I remember…

Love’s not a fairy tale

I remember when I couldn’t fall asleep because the day felt like a sweet dream, or how heartbroken I would be every time he left on a train, a plane or a bus. Because, I felt like part of me was missing. I felt incomplete, a half of a whole. I also remember how much it hurt when it all ended, but almost anyone that has been in love, will agree, it’s better to have lost and loved than to have never loved at all.

Those few moments of ecstasy were worth it, for all of the pain that came after.
I can only imagine it will be sweeter when it’s someone you know you will spend the rest of your life with. After all, they say if you have love, everything else will follow.

Lightbulb

I’ve recently done a lot of thinking. Most of it enforced on me by a little (ok, big) voice that just won’t seem to go away. Why am I scared? Closed off like shell? Why am I acting the way I am? Good question; one that only took me circa 8 months to figure out.

I can honestly say 2007-2011 house some of my most beautiful memories. The kind of memories you form with someone you love so much that no matter what they do, how much they hurt you, nothing can ever tarnish the way you felt in those moments.

For quite a while I lived in a fairy tale, everything was perfect. Everything was going to plan. And when things started to unravel, when the ceiling started to crack, I refused to see it. Not because the crack was small or invisible, it wasn’t. But, rather, because I refused to believe it. Like a stubborn landlord who won’t pay to deal with mold properly, I just kept painting over it. I had been so happy, that I refused to acknowledge or deal with anything that would take that away. Anything that would make me lose that and have to work to try to find it again.

So, that’s what I’m afraid of now. Falling in love anew with something that turns out to be false. Falling in love with a fairy tale that ends sadly. Thinking I’m in a chick flick when I’m really in a drama. Because maybe it is right what they say, fairy tales end when they do for a reason.

So, this Thanksgiving, whereas it might not be mine (I’m not American after all), I am thankful for the moments I was so happy that I cannot put into words, for the moments I hit rock bottom that made me who I am today and for that big voice who wouldn’t stop until I acknowledge what I was afraid of: smoke screens, fairy tales and lies.

Airports

If you look up the definition of an airport in the dictionary, it focuses on the planes: a place from which aircraft operate that usually has paved runways and maintenance facilities and often serves as a terminal.Quite an empty definition.

Airports have shaped me ever since I can remember. I was about 6 when we left Bucharest, cue long line of relatives all bawling their eyes out. Surely Canada cannot be that far, I thought. When we landed at the airport in Toronto, we met relatives I had never met, and stayed with them. The strangest feeling ever for a little girl who was in a place unlike anything she had seen before. I remember having a certain fascination with the highways. If you’ve been to Romania recently, you will know why, there is still quite a bit of struggle to build them even today.

Throughout middle school and high school, the airport became about summer vacations. I was packed up and sent to Europe, usually for months, bouncing from beach to beach, country to country.

In university, it became about homesickness, crying about being away from my parents. Approximately only one hour on the plane, but nevertheless, it seemed like countries and continents away. In the final years of university, it became about leaving the university and someone I loved behind in order to go visit the family. Then, as I moved to London it became about a long distance relationship. Tears, hugs, kisses, sadness, happiness. The airport could be a happy place, in a moment of reunion. It could also be a sad place, having to say goodbye once again. As time went by, it became harder and harder to say goodbye and each reunion was filled with more happiness and joy.

Today, I spend most of my time watching other people get reunited, or saying goodbye. The airport, in a way, feels like home. It is the means by which I see everyone I love around the world. And oddly enough, heart breaks and turmoil have drawn me back to the very dictionary definition: a means.

Love

I once had a conversation with a 3 year old. It went something like this:

Are you married? (she asked)
No. (I answered)
How come? (she dug further)
I don’t have a husband. (I replied, a simple answer I thought)
But…(she pondered for a second) why don’t you buy one?
(I chuckled)
If you haven’t the money, then I am sure I could lend you some.

Oh, if only. I’d like one understanding, caring, compassionate, loyal, handsome, tall man. Who can cook, cleans after himself, has a fantastic relationship with his family, a well paid job, and loves pets, specifically dogs, in all shapes and sizes. Did I mention has fantastic fashion sense, loves healthy eating and exercising? Right, enough day dreaming.

I spent a good part of my life thinking love would be easy. That it would be that one thing you could turn to when everything else was going wrong. But, often, it doesn’t work that way. Just as much work as you put into your career, your friendships, and studies, add another measure and that is how much work you need to make a relationship work.

Some of us are after the chase, we want to settle down with someone after they have satisfyingly pursued us and conquered us (I won’t name any names!). For others, it is about the relationship–the comfort of knowing someone is there at any point of the day. For now, I don’t know what it’s about for me, maybe a piece of cheese will solve the mystery…

This is what it is all about.

As a girl you spend your life wondering: who will be at your wedding; where will it be; what will the flowers look like; will you like the ring; and most importantly, who will be standing next to you. It all boils down to one thing: family.

I have never been one to shy away from being independent, being on my own, doing things solo. But, at the end of the day, the dating, the relationships, the fights and the laughs: it’s all about building a family. Maybe it is not about that for everyone. For me, it is. I know I will have kids, it’s not a question. And there is no question about whether it will be singular either.

I am very fortunate to have two wonderful parents who have done an amazing job of raising me. Regardless of whether the means were there, I do not remember a time when I was told ‘no’ or even ‘not now.’ But, most importantly, I have two people by my side that are so loving, supportive and amazingly incredible. The obstacles they have overcome, the life they have build for the three of us, it all still leaves me speechless. There is no doubt in my mind that I am where I am today because of them, that I keep striving to be better because of them.

Someone recently called me ‘dumb’ for taking a flight home that returned to London the morning I start a new job. I understand the attitude: it’s not worth risking not getting to your new job on time; it’s not worth being jet lagged on your first day; it’s not worth risking not even making your first day of work. Well actually, it is all worth it to spend an extra day with my parents. The risk does not even factor into the equation.

It was then that I realised it really is all about family. Because when people wonder what life is all about, this is it. It is landing at an airport and knowing there are two people waiting for you who love you unconditionally no matter what happens, it is about knowing that when you get home there will be a small white Maltese Bichon who will lick your face into oblivion. Forget the job, the money, the gifts, it’s all about family.

Memories

I found myself thinking today, totally not prompted by a silly show on my morning off from work, what is life about? What makes life worth living? Is it the promotion at work? The new car?

Think back to your best memories.

University. I remember one Sunday morning. There were 6 of us in a car, driving to one of campus dining rooms for brunch. The music was blasting, it was freezing outside, but the windows were open. As a crisp, cold winter breeze made its way into the car, we sang our hearts out along to Glamourous by Fergie. In that moment of pure happiness, nothing mattered, not the homework on the desk in our rooms, not the problems we were having with the boys we were seeing, not the arguments we had with our parents. All that mattered was the moment, us singing, knowing there was a waffle at the other end of the journey.

Bar Course. Seven of us spent a weekend at the cottage. It was far too cold to spend any time outside, a chilly December breeze coming from the sea. We were all bundled up for a walk. We came upon a playground, and for a good hour it was almost like we were 5 years old. Some of us went on the swings, and the boys had a race.

We spend, or at least I know I do, a large part of our days worrying. The bills. The job. The weather. The work. The next vacation. When really we should just be enjoying the moment, happily gliding along like a duck in a pond. Swim on followers and forget your worries for the day.

Cross-roads

We find ourselves at a cross-roads more times in a day than we often wish to acknowledge. The burger or the salad? The Jubilee line or the DLR? An ice cream or a coffee? The list goes on. We only really recognise we’re making a choice when it concerns an important aspect of our lives: career, family, love, big purchases. When it comes to one of those things the world depends on the decision we make.

I’m not one for decision-making, if I could I would pay someone to analyse all of the possibilities and to pick the best path for me. It doesn’t work that way. Because paralegalling doesn’t pay enough to allow me to hire someone, but also because, at the end of the day, it’s more fun to sit in the mess you make.

When it comes to love, I have sat in plenty of messes. I’ve cried over them. I’ve been angry over them. I’ve felt foolish over them. That’s the beauty of the thing. But, I have never made a conscious decision. I have let myself, in a sense, drift away, because things were easy, pleasant and because I didn’t have to put work into finding something better.

I’m not willing to float, drift, meander on by. I want to make an active choice. Someone who fulfills all of the criteria, someone who makes me happy, someone who makes me smile in the morning.

The same applies to pupillage. Don’t accept a pupillage now that you are going to hate, moan about. Don’t accept a pupillage at a place you will hate every day, a place that will drain you. Pick that place that drives you to be better, pushes you to work harder, makes you smile through the sleepless nights and foodless days. Find that one place, or that one person that makes you realise you can’t sleep because FINALLY reality is better than your dreams. (special thanks to Dr. Seuss)

All that glisters isn’t gold

Let me tell you a little secret about paralegalling they don’t tell you: it sucks. If you thought mini-pupillages, volunteering and FRU are bad, you have no idea.

I’ve been here nearly a month, and all of the tasks so far have required, to be honest, not much intelligence. I’m fairly certain they could get a secretary to do everything I do and pay her half as much, and charge the client half as much as well.

I rejoiced at being included in a client meeting then realised I was there to take notes. My introduction? ‘This is XXX, she’s just typing today.’ My parting remarks from the client? ‘Thanks for typing, XXX’

The newest task is photocopying exhibits, and I mean pages upon pages. To add to the stress, the owner of the files loved using the stapler, think 3 pages stapled with 3 staples. My boss also seems to think it necessary to constantly ask where I am, when it will be finished. I don’t think she’s realised how many pages I’ve photocopied so far, nor how many boxes of paper, binders, dividers I have had to carry to the photocopier.

Yesterday I made a strategic decision. There is a photocopier very close to me, but should I use it? No. Because even better there is one right outside her office. And yes true she can close her door but the walls are made of glass so she can most certainly still hear it going all day long. To top it off, I decided to do everything with a little ‘gusto’: slam the drawer of paper, throw the boxes of binders on the floors. It became a sort of game. One I seem to have won. Ever since I relocated photocopiers, I get a lovely thank you, every time I drop off a complete binder on her desk. That’s 24 ‘thank you’s in one day. I’ll take that.

The other saving grace is that whereas they may be completely menial tasks, the case wouldn’t run without a paralegal.

Tower Bridge

Long before the idea of going to the Bar entered my head, the sources of angst and worry were still quite numerous. I had just moved to London (where no one knew what ice wine, beaver’s tail or poutine was!), I had endured emotional wreck at least three times, and I was missing the group of friends I had made in Boston.

Few people know this, but when everything became overwhelming, I would drag myself down to Tower Bridge (at the time a short journey from Mile End). Usually just to sit, either on the bridge itself or looking at it from the Tower of London side or from near London Bridge. Maybe it was the fact that it was tourist invested, and it reminded me that I wasn’t the only ‘stranger’ in the city, or maybe it was because I could sit there watching families and couples looking delightfully happy. Whatever it was, Tower Bridge was there for me.It was (I swear I’m not weird) like the bridge itself would give me a hug whenever I was on it.

As time passed, and the city starting feeling like home, I didn’t visit it as often. It was there, but nothing too out of the ordinary. Like the parents’ home that is within walking distance that you only want to visit on the off chance.

Tonight, for the first time, as I crossed Tower Bridge, in the rain, it made me swell up with emotion. It felt like I was carrying the weight of the bridge on my shoulders. It reminded me of every single time I had stood on it, in pain, worry or just general home sickness. It reminded me of what I had endured to get to where I am today, and quite how much I endure on a daily basis: how much I miss the Canadian summers and the way they never seem to want to come to an end, how much I miss walking down Newbury Street or knocking on a best friend’s door, how much I miss a certain little small white furball giving me kisses, and quite how much I miss being cuddled up in my rather comfy bed looking up at the chandelier.

It is these type of experiences that make us who we are, that mould us as people, in my case probably more emotionally detached then I would like to be (I don’t accumulate too much clutter generally because I fear I will have to move again soon!). But, in a way, tonight was also good, it reminded me why I moved to London, and it wasn’t for a person or for a career, but rather because in a unusually hot British summer, I had fallen in love with London. A love that still endures.

Control Freak

They say the first step is admitting it. I spent the last couple of weeks feeling miserably lost; I want to know whether I have a pupillage in 2012, and everything and everyone seems to be moving too slow for me. I applied for a couple of things that in hingsight I don’t actually want to do.

But, I also signed up for a half-marathon (you’ve all heard about that in previous posts) and started Bikram yoga again. I had given it up last year after enduring 1.5 hours of poses in a 40C room and deciding there was no way in hell I would ever go back. But not only did I return to it a year on, I now go every day.

It has taught me, within a short period of time, amazing mental discipline. While you’re standing on the toes of one foot, holding the other in the air, and sweat drips straight into your eye, you learn not to flinch or rub your eye, rather, you stand there motionless.

It has also taught me that some days you take a step back; I took a huge step back at a recent interview. Shit happens as they say. We don’t move towards improvement every single day. But for that one step back, I am now taking five steps forward. And even if I don’t get a pupillage in 2012, I have a plan (colour coded, might I add). So bring it on, the world is my oyster.