My Stupendously Superficial Seven Standard

   The reason I switched over to a more narrative style - as opposed to my standard mini-essays - is that my life yields far more random and interesting episodes than I thought possible.  And very few mini-essays can capture the spirit of the conversations I find myself in.

  Case in point: my Fraternity brothers.

  My singledom has taken up a lot of blogspace lately, and you can just imagine the extent to which my brothers have had to endure listening to my rantings and ravings about how I can't find a girlfriend, what I need to fix in my life, etc.......actually, you can't.

  We're ten years removed from our undergrad days, my particular generation of Phidelts, and now most of us form the majority of the advisory board that assists the undergrads (known as the "actives", short for "active members") with their recruitment, programming, finances, and so on.  I'm the most recent addition, and so a few nights ago, they called a meeting at Michael's house.

  Thursday

  I set out from Burlington and head down the highway, arriving at Michael's house an hour early.  By some mysterious cosmic coincidence, the Toronto Maple Leafs are due to play the New York Rangers when I show up, so I'm looking forward to a solid hour of hockey before the meeting. 

  Of course, I make sure that doesn't happen. Not completely.

  "So, I was talking with Alice today about the rating system," I say to Mike.

  Mike looks up.  "Rating system?"

***

Flashback to Earlier That Day

The following is a poorly reconstructed transcript of a chat with Alice on BlackBerry Messenger:

Me: I still get awkward around girls, especially if they are an 8 and above.

Alice: An 8?

Me: Yeah, 8/10. Some of the guys are trying to get me used to the rating system we used for women. You know, 8/10, 4/10.  We just call them '8's for short.  When I was in the long term with the Big X, I never used it, but now that I'm single, I'm being educated.

Alice: Ah yes. I am aware of this system....So, how would you rate me?

Me: Umm......

(remainder of transcript cut off by the sheer torque of Alice's unintentional man trap)

***

  Flashforward: Thursday Night, Mike's House

 "She said that my system needs some calibration for it to be accurate," says I to Mike as we watch the game.

  "Why?" he asks. "What were your ratings like?"

  "Well, Milla Jovovich would have been a 9, but she lost out on the age and the lack of boobs, so she got a 7. Gillian Anderson was like a 6. She's got the red hair, the blue eyes, the boobs, and the geeky scientist thing going from The X Files, but now she's pushing 40. I gave Uma Thurman a 4 because she's not really pretty in the face without a metric tonne of concealer. Emma Stone, on the other hand, would have rated an 9, but she loses two points for looking like a minor. Maybe in three years?"

   Michael blinks.  "You gave Milla Jovovich a 7?"

   "Uh, yeah."

   Now staring through me, Michael assesses my numbers in his head. He was a Math and Religious Studies major at McMaster, incidentally, so he is keenly aware of the impact of my venial sins down to the sixteenth decimal point (and that's just by using an abacus...don't ask me how. Math to me is a form of voodoo).

  Michael gets up from his couch and walks over to the IKEA movie shelf where he keeps his Blu Rays and DVDs. 

   "Okay," he says, taking an audible breath.  "What's your minimum standard?"

    I look over.  "What?"

   "What's the minimum number a girl would have to rank on your scale in order for you to want to date her?"

   "Umm...." 

   I think about it. 

   Look at most couples today, long term or not, and you'll find that neither partner is really magazine cover material.  I mean, I consider myself decent looking, but I don't have the Clooney or Brad Pitt thing going.  Only something like 2% of the population has those looks.  Myself and the Big X, back in the day, were decent looking people, but I can't assess her objectively, having spent all that time with her, and ask if I would go out with her now.

   When there's chemistry present between two people, when there's true love, the looks become secondary to the feelings between them.  However, if you're at that initial stage of visual attraction - say, at the gym, a bar, or a bookstore - the scale applies because that's all you have to go on.  Given that my ex has been my only serious relationship to date, that means I can't use past experience as a measure.

   (Although she was a definite nine back in Grade Ten when I met her in Geography class. Definite nine)

   That also means that I can blurt out the first number on a scale of one to ten that comes to mind and just see where that goes.

   "Seven," I say to Mike.  "A girl would have to rate a seven on my scale for me to want to date her." 

   Mike nods, picks out a Blu Ray, checks the cast.

   "That girl from Avatar, Zoe Saldana," he says.  "Where do you rate her?"

   "Well, she's cute and all...just no sign of red hair or blue/green eyes...7."

   Michael puts away the movie, pulls out another one.

   "Cameron Diaz?"

   "Not really," I say, "only because I've seen that tabloid picture of her without any makeup, and I can't imagine myself waking up to that every day.  I rated her a 5."

   "Ellen Page?"

   "See? She's tricksy.  When I saw her in Juno, I didn't think of her that way, but since her appearance in Inception......I dunno, she also gives off a friend vibe.  I think I'd be friends with her...maybe a 7?"

    Michael shakes his head.  "Oh boy."

    Long story short, my ratings went like this:

   - Scarlet Johannsen: 7/10 (little on the skinny side)
   - Naomi Watts: 7.5/10 (ditto)
   - Jennifer Connolly: 7.75/10 (lack of red hair and little tall)
   - Erin Karpluk (from CBC's Being Erica): 9.95/10 (semi-red hair but otherwise a potential dream girl)
   - Jennifer Aniston: 6/10 (....meh)
   - Eva Mendes: (6.5/10)
   - Kate Winslet: (7.75/10)
   - Isabella Rossellini: (6.5/10)

   "YOU GAVE JENNIFER ANISTON A SIX?????" 

    Michael looks like he's about to throw me out of his house.  I shrug.

   "I mean, she's nice, but she doesn't really do much for me.  She's kinda plain."

    By this time, some of the other guys have shown up, and we run through a couple more before roping them into the conversation.

   - Angelina Jolie: 7.5/10 (getting up there. Adequate boobs. Used to wear a vial of Billy Bob Thorton's blood around her neck. Might cut me during sex, and Jody don't play dat)
   - Drew Barrymore: 7/10 (adorable, sexy, and yet....I dunno, 7). 
   - Elisha Cuthbert: 7.75/10 (blondes are aight)
   - Zooey Deschanel: 9/10 (Maxim Magazine called her "the thinking man's sex symbol".)
   - Jennifer Goodwin (from He's Not That Into You): 8/10
   - Shakira: 10/10 (under duress: Michael implied he would kill me on the spot if I rated her any lower. Strongly implied.  As in, he showed me the ice pick.)
     
  Pretty soon, the gathering is complete,  but before we start the meeting, Michael shares my assessments with the guys.  Here are the reactions:

   "Totally with you on Jennifer Aniston, Jody.  She's just....meh."  - Mr. B.

   "Yeah, Jennifer Aniston's okay." - "Raymond"

   "I don't follow celebrities, but I"m going to go with Jody on the Jennifer Aniston question. Total six. Maybe lower." - "Walter"

  (He didn't say it, but Michaels' reaction to the Aniston Question: "Seriously, eff you guys.")

  Yes, I'm aware I haven't noted the plethora of reactions to my rating system from the guys.  Suffice it to say it generated tons of laughter, incredulity, some sympathy, and a couple of dares to actually post this on Facebook, but only to all of the female friends who I currently rate a "7" and above.  I've run that simulation in my head movies several times now.  My conclusion? The only winning move is not to play..

  The Point

  I like morals to my seemingly pointless stories, so here it is.

  "This was just with celebrities, Jody," says Michael as we wrap the discussion and start talking actual business.  "What you've done is said that you would not date most of the top 2% of supposedly beautiful women out there.  Most of them rate 7 or less. How do you think real women are going to measure up?"

  Michael can be Yoda-like when he wants to be.  It's why he's Squadron Leader.

  This is one of the reasons why I made the recent decision to abandon actively seeking for a partner.  I'm off of dating sites, and though I'll maybe flirt and check out a girl that I run into in my daily routine, I've got too much else on the go to make this a priority. 

  In fact, that really is the best way to go.  Contrary to the cliché, you actually can't "expect the unexpected", otherwise it'll just become more of the "expected".  And contrary to what eHarmony would have you believe, most couples meet offline through pure serendipity, by doing things that they'd normally be doing, and finding someone who's also going their way.

  And when that happens, chemistry always takes precedence over appearance, if not right at the beginning, then over time.

   I may just abandon the rating system altogether.  It's obviously flawed; it places too much emphasis on superficiality and first impressions; and it sets up unrealistic expectations.  If the guys and I are just shooting the shit and talking, sure: it's fun to daydream.  But some people are serious about its usage in finding a mate, and that can't be terribly functional. I'll trust to time and chance that it'll work out for me.

  And hope that somehow my talent work will lead me to Erin Karpluk.  She's dreamy AND local....

What this Blog Is Really About

   Recent events in my personal life that peripherally involve my writings have inspired this entry.

   I've had online journals before, all of which I let lapse.  As I had finished my first book and approached the middle of my second manuscript back in late 2009, restarting a blog was definitely on my mind, but I procrastinated. 

  Then, this past January, my marriage ended in a very dramatic way, and suddenly I had a lot I wanted to share with people I knew, even people I didn't.

   Looking back over the archives, it's been a long journey.  I've covered far more mileage than most people in my situation would have.  I'm a very different person than when I started, a better one, if maybe more frenetic, at once more and less certain of himself and the new identity I am still crafting for myself. 

  And though I've hesitated at times, both off and online, I've ultimately had no qualms sharing it all with the entire wired world in this forum.

   But make no mistake: my openness about my doubts and weaknesses, moments of frustration, does not give you the right to treat me like a weakling.  In many ways, because I can open up, I'm stronger than the manliest alpha, because I've got the balls to walk with an open heart.

   So what is this blog?

Odd Place is My Web Presence. You'll notice the tabs I keep for my new talent work, my bio, my books, and my freelance work. This is the professional portion of my home page. Everything else is for fun.

Odd Place is My Story:  My life's far more interesting than it might seem at the outset. Off the top of my head, at least fifty or so good souls out there consider me a good soul, a close friend, and someone they care about.  My story thus matters to several people, and I don't mind sharing it. 

  (Hell, if I never wrote this blog, I never would have met Alice, and my BlackBerry would be tragically vacant)

Odd Place is My Therapist.  Yes, I've taken therapy in the past.  It's helped. 

  I hear rumours some of you consider it unmanly or gay to take psychological therapy, to openly talk about dreams, emotions, ideas, and the dreaded "f" word for most straight guys, "feelings".

  You know what, how's this for an "f" word? Fuck that! 

  Half the benefit of all therapy is simply knowing that another human being out there knows your insides, can clue in to what's happening to you. Writing here about major problems, frustrations, and anxieties helps me feel better.

  And if you guys think this misrepresents me to be more fucked up than I am, consider this: I have to be in a clear, calm, and content frame of mind to be able to write about anything, let alone a major personal problem. 

  By the time you read about something like my nervous breakdown or my frustrations with working and dating, or whatever, it means that the negativity is already out of my system.  It's gone, out of my mind, body, and spirit and onto the page, presented in such a way that it can benefit someone else experiencing something similar. 

  This is how I vent, and when you meet me in real life after I've posted something dramatic here, I'm more than okay.  I'm Tony the fucking Tiger.  I'm GREAAAT! 

Odd Place is My Canvas.  Finally, I'm an artist.  Always have been, always will be. There are days that I crave heading out to the bars with the boys or out to play baseball or hockey, and there are days where I'm content to lose myself in my own daydreams. Lately, the introvert days outnumber the extrovert ones.

  I've grown into a social animal, but in many ways, I am still the kid who'd vanish to a grassy hill in the spring, lay back, and spend his lunch hour staring at the clouds.  I've had many events happen in my life that could have potentially killed that kid, but he's still around, seeing sailboats where the rest of us see cumuli. 

  Some people were born to throw a football around; others to run a city; maintain the law, or advance science and technology.  I was born to be a writer and an artist.  Whether the medium's electronic or acrylic, paper page or plasticine, I will use it to express myself. 

  This is a place where I can create whatever the hell it is I want to create, in a medium where I am proficient to the government-tested tune of 134 WPM.  A place where I can manifest as quickly as I can think.  People talk about "playing God"; how many of them put the emphasis on the "playing"?  Not many.

  So that's it.  If you're curious about the events in question, they're still ongoing, and if I do decide to comment, it'll be after they've passed.  Until then, have a pleasant evening!

Smile Power

  In The Holographic Universe, the late Michael Talbot noted that back sometime in the latter half of the last century - scary that we get to say that now - physicists tried to calculated the energy potential of a simple cubic centimetre of empty space. The math ended up revealing that there was more energy than something like 10,000 hydrogen bombs contained in every cubic centimetre of the universe.  Talbot noted that many other physicists felt the calculation was somehow in error, and there is still some controversy today over the implications of what that calculation would mean if it's correct.

  Talbot didn't note, however, whether the physicists in question had considered the power of a simple smile into the equation.

   In the colder months, Tuesday nights are Hockey Night in Hamilton for Jody.  Michael and Julius have been going to pick-up floor hockey on the East Side of town for a few years now.  In previous years, I was a spectator, but when I found myself suddenly unmarried this past winter, I started joining in.  With baseball season over, it's now time to lace up the runners and go balls out crazy on the gym floor of the elementary school where we play.

   With a couple of hours to kill before hockey, and with the sun shining, but setting earlier than ever, I decide to get in my hoodie sweater and head out to the park, tea in hand, to potentially finish Eckart Tolle's The Power of Now.  The trick about that book is there are intermittent pauses throughout where you not only reflect on what Tolle says, but to let go of thinking altogether and just be....which is the point of the book. 

   To experience the Now means to go out of  your mind.  It's like that state of being when you wake up, alert, experiencing pure sensory input without sorting it out.  Much like what I went through with the sex couple next door, who have been remarkably quiet these past few nights.  I almost miss it....almost.  But I digress.

   I walk to the first bench facing Lake Ontario past the War Memorial and have a seat.  Across from me, wind is rippling out over the water under a blue sky with swirls of wispy cloud.  The air is cold and humid, containing early traces of winter chill.  The sun is setting, the day's last rays amplified by the thin curtain of stratus on the horizon, turning the trees lining Lakeshore into comfortable autumn silhouettes...

  .....and before I get too smitten with my own powers of description, I'll say this much: it was real purdy out, y'all....

   Very few pedestrians walk the walkway as I put on my headphones from my BlackBerry Brain (she's my very favourite phone...her name is Vera) and listen to tunes while I read the book.  The only people you typically see in weather like this are dog walkers. There are a few out here now.

   Tolle has an exercise in which you just fill your body with awareness, head to toe.  It's an old practice, very related to ones I've read from Wayne Dyer and Whitley Strieber, but it's so basic that it's hard to assign credit, and if you try, you're missing the point of the exercise.  You just become aware, usually first of your toes or fingers, and move inward until you are sensing your whole body. 

   Feel whatever each part of your body feels like, acknowledge it, focus on it.  Then, when you're experiencing pure sensation, stop thinking about it and just become that sensation.  It's trickier than it looks to describe it in words, given that words themselves are a form of thought, but Tolle does a good job.

   I close my eyes and perform the exercise.  I am not shutting out the world around me, but acknowledging awareness of self, inside and out.  After a few minutes, I feel...presence.  I am simply here. 

  I open my eyes.  The Unfinished Pier is directly in front of me.  The gibbous moon has emerged from behind a cloud, and a tanker bound for Hamilton Harbour is now steaming towards the Lift Bridge.  All three objects form a triangle that is perfect for a few moments, and I experience a small, non Jon Stewart-related Moment of Zen.

   Just then, a dog walker passes in my line of sight.  She is late thirties, no ring, walking a grey curly haired thing on a leash I can barely identify as a dog.  She looks my way, and sees that I have my headphones on, so conversation is a moot point.

  
   But she smiles at me. 

   And it's the brightest, most energizing smile I've seen in a long time from a stranger.

   Her face seemes to glow with an inner energy, a recognition of another spirit on a human adventure, just sitting on that bench. 
 
   And I smile back.  In fact, I don't stop smiling for five straight minutes.

   I don't know if it's a result of the exercise, but I had just been refocused on sensation.  And it makes me wonder: what is the power of a smile when you can just immerse yourself in it?  When you can just drop the social conditioning that has us treating each other as potential threats, obstacles along the daily grind towards nothing. 

  About ten minutes later, the sun now below the horizon, but the light of the smile remaining on my face, I get up and headed for home.  As I walk, I smile at three other people.  Each of them return it.  And with each one, the same warm energy flows out.  Powerful stuff.

  I get home into my apartment and head upstairs. I see no one else, but I take a quick glance at the resident directory.  I marvel at the isolation that many people in these buildings feel.  This is where people like me come to start over, where we lock away our senior parents and retirees, where young immigrant families live without knowing the language.  We're all isolated to some degree.  Often, we do it to ourselves.

  But as I close the door and get myself ready for hockey, I truly wonder if the main message of a smile, when truly experienced, is a reminder that we're never completely alone, anywhere, at anytime. 

   10,000 nuclear bombs in each cubic centimetre of space.  I'll put my money on those physicists any day.

My Nervous Breakdown, Pt 2

(cue pre-intro theme from "Battlestar Galactica")

Previously, on Dispatches from the Alternate Universe:

"I sit up in bed in a state of pure awareness, not completely sure what I am hearing. Then my brain reconciles the sound. Heavy breathing. Two people. My neighbours are having sex at 5:43am on the other side of that wall.....This is the last straw."

"I had asked my boss to leave an hour early on Wednesday. Typical arrangement requires me to make up the time I take. Tuesday, I showed up an hour early...Boss... that this arrangement wasn't what I thought it was, and that I likely came in early for nothing."

"This was a thirtysomething Wednesday, my first, and it was boring and sad. The kind when you only think about lost baseball games and Fs on report cards and missed opportunities....was this all there was?"



"5:54am. They haven't stopped at all. And I'm angry. Determined....I get out of bed and start my day, determined to stop letting life kick my ass. Determined to make a change...."



***

Thursday

Thursday begins well. 

Spurred by the late night sexcapades of my nympho neighbour, I am set to get back in the vibe and be a productive individual. Today is the begininng of a special project that I am not allowed to talk about in detail, save that it's something that my boss has given me ownership of.  I am ready to kick ass.  And asses are kicked today.

I'm also excited for two other reasons. After work, I'm going shopping for clothes for a photo shoot I am doing on Saturday for my upcoming work in advertising and commercials.  I am getting professional head shots done and this could be the start of a whole unexpected chapter in my life. 

I'm also due to meet with my BFF - let's call him Dom to prevent undue and inadvertent libel, though I may have mentioned his real name here somewhere - for coffee afterwards.  He has been travelling through Europe for the past three weeks, and I want to hear about how his trip went.


 
As I do my shopping, I can sense a manic energy running through my system.  This isn't necesssarily a good thing, because I've felt this before, and it usually precedes a huge crash.  No matter, I'm getting new shoes, new pants, a new blazer....all things I've needed to complete my wardrobe.  They won't all get used, I know this, but at least it's done, and I'll be equipped for any type of event. Shopping can be a temporary salve during a state of life crisis. 

I come home, head into my bedroom and drop off the stuff in my closet.

And I hear them again!  It's 6:34pm.  This time, she's really raunchy, and sort of a turn-on.  My female BFF Alice suggests that I ask to join them, but that's not in the cards for me.  I barely have enough courage to talk to a girl one on one for just me: a three-way (and a devil's three-way, at that) is out of the question.

Still, it's like a determination refresher that motivates me to go to the gym and experience the mother of all workouts (which I do).

I return, shower, change, and head out to meet Dom. 

Dom's been there for me pretty much forever, but especially since the drama started with my breakup and divorce from my ex.  As single men, we formed part of an endangered demographic in our circle of married and long-term-partnered friends, and as "nice guys", both of us are accustomed to the pitfalls and vicissitudes of post-school dating while not being a douchebag.




I go to the cafe a little early, and find out that my other friend - again, let's call him Rick for anonymity's sake - is working that night down the street and will come over to meet us when he's done.  He's also recently left a relationship, but was starting something up with a girl at his job that was going somewhere.  Rick, too, has been a loyal ally in this dangerous world of singledom, and though at the time, I simply treat this as a casual coffee with buddies with no overarching symbolism, it occurs to me afterwards that these are my wingmen.

Dom shows up, and it's good to see him again.  His trip to Europe was kick-ass, and he's got an energy about him that's basically vintage Dom, except ramped up 15%. 

And I rapidly find out why.  He's now got a girlfriend that he met on the tour.

My face must have lit up like a Christmas tree! Awesome news!  I mean, Dom's probably the greatest guy ever, and if there's anyone who deserves excellent karma for years of being true to himself, putting in his best all the time with the people around him, and looking for a relationship where he can be authentic in all ways, it's him.  I am very excited for him, and wish him all the best!

Rick shows up, and we talk for a bit . Turns out, he too, is now off the market (well, at the time, sort of) and was deliberating on what to do next.  We shoot the shit for a while and I go home at midnight. 

Though it occurs to me at the meeting, it doesn't really hit me until I go to bed (now wary of ANY sound coming from the other room).

I am probably the only single man in my group of friends.



Still, as I drift off to sleep, I do fall back on my own New Age philosophical leanings.  Things that happen in your life also have symbolic meaning, as well as literal. 

 My apartment, for example, is either clean or cluttered depending purely on my mental state.  I'm quite direct in my symbolism - for others, a clean apartment is a sign they're avoiding dealing with other issues, whereas for me it's a sign that I am bringing my surroundings into alignment with my calm and organized mindset at the time - and so I realize something that, in my lingering mania, gives me hope.

  Sex is happening three feet away from me.  My best friends are now experiencing either the start of new love or are seeing opportunities for love right before them.  The universe is surrounding me with the very experiences I wish to have, have been looking to have again for many long months now.  It's only a matter of time before it's my turn.  Not much longer to wait.



  On that thought, I fall asleep.  And yet, outside, in the dark, my apartment is a complete mess.

  Friday

  If I'd known how the day was going to end, I would have probably slept in a little later.  For the first time in two days, no sex from the other side of the wall.  Good.

  I get to work, and today's the day that I am to finish up my project and get the arrangements made.  Part of this project involves collating a significantly large number of documents that, in turn, require organizing.  I figure I can get all of this done myself, impress my boss, and be a champion.

  I don't count on the involvement of the other middle manager in the office.  Let's call her MM.

   MM is hyper organized.  It's her thing.  And she's a nice lady, personally (aren't all the evil bosses nice people outside of work matters?).  But she is organized to a fault, way past the border of OCD.  And I'm about to feel her wrath.

   Leaving my project for lunch, I return to find that she has taken over my collating piles, reorganized them, and is now telling me what to do down to the last detail.  I can't go to my boss for advice because she isn't back until Monday.  Nor can I protest, partly because it's insubordination and I have two weeks left on my technical probation, and because she is offering me critical help.

    The workforce has this phenomenon that I can't quite name, in which there's no practical reason why you should be unhappy for some policy, someone's help, someone's directives, but where there's something wrong where you can't put your finger on what it is.  And for me, I realize that MM has taken away my bragging rights for getting the project done myself. 

   More than that, I also know that if there are any discrepancies, my boss will blame me for it. 

   Worse yet, MM is altering my original directives given to me by my boss, and I am working on complete faith that this is what my boss really wants. 

    MM issues one last reorganizing directive that, if I am to complete, requires me to stay late to ensure completion of the project, then leaves.  By this point, I am demotivated, stressed, and despairing, because my boss already has me on the hook for schedule issues.



   I am damned if I do, damned if I don't.  If I leave on time, the project will not be finished, and I will hear about it Monday.  If I stay late, I will hear about it on Monday.  I decide to stay late, sending Boss an email explaining the situation. 

   As I finish the set-up though, it dawns on me: nothing I ever do will impress my boss.  Her management style is the old school one in which the only feedback you receive is when you do something wrong.

   I am an intelligent human being doing peon work, and being treated accordingly.  I have no upward momentum, and nowhere else to go.  But I'm forced to stay because I need money.

   In the stressed out, demoralized atmosphere of my mind, the usual levvies that allow me to separate home issues from work start to crack. As I finish up my email and start for home, the leaks get bigger.  More chunks fall out from the levvies and the fluids begin to gush and mix together.

   I am single and divorced and alone and lonely.  Everyone is in a relationship but me.

  I am an intelligent, university-educated Arts major doing work that I am overqualified for and bored by, but that I need in order to pay my bills.

  I am trying to please a boss for whom nothing will be good enough.

  Everyone else is living what I want to have: love, and sex and babies and houses and success.

  And I am 30 years old and one week and nowhere near where I thought I would be in life.

  These elements swirl together, gathering momentum, and create a perfect storm in my mind that only breaks when I get home. 

  The manic energy spikes....then, ultimately....CRASH!

 I get into my apartment and just lose it.  When Jody has a nervous breakdown, it becomes rather epic.  Status updates abound.  Text messages fly.  I call everyone to vent.  I allow myself to cry, a behaviour which I've internalized as not being "manly", which I don't even do on my own half the time, but which is just too much to repress any longer.  I lose my typical cheer and optimism and become all about the cloud, not the lining.

For about two hours on Friday night, I alternate my time between venting out the strain, scaring the shit out of my friends and family who mistake the venting for my imminent demise, and just completely losing my shit.  Like most violent storms, though, it's over with quickly, but while it's falling, it's intense and dramatic and scary.

  But then, it's over.

 The comparison between the end of a nervous breakdown and a storm is apt.  The stillness and sheer awareness is the same, the feeling of energies dissipated, of a mess that's left behind now requiring clean-up.  Silence. 

  I get up from the couch, now in the dark.  I look around.  The place is a mess.  But I feel better, if not a little puffy and stuffed up.  I make a few phone calls, talk to a few people who have seen my updates and are worried about me.  The first glimmerings of gratitude and light appear: I am lucky to have the people that I do, people who care about me.  Who love me, even when I can't understand why they do.

  I sit for a while, idly browsing the web, start to put a few things away here and there, but otherwise, not doing much else.  The storm's passed.



  Flashforward: The Weekend

  I feel relieved to have these feelings out.  The weekend is here.

   Saturday, I pack up half my closet, clean myself up and head to Toronto for pictures.  There, I'll visit an actual celebrity photographer in a real artsy loft, the kind I've only seen on TV.  He is friendly and delightful and makes me feel right at home.  I'll chat with a make-up artist who's worked with the big stars all over the world as he gets me ready for my head shots.  He'll tell me that he's been doing work for over twelve years, and that he has confidence that I will get lots of work.  As I leave, he wishes me well and says, "See you on TV." 



  I drive home through Toronto's busy Distillery and then through the Entertainment District.  I feel the energy of a city I have always loved to visit, and may be seeing more of soon.

  Afterwards,  I'll have a belated birthday party afterwards with some of the people I care about most in the world willing to buy me drinks and laugh with me. 

   Sunday's sunny and warm: perfect hangover weather for walking and doing nothing, enjoying the sun and breeze.  That morning, Rick will have crashed at my place and I'll drive him to work at the bookstore where I've applied for seasonal work.  After browsing some books, I'll decide to take a ballroom dance class starting in January. The school is within walking distance of home, and they say partners are not necessary for the group lessons. 



   I'll spend much of the day giving my brain a rest, nursing a slight hangover, indulging in just sitting under a tree, walking through grass, looking at clouds that remind us of the infinite vastness of sky and the wind-chopped waters of an inland sea that leads to the ocean. 

  I'll meet with my baseball team for our last beer call together.  I don't know it on Friday, but I'll win Rookie of the Year from my coach Julius, another good friend I'm lucky to have.   Tuesday, I start floor hockey again.

  At that same gathering, I'll buy a stag and doe ticket for November, another opportunity to have fun and meet new people, possibly someone who'll be special.  Another whim decision, unexpected, and new, like my decision to work in talent.  A psychic told me this summer that the next special girl I meet would be at an unexpected party in the winter.  Could this be it?  We'll see. I tend not to believe most self-proclaimed psychics, so I'm not going to expect anything.  But I can hope.

  The day will end with this blog entry.  Tomorrow I return to work, and whatever trouble I may find myself getting in, if at all, despite my best efforts.  But I'm not going to spin my wheels anymore for no reward.  I will do what's required, focus with all my best, and then walk at the bell.  Become what we all expect of a typical government worker.

  I'll be living with my 30s for the next ten years, so I'll have to get used to it.  It'll take time, but what else can you do?  30's typically a difficult year for most people in those unexpected ways. This is just my time to deal with it.

   And as my friend Rick has been telling me for a while, I just have to be patient that I'll find someone, and find something to do to enjoy my time in the meantime. If I'm in the flow of experiences I enjoy, I won't need to worry about the interpersonal dynamics of approaching girls or not approaching them: we'll meet each other halfway.  And it won't feel like work.



 Nervous breakdowns happen to everyone, even me. Not often, but this one was a long time coming, and now that it's passed, I still feel that calm that follows.  It won't last, of course - nothing lasts - but at least for now, I can just sleep the sleep of the tired and the lucky.

   It's unrealistic to feel grateful and joyous all the time, but at least I can be conscious of the stormy days, be aware of things as they happen, and try to get through them with a minimum of damage to self, surroundings, and reputation.  The contrast of pleasure and pain makes life.

  This breakdown cleared the air.  Eventually, I'll be grateful for it, but in the meantime, I'm happy with just not being ashamed of it.

   9:40pm as I write this sentence.

  I now go to bed and sleep, turning out the lights on an apartment that's clean once again.

  Let's see what the neighbour chick's got in store tonight.

My Nervous Breakdown, Pt 1

(Preface: this is very closely related to Allie Brosh's the Sneaky Hate Spiral.  Click here to read before continuing if you haven't already.  If not, I bid you continue)

5:43am.

That's what the BlackBerry screen says.  5:43am.  My alarm's not set to go off for another hour or so.  I was dreaming deeply, of markets and sunsets in faraway places. 

So why am I up? 

Then I hear it.  Muffled, intermittent, human.  Heavy, from behind the concrete wall that my bed backs onto. 

I sit up in bed in a state of pure awareness, not completely sure what I am hearing.  Then my brain reconciles the sound.  Heavy breathing.  Two people.

My neighbours are having sex at 5:43am on the other side of that wall. 

Three feet of concrete separates me from their hot and heavy, yet somehow I can hear it. 

This is the last straw.

Flashback to Tuesday

The first work day back from the Thanksgiving weekend began poorly.

The preceding week, I had asked my boss to leave an hour early on Wednesday, before my two day vacation, then Thanksgiving weekend..  Typical arrangement requires me to make up the time I take.  I had offered to make up the time before Wednesday, but my boss advised me that she prefers I "do it afterwards".  I interpreted this to mean that my very next shift I am to show up early.  This has been the process at other workplaces I've been at.  Of course, this thinking made an ass out of you and me (mostly me)....

Tuesday, I showed up an hour early, only to find that my government building was still closed, business hours having not begun.  Fortunately, I found an unlocked door and made my way in.  However, the elevators are also locked until 8:00am, meaning that unless I have a special base pass, I can't actually access my floor.  Again, fortunately, some kind souls working extra - like me! - showed up and took me to a floor three stories above mine. 

That's okay, I thought, I'll just take the stairs down to my floor.  And I made it to the stairwell.  And I descended to my floor.  Only to find that the door to my floor was, in fact, locked.  I tried other doors on other floors, only to discover a rather unfortunate truth: I was stuck in the stairwell. 

I checked the time.  7:36am.  Not bad, boss isn't usually in for a while yet.  I suddenly remembered the phone number for security, called the guard, identified myself, and asked him to come up and unlock the door.  He did so, and I gained access to my office.

Boss was not in, so to give her some proof that I did my best to be in an hour early, I sent her an email (those are time-stamped, right?).  45 minutes made up, will make up the other 15 somehow later.

Boss never came in.  In meetings out of the office all week.  But she was checking her email.  Two hours later, I got a reply.  Essentially said that this arrangement wasn't what I thought it was, and that I likely came in early for nothing.  I sighed heavily, rubbed my eyes, went on with my day, mostly conscious.

Nine hours later, I headed home.  Around the afternoon, I developed a headache.  Intense, like little lightning storms striking my skull.  It developed for no reason whatsoever, as the rest of the day had gone well, but then it was followed by stomach queasiness and a general feeling of "what the fuck" flowing through my veins and nerve endings.

I'd had plans to go play floor hockey that night, but instead I came home and lay down, napped for a good two hours.  Though I would eventually get up and get the wherewithall to go to the gym and do mild cardio, my evening, for all intents and purposes, was shot.  The headache and stomach sick vanished just as quickly as it appeared.  I had no idea why.

Wednesday

Wednesday dawned, and the day was slow, so I blogged. Coming home, I decided to go to the Second Cup and write for a few hours.

Outside, an autumn rain, the equal and opposite of spring rain, fell in torrents, cold and bone chilling and dreary.  It was the dreariness that got to me, the type of weather that not only soaks your clothes but gets into your heart and pools, weighing it down.  My friends a city away from me, most of them, no girlfriend or wife to go home to, I felt sad.  True to my bilingual status, all I could think was "le sigh". 

This was a thirtysomething Wednesday, my first, and it was boring and sad.  The kind when you only think about lost baseball games and Fs on report cards and missed opportunities.  Where you dwell on wrong turns taken in the road that led you here.

Was this all there was?  We go through childhood and school dreaming about what we would be when we grew up, and I was none of the things I had dreamed about.  Not an astronaut, not a fighter pilot, not a police detective, not a cartoonist, nor a professor. An author, sure, but not successful in the financial and commercial sense, not yet.  A career in limbo then, working at a low level minion job where I am viewed as a peon - essential to operations, but not someone to be appreciated or thanked - to pay the bills until that success happens. 

The mood didn't get much better as I talked to Mom on the phone, laying out all the reasons for why my life wasn't going the way I wanted to.  "I like what you wrote in your blog," she said, "but I also know what you say to me when we talk about the same things.  You're trying to convince yourself as much as you are others when you do your motivational entries."

Mom's where I derive much of my crazy, I think, my different way of thinking about things.  And she hit the nail on the head, though I answered that even if I am doing this to convince myself of what I should be thinking, if it helps someone else deal with their shit, it benefits both of us.

But that night, I just felt generally stuck.  Making enough money at my job for food and shelter, but not enough for plane tickets, night school classes, or dance lessons: places and experiences where I could potentially meet Miss Right and thus restore my life to the normal function it had for over a decade.  I am no good single.  No one appreciates me at work, and I have no one at home to give validation that I matter as a human being, that I matter to someone else.

I'm also far more intelligent than the work I do, having passed up management jobs here and there throughout my twenties because, well, I've never seen any industry, any economic activity that I could devote 100% of my passion to.  Nothing about the management lifestyle lights me up except for the cash, which I'd gladly accept if I didn't have any responsibility.  I hadn't, however, factored in the hit that my self esteem would take by doing minion work when I'm way more evolved than most minions. 

And, of course, the 30 thing, which I realized was wishful thinking on my part to regard it as just another day. 

This was the mindset I was in on Wednesday night.  I went to the gym, came back, washed up, and went to bed, alone...again. 

As I tried to sleep through the mania that was keeping me up, I wondered why it was so hard to meet women my age. 

Myth#1 of all frustrated single "nice" guys like me is that there aren't women around.  Not true, I see them everywhere.  The thing is just approaching them.

Do women really like being approached by guys?  I can't get a satisfactory, absolute answer to this question.  I've always thought it was borderline creepy to just walk up to a random girl and say "Hi".  But apparently, that's the way to go.  I meditated on the paradoxes of dating: that girls will claim to want "nice guys" but will be turned on by assholes who will hurt them later; that if you go up to a girl with a plan, she'll deride your "agenda", but if you just flat out tell her you're interested with no games, she'll find you boring.

More excerpts from a book I've quoted here before by Lori Gottlieb called Marry Him in which all the fortysomething singles increasingly pine for the "nice guys" they weren't attracted to in their quarter life years, guys who are now married to the women who were saavy enough to lock them down when the getting was good.  Meditated on where those women were at this moment.

More contemplation: why is it so easy for almost every other guy I know to just approach a girl?  Why is it I can give speeches to crowds of dozens, raise the roof, flirt with cashiers and baristas, make friends with strangers, but I freeze when I see a girl at a bar I'm interested in seeing romantically?  This comes naturally to almost 90% of men out there.  I'm having to learn it from books. 

I contemplate entering the priesthood to simply remove the dating option from Jody's palette of options.  Not Roman Catholic.  Maybe Shaolin. I'll know kung fu.

Oh, and the fact that I've been an Aberdonian version of what Barney Stinson calls "The Sexless Innkeeper" for nearly a year, after having lived a decade of my prime years where access to sex wasn't in question. That was about the last thought I had before finally drifting off.

Around 1:45am or so, I finally fell asleep. 

Thursday

I'd only seen the girl next door once. 

Blonde, twenty five or twenty six, decent shape, somewhat nice, but like all other quarter-lifers, not terribly sociable, no small talk kind of thing.  Small talk and walking up to people to say hi is the domain of the older generation.  We said awkward hellos, took the elevator down to the parking garage, said goodbye, and that's it.  No other communication.

Until I hear her having loud sex on the other side of my bedroom wall with a boyfriend she had acquired.  And that communication is not only one-way, but unintentional.

5:54am.  They haven't stopped at all.  And I'm angry.  Determined. 

This is the closest I have physically been to that kind of energy in a long time.  It seems that the good things in life that I'm looking for are happening all around me, but not to me directly.  The universe is determined to screw with my life with its pernacious sense of humour.

Sexless Inkeeper my ass.

Time to stop feeling pathetic and alone.  Time to man up and head out there, stop being sad,and be awesome instead.  If life isn't going to give me what I want, then it's time to go out and take it!

I get out of bed and start my day, determined to stop letting life kick my ass.  Determined to make a change....

(To Be Continued....)