Paper Bag Princess

Sometimes, I have the absolute worst timing. Almost 2 years ago I decided to give up men boys relationships for a few months, to just ‘be’ on my own… and then I accidentally met the boy of my dreams. 3 summers ago, I was offered a 2 week contract job in Las Vegas and a few days before I was supposed to leave, I fractured my foot.

The other day, I walked out of a Tim Horton’s and saw the most beautiful Golden Retriever I’ve ever seen. As I walked away, looking back longingly at the beautiful, blonde dog, I made accidental eye contact with a man who clearly thought I was checking him out. As I waited impatiently on the corner for the light to change, he struck up a conversation with me in an I’m-not-just-flattering-myself-he-was-blatantly-hitting-on-me kind of way. Some guys just find it difficult to remove the sleeze from conversations with women.

In keeping in step with my absolutely terrible timing, on Friday I got hit by a Purolator truck. A hit and run, you might say. If the thing you were saying was the absolute truth.

It wasn’t quite as dramatic as I clearly made it seem. Yes, my hand was scratched. Yes, I was in tears. Yes, I was freaking out quite a bit. And yes, it was the closest I’d ever come to actually being dead. But I didn’t die. I didn’t even get seriously injured, so after calming down with a couple shots of vodka and Tim Bit chasers, I felt a little silly that people were making such a big deal about me.

As much as I’d kill for that most other days.

Sadly, that whole incident was one of the most exciting things that’s happened to me in months. Besides a couple of dreams involving paint, nudity and a lot of biting and the occasional boxing class, my heart just doesn’t race like maybe it’s supposed to.

As the very wise and incredibly sexy John Mayer repeatedly sings, “half of my heart’s got a real good imagination”. Half of my heart is pink and sparkly and believes in true love. That same half of my heart is actually a bit okay with the fact that, at 25, I’ve already gotten stuck in a routine that is likely to last me the rest of my life.

But that’s only one half.

The other half is constantly bombarded with having to remind people that they are pretty and loved, being the responsible one in my relationship with my father and trying desperately to deal with the fact that not everything in life is within my control.

It’s sad that in my high school [a.k.a. most fake person in the world] days, I felt more in control than I do now. I never fell in love. I never worried about ex-girlfriends. I never cried for no reason. I never let anyone see any real emotion because with the exception of a couple people, my “best friends” changed weekly. But then again, in Stratford, where everyone knows everyone else’s business, people were constantly trying to reinvent themselves.

In high school I never questioned my sanity. I downed a bottle of Tylenol to get attention, not because I was so existentially tormented. I didn’t know what the hell existential meant. And as per me not caring about Philosophy in high school, I still couldn’t give you a concrete definition of the term.

It just sounds smart.

And if I can talk enough game to sound smart, then maybe I’ll trick people into forgetting that I’m just a silly little blonde who believes in true love.

And who wants nothing more than to be in control of her own destiny.

Love you with cherries on top,