Proud Mary, Proud Daughter

My mom is an extraordinary woman. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized this more and more (after getting through the “ugh, mom, you’re so embarrassing!” phase). Once I got to college, any friend who had met my mom would pour praise of her onto me, telling me how cool and classy she was, how she was like a second mom to them, and how she could probably out dance us all if we brought her to the club. And they’re right. She’s incredible.

I don’t think writing can properly describe her in full. She simply must be beheld to be understood. But here’s a little list of things that one should know about her.

1. Her name is Diane Anthony Canepa. Formerly Diane Marie Canepa, then Diane Canepa Olson (many years after marrying my dad, she gave in after people kept changing her name automatically on documents and reservations), then to Diane Anthony Canepa (this wasn’t because of a split with my dad, she just wanted her original last name back. She also changed her middle name to her dad’s name).

2. She has 10 siblings who were all tap dancers. They would go on tour around the midwest, with full costumes and everything. They still do a dance at every family function (yes, Canepa weddings are absolutely insane).

3. She drinks exclusively champagne. Really dry, very bubbly is her preference, but she’ll endure a glass of prosecco if she has to.

4. She has way more game than I will ever have. We went to an Avalanche hockey charity event, and she was chatting up all the players, got a few phone numbers, and has basically invited the entire team to come skiing in Breckenridge and stay at our house. I can laugh along, but won’t even attempt small talk with any of those guys. Their asses are so intimidatingly tight, it’s impossible to not feel like a complete potato in their presence.

5. There is one specific story I tell people when they ask me to tell them about my mom. A story which I think fully embodies the kind of woman she is, the energy she creates, and why she will always be the most fun person I know. Here’s the story:

My mom and I were in Chicago visiting some family in the winter of 2015. This was the first time I was in Chicago being of legal drinking age, so naturally, we got a group together to hit up some bars. The group was: my aunt Sue, my cousin Kate, my mom’s longtime friend Kelly, my mom and I. We went to this really cool bar called …- . Yes, that is the name, though Three Dots and a Dash will also work. It’s hid away in an alley with a small neon sign marking it. Downstairs, it’s a tiki style bar which mixes drinks three times stronger than anything you’ve ever tasted. We all got a drink, my mom got a glass of champagne, and we hung out there for a few hours just talking and laughing. We got another round of drinks somewhere in there, so we were quite enjoying ourselves by the time we stumbled back out onto the street.

Not wanting to call it a night, we scrambled around on our phones until someone found a place called Bub City just around the corner. We walked in… let me paint the picture. It’s a country karaoke bar. There’s a giant American flag constructed of red, white and blue painted beer bottles behind the bar. The room is pretty full, lots of people wearing denim. It was easy to forget one was in central Chicago, and not a highway side bar somewhere in Wyoming. A live band is playing, with whom you can get up and belt out your favorite Whitesnake power ballad (thankfully for those listening, they’ll just cut your mic and sing over you if you can’t hold a tune). We found a high top table in the back, next to a table of gents all old enough to be my dad. My aunt Sue got another round of drinks (and this isn’t a place classy enough to stock champagne, so my mom is stuck with a soda). When my mom and Aunt Sue get together, they’re always a fun time, and the rest of us just try and keep up. They pulled us up whenever a good song came on, and we’d dance and sing along loudly. It drew a bit of attention from the tables surrounding us, mostly because we were the only ones dancing and visibly having a good time. After a bit, a waitress brought over another round of drinks. She informed us that the table next to us bought us another round. We turned and give a little “thank you” wave to the dad table. They came to chat with us for a bit, and me and Kate ran off to the bathroom to avoid being flirted at. By the time we came back, they’d thankfully found their seats again, so we rejoined the ladies.

The song came on slow at first. A cute young woman with a remarkable voice belted out the first few lines. “Big wheels keep on turnin’, Proud Mary keep on burnin’, and we’re rollin’, rollin’, rollin’ on a river.” We cheered as the song picked up the pace. Then suddenly, my mom climbed up on top of our table and started dancing. She knows all the moves to Proud Mary, and she was not holding anything back. Just to briefly remind you, she’d only had 2 glasses of champagne here. This is not a drunk response, this is just my mom being the greatest party queen of all time. All of us at the table responded accordingly, Kate slammed her elbow on the table to keep it steady, Sue danced and cheered from a slightly safer stance on the floor, Kelly was crying laughing, and I was filming the whole thing. A security guard came over and yelled at my mom to get down, which she did, but not before the entire bar was made aware that our table was the most lit in the whole venue. Dad table sent us a round of shots. The girl who sang came over to thank us for getting so into it. The bouncer came over again and asked us to leave. We walked back to our hotel crying with laughter.

I’ve told this story a lot. To friends, classmates, and dates. Even if you don’t know her, it’s funny as hell. But it’s not just something I share as evidence of my mom being super fun and a bit crazy. I share it because I’m proud of her. I’m so proud to be her daughter. She is a woman completely unashamed to share joy with the world. She will dance on a table because she wants to, and because she wants to make people smile. She can confidently talk to anyone, because she has no shame in who she is, and knows she is worthy of respect from everyone. And she is kind and generous, and shares her joy with the world.

I hope that one day, I can carry the legacy of all the lessons my mom has taught me. It’ll take time, and practice, and a whole lot of self love to master the lifestyle which she has turned into an art. But until I’ve got it down, I will never miss a chance to dance on a table. And neither will she.

Terrace Twats

I moved into 102 University Terrace at the beginning of my junior year of college. It was on the ground floor of a two story complex, and the front door opened up to a lawn which sloped down to the road. The house had a large living room, with a kitchen tucked in the corner. Down the hall was my bathroom and bedroom, then around the corner to the left was Keana’s room.

I met Keana through theatre. We had worked on a show together during our freshman year. In our sophomore year, we both were accepted into the BFA performance program, and had most of our classes together. With 12 other students, we crawled on the floor like amphibians, frantically memorized soliloquies, and shared our life stories. Our closest friends were also in theatre; they were the people we spent hours in rehearsals and classes with each day. We all know what each other was going through, and we all had fun, no matter the amount of stress we were under.

Keana and my house quickly became the theatre “party house”. This is probably because of my aggressive hosting tendencies. If you walk into my house, you will have a mimosa and a fresh baked cookie in your hand before the door is closed. That’s not an exaggeration. I love company, I love baking and cooking, and I love drinking with friends. Keana does as well, thus we often found our living room filled with friends until late in the night, eating some shortbread I just whipped up, washing it down with some champagne, and laughing about who fell asleep during Alexander technique in movement class that day.

The first big party we hosted was a Halloween party, and also our cast party for a show called Legacy of Light. The show was… well, it was work, let’s just say that. So this party could not come soon enough. The costumes were an off mix. Some people went full glam, a la Marilyn Monroe and Audrey Hepburn. One friend was an amazingly accurate Jack Skellington. We had a clown, a puppy, and a few muscular boys who went as basic white girls. I was a slutty pirate.

Now I love a crazy party as much as the next college kid. But it’s never my intention to get totally trashed. Additionally, if I’m hosting a party, it’s definitely never my intention to get my guests totally trashed. Let’s have fun, sure, but I’m not trying to have to call paramedics on your ass. I usually provide the same thing for parties: a 40 rack of beer, a bottle of vodka, a bottle of tequila, several bottles of cheap champagne, and a crap ton of Jell-O shots. Why Jell-O shots, you ask? I will tell you, reader! In my freshman year, my friend Emma and I took it upon ourselves to try and make Jell-O shots. We made them in a mixing bowl on the floor of my dorm room, and filled my mini fridge to the brim with them. And for two weeks, we were having the littest frat party pregames in all of Cheyenne Arapaho hall. I made them for every party after that, that is, after I got a place with a bigger fridge.

Back to this Halloween party, one particular guest has requested I get a bottle of Everclear. He gave me money for it, so I didn’t mind picking it up. Odd request though. For those who don’t know, Everclear is grain alcohol. Super cheap, really strong. We get to party time, and I see this kid mixing himself up drinks with like 3 shots of this stuff in them. I guess I just assumed he had a steel liver, and didn’t think much of it. A bit later, I come into the kitchen to him and a few other guys doing shots. Of Everclear. Then more people are getting in on it. Pretty soon the Everclear is gone, and most people at this party are fucked. But hey, it was just one bottle, we’re all adults here, we can handle our liquor. Right?

Ha.

In the morning, I found Keana’s bathroom a complete mess. Someone’s yanked down the shower curtain, and thrown up everywhere but the toilet. There’s also vomit in the hallway, down the wall and onto the carpet. The following party, we started making rules. The first rule was (and always will be): NO EVERCLEAR SHOTS.

Theatre kids love a good comedy moment, so we put copious energy into our party invites on Facebook. As most of the parties were cast parties, we’d go crazy on the puns to tie the play into the realm of drinking. Trial of God became Trial of Your Liver, Twelfth Night turned into Twelfth Drink (of the Night) and Fefu and Her Friends upped its game to Let’s Get Fefu(cked) Up (they’re not all winners, sorry). It was usually the same group of people, plus a few more if people brought friends or if a new group of kids had been cast in something. For the most part, everyone was wonderful and fun. I never had a neighbor make a noise complaint, but sometimes the musical theatre kids would test their vocal chords to a Disney song at 1:30am, and I’d be sure we were done for.

At many of our little shindigs, I had an interesting drunk persona, who liked to come out around the time I’d finished a bottle of peach moscato by myself. It wasn’t so much a new person, just the 50’s housewife hostess inside me would come out in full force and I’d have an insatiable desire to bake something. Legitimately too, not like a half ass attempt. I’d be in the kitchen, as people slammed tequila shots and cracked beers around me, baking a cherry pie. Homemade crust and all. My friend Bernadette said she found me once, standing alone in the kitchen staring at the stove, flipping pancakes. “You ok?” She asked me. I just looked at her, smiling, and replied, “They’re almost done!” Then I’d walk around with a plate full of still warm treats and let the intoxicated humans in my living room snack themselves back to sobriety.

Among the cast parties we hosted, we would have a party for the annual Burlesque show every spring. It seemed only natural to make it an underwear party. Now, this probably sounds quite raunchy, and to some degree, it is. But everyone was respectful; it was all people who knew each other and were comfortable around each other. Mostly, it was just like any other party, except that instead of leaving just their coats in my bedroom, they left most of their clothes. Everyone usually wanted to dance at these parties, so I’d push the couches to the side walls, and clear the living room as much as possible. There was a large wooden coffee table which I would shove up against the TV stand, but it was still rather in the way of the dance space. This wasn’t an issue, we’d just use it as a stage. There’d be 10 of us, dancing our hearts out to Beyonce in our cutest bras, not fully appreciating the miracle that this table was still standing. My mom lent me that table, I should add, which feels appropriate as she’s the original table dancer… (I’ll save that story for another time.)

As fun as the crazy parties were, some of the best times were when it was just a few of us, enjoying the day and each other’s company. I remember one Easter, when me and Keana had no plans, but it was a sunny, beautiful day. We went to Whole Foods and splurged on every indulgent treat we could think of: macaroons, cupcakes, iced coffee with fancy nondairy milk, Brie, berries, and cookies. We spread out blankets on our lawn and lay in the sun, eating our snacks and talking about everything. Some of our girlfriends stopped by later in the day, and joined us on the grass. It was so uneventful, yet so lush.

It was those people, in that place, whether it was dancing on a table or just lounging around, talking about whatever. Even when it was just me and Keana, getting ready in the morning, in our separate bathrooms, but with our doors open so we could talk and laugh about rehearsal the night before or what we were doing in class that day. #102 was full of life and laughter. It was cozy and homey, and also spacious enough to support 65 theatre nerds singing “I’ll Make a Man Out of You” from Mulan. It saw girls nights watching BBC period dramas, late nights stressing over unmemorized lines or unfinished essays, and more brunches than I could possibly count. It’s seen tears, and silence, but those aren’t the memories that stick. And I’m grateful for that. And I’m grateful for the people who filled those rooms with life, and made the happy, crazy, lovely memories possible.

#102 University Terrace, Boulder, CO. August 2014 – August 2016.

Huh. That ended like an In Memoriam, but for a house. The place is fine, still standing, we somehow didn’t burn it down. I have no idea who lives there now, but I hope they’re having as much fun as we did.

“You’re all not worthy.”

I was hanging out with my friend Hannelore last night. We got talking about friendships and lovers, and the situations we’ve been through that have shaped the people we’ve grown into. Hannelore was saying that she feels she’s grown harder, and put up more walls, because of the situations she’s faced. She’s always taken time to trust people, and that trust has only grown more difficult to earn over time.

I’m a bit different. I lay my soul open for anyone who comes close enough to give it a second glance. I am bursting with hope at the possibility of affection or friendship or love. So much so that I never think to hold myself back, or worry that this person is only passing through for a moment, until they get bored and their attention is pulled elsewhere. I can’t force myself to be more cautious and closed. Just like Hannelore can’t force herself to let just anyone in. It’s a part of our nature.

But I’m getting a bit fed up, of late. I see myself putting energy and effort towards people who only return a fraction of the same. It’s something I’ve done all my life, but I’ve gotten to a point where I have less energy to give to those who don’t put in the effort for me. It may sound selfish, and maybe it is, but I don’t see anything wrong in expecting love in return from those closest to you. Nothing makes me feel more defeated than trying to show someone my interest in their well-being and their happiness, to have it met with minimal enthusiasm, or even silence.

I don’t want to do that anymore. I’ll save my time for the friends who reach out to me as much as I reach out to them, who listen to me and sympathize with me. If you can’t put forward any effort, if I’m not worth the time it takes to message or call, or I’m too much hassle to work into your plans, that’s fine. I’ll just not put in the effort next time.

I have a large amount of incredible people in my life. Fascinating, brilliant humans who, though we may not live in the same town or speak every day, care about what is going on in my life, as I care about what’s happening in theirs. They check in with me, they set aside time to see me, and make me feel so loved and appreciated. So why on earth should I, or anyone for that matter, put time and effort towards a person who won’t do the same in return?

Hannelore and I might have it down to a science, if combined 50/50. Her initial caution combined with my unrelenting affection (only when earned) might create a human who wouldn’t get hurt. Possibly. Probably not, pain would come from something sooner or later. I don’t know it’s possible to find the right balance of reservation and generosity to avoid being hurt by the love others refuse to share with you. But I do think that the love we have to give is a gift, and shouldn’t be thrown away on people who don’t appreciate it.

I know I won’t stop giving my whole heart, often too soon, to those I deem worthy of it. But I think I could take more time to recognize who indeed is worthy. I realize the word “worthy” makes me sound like I expect all my closest friends to be able to lift Thor’s hammer/rule Asgard in order to hang out with me. But hey, think of your friendship as Mjolnir (that’s the name of Thor’s hammer, which might be a good refresher if you’re going to see Avenger’s Endgame this weekend) and the people who lift said hammer/friendship get to witness its true power. If they just watch it sit on the ground, you (the hammer) shouldn’t be expected to crawl over to them and help them out. It takes the two working together to make the magic. I’m not sure if that metaphor was useful at all, but I enjoyed it.

It’s fine to expect honesty, compassion, kindness, and understanding in the same quantities which you dish out. And if someone can’t find it in themselves to match that which you give, you are not a lesser person than them. You are not wrong for giving your heart. They are wrong for not recognizing the value of what you have given. You’re also not wrong, if you realize that someone can’t return your love in equal measure, to walk away. Save your love for those who are worthy. Bonus points if they look like Thor.

For Emma

It was a hot summer day, and I’d been hiding in the humid basement of the London Palladium all morning. I had been wrapping gifts for press night of the Frank Sinatra tribute show, and had decided this was the coolest thing I’d gotten to do for my internship so far. Not that wrapping presents is particularly thrilling (though they were some very nice custom engraved whiskey glasses), but getting to wander around this old and beautiful theatre was absolute magic. I think it was also influenced by the fact that my friend Emma was coming to visit me that day, so I was in a very happy place. She had been doing an archeological dig in France, and decided to visit London for a week before heading back home. I had been in London for about a month, and was longing for a familiar face from home.

She was coming to the theatre around 2pm, and I said I’d meet her by the front entrance at that time. I was standing outside on time, realizing that this may have not been the best meeting place. The palladium faces a walking street, and on this particular day it was swarming with people. I waited, but no sign of Emma. I kept telling myself it would be fine, but panicking is a fun hobby of mine, so I pondered if she had gone to the other entrance, if she was lost in a sea of double decker busses, or if she’d just been kidnapped by the Queen. Anyone’s guess was as good as mine. I was out of range from the palladium’s Wi-Fi, so I had to hope that somehow, she would find me (in the exact place I told her to meet me, yes I know, this story isn’t really meant to be written as a suspenseful one, but just work with me, ok?).

Then I heard someone singing. A bit odd, singing on the middle of a busy city street. Normally I’d assume someone had been to a particularly good Happy Hour and just ignore it. But Emma is a singer. Not just a person who is good at singing, but a person who will burst into song at any given time. Mention the name of your latest favorite tune, she will sing you through to the first chorus. Unabashedly, soulfully, usually in the middle of a public place. So as the lyrics to the “At Last I See The Light” rose above the crowd, I whipped around to see a mass of brown hair running towards me. We threw our arms around each other and held on tight and laughed and cried, as people wove around our very unashamed display of affection.

It’s easy to get caught up with life and lose track of people. You may not reach out to your closest friends while you’re off traveling the world because they’re not in the forefront of your mind. And that’s ok, it’s hardly a critique on your friendship, but more a compliment to your mind’s ability to focus on what’s right in front of your eyes. Also, there is a level of faith we have in our close friends, whether we acknowledge it or not, to be there for us when we return, the same as we left them. I enjoy spending time with friends in places where we didn’t get to know each other. We get to learn about a new place, and hopefully learn a bit more about each other. It’s enlightening and strange.

I saw Emma again last night. Since we graduated from our undergrad, it’s become harder to see each other often, with her living in New York, and me living between London and Colorado. I walked into her house last night and she was standing there in her wedding dress, her hair and makeup done up like a dream. She’s not getting married for a few months yet, but she wanted to try it all out. It’s moments like these that force me to realize how quickly the time has flown. Those two girls hugging in the middle of London aren’t lost, but they’ve grown and changed, and want different things now.

Time doesn’t change who we are to each other though. A support system, a shoulder to cry on, a girls night out, and a laugh for your worst joke. Even as we flesh out our careers, make new friends, and go on new adventures with new people, we know we can always depend on one another. And I can’t wait to see her walk down the aisle, and witness all of the beautiful adventures that await her after that.

We were walking along the Southbank in London that summer way back when, holding hands and talking about how much we loved this city. Some guy passed us and asked, “Are you in love?”

We both replied, without hesitation, “Yes!”

And I always will be in love with her. And I know she will too, with me. The love of a dear friend has the power to last thorough anything. It can bolster you in times of need and shine on you through your success. Lovers come and go, family is constant, but friends, true friends, are the family we choose. They are the ones who define your life, and the greatest ones will always return to your orbit. The more people I meet and the wider my contact list spreads across the globe, the more I begin to recognize the humans who would cross oceans for me. The ones who would make me burst into song at the sight of them, regardless of the odd looks it might cause.

(I love you Emma. Happy Birthday. I’m so endlessly proud of you and grateful to have you in my life.)

No Pants Required

There are few feelings in this world to rival the thrill of dancing in front of a cheering crowd in your underwear. Even without the cheering crowd, it’s a wonderful sensation, and I highly recommend it. I’m not saying that I’d prescribe stripping as a cure-all for whatever ails you, and I will also acknowledge that there is a certain time and place for such activities, not including church services, children’s birthday parties, or your grandparent’s 50th anniversary. It’s just that, for me, dancing in my underwear has given me the majority of my confidence, has made me overwhelmingly happy and proud in the past, and likely will for years to come. Please allow me to elaborate.

I was a sophomore in college when I was cast in a burlesque show for the annual Fringe Festival. The three years following I was involved not only as a performer, but as a director and a choreographer. My love for burlesque grew over the years, especially seeing the way this art form made people blossom in confidence. It’s amazing what humans are capable of, if they believe they can do it. Initially, in burlesque, performers worry about their nerves, specifically being on stage in minimal clothing. But that’s actually a very small part of the work we put in for our shows. The dance routines were difficult, and took lots of practice to nail down. The real sex appeal is in the movement, the eye contact, and gestures, the attitude which made a dance flirty, funny, or fierce. Once you realize the power you possess simply in the way you move, clothing (or lack thereof) is a mere accessory.

The first year I took the reins on the show, the amount of work to put it all together was overwhelming; writing the script, casting, doing choreography for eight dances, costuming them all, organizing rehearsal rooms every week for two months. My friend Sophie and I held auditions, and we had a huge turnout. Teaching a dance routine to a room filled with 50 people wanting to be a part of your show is a copious amount of pressure. But it’s so exciting, seeing enthusiasm for the work you want to create.

With one month before our show, we were having rehearsal to learn the last bit of choreography in the final dance. Everyone was in it, it was gonna be a banger. So I’m demonstrating the next few dance steps, including this bit where you bend your right knee in, kind of a Fosse moment. So I do it. And there’s this loud pop and I just collapse on the floor. My knee is throbbing, I have no idea what’s happened. Everyone swarms around me, and I don’t really know what to say, other than, “Well, I guess we’re not putting that in the dance!”

My friend Keana drove me to the hospital. They gave me an X-Ray and felt around my knee to see what hurt. I hadn’t broke anything, but I had dislocated my patella, and scarred my PCL tendon. Basically, I would need to spend 30 days with a cast keeping my leg straight, with as little activity as possible.

I value the opinions of doctors, I really do. I’m also very stubborn and would be damned if I wasn’t going to make this show happen. I kept the cast on, and rested when I could, but still finished choreographing all the dances. As the lights went up on opening night, I hobbled on stage to introduce the show in an obnoxious poofy purple dress, high heels, and, of course, my full leg cast.

“I broke my leg doing a stocking peel, it’s a really tragic story. I just wish that I could dance for you all tonight…”

(Collective “awwww”s from the audience)

“Well, I guess I could try…?”

(Screams and cheers. Someone threw a bra)

Whitney Houston’s “I Wanna Dance with Somebody” rose up on the speakers. My friend Casey came out wearing all silver sequins. We started to dance, then I “fell”. The audience gasped. Casey ran to help me…. Then, using her teeth, she peeled off the Velcro holding my cast together, and tossed the entire contraption 20 feet across the stage. And we did the rest of the dance in perfect unison, without a moment of hobbling from me. I’m no scientist, but I think that was just what the doctor ordered.

We’ve put some pretty incredible routines on our university stage. I couldn’t pick a favorite, but I’ll name a few honorable mentions. There was a very sultry chair dance to Beyonce’s “Partition”, as well as a beyond steamy BDSM number complete with props (rope, handcuffs, blindfolds, and a riding crop, to be specific). There was a dance set to “Starving” which was the bane of the tech crew’s existence, seeing as the stage was covered in whipped cream and potato chips when it was finished. We kept our casts as diverse as possible, showcased all body types, and added men into the mix (because sexy dancing isn’t just for the ladies). Thinking back to the myriad of routines, they each stick in my memory because of the people who performed them, and the life they brought to the stage. Sure, anything can fall into a generic category of sexy, but it’s the unique individuals that make it magic.

I met my friends Casey and Hannelore working on that very first burlesque show my sophomore year. We danced together in “Candyman”, wearing pink corsets in all our adorable glory. We had always said that we would love to do a number to “Pour Some Sugar on Me” by Def Leppard. Clearly we were quite preoccupied with the sexual appeal of sweets. In the shows following, the song had never quite fit into the lineup, so it stayed a fleeting daydream. That is, until our final year.

The three of us walked on stage for the last number of the show. We each carried a large bucket filled with water. Our song was cranked up and we unleashed our 80s hair band car wash fantasy onto the world. We pulled out the best dance moves one could find in a Whitesnake music video. We squeezed wet sponges over ourselves, leaving massive puddles in our wake. We ripped our tank tops off (literally, right down the center) and threw the scraps into the audience. We finished the number, and the crowd jumped to their feet, screaming in delight. Two weeks later, we stood on that stage one last time to accept our diplomas (though a bit more clothed than the previous instance).

When I tell people I’ve done burlesque, I get some interesting responses. The frequent hetero male response is, “ooh” *eyebrow raise*. And that’s fine, I’d be picturing me naked too, but there’s many interesting things which happen to get to that point, which are worth considering. Older people tend to not know what to say, as though they feel I shouldn’t speak openly about such an activity. I usually go on to say that I love burlesque, it makes me feel empowered, and it’s one of my favorite things I’ve ever been apart of. I don’t feel any shame, and I can’t be convinced to. My body is my own, to show off as I please. What I do with my body doesn’t grant others the right to objectify it. It can be appreciated and admired, but most importantly, respected. Burlesque gives me a place to express myself, to feel beautiful and to share that with others. And if I can encourage other people to feel comfortable and sexy in their own skin in the process, then it must be a good thing.

Now get out there and shake what your mama gave you.

February 14, 2019. London.

It’s Valentine’s Day. I just spent a lovely evening with a few friends, having wine and cheese and chocolate. We had plans to go out, but they fell through in the end. The party’s over. Which is fine. But I have on this gorgeous green dress with slits up the legs and my tallest stilettos, and I sure as hell didn’t put on this outfit to call it an early evening. Instead of heading down to the tube and retreating home, I’m sitting at The Booking Office bar in the St Pancras hotel, having a nightcap.

It’s a little odd, being alone in a bar, very dressed up, particularly on Valentine’s Day. But being alone doesn’t make me feel uncomfortable. Being idle does, which is why I’m writing about this in the notes section of my phone. There is live music; a singer and a guitarist, playing some jazzy versions of pop hits. I’ve ordered a martini. It’s gin, with hints of lemon and lavender. The waiter presented me an empty glass with a twirl of lemon, then poured the liquid from a corked bottle. As a final flourish, he sprayed a lavender mist onto the surface.

I didn’t need to come to a bar at 11pm and spend £14 on a stiff drink. But if I’m my own valentine, I guess that entitles me to treat myself to something a bit fancy. Also, it’s setting in that I leave London in one week. And I won’t be able to wander through St Pancras station when I’m looking to kill an hour and see some beautiful architecture. It’s just two months until I come back to the UK. But I’m starting to realize the next time I leave, it’ll likely be for much longer.

“The world is your oyster”. That’s a good phrase to describe where I’m currently at. It’s normally a positive phrase, implying there is anywhere you can go and anything you can do with your life. But it also can mean, and currently means for me, I have nowhere that is pulling me, nothing to focus on. I’m in the unfortunate situation in which, the place where I’ve established a career and a life for myself, is not available to me as a home. I mean, it is, but I can’t legally work, there’s no visa I can get, lots of formalities and what not, basically meaning no London for Paige. Not long term, anyway.

If I think about it too hard, it makes me more melancholy than I can bear. This city gives me energy, it breathes life into my mind. I find myself smiling while walking down the street, like a character in a sappy film strolling into the end credits. I don’t know if I’ll find another place that will make me feel so elated, and I’ll be doomed to exist in a mere state of contentment wherever I next settle down. I’m probably just being melodramatic. I am alone in a bar on Valentine’s Day after all, it comes with the territory.

When I was younger, I would set goals for myself. Nothing too complicated, just a silly promise that by next Valentine’s Day, there would be someone special in my life. And February 14 came and went, year after year. I seem to greatly enjoy the anticipation for something, even after being faced with disappointment again and again. This is a trait that has plagued me often. At the slightest glimmer of attention or affection, I let the anticipation consume me. I’m not sure what I hope for. It’s not always a relationship, or love, but simply human connection, kindness, intimacy. So in the frequent occurrence that said person loses interest, ghosts me, finds someone more interesting, or just turns out to be a dick bag, it hits a lot heavier than it might for someone who keeps their guard up. But it never deters me, I go back with the same amount of hope every time. I think by now I just know that I can handle the heartache.

I am fortunate to have so many people in my life who love and support me. As the years of singlehood grow in number, so does the number of amazing humans I am lucky to call friends. London has blessed me with so many, and honestly that’s the real reason I can’t walk through this city without smiling. These streets and buildings mean more to me than just their architecture. They remind me of people I’ve walked bridges with, toasted outside of bars with, sat in parks with and stumbled into the tube with. The memories burst from every corner, like a scrapbook I can stand in the middle of.

It’s harder to face rejection from a place than from a person. Because the only one leaving is you. The place will move on, and the people in it will continue their lives, unfazed by your absence. You pack your bags and buy the plane ticket willingly, but you still press your face to the window as you rise into the sky, trying to catch one more glimpse before it disappears into the clouds.

I’ve finished my drink. People still linger at tables around me, but it’s quieted down. I should probably head out soon, so I don’t miss the last train.

I’m setting a goal for myself. For next Valentine’s Day, a year from today. I want to be somewhere that I love. Even if I don’t love it as much as London, I want to find something to love about wherever I find myself, and whoever I’m there with.

And if I find myself alone in another bar, spending too much money on a drink, at least I’ll know that wherever I am is too magical to call it an early night, even when the party’s over.

Most Unique

In my senior year of high school, we had to vote for yearbook awards. You know the ones: Most School Spirit, Class Clown, Best Eyes. I wasn’t super popular, so I wasn’t expecting to get showered with votes, but I knew I had a shot at Best Dressed.

I had been a fashion fiend since I could pick out my own clothes, putting together crazy outfits to wear even on the most mundane days. Holidays? You can bet your ass I was showing up to school in some themed getup, all pink for Valentine’s Day or head to toe candy cane stripes for the last day of school before Christmas break. I was the girl wearing heels to school for no specific occasion other than it was a Tuesday. And I lived in a ski town, so this would be a Tuesday with 3 fresh inches of snow.

At school, I was chatting with some of my friends about the awards, if they knew who they were voting for, etc. Someone asked me,

“Is there one that you want to win?” I shrugged and lightly suggested that the Best Dressed one might be nice. One of my friends made an awkward face.

“Sarah’s trying to win that one. She’s telling people to vote for her.”

Shit. I hadn’t anticipated someone making a campaign out of this thing. I asked Sarah about it later:

“So you’re going for Best Dressed for the yearbook thing?”

She looked at me with her puppy dog eyes, knowing full well my collection of kooky pattered tights was superior to hers.

“Yeah, I just really want it! But I was gonna vote for you for Most Unique, that’s so perfect for you!”

“……”

Aight. Unique is a tough word. Because, yes, it does mean you’re kooky and interesting, and not similar to everyone else. But this is also high school, an organization that is basically run on conformity. And unique can be a positive thing, but it can also mean you stick out like a sore thumb, are weird, and are essentially the one left over puzzle piece of the bunch.

I was a bit odd and unusual, to be fair. I had been raised vegetarian, atheist, and without cable television, a trifecta which got me into several heated debates with classmates, especially in my younger years. It was never me who started them either.

A kid came up to me in fourth grade, to confront me about my disgraceful way of living after finding out I was a vegetarian. He lumbered up on the playground, shaggy brown hair seated like a mop upon his head, eyes full of contempt and self righteousness. His mom was the kind of woman who would most likely sue me over slander if I were to include his name, so let’s just call him G-Man.

“If you don’t eat meat, you won’t go to heaven.”

First of all, I was pretty sure that this prepubescent lump didn’t hold heaven’s gate keys, so this statement was a bit confusing.

“Huh?”

“You can’t be a vegetarian, because God gave you teeth to eat meat with, so if you don’t eat meat, you’re going to hell.”

“I don’t believe in heaven or hell.”

“…. what?”

“I don’t believe in God.”

I watched as G-Man’s carefully crafted argument crumbled before his eyes. I don’t think he anticipated that response. He sputtered a bit, before changing tactics.

“Then you can’t celebrate Christmas!”

“Well, I do.”

“But you can’t! Christmas is about God so you can’t celebrate Christmas!”

“I put up a Christmas tree, I do presents, I still celebrate Christmas.”

“But you can’t!”

At this point there really wasn’t any reason for me to keep fighting, G-Man seemed beyond perplexed, and I had nothing to earn here, seeing little value in the respect of someone who probably hadn’t even read Harry Potter. So I walked away.

I suppose “Unique” is a few steps above the teeth-misusing, Christmas fugitive that G-Man had me out to be. So high school me counted my blessings when the awards came out, and I made the cut.

The girl and boy winners in each category had to come in and have our pictures taken for the yearbook. Sarah proudly posed as the Best Dressed girl in the 2012 senior class, wearing a white and red floral dress, a hip denim jacket, and a giant pair of sunglasses. She could have been an extra in High School Musical. I rode up wearing a pair of black patent leather oxford heels, a rainbow patterned bandage skirt, a white tee shirt with a funky Polaroid picture on it (this is pre-Taylor Swift’s Polaroid obsession, I’m very innovative), and a fascinator. Yep, a fucking fascinator. With a little mesh veil that came over my eyes. I won the award alongside a boy who I had known since elementary school. I should add, he never once gave me shit about being vegetarian. Though I guess he has a peanut allergy, so I’m sure he was sympathetic to dietary restrictions. And he brought a light saber to the photo shoot. Yeah, fuck it, I’ll take Most Unique any day.

Oh wow, hi!

Hello there. Welcome to my blog! Thanks for stopping by. My name is Paige, and I’ve been wanting to do this for a while. By “this” I mean: write more, start a blog, put more information about myself on the internet because Insta and Facebook weren’t picking up the slack. I considered a fair few things I could focus on, and I guess the main thing I have to offer is stories, my own life stories, and what I’ve learned from them. I’m a memory hoarder. I’m very nostalgic and sentimental. But also quite sarcastic and thick skinned. This may be the perfect combination to detail luscious life experiences with enough brutal realism to keep it from getting gross. Maybe. We’ll see.

Still there? Cool.

I’m not great at making agendas and/or keeping them, so I won’t nail down a set day of the week when I’ll pour my heart into your eyeballs through the medium of a lighted screen. But I will try my best to post once a week. Or more if I’m feeling particularly saucy and have multiple good stories to share.

I hope this sounds like fun to you, I’m rather excited myself. If not, please skate off into the sunset on your Heelys and we’ll say no more about it.