dating

Reblog: Falling Half in Love with Strangers

I stumbled upon the post below: it’s a masterpiece. It describes so very perfectly what happened to me in Dubai. I’d say my experience was a bit further along the line of “falling in love non-platonically” than Quinn’s here, but that doesn’t matter. I was invested. I experienced, for the first time in my life, an immediate and perfect connection with someone, and the days and hours that followed served only to prove my gut instinct right.

It’s been surprisingly hard letting go of that connection, especially in this era of social media. I struggled to understand what I was going through in the weeks following Dubai. Such a sharp blend of happiness and sadness. I realized, finally, that it was grief: grief for a chapter of happiness that had a pre-defined expiry date. Melodramatic? Maybe, maybe not: it is what I felt, and when I read Quinn’s experience below, I am comforted in knowing that others too have experienced similar moments. Now that I’ve worked through all that, I’m free to feel gratitude for those 4 days of perfect connection. Seeing him pop up on my Fbk newsfeed serves as a reminder of what I should continue striving for in my interactions on this side of the pond: a heart singing with joy.

I am on the lookout for a particular word.

I want a word for the feeling I get when I connect with a total stranger for a few minutes or hours, and then never see them again. It’s an ability to suddenly feel profound, intense affection for someone I don’t know. It’s not physical attraction, necessarily. It can happen with men or women. It is a non-discriminatory feeling that happens without warning, without rhyme or reason. I want a word that explains how I can feel instantly and powerfully attached to somebody and then, in a perverse way, almost hope never to see them again.

Is there a word for that?

There are a handful of people I’ve met over the years who I still think about from time to time, because even if I only spent a few hours with them, in those hours I was invested. I wanted to know everything about them. I fell a little bit platonically in love with them and their stranger-ness. I felt something that I don’t have a word for, and I hate that. I felt a nameless, wordless bond.

Source: Falling Half in Love with Strangers

 

When my own blog causes me to have a meltdown 

I’m proud of my blog. I think everybody should read it all the time. Like a mother who secretly believes her child is cuter than any other mini-human, I not-so-secretly believe my blog is the bee’s knees. I tell everyone about my blog. You can be sure I’ve sent 100% of my Fbk friends an invite to like my blog’s page… and I notice who has accepted or not. Apparently, some of my friends have better taste than others – but I won’t name names. It’s a free world, and all that.

I’ve been friends with Hermiono (he is an OCD nerd with a stand-up character) for 8 months. I’ve mentioned my blog to him on a weekly basis. I sent him the invite to my blog’s Fbk page in 2016; he sees anything I share on my personal Fbk wall, which includes some of my blog posts, obvi. He called me up this weekend, “Vanilla! You have a blog!” Yes I do, aren’t you perceptive! “I had no idea!” I’m questioning your listening skills, bro. “It’s GOOD! You are a GOOD writer!” Yes, I know. Glad you’ve finally caught on. “I think you are totally crazy for putting yourself and your entire life out there, but hey! I love it. It’s entertaining! You’re a mess.” Fact. Now, get back to reading – you’ve some catching up to do.


I’ve consulted lawyers, to gain an understanding of what I can/cannot share, to ensure I am not at risk of any lawsuit or termination for breach of confidentiality/other reasons. I take great pains to honor my characters privacy. Beaut vetted every post while we dated because I worried our social circle would quickly figure out his identity. He insisted I write my truth – he also periodically shared my posts on his Fbk wall, at which point I deemed the burden of preserving his anonymity had been waived. The guys featured in my failed date stories? I strip of any possible identification. Overall, I work hard to balance the need to tell my truth with the respect and consideration owed to anyone featured in my stories.

I write every post with the awareness that co-workers, family & friends of various faiths/backgrounds/values will read it. My mythical future husband and in-laws might read it: the mental health struggles, the ugly insecurities, the hilarious lack of judgment. This informs who I am – exploring vulnerability and sharing these stories has changed my life. I’m told periodically that this blog makes people smile and has helped others on their own journeys of mental health and personal growth. So my future in-laws can suck it. Judgmental bastards.

My new European friends in Dubai reacted with condemnation. “A personal blog? What are you, a gossip?! Do you want a reputation as the Kizomba Bitch? Are you trying to be a Kim Kardashian? I didn’t peg you as somebody who was vulgar. You do know you don’t HAVE to overshare.” I was shocked. I wonder how many people perceive me & my blog as vulgarthe one adjective that fills me with horror. But I was equal parts irritated – none of them had read my blog: theirs was a knee-jerk reaction. See above comment about some friends having better taste than others. Hmph.


It’s hard being honest and funny when one is worried about others’ perception.

I think it’s time I stop worrying.


Once upon a time I wrote a blog post about a boy. It was sweet, a good mix of cerebral and emotional. I sent it to him, as a courtesy, letting him know that I was refraining from posting it on Fbk until he had read it.

Hours went by. Crickets.

More hours went by. Turns out he had family over. I don’t know what he was thinking, having family over when I was waiting on him to read my post, but wtv. Nobody is perfect.

MORE hours went by. I caved, and asked him whether silence implied consent. He hadn’t read it yet – family obligations and whatnot.

Hours turned into days. I drafted a step-by-step Manual For Guys That Are Featured In Heartfelt Blog Posts Written By Girls That Are Allergic To Vulnerability. Highlights include:

Drop everything you are doing and read the post immediately. Showing yourself as online, but NOT reading the messages is unacceptable and will cause part of the girl’s soul to die. Within a delay of 57 seconds, write back complimentary noises. Do NOT assume the girl is a stage 5 clinger. If you are an overachiever, read 20-30 of her posts, decide she is good people, and be cool.

Days turned into weeks. My brain decided it would be a great idea if I messaged him. Was I suave? No. Did I make the situation better? Definitely not. I accept my fate as the female version of this guy. Karma’s a bitch.


I think it’s time I stop worrying. There will be times where my intentions vs others perception of me/my blog will diverge widely; on a small scale, this is a risk that any artist/creative person must face. Humor gets lost in translation all the time. Do I stand by each of my posts? Yes. Is this blog true? Yes.

Well then. Less worrying, more trainwrecks.

#mynewlifemotto

#KizombaBitchindahouse

A valuable lesson

Back in Feb, I was having coffee with Dynamo, and I brought him up to speed concerning my trainwreck dating life.

I’d recently experienced a few moments with Beaut that had led me to believe that perhaps, maybe, with caution, we could sustain a friendship. Dynamo listened to me in silence, and then gravely spoke:

So this is what you are gonna do. You are going to unfriend him from social media, block him, and never talk to him again. He lied to you. He has lied to others. He has repeatedly shown that he will hurt you as a side-effect to him getting something he wants. He can have all the good quantities you describe, all that is true. You have forgiven him, bc you should not hold hatred in your heart. But he is not a good friend. And so he deserves nothing from you. No time, no energy, no space in your life. That isn’t being a drama queen, that is choosing to control the levels of drama and happiness in your life. To chose happiness you MUST not choose drama.

I mourned the end of a chapter in my life that, while tumultuous, had triggered so much personal growth and discovery for me. I was a better person because of Beaut – how sad that I couldn’t benefit from all the advantages he’d generated with him as a part of my life. But Dynamo is wise, and has built a life for himself that I respect and admire. If he tells me something, it’s worth considering.

I followed Dynamo’s orders and blocked Beaut. My stress levels improved almost immediately, and have continued to steadily improve ever since. I’m free.

Dynamo wasn’t done. He had lots to say about my recent string of dates, including Hickster, Eurodude, Older Guy.

I think it is time you question what you want in your life. If you want happiness, why are you accepting guys that won’t bring you happiness in your life? Happiness is a choice, and is contingent on the alignment of the values you hold dear and your own behaviour. The Vanilla I met in 2009 would not have accepted these guys in her life, bc they do not align with her values.

Have your values changed? Because your quest for happiness has not, so make sure your behaviour is reflective of that. I don’t think it is.

Ouch. From my best friend. Hearing that suuuuuuuuuucked. He was right. I’d been settling for dead-end, fun, convenient dating scenarios, with no long-term potential, and usually a whole lot of drama, that inevitably distracted me from my goals of well-being and joy.

A few weeks later, cue my almost burnout and a need for an immediate vacation, and off I went to Paris/Dubai.

I have often stated that the Universe is a bit of a dick, with a fucked-up sense of humour. Well, not this time: the timing of this life lesson was just perfect. If I step back and look at the theme of this trip, it is that of Love and Friendship: both new (FroMan, Energizer and Sunshiney), old (BlondEyes) and dear (BossMan and IronSweetie). There was no drama. There was no insecurity. There was overwhelming happiness and connection and joy. Why? Because of the ppl in my life, willing and capable of sharing themselves beautifully with me, and I with them.

This trip spoiled me. I don’t wanna settle for any less happiness with my friends and dating life than what I experienced in Dubai. Frankly, I don’t think I can settle again: anything less will be too little, when compared to the joy I felt during those 8 days.

Dynamo, as always, was right.


Recap of this trip – Dubai:

A tale of 4 days

I wrote this immediately after my trip, when the joy coursing in my veins was strong. It has taken several days to fade, as fade it must. I’m learning that the down-side to travelling is that we cannot (must not!) hold onto the people and transient moments that bring us joy. To prevent total memory loss, I’ve put those initial feelings into words. Like a photograph, I want to reread this and remember a slice of my life when my happiness was palpable and contagious.


FroMan.

He caught my eye at the first party of the festival, with his unusual mix of self-assurance, dancing technique and understated style – he dances to create a shared experience between him and his partner, rather than to perform. In the dance world, talent, technique & self-assurance are always accompanied by a healthy measure of ego & pride. It’s a world of big personalities. Not so with FroMan. My instinct told me I’d find peace & pleasure in his company, and not my usual anxiety amongst strangers. Just like that, mere hours after the start of the festival, I’d pegged FroMan as a safe friend. A safe, lowkey sexy-AF friend.

Any down-time between workshops and parties, I’d reach out to him. The answer was always that I should join him & whoever he was with. Hanging out with him in a group was an interesting experience. With most ppl, like Energizer and Sunshiney for example, spending time with them leads to surprises that change my understanding of their character. With FroMan, it was the opposite. Just like peeling away the layers of an onion does not change one’s assessment of the onion, every discovery or new info served to deepen and confirm my opinion of him: a safe, self-assured, reserved humble man with the most beautiful manners – always looking to enhance and promote the success of any gathering for all participants, consistent with his dancing style. Those beautiful manners gave my paranoid brain ammunition: maybe he was just being his kind, polite self, and letting me tag along bc I didn’t know anyone at the festival? Afterall, he’d not overtly flirted with me, or made any sort of move. His eyes just crinkled into a smile every time he saw me, and when something unexpected happened, I could be sure of him catching my eye to share a silent, complicit look.

At the afterparty of day 4 of the festival, Energizer was outrageously flirting with me. He’d been flirting with me from the moment I’d had my dancefloor meltdown on day 2, all festival long basically. By Day 4, he’d tacitly accepted his spot in my friendzone, which made me relax, and engage in the harmless, fun, over-the-top flirting with him. Energizer noticed FroMan studiously not staring at us, and broke off mid crude/hilarious compliment to go shake FroMan’s hand and tell him, “Bro, don’t worry. I like you. You are my friend. Good luck.” To my puzzled look, he explained, “FroMan wants you, and I am his friend, so I can’t have you, and I don’t want him to think I’ll try have you. Besides… I’m pretty sure you want him as much as he wants you.” (Who knew there was such a thing as an honorable playboy?!) That moment of confirmation that no, I wasn’t crazy, there was something between us, FroMan’s impeccable manners be damned, made me so happy it hurt.

The next day, a bunch of us from the festival went to the Burj Khalifa. It was a glorious day amongst friends. That tower is incredible – hypnotic in its grace and stature. We watched the famous fountain shows as the sun set. Those shows are so beautiful they strip your mind of any thoughts – rushes of pure emotion and amazement. During our second viewing, I stood next to FroMan, rapt in my bubble of glorious joy. He slung his arm around me as he watched in silence. I was so happy it hurt.

That night, at the last dance party, it came time for our goodbyes. Small talk, best wishes, smiles, intentions of staying in touch, and keeping tabs of any dance festivals we’d attend on each other’s continents. He slung his arm around me and held me close in silence. I left. It hurt.

Maybe I’m all wrong, and it was a one-sided crush: a good, deep friendship. Who cares? Wtv it was, it felt like 2 pieces of a puzzle fitting snugly together. We shared a unique, beautiful thing. It makes me sad that this story was only meant to last 4 days – but what a lovely, self-contained story! He lives on the other side of the world. Maybe he is a male version of BlondEyes – someone I run into every few years, with whom I share a few hours/days of wonderful connection before we go our separate ways. The delight I feel at having met him outweighs the regret of not having him around anymore.

I never knew. I never knew it could be so easy and simple, so wondrous, to like someone and be liked in return. What a gift he has given me.


Recap of this trip so far:

 

Solo tripcations are my new fave thing

I should have seen this coming.

Teacher is an artiste – not a practical bone in his body. It’s part of his charm. Sometimes.

Teacher forgot to check the visa requirements for entering the United Arab Emirates… and it looks extremely unlikely that he will be granted one for next week’s Kizomba festival in Dubai. Just like that, I went from the gal who knew the guy who knew EVERYONE to the gal who’ll know NO ONE. Oye. Even better? Teacher told me not to worry, I should just come back to Mtl, and take my vacation at a later date, at another festival. Bruh. NO.

Imma reread the cheat sheet of How to Make Friends at a Dance Festival from Madrid: hell nah, I am not missing out on this sick opportunity just because of my anxiety of not knowing anybody, or because any festival without Teacher can’t be as fun as a festival with Teacher. This will be one big adventure. Alone.

Alone.

Unlike my last 2 trips to Paris, where I socialized constantly with current and former colleagues, this trip I’ve spent my evenings alone. I adore my French coworkers – to the point that I consider them as real friends – but I’m maxed out. This work trip has felt like a break – not because the workload was light, it wasn’t! – but because I’ve distanced myself from the constant clamour of friends, family, coworkers and my trainwreck dating life*. I’ve enjoyed my routine of walking around Paris and trying a new restaurant every night. I no longer feel conspicuous eating on my own.

As I head to Dubai, I think I’ll achieve a similar balance. Dynamo’s brother and sis-in-law have to work, so I’ll be on my own during the days but surrounded by their love in the evenings. Perfect. I’ll explore, or not. I’ll nap on the beach, or not. I’ll maybe even catch up on work, or not. Next weekend, the dance festival takes place in the late afternoon and evenings, so I will have my mornings to myself, before dancing the night away. Surrounded by people, but on my own.

It’s silly that such a simple thing like travelling alone can feel like an insurmountable obstacle. In fact yesterday, I almost didn’t go to a very hip/trendy/bohemian area of Paris, bc I felt my aloneness would be too conspicuous; but then I decided that was bullshit and I should view this as practice for Dubai. Obvi, as a woman, I must always consider safety. But as a street-smart woman, I’m very capable of keeping myself out of any real trouble. So this fear I feel of travelling alone? It’s actually a fear of being judged. Once upon a time, that fear would have stopped me.

Not anymore.

#YOLO

#thistripisjustwhatthedoctorordered

#boardingtheplanerightthisinstant

*I’m not gonna lie, I’m loving the break from boys. After recent drama with Beaut, Hickster and a few others, two weeks of no contact with any of them feels like detox. Maybe I should become a nun.

Roller-coasters were never my favorite

After 7 years, a bit of closure

Earlier this week I was frazzled & late for a date. As I made my way through the crowded bar, a guy grabbed my arm. Startling. Even more startling was realizing that guy was my ex‘s cousin, TwinkleEyes.

Gosh, I loved that man. His weekly Sunday family dinners were tradition – for 5.5 years, TwinkleEyes and his beautiful wife welcomed me into their family. I attended their wedding. He witnessed me grow up, drop out of university, put myself back through school.  When my ex and I broke up, it was TwinkleEyes who came to pick up the boxes of my ex’s stuff.  He told me he’d enjoyed every minute of getting to know me, and wished that I would eventually find greater happiness than what I had known with my ex – for if it was ending, it was because better things awaited each of us. I didn’t believe him at the time, but his sorrow for my heartbreak was a comforting memory I revisited often in the following months.

In that crowded pub, we tried to cram 7 years of updates into a few minutes of conversation. Hard to talk when your cheeks hurt from smiling. He & his wife, doing well. Me, doing so well- TwinkleEyes had been right, of course: it might have been a much longer and tortuous journey than either of us could have anticipated, but I’ve finally found my path to happiness. Seeing him gave me peace I didn’t realize I still needed. One of the hardest parts of that breakup, like any breakup I suppose, was finding myself cut off overnight from my ex’s family whom I’d grown to love deeply. I’ve often wondered what became of them over the past 7 years. I never expected to have the opportunity to find out.

TwinkleEyes came to say goodbye as he was leaving. More grinning and happiness. Then the mischievous look I’ve so missed crept into his eyes, and he introduced himself to my date, adopting an avuncular attitude. I’m surprised he didn’t ask flat out, “And who is this? Hmmm? What are your intentions towards Vanilla, young man?” Nice try, TwinkleEyes. Meet the Dude. That’s it. The Dude. No label, because he is just the Dude.

7 years later, and all I have to show for it is this blog, and its collection of various dudes. My ex, meanwhile is married with a gaggle of children. He wins. Or does he? My blog is pretty sweet, y’all. #forgethumblebragging #fullblownbraggingismoremystyle

#closurefeelsdamngood

Where in the world is Carmen Santiago?

On Thursday, an email popped in my inbox from Parisian Coworker. He politely invited me to drop off a project in Barcelona in late March because I was behind on deliverables for another of his projects. Cue the tears of embarrassment and shame.

I asked CFO-boss for a closed-door meeting. Seeing my tear-streaked face, he kindly told me that I should always consider his office a safe space to rant/vent/cry. I explained how overwhelmed and close to a burn-out I was; despite working with my #dreamteam, we’ve been unlucky with a series of protracted sicknesses/injuries and never-ending mat leaves, such that we are always playing catch-up, and I can never catch a breather or focus on my special projects. I shared the humiliating email. I blew my nose violently.

20 minutes later, I was still crying. CFO-boss exclaimed, “Vanilla! I’m proposing solutions and all you are doing is crying. Work with me here!!!” Which made me giggle. #genderstereotypesreenacted

Our tentative solution was to reach out to Parisian Coworker and propose swapping the Barcelona trip with an immediate Paris trip where I’d clear all deliverables related to the more important Paris project. CFO-boss also ordered me to take the following week off in vacation, out-of-the country. By Friday morning, this plan was confirmed, and after 1-2 hours of planning, I booked myself a 2 week long international trip, beginning 3 days later: 5 days in Paris, 9 days in Dubai, visiting Dynamo‘s brother & sis-in-law and attending a big dance festival. I leave tomorrow. I’ve never been this excited to purchase sunscreen.

Bet y’all didn’t realize that accountants lived such an unpredictable, highly-strung, jet-set lifestyle. (Funny story: I was mentioned my impending travels to a stranger at a party last night, and he asked me if I modeled, because why else would I be flown to Paris & Dubai? Bro, you slick.)

I’m excited for the change of scene and the chance to recharge. Hopefully this will trigger some new experiences, beautiful pics and blog worthy stories. Any bets on how badly I get sunburned?

#bestbossever

#adultingishard

#mylastrealvacationwasDynamosweddinginmarch2016

18 hours in the life of a single girl

Friday night: the art of turning down a date

I had a rough week emotionally, yeah? This and this and this.

Friday morning, I was exhausted as soon as I opened my eyes. In exchange for fulfilling my adulting obligations of going to work, I promised myself that I’d spend a quiet evening at home doing laundry, sipping on some locally brewed cider and reading a book. I couldn’t wait. After a useless day at the office (#braindead), I got stuck in endless traffic – cementing my resolve to be a Friday-night hermit. By 7pm, groceries were done, PJs and fluffy pink slippers adorned me and I was all set to win ALL of the dance-offs against myself to Ed Sheeran’s Shape of you.

The phone rang as I was starting the washing machine. I declined the call.

The phone rang again – same dude – as I was cracking open my first bottle of cider. I declined the call, texting Dude1, “You’re pocket dialing me.” He replied, “No, you idiot, I don’t pocket dial twice in a row. PICK UP.” So of course, instead of picking up, I finished prepping my load of laundry. Then I hydrated myself with cider. THEN I called back Dude1 (#priorities); he was inviting me last minute to join him for foodstuffs and drinks.

In case y’all were wondering, it is impossible to diplomatically tell a guy “I’m turning you down because I prefer doing my laundry.

Ooops?

#IreallyenjoyedmyGrandmaFridaynighttho

#Itotallykilledthosedanceoffs

Saturday morning: how to unsexify sexting

Saturday mornings = savage workouts with Coach Dr. Booté. One simply does not mess around with Coach and his workouts. If he requests the pleasure of our presence at a certain hour, we show up. On time. Ready to go. That is just how it works with Coach. #bossyman

So, it stands to reason that despite finding myself in the midst of a rather successful sexting session with Hickster, when the clock chimed 11am, I told Hickster I had to go workout. He requested I send him a naughty pic in exchange for my impending silence. I apologetically refused: no time, no way I would risk Coach’s wrath! I suggested Hickster use his imagination or the internet instead, bc I’m helpful like that.

Giggling, I told Coach and the boys what had just happened. The reactions included:

  • “Who sexts at 11am?”
  • “Who doesn’t sext at 11am?”
  • “So you just gave a guy blue balls by text?”
  • “Of COURSE you shouldn’t be late to MY workouts. Clearly, this bro doesn’t realize that MY workouts are the reason you have a sextable booté in the first place. He needs to learn.”

One of the guys suggested that I send a “dirty” video of me all hot and sweaty working out like an Amazon, lifting heavy shit. “Hey baby, this is what you meant, right? I’m so dirty. And I can whoop your ass. Bye!”

Hickster didn’t find it hilarious. Hihi.

#ittakesavillagetounsexifysexting


Because sharing is caring, behold Vanilla’s dirty videos:

And another, by which time I’d forgotten the stated objective of the videos, bc I was consumed by the pain of my burning muscles.