Caught with my pants down

So, Victoria Day. Something to do with Queen Victoria (gawd bless 'er) means that Canadians get a long weekend this weekend.

As you can probably tell, my swotting in preparation for Canadian citizenship has yet to begin. I can't name all the provinces either, except to say that I'm in Ontario, BC is on the West Coast, and the others are somewhere in-between.

Anyway, a long weekend is apparently a cause for jubilation. Fireworks displays were launched all over the country this evening in celebration of something or other. I'd been distracted by bike maintenance earlier in the evening and ended up racing down to The Beaches, my nearest fireworks display, thinking I was late. As it was, I got there an hour early so I parked myself on a bench and people-watched while sucking down a Marlboro red. The last time I remember smoking one of those was while I was writing my dissertation in Middlesbrough in 1997.

Hundreds, maybe thousands of people slowly but consistently gathered as dusk fell, heading Westwards along the boardwalk that runs the length of The Beaches as far as a snooty yacht club and then downtown. The fireworks were OK, although I was utterly under-dressed in that all my photos came out blurred because my hands were shaking in the cold of a cloudless Spring night.

I became transfixed on a family close to me. Mum, Dad, and a little girl who - I'd guess - was about four or five years old. The 'rents struggled to light sparklers in the chill wind, but were rewarded immediately by the look of sheer glee on the little girl's face as she ran amok in circles, waving the sparkler frantically. It reminded me of the dialogue between the two leading male protagonists in "Knocked Up" when they talk about kids loving bubbles. As she bounced around in utter happiness though, a feeling started to rise from my stomach that - when it got to my head - threatened to have me blubbing like a girl in front of everyone at the Southern most tip of Balsam Avenue. Thankfully I was sat on my own and no-one could see me, but I found myself full of butterflies, regret, and disillusion for no apparent reason.

I distracted myself by moving a few steps down to the boardwalk, but the feelings weren't going away. I barely noticed the fireworks in the end. In retrospect I guess it's like one of my acquaintances said in a group therapy session when, amidst tears, I wailed out loud, "I should be married with kids by now". He told me I put too much pressure on myself, and everyone else nodded in agreement. But, had mine and Nicole's marriage not been doomed then we'd be parents by now, perhaps with #2 on the way. We were 'trying' just before things got really bad.

I didn't begrudge the family I'd seen. I wish them all the luck and happiness in the world. The same goes for my ex. But I felt very, very alone. Looking around, I realised that nobody else was. There were couples, groups of teenagers, and families. Some of the kids must've lived nearby because it was obvious they'd thrown their winter coat on over their pyjamas. Some even were wearing flip flops, which seemed pretty ridiculous given how cold it was...but nobody was actually alone. Even those who appeared alone were talking to a friend, a lover, or a relative on their cell phone. I concluded that I'd missed the point that watching fireworks displays was a 'family' thing, and was reminded of the times my parents and I would hike from Wisden Road down to Fairlands Valley in my hometown to watch the fireworks for Guy Fawkes Night in the late 1970s.

Maybe it was the dark. Maybe it was the cold. Maybe it was because I was tired from an epic ride in the Don Valley with Ian earlier in the day. I doubt it though.

I just got caught out.

Before the echoes of the last "oohs" and "ahhs" had faded I was back on the bike. I barely noticed the incline of Beech Avenue which, despite being a more palatable climb than Glen Manor Drive (think Pyrenean switchbacks) and the other parallel streets running North from The Beaches up to Kingston Avenue, is not an insignificant hill. In fact it's not unusual for me to find myself crawling up it on my way back from a ride on Leslie Spit, gasping for air and hoping there's not some ambitious kid on a bmx behind me, waiting to trounce me as I force my lungs back into my mouth. My mind was busy though.

The brisk air made my eyes water, and I was grateful for that and the anonymity that darkness offered. I raced home and dived into a Manhattan (shaken, not stirred).

In conclusion, I'm reminded of a week I skipped out of my shrink's office, sometime this year in fact. I was feeling so positive that week that I remember saying to her, "Y'know, I think I can see a time when I can start to come off my meds." She replied something tactful and non-committal, and recollecting that memory this evening made me feel all the more foolish even after I'd got home.

Mental illness works in mysterious ways and, like the depression that followed the ecstasy, I felt I'd been lured into a sense of security only to have my legs swept away from beneath me. At a bloody fireworks display f'chrissakes.

Oh well...tomorrow is another day...