Love is Over There

As a young girl, I would stare in the mirror and wonder if my face would change when I fell in love. How would I know that I was in love? Would an internal firecracker explode? Or maybe I would trip down the stairs and land at the feet of my love. I had the same questions for the terms nervous breakdown and heart attack but clearly love was the more pressing concern.

I watched Sandra Dee flail her way through the corridors of love in such classics as “Tammy and the Doctor” and “Tammy Tell me True”. I watched these movies whenever I could and as far as I could tell- when the arrow hit, Tammy froze in mid-sentence and fell into a trance with eyes glistening as love invaded her . A transfusion of sorts.

I knew I loved Paul Newman and Paul McCartney- that was easy. I practiced my marital signatures endlessly with hearts circling them. I imagined telling the maid to make up the extra rooms as the Beatles were all staying the night as I rolled my eyes in mock exasperation. Here we go again- another night of “ Love, Love me Do!”

For a brief week in grade six, I loved Michael Vos. I told my friends that I loved him and instructed them to get him for me. My people spoke to his people and on a stairway full of witnesses, Michael yelled up to me, “ I like you”. I replied that I liked him too and ran up the stairs before my head exploded in public. We barely spoke after our proclamation until he asked me if I wanted to French kiss. I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about but I sensed it was out of my league so I quickly recruited my best-friend Louise who hailed from Quebec and sent her in to handle the assignment. That was the end of our love.

Fast – forward a few years. I was working at my father’s stamp and coin store for the summer in the Minolta Tower in the heart of Niagara Falls Ontario. I had recently left the National Ballet School and was preparing to attend a real high-school for the first time in my life. Joe Salvatore the maintenance guy also attended the same high-school so I kept my eye on him hoping for some kind of direction on how to interact with boys who didn’t wear tights. We exchanged furtive glances as he lingered over a light-bulb change. This was the summer I developed my affliction for men wearing construction boots. Tentatively, we began teasing each other. This of course escalated into passing notes back and forth. We would linger by the snack bar after our shifts had ended -the roar of the mighty Niagara a constant presence. If you can’t fall in love standing beside Niagara Falls , your doomed.

By September, we were officially dating. I felt secure, entering a new school with a boyfriend already in place. We nodded at each other in the hallways, went to movies on Saturday nights and necked in the car afterwards. Now that we were in love, Joe stopped teasing and frankly, I missed it. Things were going swimmingly until one of my girlfriends said she thought Joe’s teeth looked yellow. The rest of my posse reinforced her assessment and I found myself examining his teeth every time he spoke to me. The disheveled guy in construction boots and overalls was replaced with a man-boy who used styling products and aftershave. As I listened to the squeaking of his leather coat during an evening screening of Billy Jack, the roar of the Falls was too many miles away. I could feel the love draining from my pours . I began taking alternate routes to avoid running into him in the halls. As I stood with my girlfriends in the parking lot, Joe pulled up in his car and begged me to get in and take a drive with him but it was too late. Love was gone.

I fell in love with a fellow dancer when I lived in Winnipeg. My first reaction to him was closer to repulsion, a definite tip off that something was in the air. We started spending a lot of time together until one evening he suggested we become lovers. From that moment on- I ached for him. The problem being when you surrender to love, it tips the scales. The mere act of surrender has rendered you useless. I longed for him throughout our 2 year tryst. We would meet in different cities for brief , intense periods of time. For me, the visits became fueled by anxiety as I felt my power slip away. I knew I never really had him. Towards the end, I literally threw up before getting on a plane to meet him. Now that -my friends -had to be love.
We are friends to this day and while I still hold a soft spot for him, it is crystal clear that it never would have worked out.

The alcoholic British actor- 11 years my senior that ran me ragged in my twenties. He loved me-he didn’t love me. He showed up-he didn’t show up or he showed up at 4am raging and twisted. I couldn’t stay ahead of it no matter how hard I tried and I was putty in his hands. Finally, after he had exhausted all avenues of my patience, the fog cleared. I wanted a love that could work the day shift and this wasn’t it. In hindsight, the whole thing was absurd but love had me convinced it was passion not alcohol that was behind his erratic ardor.

The day I got married, I walked my dog and asked myself, “ Do you really love him?“ Sure you have a one- year old son and own a house together but do you really love him? I didn’t have the answer. It wasn’t wedding jitters-- our ceremony was held in a private room in a restaurant with 2 witnesses and our son in attendance. As I said my vows, I was distracted by the tune of “ Lady in Red” gently wafting through the speakers. I stifled a giggle and got through the task at hand. I was never the girl who dreamed about the big wedding but this was bordering on vaudevillian. If I can’t focus on my vows, how am I going to manage till death do us part?

We crashed and burned through seven years of marriage, not all bad but certainly not all good. What used to feel like a united cause turned into a fraudulent routine. I would study other couples that we socialized with and look for cracks in the foundation. How can they still be in love? Day in-day out, what on earth can be so interesting that it makes them want to stay? Our relationship became toxic-- as far away from love as you could get. The only thing more complicated than falling in love is disassembling love. Facing the end of it is brutally painful, terrifying and un-nerving to say the least. It is no wonder many people choose to stay. Though I know it was the right decision, six years later, I still have moments of guilt, feeling like I chickened out.

Flying solo after being part of a couple is akin to learning how to walk again. I felt unsteady yet giddy with the possibilities. That is until I had to mow the lawn, shovel the driveway, hang outdoor Christmas lights and check the oil in my car.
Still, I roamed the streets without an internal curfew, stopped monitoring what I said and how I said it, watched a flurry of mindless television shows without judgement and basically gave my personality its own key to the house again.

It’s been over six years since I’ve been in love. Sure I love my family and friends and dogs but that’s easy. And by the way why is that so much easier??

We are conditioned to believe we are incomplete without a mate. I have been functioning incompletely fairly well though I do miss the imprint of love. I try to imagine someone sitting on the other end of my couch or sharing complaints at the end of the day and I don’t know how that would work anymore. I look at other couples and wonder “ Why do you get to be in love? “

It’s been so long that I sometimes forget my status. I’ll be out at a social gathering with a bunch of other couples, yammering away when it suddenly hits me. You’re incomplete, what the hell do you think your doing here?? Your incompleteness is making everyone extremely uncomfortable. Go home!

I recently asked a friend of mine who is recently single what she would have done if I had told her 20 years ago that we would still be talking about boys and how to find love at our age. She answered, “ I would have gently taken you by the arm and waded into the water.”
I’m not there yet. I miss love , I don’t know if I will ever find it again or figure out how its supposed to feel -but for now I have to keep believing that love is simply over there.

Tidings of Comfort and Joy

I lost my father 5 years ago on December 18th. We buried him on December 22nd and gathered for a family Christmas that was unusual to say the least. For those of us who lose someone during the holiday season, it brings a poignancy that will forever impact the season. Not to diminish the effect of losing a family member at any other time of year but there is something about the holiday season that really puts a clink in the armour when the Carols starting hitting the airwaves.

My mother passed away six months later, so by the second Christmas the reality of change was cemented. Gone were the traditions that I had come to love and loathe. The Fagan family Christmas sat somewhere between the Lawrence Welk show and an episode of All in the Family.

We gathered on Christmas Eve for my mother’s traditional dinner of bacon and eggs. Yup, you heard that right. I was than hustled off by my father to wrap all the gifts he had bought my mother- a task I disliked. Being the only daughter, he assumed I was genetically programmed to wrap presents . I wasn’t and to prove a point one year, I signed all her gifts as coming from me, expensive jewelry included.

I would linger over the tree ornaments. No matter how many years I saw them- they seemed like old friends who had been away - an assortment of multi-colored antique balls, plastic choir boys, angels and my mother’s crocheted elves. There was the familiar site of an old ornament of my grandmothers that used to give me nightmares. It was a baby’s head swathed in a hot pink foil skull- cap that surrounded the whole head. The clincher being it was missing an eye. Christmas wasn’t complete until I had located the one –eyed Christmas baby.

I then moved on to the display of Christmas cards taped to both sides of the glass panes of the front hall door. There was something about a door full of cards that was a testament of the good will they had spread throughout the year. I took a whiff of the plastic Christmas tree in the front window and sent a nod of recognition to the wooden snowman who waved to passerbys while wired to the tree on the front lawn.
After dinner we would get all gussied up and wait for the arrival of our neighbors the Sopers. My mother would serve an assortment of cheese balls ,pepperoni and homemade cookies that were actually made by Mrs. Soper.

After a couple hours of this, we would bundle into our winter gear and walk next door to the Soper’s house where Mrs. Soper would serve the exact same hor d’oeuvres. Why didn’t we just stay put you ask? Who knows, but we repeated this every year.
I tended to be freakishly shy around adults even if I had known them for 15 odd years, so this little ritual always threw me into a tailspin of anxiety. I would burn a hole through my Dad’s forehead silently chanting, “ Can we go yet? Can we go yet? For all that is sacred in this world can we please go now!!!!?”
When I became of legal age to drink, I found my tolerance for this tradition manageable.

On Christmas morning my father would be the first to rise - yelling up the stairs as if we were in the midst of a four alarm fire. His excitement rivaled any 3 year old and he wouldn’t stop until everyone was up and ready to open the gifts. We grabbed our coffee and sticky sweet coffee cake and took our positions for the mother lode.
This wasn’t a scene where we each took our turn to open a present and fawn appropriately over the Avon Men’s cologne that would sit in the upstairs bathroom until it congealed into glue.

This was an onslaught- every man for himself as we ripped into our gifts. If we didn’t like the gift, we told each other right then and there. You’d hear a disappointed, “ Well, that is going back tomorrow!” from yours truly or a “ Since when did I start wearing turtleneck sweaters?” from my Mother. A flat out “ Jesus, that’s not what I asked for” from my father as he tossed the gift back under the tree and pouted.

By the time the mountain of gifts had been opened and we had filled ourselves with caffeine and sugar, we retreated to pour over our stash and climb into one of our new Christmas outfits- itchy and crisp with the store smell still on it.
Then we waited for my other brothers and their families to arrive, or we would climb in the Chrysler Fifth Avenue to make the trip to one of their houses for the feast. Either way, within a few hours, my new clothes were driving me crazy and I just wanted to go back to bed.

We would snap open the Christmas crackers, put the ridiculous paper hats on our heads and dig in. I remember a year where I had a Courtney Love meltdown after one of my brother's many smart ass comments and the uncomfortable moments that followed as we all sat feeling foolish in our paper crowns .I would stare at my father during the after dessert lingering and chant silently, “ Can we go now? Can we go now? For all that is sacred in this world, can we please go now!!!? “

But make no mistake-I took great comfort in these traditions. I loved wandering the aisles of No Frills as my Dad loaded the cart with enough food to feed the whole street if they happened to drop by. I embraced the lukewarm vegetables and the 2 hours of dish washing that followed the meal. The feeling of being so full and tired that you didn’t know whether to pass out or puke. I loved hearing my father start to snore in his lazyboy chair in a room still full of people -like a kid that had just wore himself out. I took comfort in the sound of the wind rattling the window as I fell asleep in my childhood bedroom. I felt safe , warm and loved.

The third year after my parents were gone was particularly rough. I was still grieving the loss of tradition and as my family spread apart, I sat with my son, my ex-husband and my brother and wondered how it had all disappeared. It felt unbearably sad and wrong. How do you redefine traditions that are part of your DNA?

You don’t, but you keep showing up and with enough time it evolves. I love Christmas unabashedly and that has been the most difficult thing to accept. I refuse to give up on it. My new tradition for now seems to include Christmas with the ex, my son and one of my brothers. My kitchen is stocked with enough food to entertain a family of six if they happen to drop by. I make bacon and eggs on Christmas Eve but let people sleep in past 7:02 am. We rip open the presents but try not to lay blame before noon. The dress code for dinner is casual, you can wear pyjamas all day though I do insist on neutral colors.

I silently toast my parents as we crack open the paper hats. We whip through the dishes no problem, read, lounge, watch marathon reality tv shows and as the light fades on another Christmas day, I gaze adoringly at the one eyed baby with the hot pink foil skull-cap placed front and center on my fake Christmas tree.