well, my GoodLife membership expired on June 20, and my body knows it. Just call me Jiggly Lefaive. So far the most strenuous exercise I’ve done since then is raise my remote control arm to change the channel. I’ve also undertaken such strenuous activities as walking to bakeries and lifting food to my mouth.

I’ve never exactly been a paragon of good health. I enjoy BBQ-flavoured chips, cookies and red wine. And even though I should be eating gluten free, most of my meals consist of something carby with cheese on top.

But here’s the thing. That’s not how I plan to live the rest of my life. A big part of what attracts us to country living is that we can stop at a neighbour’s place to buy fresh eggs and whatever veggies are in season. That and the non-availability of our two current dietary mainstays: C’est Bon Chinese Restaurant and Bhanjara Indian food.

We also love that there are dozens of reasons to be active outside. Simcoe County offers long trails for biking and amazing beaches for swimming. Wherever our house is, we’ll have access to two marshes, a Provincial Park and several forests.

JF and I like to go to Tiny Marsh, just north of Elmvale

JF and I like to use the trails at Tiny Marsh, north of Elmvale

So now that I am settled into my room at mom’s (five days and counting!) it’s time to get my shit together. My budget doesn’t want me to spend $50 monthly on a gym membership, so I’m going to do my best to use what Simcoe County has to offer to feel healthy again. Or my name will quickly devolve from Jiggly Lefaive to Flabby Lefaive.

My poverty, but not my will, consents

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You know the apothecary in Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet who sells Romeo the deadly poison? Well he doesn’t actually want to sell the poison. He has to sell it because he’s poor and hungry.

His exact words in the play are “my poverty, but not my will, consents.” Lately, I’ve been using that line a lot. I’m not hungry. I have a bag of Tostitos on my lap right now. But I’m poor enough that I’ve had to bend my own rules a little bit.

For some (no doubt Freudian, childhood-related) reason, I really don’t accept friends’ generosity very well. When I share a meal at a restaurant, I cover my half.  When someone gives me something, I like to give something back.

Grateful — and lately, relieved — as I am when a kind person treats me to lunch, gets me a coffee, or buys me a drink, it also makes me feel squirmy and wrong inside. I end up saying odd things and not quite knowing when to back down.

Unfortunately/fortunately I have some of the most generous, lovely friends on this earth. So I’ve been in that “uncomfortably delighted” space a lot lately. June featured a series of pleasant lunch and dinner dates with some of my favourite people, but was remarkably easy on my wallet. I can’t say the same for my waistline.

My university roommate Steph took me out for High Tea at MoRoCo last week. Delightful!

My university roommate Steph took me out for High Tea at MoRoCo last week.

To all the great people who have treated me to something lately, thank you. And I apologize for making it awkward. I really appreciated it, but couldn’t properly show my gratitude without screwing my face into an inappropriate smirk-frown.

This whole situation is something I have to work on. But in the meantime, I will continue to stiltedly accept friends’ kindness. And eagerly await the day when I can pay them back in full.

My new friend Nytol

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We recently gave our notice to our landlord. We must and will be out of our Toronto apartment for September 1, 2013. Which means we must and will either buy a house or rent a place in Simcoe County sometime this summer. Blimey. This is really happening.

Or is it?

A few months ago, thinking about houses at bedtime (silk curtains, granite countertops and hardwood floors… mmmmmm) would send me first into a pleasant haze, then straight to sleep. Now, thinking about houses at bedtime induces me to take Nytol — an effective drug recently added to my pharmaceutical lexicon.

We just can’t seem to agree on what house to buy. What I love, he doesn’t. What he loves is ugly. And after ten years of renting, we just don’t want to rent anymore.

Which is why I’m moving (temporarily, I hope) into my teenhood bedroom at my mom’s Midland house in a week. From that tiny “terracotta”-painted (i.e. poo brown) shrine to my youth, I can help with my sister Alicia’s engagement party, volunteer, job hunt, go to the beach, hang out with my avó, and drive around like a crazy person in search of “for rent” and “for sale by owner” signs. My amazing mother will feed me and do my laundry.

This is my mom's house. Beautiful, but can it hold three grown women?

This is my mom’s house. Beautiful, but can it hold three grown women?

Mom, I love you. Thank you for being a regular reader of this blog. But I’m a bit scared of living with you and Geneviève. Three women, one bathroom. Plus it’s been ten years since I lived with a parent.

I started packing today and it’s harder than I thought. Just how many bags does one need for an indefinite stay in a small, storagely-challenged room?

I say indefinite stay, but there is a ray of hope in the vast gloom of this house hunt. JF and I recently set a drop dead date. On July 22, we will either make an offer on this house in Coldwater (which we both love — we would just prefer Elmvale) or choose a house to rent.

House in Coldwater that we both love. If only it was in Elmvale.

House in Coldwater that we both love. If only it was in Elmvale.

We’ve committed. Crossed our hearts. Pinky swore. But whether we will actually be able to make a decision on July 22 remains to be seen.

What I know for sure is that for the next few months, I will have a foot in both worlds. JF will be working away in Toronto while I try to start building our new life in Simcoe County.

Ode to Cantores

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This past Tuesday I attended my before-last practice with Cantores Celestes, a choir based in Bloor West Village that I’ve been singing with for about two years now. I walked into the church late and sweaty — clattering about the pews as I frantically dumped my purse, pulled off my jacket, and assembled my sheet music.

The women of Cantores Celestes, in all their splendour

The amazing women of Cantores Celestes

Finally scurrying up the steps to join the 50 or so women already rehearsing on stage, I paused to take a few restorative breaths and open my ears to the music. Being a mostly punctual person, listening to a piece in progress isn’t something I’d had the opportunity to do much before.

They were singing David McIntyre’s Ave Maria. Which, when you’re actually performing it, kind of sucks. The rhythm is hard and the harmonies aren’t normal. I’m pretty sure I look like Neve Campbell in Scream when I’m singing it. Terrified.

But standing there in front of my fellow choristers, you would never guess any of that. They were producing really lovely, beautifully cohesive, warm music. As Jackie would put it, a fitting ode to the feminine nature of the divine.

I’m not a religious person, but there is something very powerful about a large group of hard-working, smart, strong women just enjoying singing together. Sharing a purpose. And there’s something even more powerful about them celebrating another woman through song.

When they finished the Ave Maria, I took another breath and made my way to my usual spot in the third row, already feeling refreshed and forgetting the cares of the day.

Going to choir practice is kind of like going to the gym: getting there is a slog, but you never regret it. In fact, you leave lighter.

Actually, you know that feeling you get when you rock out in the kitchen with a wooden spoon? Well Cantores is often like that, but to Fauré and with a bunch of friends. We sing every piece — even the Ave Maria — with gusto. Kelly, our Director, puts every inch of her heart behind each concert. Which is why I’m sad that our concert in Perth on June 29 will be my last.

My work friend Tina shared this quote by Anatole France with me on my last day: “All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves.” I’m really going to miss this part of my Toronto self.

Silver Linings

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Still no house. And we’ve now officially eliminated Midland from our list of possible towns to buy in.

In other real estate news, there are no houses in Elmvale — the one location we agree on — that we both love. Ugh.

But even as JF and I continue to plod through real estate hell (at least we’re in it together!) there remains much to be grateful for. Unemployment has its perks:

  • Sitting comfortably on a TTC train, travelling opposite the rush hour crush
  • Reading a whole book in one day
  • Playing the piano loudly in the afternoon without worrying about neighbours
  • Staying in on rainy days to watch movies
  • Going out on sunny days to explore
  • Listening to CBC radio in the middle of the afternoon
  • Doing groceries at off peak hours
  • Wearing jeans or sweatpants every single day
  • Forgetting what day of the week it is

And that’s just the list I compiled these last two weeks. I feel like I’ve more everyday pleasures to discover.

 

I also have a list of things I would like to do this summer, assuming I don’t find work:

This is me at the 9th concession beach two years ago. I hope to do a lot of this next month.

This is me at the 9th concession beach two years ago. I hope to do a lot of this next month.

Much as I want an income, miss my old colleagues and crave routine, this whole no job thing isn’t so bad. You should try it sometime.

A Nu Start

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About a week ago, a miracle occurred. JF, the most cautious and indecisive man I know, bought a car over his lunch hour.

I guess it wasn’t exactly an impulse buy. He’d been thinking about buying a Honda Fit for two years. He’d compared their re-sale value, fuel efficiency, and many other car features (clearly, I am a car expert) against several comparable options in massive spreadsheets.

But still, the fact that he was able to test drive a car and offer a down payment in the span of an hour has my mind totally boggled. It was incredibly out of character, in a good way.

Most endearingly of all, he bought the car for me. I’m one lucky lady.

Tobias and I, out on the town.

Tobias and I, out on the town.

I’m not surprised that JF would buy me a car. Neither is anyone who knows JF well. The whole matter is sticky sweet, just like him.

That said you should all know that JF gets something out of this too. You see (as Marj Dubeau pointed out) there is no TTC in Elmvale. Had JF not bought me a car, he would have been stuck with a very bored, rather dependent, potentially stir-crazy, highly obnoxious partner.

Or I could have biked everywhere.  Come to think of it, I probably should have given the whole bike thing a shot. Oh well, too late now.

We’ve decided to name the car Tobias, as a tribute to the Arrested Development character’s Blue Man Group days. Not only is it a vibrant blue, it’s very gay, in the jolly sense of the word. And no, we’re not planning to purchase a vanity plate.

So far, Tobias and I are like two five year olds in a park — instant best friends. I love him. He loves me. It’s love all around. And I can’t wait for you to meet him.

The Deal

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I grew up in the village (hamlet? intersection?) of Perkinsfield, Ontario. It’s so small it doesn’t even get a dot on the Ontario map. Even google gets confused when you try to find it. It used to have a fast food stand shaped like a giant hot dog that made it fairly memorable to cottagers driving through, but that shut down.

Found a photo of the old Perkinsfield hot dog stand.

Found a photo of the old Perkinsfield hot dog stand.

Anyway.

I’ve lived in Toronto since 2003.  I like the city. I like going to concerts on school nights and having delicious Indian food delivered straight to my door. I like my friends here. I like my workplace. I like my choir. I even like my apartment.

Our place is on the top right corner

Our Toronto apartment. The one on the top right corner.

The thing is, I’ve never actually loved the city. There were a few early years when I thought it might be love, but Toronto lost a little fairy dust each time I got stuck on a sweaty TTC car, was woken by police sirens, or forked over a massive rent cheque.

To me, Toronto is like a nice, A-type, career-minded person. I appreciate and admire it. But it takes itself too seriously.  It forgets there are other ways to be. It gets caught up in schedulers, americanos and expensive shoes. And all of that stuff has me itching to buy a few acres, throw on some wellies and buy a goat.

Which brings me to an interesting question. Ten years is a friggin long time. Is country life the way I remember it?

I have this vision of people wearing sweatpants to the grocery store, getting home at 5:15 p.m., and drinking beers on porches with long clotheslines flapping behind them. I imagine houses with wide open vistas, perfect for stargazing. My whole family laughing around my dinner table. Apple trees. Sunshine, lollipops and rainbows. But I might be idealizing things just a tad.

I will soon find out just how far off the mark my memory is. My partner Jean-François — the best, smartest, most handsome franco-ontarian this side of Markham — got a new office in Barrie and is buying us a house in Simcoe County. Probably in Elmvale, which is as close to Perkinsfield as we can get without making JF’s commute a major pain. My mother is thrilled.

This blog is my effort to catalogue our adventure. It might cover a little house hunting, a little decorating, a little job searching, and a little pondering. Maybe a little music (the other love of my life) too. Either way, I hope it will help you, my friends and family, keep abreast of my movements.

I guess you could say this big change in my life is an exercise in dream chasing. I have no job, no distinct plans, and will very soon have no money. But I’m optimistic. As addle-brained as this whole thing might be, it feels right.

That said, please wish me luck. I will need it.