A Love like theirs

She posted a photo of the two of them on their wedding day, and oh, what a gorgeous photo it was – straight out of Pinterest, I’m sure, only this time I knew the couple and I knew their love story, and it wasn’t a picture Pinned on some Secret Board in a moment of hysteria for a future I’ve never thought about. But it wasn’t that honest pose that caught my attention and took my breath away. It was the caption beside it.

And then there’s that other Bride I’m friends with.
Luckily, I’ve swaggered in and out of their life each time I came back to Calgary and I had the pleasure and envy of hearing about their progress of love, over quick but in-depth visits to their Sunny Side apartment; a place in which, for the first time ever, I felt I could live quite happily in Calgary, should I live in that area*. Some of my favorite catch ups had to be a late night visit over Cuban Coffee and the full day of mimosas and adult Christmas cookie fananza, where I first learned about how their love tale began when they found each other in Asia and then found that they were both Calgary natives. I, myself was in Asia when I scrolled across their Facebook engagement Photo. Naturally, it took place outside of Canada, as only travel soul mates could ensure. It was a beautiful day in NYC where her smile was as bright as his eyes. This was one of the few times I was truly thrilled for a wedding. As excited I was on seeing the photo, it was the caption that gave me butterflies.

And then there was the sister, who gave me a brother in-law who is more family than my own half brother, as cruel and honest as that is, I’ll still say it. Despite him confiding to me that he planned on proposing on our family ski trip those few years ago, I was still dancing in the living room, when Megan entered the room and blurted "So this just happened" and gallantly reached her left hand into the sky. This time, it was me who posted the pic and the comments, with so much love.

This is when I intervene this post with my feeling about soulmates and real love. I’m not sure I believe I’d ever find my Forever partner in crime. I’m a hard lady to please, who is selfishly independent and my single hood wasn’t a status that I was willing to give up too easily. I would say it’s comparable to women whose top identity is being a mother, where mine is being single, independent... wild - and oh do I ever wish I was being dramatic in this retrospect. I also think as humans we change drastically throughout our lives, what are the odds of us changing in the same direction as our partner? I’m a nomadic, hippy where airports make me travel-sick and my goal is to make memories all over the world. So, who in the hell is going to tie that shit down, let alone try?

And then enters the Hunter. The one who has shown me that I can calm that travel bug with adventures in my own country, in my own backyard, even.  We took a quick trip to Jasper where we spent a couple hours walking around the canyons while drinking Budweiser beer amongst the Asian tourists. The best part was when he farted and quickly admitted he didn’t think it would be so loud. I roared with laughter (he knows about my blog, so I guess we’ll find out if he reads it). I'm talking hands bracing knees, belly laughter, tears in eyes.  But, my favorite memory thus far has been him picking me up from work (with Hugo in tow) and heading to some nearby waterfalls. The guy built a campfire while I ‘fished’. He insisted that it was not fishing season (it was hunting season) while I insisted that he was wrong. And, I was wrong. We had vegetables and some strangely addictive canned fish around the fire while the sun quickly disappeared. I was so cold and so satisfied with my life choices, and this feeling hasn’t really changed since that day he wooed me in his cousin’s vegetable garden. And so this weekend I met his family and was introduced to his people. Those people who helped shape him into the kind, loud and clever guy he is. The people who I would love to one day consider my own people. The guy who has talked me into trusting him by taking away some of my burdens and some of my control; the first guy I’ve ever met who has been the one to push me to keep me wild, while I pushed back to keep him safe.

And so I do know that if soulmates are real, it should be based on a love like theirs: the three examples above. I want a time when I was so sure that I loved him the most, it was actually only the beginning. And yet, unlike the Bride and her intercontinental love story, despite being on three continents and to eight countries, perhaps, it could be that all this time it was the the guy who kissed me on the dance floor in his small town three years ago, and yet it still took a combination of sushi and magic (and payroll training) for his sister, who is randomly and yet quite naturally a fellow Payroll Girl, to once again point me back in his direction. So, I've given up my single status, but I'm still unsteady on my thoughts and on my feet about the idea of soulmates, and I'm more an advocate for divorce than I believer in marriage. I am also sure I'll be going to Europe come June with a return flight to here, to the guy who told me he likes crazy, when I confided in him all of mine.

Kindly,

Kirstin

I'll keep you safe, you keep me wild.

*despite numerous nesting failures over a seven year duration in Calgary.

Panties: A confessional post

I’m having a love affair with panties. And let me tell you, I’ve got quite the collection. 

 

I've got lace panties and boy styled a-plenty
I've got running undies and booties shorts galore
You want sexy and seamless?
I've got twenty!

My underwear addiction could have something to do with the fact that I haven’t got much to work with up top. I could never financially justify surgically moving down the alphabet of bra size, but ethically, I don’t have a problem with that option, it’s just hard investing in a bust line and in return sacrificing my loosely planned two month travel adventure hiking the Camino Del Santiago. So slowly, oh so slowly, I’m learning to accept my small chest. Working out and doing push-ups have been adding muscle to my Pecs thus making my petite bust-line hold their own and I’ve cleverly accessorized with a pretty sexy sternum tat, if I do say so myself. I’ve also been toying with the idea of ridding myself of the bra altogether. Truly, other than a sports bra when running, with a size like mine, the only function the everyday lace bra serves me is by emphasizing my bust and discretely covering up the nipple. Feminist whispers have been quietly questioning the need to wear these padded, often uncomfortable bras, all to save face and hide the nipple. Why we are simultaneously sexualizing and shaming female breasts? It seems like just another clever ploy to keep women as the second sex. This is probably another post, all on its own #freethenipple

 So, I drove into Prince George yesterday, as I was lucky enough to be selected as one of the chosen four girls to help find a dear friend a wedding dress for her big event come August. It’s always such a surprise, when I once again realize how stressful wedding planning is. I was hit with that same mixture of energy and envy when she came out of the dressing room with her dress on. The dress that hugged her perfectly, accentuated her (and not lacking, might I add) bust line and made her feel as happy she should feel when she legally and publicly binds herself to the love of her life. I believe in divorce more than I believe the theory of an eternal marriage, but wedding still make me cry, and I love attending them knowing that they truly believe in their forever love. And as the guy who gives me butterflies, oh so boldly pointed out, one fireball and wine induced night, I can’t fathom the idea of the love contract because my soulmate hasn’t asked me yet. The idea of choosing to be with one person for a long time and not simply a good time is unfathomable because the subject with that person hasn't been broached yet. He’s got me there. So, once the deposit was placed on the champagne coloured dress, which promised to arrive promptly before the date of I do’s did, I snuck away to purchased my own ideas of happiness: Panties.

So, I’m searching through the vast selections and shapes of undies to find my size. And this is what kills me: Panty sizes are still embarrassingly dis-proportioned. I’m a pretty petite person, despite those body issues I can’t quite shake (see two paragraphs above), and at times, my eating habits that could truthfully offset to the side of a disorder, how in the hell is my underwear size a Medium? I weigh 115lbs; I wear a size twenty-freakin'-nine for jeans. My butt is not a Medium.

Why, when everything else in the world has been tagged smaller, despite being larger – think beverage cups, where in North America, ordering a Medium Tim Horton’s Coffee is really a Large and one restaurant portion size has ballooned into multiple servings which absurdly... normal – how are underpants marked Larges and X-Larges when they are bloody teeny-tiny? Underwear lines that accentuate my muffin top do not make me feel sexy, and so sometimes I take home a Large just to be sure this doesn't happen. 

This marketing strategy isn't something I pretend to understand. I will not buy more of this product if I feel like crap. And making me feel larger than I am (or any women, for that matter) does not encourage me to purchase more of this product. I'm not sure why the goal would be to limit the women, based solely on body type, on who can fit and therefor purchase the item. Is the target market here, truly dependent on body size?  And if this is the case, would I, as one of the small pool of individuals able to purchase [and fit into] the size Medium panties, feel more privileged if I fit into a size Small? And would that persuade me to buy more of these undies? Immediately, my reaction to this is that this is completely absurd with one big fat Hell No, but then I waiver, ever so slightly.

 I've never bought my Delicates from the box stores such as Walmart, Superstore or even The Bay. Why is that?  I don't think the quality of Le Vie en Rose, Victoria's Secret or Le Senza's undergarments is any higher despite the price tag certainly being so. Nor do I think their products are any prettier than the specialty store. And this is when I admit to myself and the entire audience on the 'net that maybe it's the advertising that quite literally, draws me in. It's those Atomic Blond Bombshells with hip bones and perky breasts. It's the posters of babes with perfect abs and ideal arms muscles - but not too muscular.

Although embarrassed and ashamed at times I have been, lied I have not, so I'll uncomfortably admit, that when I see that life size picture of the all-too confident female with her barely there lingerie flush against her skin,  I enter the store, because I too am confidently aware, strutting on in in my size twenty-nine size American Eagles, that I've got the ass made for those panties (and not the other way around). What those lingerie adds are really saying, is that in a world of indulgence and a society where obesity is exceedingly present within North America, only those who can demonstrate self control, display some sort of restraint against our highly addictive fast food nation, combined with disciplined exercise are elite enough to shop in shop such as this.

What is that word when you realize you are following the society normal that go directly against everything that you stand for?

Today I will just wear underwear, and a crown.

#RunBaldy

I always tear up during the first five kilometers of a race. And I’ll do it at least three times. I’m sure part of it is from feeding off of the energy that comes from other runners as well as all those fabulous volunteers, but more being a result of those butterflies build out of anticipation at that start line – after all, this is what we came for. It's that exact same feeling I get going through customs. It’s those escaped giggles as I exchanged questionable glances with the girl closest, when the announcer said what a beautiful day it is: we were both bouncing up and down trying to create heat out of this brisk day. And finally someone shouts GO and those butterflies are released from my stomach and I take off from the start line, and well, go.

The fall colours are beautiful as we’re run in the valley of the Okanagan. The day begins with a blue bird sky, and as we pass by orchards and wineries I can’t believe how goddamn lucky I am to have this life of mine.

As us runners fell into pace, I find myself running next to an Ontario Girl who takes my stride up a notch. Admittedly, I haven’t been training as rigorous as I had in the past. A trend developed with my long runs, where there always seemed be bits of wine residue from the previous night. And my regimented week day runs took a bit of a turn when a particular Hunter entered my life and proceeded to woo me with vegetable patches and late night dinners sans meat. He’s been the first guy I’ve ever ran with and let us not kid ourselves, this is a big deal. He hoodwinked me pretty hard as he insisted he was out of shape and outpaced me pretty hard during a three mile jaunt. So with these endorphins, memories and vibes I let Ontario Girl keep pace, between breathless intermittent chats for the first thirteen kilometers, knowing I would come to regret this before I finished, but hell, I’ve been working up to this all summer.

On this trip, I had the pleasure of seeing my sassy grandma and loving grandpa - I'm his favorite. And I'm the middle child, so I can get away with saying this. After a quick bowl of soup with them, my mom and I met up with my Aunt and Uncle and cousin for an afternoon of wine tasting. And while the red and whites started blending into the same flavors, there was talk of my Aunt and cousin running the Baldy Half, while I take on my very first Full Marathon, the same time next year. Don't worry, I plan on holding them to this wine induced promise.

I am so fortunate to have a second set of parents who I was able to visit while in southern BC, who replenished me with carbs and wine and then continued to berate me with loving questions about that Hunter they have yet to meet. Fortunately, my other Bushbabe and I share the very same second set of parents, so she and her Mike came down, too. It was a quick trip containing some off[-roading, a hike to a lookout, with the best views of the maintains that watched me grow during my childhood; I also had my first ever motorbike ride. I was woken up, long before the sun, with a knock on the cabin and a 5Am Breakfast, with side scare of leaving my car lights on and almost killing my battery, which would make it a second time of this trip, quite naturally. A promise was made to have our next family dinner at my Bushbabe and her Mike's newly purchased MT Acres down in Southern BC.

Pavement turned into gravel and the line of runners dispersed. Suddenly it was just the two of us passing by rows of apple trees and grapevines and then we jogged past the halfway mark. Rain clouds invaded the blue bird sky and the headwind picked up. I let Ontario Girl pass me, silently sending out good vibes to her for taking me as far as she did. I knew that pavement meant I had roughly five kilometers to go, so as I savored the sweet Gatorade at the fueling station I pushed onward as my aching legs pushed back. I’m not too modest to admit that it was a hard run, despite the flatness of the route, and I picked up the pace for the final time as the sandwich board scream finish line and the spectators screamed congratulations. I passed the 20KM finish line at 2:04 and, a bit dazed, and ran directly into a handful of family members, so very thankful that they came to cheer me on.

 

Signed,

A Runner.

In the first half of your race, don't be an idiot. In the second half, don't be a wimp.

Yes means Yes

One time it happened in Cuzco, South America at the Loki’s Hostel cerca 2014. This hostel was pretty epic. It had several bunk beds in co-ed dorm style sleeping areas, something like, seven bunks per room. There was a computer area upstairs where anyone could connect to the internet – I actually sent out of my first honest and revealing emails (which turned into the beginning of Calamity Kirstin) from those quarters. The bar/restaurant made fantastic western breakfasts, which we were all missing dearly. The redheaded bartender and I shared a White Russian at some ridiculously breakfast (and not brunch) hour.

My two favorite gals, Hannah and Lucy, who I volunteered in the Jungle with, traveled Cuzco with me for a few days,  and so the three of us resided at this famous hostel*. As the morning led into the evening and the restaurant transitioned into a bar, we each grabbed a cerveza and I found myself in my first ever game of Flip Cup. You’re in a line up of teammates and your job is to drink the beer in your solo cup as fast as you can, turn it up-side-down with its edge off the table and flip the cup back onto its proper side. The teammate in line cannot do this until you’ve successfully completely this. I was surprisingly good at this game, and lets just be clear, I do not play any type of team sports, nor do I do drinking games well, so this was a first. The competition across from me caught my eye. He was an American and he was giving me sass just as well as he was getting it. Truthfully, I can’t even remember his name (note this), but something tells me Hannah could tell you. I do remember The American had olive skin, was well built and had just enough arrogance to catch my attention.

After my team lost the drinking game, The American and I ended up talking about nothing memorable, but with several cervezas and this newfound YOLO mentality taking hold, we were kissing outside, joking about his age (I didn’t believe how old he was) and I suddenly found myself in his private hostel room – it had two beds, which he shared with his travel mate. I didn’t instigate the sexual advances, but I didn’t say no and I responded to his flirtatious responses promptly. I was hesitant when the clothing started coming off, and I think he knew that. But I didn’t say no. I’ll just say what we all know: I had sex with the The American.

Shortly afterwards, his buddy drunkenly hammered on the door of their shared sleeping quarters, insisting that he be let in. I blindly searched for my tossed items and sheepishly locked eyes with his buddy as he entered and I left.  Him and I made eye contact yet again the following morning, but I never spoke to or saw The American again. I shrugged it off and left the story with Hannah and deep within South America.

My Bubbly Work Friend and I often have deep, tangents and hasty and intense conversations at work, and somehow a piece of this story came up. The definition of consensual sex can be so complicated because the omission of the word No doesn’t transition into a Yes. And we all know, from those horrible stories that none of us wants to be involved in, but we all seem to know a friend (or a be the friend) who is a rape victim, and that even when No is said, clearly and repeatedly, that rape still happens. My Bubbly Work Friend's suggestion was, that instead of teaching girls and boy, women and men, that No means No, what should be taught is what consensual sex is a Yes. Consensual sex should be in the form of a question and not simply be a response to an action. “Do you want to continue?”, “Are you sure you are comfortable with this?”, “Do you want to have sex with me?” are some of countless ways to structure that question.

The good news story is that not every girl has rape story that they've painfully endured, survived and have overcome but continue to live with. But I truly believe many, many girls have this story: they were unsure about about having sex with someone, but just sort of, kind of, did it anyway - it was just easier to let happen than say No. I don’t, even with the revelation of that time in Cuzco, at the Loki Hostel, think that I was raped. Thinking back, though, I do believe had The American asked me, as we entered his room and directed me onto his bed, something as simple as “Do we keep going?” I probably would have given it a second though, and truthfully, I believe I would have said no. And perhaps this is something I need to train myself. I too need to take two seconds out of these impulsive, hormone hazy moments and ask my [potential] sexual partner, “Are you comfortable with this?”, as it would provide us both with a moment away from this sex infused air to make a vocalized a consensual decision. Even. At. The. Age. Of. Almost. 30. This hasn't been the only time that just doing it was easier than saying no.

 

I think that both sexes need to not only acknowledge that No means No, but more importantly, both the Male and Female sex need to ask that question to fully understand if both people involved in this want to have sex. Let me reiterate, the absence of no doesn’t indicate consensual sex.

Kirstin

It was as if she really was speaking for every woman. And that’s profoundly sad. - Lavanya Ramanathan

*this hostel is mentioned in the book, The Lost Girls. Parts of that book resided with me to such an extent that my heart hurt through the duration of many of those chapters.