Earnestness ...

I got a wedding invitation in the mail today. It made me cry. But not for the reasons one would expect. I'm not terribly lonely, fearing being eaten by cats (no matter how much I may joke about it). I don't believe that it's a fruitless, punishing pursuit that's doomed to fail. It didn't even make me feel particularly old to know that this childhood friend was buying a house and tying the knot. (Having been there, done that two and three years ago, respectively, may have skewed my expectations there).

It was actually tear-inducing because it was so earnest. Simple. Traditional. Hopeful. In so many ways the opposite of my own. I think we got married partly as a lark. Sure, it was expected that we'd do it, but we were young and decided to eschew tradition, do our own thing. He proposed over the phone. My man of honour wore sneakers. I wore gold instead of white. The White Stripes played us down the garden path - there were to be no churches. We were funky and avant garde, or so we thought.

The few bits of traditional were imposed by our families and, in some smaller part, by me, because at heart I was (and still am) a hopeless romantic who just someday wants what my parents have - a partner in crisis, sure, but also someone who you just like having around. Someone you can idle away a morning with sitting with a cup of tea and still call the day a success.

There is nothing alternative about this couple. Their wedding is no surprise, as mine was. I was expected to put career before marriage (which in some ways I still did, perhaps accelerating my status as a 25-year-old divorcee).

Theirs will be the perfect, traditional east coast affair. There will be a church, and a legion. Things we sneered at, as though they were too precious, too predictable.

I'm sure I'll cry at their wedding. Because, despite the fact that I threw a gorgeous, fun party, it will be the wedding I kind of always expected I would have. Because when they say forever, they're earnestly hoping for it, rather than just assuming forever is a right. Because they mean every single flourish on that invitation, every bow tied with every single length of ribbon, and every single syllable of every (anticipated to be lengthy and drawn out) selection of scripture. Because, for them, it will last, and that's a really beautiful thing.

Recalibrating

Earlier this week, while having drinks with a friend, the conversation turned to how we had changed over the past year.

Some of these answers come easier, and more obviously, than others. Changes include my short haircut, my single status, becoming a renter, a full-time job, a tattoo, a new commitment to my health, and a slew of new people in my life, along with a rekindled relationship with my family. Major, right?

But, as we discussed these physical and situational changes, I realized the biggest difference for me was that I was finally free. I could give myself permission to let go and have a little fun.

I've always been the serious, responsible one. Working part-time during high school to save for university, participating in every extra curricular activity I could sign my name up for, studying hard, and excelling, academically.

Come university, things became even more stringent. Classes were harder. Finances were tougher. And I couldn't accept anything less than perfect. While friends were enjoying the freedoms of late nights, concerts and casual dating, I pushed myself harder and harder, and my world got smaller and smaller. My migraines got worse. I started on a steady stream of medications. Painkillers. Preventive medications. Pills to keep the other pills down. Pills to make me sleep through the pain. Plus, I was battling depression on two fronts: my own, and that of my partner.

Between the migraines, the depression and doing what little I could to help the man destined to become my ex husband, my days took on a terribly regimented feel. I slept terribly, or in a drug-induced stupor, waking up in the morning dreading the day. I could drag myself to classes and work, but couldn't bear the thought of getting out of bed for anything else. Every morning became a struggle to convince myself to simply get up, get dressed and do normal daily things like brush my teeth or make dinner. Curling up in bed at the end of the day was the ultimate goal.

And then my migraine routine started. Minimum eight hours of sleep a night. No red wine. Cutting out salty foods. And sugary foods. Minimal drinking, maybe once a week, until the cocktail of antidepressants and migraine meds put a stop to that. One cup of tea a day, between 8 and 8:15 a.m. Not allowing myself to be enticed by more. And the long, long afternoons, hidden under the covers sobbing, in some state of pain, real, imagined, pressing, or not, just wishing that the world would go away.

With the help of antidepressants, I could robot-like make it through my daily routines. Classes, thankfully, still came easily, but I felt distant, not engaged, like I was experiencing everything through a layer of Jello. Like it was happening to someone else. Whose plastered on smile, that never quite reached the eyes, was just convincing enough to keep people from asking how I was really doing. Because I kept these struggles a secret. I didn't want anyone to know I was anything less than the perfectly calm overachiever I appeared to be. And the more I bottled it up, the more isolated I felt. Like I was disappearing.

This time in my life was my opportunity to party, to travel, to see what I was capable of. But how could I even fathom trying any of that when every day felt like an unbearable, mind-numbing chore?

Finally, I got sick of living in nothingness. I wanted to feel the ups and downs again. Really, I just wanted to feel something. So I weaned myself off the anti-depressants. The migraines continued, crippling me once or twice a month, until, at its worst, it hit a minimum of once a week, no matter what I did to control them. Regularly feeling on the brink of slipping back under the depression, but refusing to once again succumb to the pharmaceutical numbing that made the days simpler, if not more pleasant.

Years slipped by in this way. We finished school. We got jobs. We moved to Toronto. Forever promising ourselves that if we could just fix this or that, everything would get better.

Eventually, the fog started to lift. I started asking myself, "What if ..." I started regretting the things I'd missed out on. The things I thought I would never try. Crushed by the weight of the previous years, our ups and downs, and loads of other complications, my marriage ended.

Suddenly, I had options. I had freedom. And I was feeling things. A lot of hurt, but it was something. Better yet, I stopped having migraines. I was getting zero sleep, was off all my meds, and was seriously cheating on my caffeine and booze routines.

It was unbelievably liberating. I lost a dear relationship that had been a huge part of my life. I lost most of my stuff. I lost my home. I may have lost my mind, and definitely lost my internal censor - is that normally the product of such meltdowns? But, I figured, if I could survive all that, I could survive anything. I gained permission to explore my boundaries, push myself, and make up for my lost early twenties.

By losing everything, I got a chance to recalibrate. To start over. And to feel like I was living life, rather than just watching from the sidelines.

So my biggest change is that I've given myself permission to live my life, rather than become penned in by it.

Of course, I'm still very much a work in progress. I'm looking for meaning in what I do, and what I don't, and ways to make sense of the past few years. But I'm improving. And "better" and "progress" are beautiful words filled with possibility.

Resolutions, I've got a few ...

Sure, I want to be healthier in 2011. And get more sleep. Live a more organized, streamlined and wholesome life.

But really, my goal in 2011 is to just be better. To be a better me. A better friend. A better listener. A better daughter and sister. And to keep striving for excellence in everything I do.

Like the past few months, I want to keep living life to the fullest in 2011. To approach the year with an all-in, balls to the wall, up for everything approach. I want to experience more, laugh more, and take more risks.

I want to rebrand mistakes as "adventures" so that I don't fear making them, and so that I don't regret some of my recent doozies.

I don't want to be forced to ask myself, "What if?" I want to go for it. I've recently learned that falling on my face is preferable to not knowing. My pride will heal. Questions unanswered will haunt me forever.

I want to be honest with myself and others. I know what I want, and what I need, and 2011 is the year I'm going to learn to express those things and make them happen.

So cheers to 2011. A year just guaranteed to be full of "adventures."

Holiday Hallmark moment?

Being ever the multitasker, I used my time addressing and stamping my Christmas cards last night to call my parents. While chatting with my Mom, we had this exchange:

Mom: So what are you up to tonight?

Me: Just working on my cards.

Mom: Good. I've been reminding everyone who calls for your address that they better not send it to Speedy or Wilson-Speedy. I tell them, "Don't forget, she's Wilson now."

And then, she said, when they inevitably ask how I'm doing, she tells them, "Jen's wonderful. Amazing. She's doing everything a young woman living in the city ought to be doing."

Sure, it may not be gather round the Christmas tree while reminiscing about where each ornament came from kind of happy (we'll do that once I get home for the holidays!), but it's a sign of acceptance I haven't seen before.

Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy, a little bit teary, and totally ready to break into a nice cup of spiked eggnog.

I'm in love

It took three years of being standoffish, cranky and sometimes downright rude, but patience and stubbornness won out: I've finally been swept off my feet.

Growing up on the east coast, I was predisposed to hate Toronto -- or Upper Canada, as we like to call it there, which really seems to rile up the Come From Aways.

It's big. It's fast-paced. The people aren't always all that nice. The air quality sucks. And I can go weeks without seeing a tree.

My first three years here, I disliked the city profusely. I dreamed of moving to Ottawa, Kingston, Montreal, or, even, in a moment of desperation, Oromocto. Anywhere but here, I thought.

I was lonely. I was bored. And while work was going well, things in the big city weren't exactly the adventure I'd hoped for after reading a few too many of those young girl makes good, coming of age tales.

Admittedly, that time wasn't filled with lazy days strolling shops after a morning at the St. Lawrence Market or evenings enjoying the many excellent cocktails the city has to offer. Turns out you can be miserable and sit, crabby in an apartment anywhere in the world. And while you can blame the city for it, complaining about how grumpy everyone is in Toronto doesn't do a whole lot to fix it.

After my life melted down, there was nothing left to tie me here, other than my job. I got to keep a few friends in the split, but with family out east and very few worldly possessions, the world really was my oyster.

But then, like that sweet guy friend waiting in the wings for you to realize that your current fella is a jerk (seriously dudes - just make a move!), Toronto pulled out all the stops and swept me off my feet.

Gorgeous weather. Long walks. Adventures and exploring, causing a slight addiction to lemonade ice teas -- followed by white peppermint mochas now that the mercury has dropped - and a nearly constant hankering for custom cookies. Watching the city lights turn on at night. Concerts, bars, beverages, dancing, music, boys, and oh, the shoe shopping.

I was doomed to fall head over heels from the beginning. True love was there in front of me the whole time, I just wasn't ready to see it. And now, while that new romance sheen has started to fade and the cracks have begun to show - that breeze off the lake is enough to make anyone dream of warmer climes - somewhere along the line I wordlessly slipped into full blown commitment with Toronto. And we couldn't be happier.

Life lessons

This week has, quite simply, been a ridiculous roller coaster. Awesome stuff. Lousy stuff. Life-changing stuff. But, if you add it all up, I'm still well ahead in the pro column!

The most interesting part about this week though, has come from the many and varied conversations with friends and family, and how I've managed my reactions through the ups and downs.

As I muddled through decisions, panic, and celebrations, for the first time I realized that I'm starting to make progress on actually figuring things out on my own.

Well, more importantly, not on my own. Rather, I've learned to rely on a network of friends - and a flurry of text messages - for the first time in my life, instead of hobbiting, panicking and feeling overwhelmed.

You see, when my marriage ended, I didn't know how to be single. And I felt very, very much alone. When things were bad, I didn't have the courage to seek help or reach out. I just kept soldiering on, in absolute misery.

But I also didn't know how to be in a couple - that ship had sailed a long time ago. Even when things were broken, I was still part of a twosome. I used "we" language. I bought groceries for two.

Basically, my life experience has prepared me to be an excellent roommate (I make a mean pancake and mimosa brunch. And I'm tidy too!). A friend that can be counted on - even more so now than this time last year. And a little bit of a headcase when it comes to flying completely solo - those moments when you can't open a jar are frustrating beyond belief - or, gasp, when I consider the prospect of being coupled up someday. Relationships - at least the idea of ones that could work - feel like a foreign land.

The good news is that this week showed me that I've made progress in making my new life, and my new world order, work. That no one, single or coupled, should feel so alone, and that everyone needs friends - plural - that they can turn to when they gotten that phone call that they've been waiting months for or who can distract, and send virtual hugs when other news is just too much.

The training wheels may still be on in this whole functional adult thing, but finally, I think, I'm learning.

Winding down 2010

Happy December!

With only 31 days left before the new year, I can't help but think about how I started off 2010 with a husband, a house a part-time job and a serious migraine problem.

Now, almost 12 months later - I've got none of those things!

Instead, I'm a full-time employed single gal with a rental condo and a closet full of shoes and French lingerie.

It's funny the difference a year makes. And who knows what 2011 will bring?

Seeking my next challenge

As I prepare for the holidays, I can't help but think about what 2011 will bring. And, after a few months this year of living day-to-day, the ability to plan ahead, and get excited about things more than a few weeks off, feels huge!  Always up for a challenge, I figured what better time than the present to start planning for the new year?

My goals so far:

- Travel. Somewhere. Anywhere. Branch out of my routine of going only home to Nova Scotia. (Though, of course, I'll be going there too.)

- Ski. I've never tried it, and it feels like one of those things that a Canadian girl should know how to do. Plus, it seems like an adrenaline rush.

- Perfect pastry. As an avid baker, I feel like I really need to add the ability to make pie crusts beyond the graham wafer variety to my repetoire.

- Publish. In a magazine. I've written for newspapers and online and have contributed to a text book - well two, if you count that time in high school. I've even sold a column to a magazine, which never got published due to some bad timing (marriage advice column + divorce = problem), but I'd really like to actually make it to that next step and get it on the page!

- Take more risks. In general. I need to continue to push myself outside my comfort zone - because the rewards far outweigh that butterflies in the stomach nervy feeling.

And for not new, but still important, goals, I'll be doing another boot camp session, a few more races - a 5K fun run and a 10K with a friend - and pursuing all the opportunities, and suggestions, that come my way!

On mothers

I'm currently waiting for my mother's plane to land, for her first visit to Toronto since my separation. While I did go home in August for a week-long visit, I think at that point she was still hoping my ex and I would find a way to work it out.

So this will be the first time she's seen me as a single girl since, well, I was 15 and first started dating. My first kiss turned into my first boyfriend, then my first long-distance relationship and finally, after two years, my first breakup. Less than a week later, I went on my first date with my now-ex, and six-and-a-half years, three cities, countless addresses, a bunny rabbit and wedding later, that's all gone and I'm still working on that whole living alone and dating thing. Not that my mother knows that I'm dating.

You see, the whole time my mother has known me as an adult, I was part of the same twosome. And, in many ways, I think she's having an even harder time coping with the changes in my life than I ever did - partly, perhaps, because it took her by surprise while I knew, deep down, for quite some time that it was coming. Our conversations for most of my adulthood have revolved not so much around the details of my relationship but the routines of that shared daily life and my identity of part of that couple.

And, on the other side of things, I've only ever really interacted with my mother as part of a stable relationship. Not only do I not know how to navigate these unfamiliar waters for myself (though, I like to think, I'm getting better at it) but I don't know how to interact with her with my changed life. Do I tell her that I've re-entered the dating game? We've never had the kind of relationship where I told her about the emotional ups and downs of my love life, and I'm not sure if this period in my life is really a good, or wise, place to start. But, I also can't keep fielding questions about my ex, my former in-laws and fears for my loneliness and a future in which I die alone and get eaten by cats ... (OK, she's never actually mentioned the dying alone and getting eaten by cats thing, but seriously, she might as well).

So, this trip is a chance to show her that I'm OK - in fact, much better than the last time she visited Toronto - and, if I'm brave enough, to actually share a bit of my new life with her.

I find it scary. Way more terrifying than my half-marathon or tattoo or getting my own place or selling my house. More frightening than those weeks of breaking the news of my marital failure on a daily basis.

Knowing that I don't always make all the right choices and that she doesn't approve of my hemlines is one thing when she's miles away, but it's different when I have to see it on her face.

Plus, I already feel like such a disappointment to her for my divorce. Like I let her down in the worst possible way, having made a promise I just couldn't keep. The constant feeling of having failed my mother translates into a frantic apartment cleaning and conservative wardrobe revamping in preparation for her visit, a level of panic that causes me to hide who I really am - and, in turn, makes me totally miserable.

I'm sure no one wants to feel like a disappointment or an embarrassment to their parents. But it's a little late for that, no? This visit, I'm trying to be brave enough to recognize that there's no turning back on that decision - it being the best thing I've done for myself in years - and that now my worst sin is not letting her see my real life. That the distance between who I am for the roughly 360 days of the year when I don't see her and the five that I do may be even more disappointing to her than my failed marriage.

The one disappointment I can't change. There's no point crying over spilled milk. But the other, I can work on, and just pray that I'm strong enough to show and defend who I really am and that maybe, even if she doesn't approve, she'll still be happy to see it.

The rules of my extended 'Summer of Saying Yes'

When I explain that I've challenged myself to a year of saying yes, people are normally intrigued and slightly scandalized.
Intrigued, because it's led me to a whole lot of amazing things: new friends, new restaurants, new concerts, the finish-line of a half-marathon and the top of the CN Tower stairs.

Scandalized, because saying, "Yes!" can certainly get one into trouble. And people's minds like to go to those cases first.

So, I must clarify that it's a year of saying yes to everything -- within reason.

If it's something I don't want to do, I ask myself, "Why?" before I say no.

My basic rule of thumb is to consider the worst possible outcome. If the worst-case scenario for trying something new is the possibility of having a slightly lousy time and getting a good story out of it, why not go for it? If the worst case scenario is truly worse, I have given myself permission to veto it. The whole experience is really about breaking my natural inclination to say no first.

In my "previous life," I spent far too much time regretting missed opportunities. So, while it may mean that sometimes I'm awfully tired - then volunteer to come in to my day off to lend a hand with the election - I'm having too much fun to start choosing sleep over socializing and shopping to start saying no just yet!

Sometimes it's the little things. And the red things

Embracing life in Toronto, my new state of being single and, of course, my quarter century has meant a lot of major changes in my life, and a lot of massive to-dos. But sometimes, the little things make a big difference too.  And, at 25, I felt like I really ought to own a fabulous red lipstick.

Yep, the latest thing on my list was simply buying - and learning to pull off - a bright red lip.

Confident. Sexy. And oh so grown up. Even if it does feature a Disney character on the case! (And the matching red shoes don't hurt either.)

I'm me again

Initially I waffled on whether or not to change my name back. I'd just gone through the lengthy and rather cumbersome process of changing it in the first place. And six hours in line at the DMV do not a happy girl make.

But every time I pulled out my cards, or signed a form, it was a reminder of that other life. The one that didn't work for me. That other person I had been - the miserable, lonely person who isolated herself from her friends and was once spotted out for coffee in glasses, sneakers, yoga pants and no mascara.

That person, and that name, just stopped meshing with the person I am now. And the person I was before. So I changed it. And I can't express the glee that came with the arrival of those less-than-flattering ID cards.

Maybe it was a hassle. And maybe it wasn't necessary for practicality's sake. But, for the symbolism, and that feeling of being truly myself again, it certainly was worth it.

The story behind my tattoo

For years, I've debated getting a star tattoo. The designs always differed slightly, but the general idea remained the same.

To me, stars represent a balance in life - something that, if you're into that astrological stuff, is very important to we Libras.

The points illustrate the things I need to focus on to keep myself happy: family, friends, work, play and health (physical, emotional and mental). Let any one of these points slip - as I am very guilty of doing - and not only is my life unbalanced, but I quickly fall into a bit of a funk. Being a bit of a type A personality, it's easy for me to get wrapped up in one thing to the detriment of other parts of my life. And my tattoo serves as a daily, and rather pretty, reminder that I need to keep these things on a mostly even footing.

The star is also a reminder, in a slightly cheesy sense, that I really can do anything, whether it's start over from scratch at 24, get in shape or cook a Thanksgiving dinner. The only thing that can limit me is me - and I can no longer let other people's expectations stop me.

The intricate pattern inside the star, which is Celtic inspired, is a nod to my Nova Scotia roots, because, as my mother likes to say, "You can take the girl out of Nova Scotia but you can't take the Nova Scotia out of the girl."

Finally, the sheer act of getting inked was about reminding myself that yes, I am tough. These last six months have tested me on every single front, and I like to think that I passed with mostly flying colours. It is, in some sense, a visible battle scar, a sign that I'm a survivor.

All well worth 45 minutes of discomfort, no?

Stepping out of my comfort zone, Martha-style

While some of the items on my before I turn 25 bucket list have been biggies - like travelling alone, getting my tattoo and running a half marathon - I've also been immensely satisfied with accomplishing smaller life skills, like learning to make a decent cocktail (pouring vodka and juice just does not make you a killer hostess) or yesterday's preparation of a Thanksgiving feast.

I am relatively competent in the kitchen. I love to bake, and the office gets a lot of cookies, brownies, squares, cupcakes and muffins as a result. But, especially since I've been living on my own, I have trouble working up the effort to make a proper meal every night. And a girl cannot live on stirfry, pasta and cereal alone.

So, with my decision to reclaim my holiday enthusiasm - tempered by a bit of that inevitable homesickness - I set about making a full Thanksgiving dinner yesterday. From scratch. And, I should mention, I've never done any of these recipes (except for the muffins) alone before.

I started at 9 a.m., putting together my mother's dressing recipe - which involved cooking rice, mashing potatoes, grating veggies and a whole lot of "mushing" - and whipping up a batch of spicy cornbread muffins, a recipe I'd beta-tested on Friday. Next up was roasting cauliflower, garlic and asparagus while I was in the shower, then it was on to preparing a tarragon, chive, parsley and paprika rub for the turkey and popping all 10 pounds of it in the oven. My roasted garlic went into a vat of mashed potatoes, and then I whipped up a goat cheese and cranberry salad with some homemade balsamic vinagrette. Finally, a large pan of apple crisp to finish off the meal, and suddenly, it was 3:30.

I'm thrilled that I a) got through it and b) that everything was edible! In fact, I got rave reviews. Along with a week's worth of leftovers.

It was a great reminder that even though I'm single, and my family is far away, I can still embrace holiday traditions. And make a kickass meal.

So much to be thankful for ...

Today I am thankful for friends, family, and fresh starts.

I am thankful that I'm in a much better place this year than last. That the lines of communication have re-opened with friends and family, and for all the opportunities to offer love and support to them, like they've done for me.

For all the dear friends, coworkers and even relative strangers who have stepped up to help me with everything from emergency tea, cookie and cocktail breaks; hugs; kind words, texts and emails and shoulders to cry on to moving and building furniture; lending a hand with shopping trips and even some not-so-light renovation work.

For you, readers, who are following along and supporting me on this new chapter in my life.

And, of course, finally for a chilled bottle of white wine and the delicious baking smells that today brings :)

Happy Thanksgiving

That holiday feeling

Growing up, I adored holidays. Whether it was Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving, a birthday or Halloween, every single one meant weeks of anticipation, followed by a day (or sometimes more) full of traditions with family and friends.

Over the past few years, some of that excitement waned. I tried to get into each one, but before long, Halloween was spent hiding in the basement, Thanksgivings passed without my mother's dressing (which, apparently, in Ontario would be called stuffing), birthdays became low-key affairs and even Christmas lost some of its sheen.

Other people stepped up, trying to build my excitement, but I'd lost some of my zeal. Some days I even had trouble faking enthusiasm for life, when every day was simply just another day to get through.

But this week, I'm starting the task of reclaiming holidays. I'm spending time with friends, including a potluck dinner, and going on a hike, then capping off the weekend with my own home-cooked (hopefully) Thanksgiving feast. Including my mother's dressing. And then, come Friday, I'm celebrating my birthday, my way.

The clarity of good conversation

Sometimes, what you need most is a chance to talk it out. Whether a phone call with a friend or a few pints with someone new, getting that deep into a conversation can lead to you making some surprising revelations.

Recently, while catching up with someone who I only sort of knew, having met them during what I now see as my lowest, most hermit-like point, the conversation inevitably turned to likes and dislikes, hobbies and habits. As I revealed my hockey-playing history, my love of sports and video games, and my slight (OK, significant) obsession with high heel shoes and baking, she commented about how I was going to make some man very, very happy.

And, while I confess, this conversation did sort of highlight the idea that I might be a real catch - not a bad thought for a newly single girl - the best part for me was the surprise of my answer: "You know, you might be right. But right now, I'm more concerned about making myself happy."

No grandiose statements about no men, or no relationships, or promises of timelines. Just permission to be a little bit selfish.

This seizing the moment thing is exhausting!

Before my summer of saying yes challenge, I had very little to report in my scheduled weekly phone calls with my parents and my best friend. These conversations, like the catch-up messages on Facebook or via email, often went along the lines of: "Quiet week. Work's fine. Just watching some TV. (My ex) is OK."

While there's nothing wrong with that - other than the fact that I was unhappy - it's not exactly earth-shattering stuff for a news junkie. Having at least a brunch or movie or shopping trip to report would have eased my dread for those phone calls, when, of course, the most essential bits of information were those left unsaid.

Now, there's always lots to report. I do, perhaps, need to start sleeping more and drinking less, but I'm having a blast. Especially since switching to doing some evening shifts, ending at midnight, I find that having post-work plans helps prevent me from going home wired and staring at my ceiling until 4 a.m., praying for sleep.

So, as a result, my schedule has been packed lately. So packed, that I'm looking for a hole in my calendar to book a personal recovery day (so far, we're in to November!). To illustrate, here's my past week or so:

Last Sunday, I ran a half-marathon. Followed by brunch with fellow racers. Then a whole lot of time with a hot tub resting my tired legs.

On the Monday, in addition to my regular freelance work, I met up with a friend for a high-heeled brunch, then went with another friend to go book my tattoo appointment.

By Tuesday, which I also had off from work, I was feeling better post-marathon, so I resumed running, went for lunch with a friend, got my tattoo (more on that later) and then went to ball hockey.

Wednesday, after running around the office showing off my new tattoo, I went shoe shopping (of course), then rescued the very last of my boxes from my former home.

By Thursday, I was, admittedly, starting to lose steam, but the week was really just gearing up! After finalizing the last few details for the closing of the house, which happened on Oct. 1, and a full day at work, I ran a few errands then headed to a friend's bachelorette bash. I'm still trying to get champagne and glitter out of my frock - but it was well worth it: a lovely time, for a lovely friend, and a great excuse to wear my new shoes.

Friday, I worked at night, so was able to sleep in and hit the gym before my shift started. Then it was off to a friend's pad for fresh out of the oven brownies, followed by late night karaoke and even later night (or do you need to call it morning once the sun comes out?) frying up of bacon and baking of muffins.

Saturday, after a few hours sleep, was back to the office, followed by a housewarming party. I had good intentions of hitting up Nuit Blanche, but ended up being one of, to quote a friend, "the party winners" who closed it down - ending up, again, cabbing it home in the wee, wee hours of the morning, where I managed to order some new clothes online (with promo codes, excellent sale prices and free shipping!) before crashing for a few hours.

By this point, running on about nine hours sleep over the course of 72 hours, I was starting to feel sorry for my sleep-deprived body as well as my liver. So, after running some errands and coffee with a friend on Sunday, I promised myself I'd take it easy - at least until tonight's ball hockey match - and rest up.

I'm still exhausted, but I'm relishing all the memories I made over this past week - along with sharing the stories - far too much to let a little thing like sleep slow me down for too long!

Running

I've never been a runner. In high school I was on the cross country team, but that was mostly an excuse to avoid taking the hour-long bus ride home. I would train, sporadically, and enjoy the race days like field trips, never that concerned with the results.

This summer, for some strange reason, I started lacing up. A friend encouraged me to get moving, to help cope with stress and, hopefully, build up an appetite.

At first, I was running away from things. I found if I ran long enough, my head would start to clear, and all those jumbled thoughts would disappear, at least momentarily. All that would matter was getting up that next hill, around that next corner, then finally home - wherever home was that week.

Deciding to do a half marathon was still terrifying. By the end of the summer, I was comfortable with my half-hour to an hour runs, easy 5 to 10Ks, but 21 kilometres still felt seriously daunting. Toss in a move to night shifts, and, well, training took a backseat.

But I kept at it, as best as I could. And soon, I wasn't running away from things anymore, but rather towards new ones, or just for the simple joy of running itself.

Long runs became a time to think - I could obsessively analyze my life, plan out my wardrobe for the week, or just try to clear my mind. Some days, I even looked forward to pounding the pavement or the treadmill.

As race day approached, life spiraled a little out of control. Nursing a ball hockey injury, falling down stairs while ripping out carpet, and the emotional task of seeing my bunny Allistair settle into his new - very happy - home, all made me wonder if I was strong enough to do it. It became a mental game, and I just wasn't sure if I was in it.

Thankfully, I didn't drop out. On race day, fuelled with a cookie and a banana, I headed up to the startline as the sun was rising and thought, "You know what? I can totally do this." And I did.

The first few kilometres, dodging people who were already walking and trying to weave through the crowd, were a bit messy. The middle ones, though, were lovely. The weather was great, the people lined up along the route were enthusiastic, and the run felt good on my already rather sore legs. By the 18th kilometre, I was already thinking about "next time."

And, of course, crossing the finish line felt like a major victory. I felt exhausted, and hungry, but also empowered, strong and healthy. Like I could do anything.

I'm not sure yet whether there will be another distance race - though I'm definitely talking about it with friends - but I've already agreed to a 10K in the spring. And for now, I'm just lacing up for the fun of it.

Chapter closed

These past few months, I feel like I've been working on two separate chapters of my life. Actually, it would be more honest to call them books - they're totally separate manuscripts, sequels with shared characters that can exist separately. And the division between them is too great for merely a change in chapters, readers could easily get lost in the jump.

The first was written, barring a few last sentences and a bit of tedious editing that required revision, reviewing and the occasional few hours of attention.

The other soared along, the pages flowing freely, with new stories, developments and analysis everyday. This story, and its characters, are constantly evolving, and the ending remains a surprise.

Balancing these two stories was sometimes challenging. But today, that first book is finally closed - and I get the satisfaction of slipping it safely away on a shelf, a part of my past with a proper ending.

And this new story? Well, it's simply amazing.