"Cautiously optimistic"?

Obviously my moods are somehow secretly linked to the North American economy. I read in Metro yesterday that the economic depression is over, according to the Bank of Canada at least. Apparently the Canadian economy in particular is expected to bounce back at twice the rate of the American one, though I have to say I have my suspicions about that given how closely intertwined they both are.

Similarly, in my tattered little life it does feel like improvement or at least change is around the corner. The main factor in this is the job I went for at the nearby Apple store at Danforth & Chester. The interview went very well from my perspective, and from buying things at the store I had already developed a good rapport with the woman working there. At the end of the interview I was asked to provide references, but I'm reluctant to perceive this as a good sign when I've been disappointed so many times since falling out of PR, or perhaps with PR. There was a time, somewhere in the murky past, that I'd be supremely confident by now but in this case all I really have is hope. I've done everything I can.

The point is that getting this job would finance not only groceries and all the usual 'bla bla bla' of life but also an escape. Living where I am was the perfect fit at the time I moved in. It was quick, convenient, and easy. Plus I was left alone, and put under no pressure to do, well, anything really. Thus it was a good place in which to convalesce. Now though, the feelings I'm having are similar to those I had in my second year of university (1995-6) when I shared a house with four other guys, of which two were definitely not housebroken. At least not to the standard that I would expect. More importantly, I have simply developed a hankering for my own place...or should I say a place to call my own.

It struck me that I've never lived alone. When I left home at the age of 20 I moved into accommodation supplied by the company I was working for at the time. It was a mezzanine apartment with three bedrooms over the high street of an affluent, West London town, and all the rooms were occupied for most of the two years I lived there. From there I went directly to university and had the usual 'halls of residence' experience plus two houses in my second and third year when I shared with others.

Following a brief stint back at my folks' house (because I was skint) I moved into South-East London and, again, shared a house with two others. After that I was pretty much co-habiting with the woman who later became my ex-wife.

Of course, I'd like to buy a place of my own but despite my parents' most generous bail-out last month I still have zero savings other than my RSP, which isn't enough to cover a deposit on a place. I will get some money from the divorce when it comes through in three or so months' time but this won't be enough either, so I'll be renting again for now. I know it'll be a studio apartment too. The furniture I have from the divorce is all physically massive - a sofa, a sofa bed, kitchen table and chairs, all of which take up lots of space. There's no point in opting for a one-bedroomed apartment because it effectively divides the total square footage in half, and would probably mean I'd have to construct a double-decker sofa somehow. My carpentry skills stretch only as far as assembling Ikea furniture so this isn't a practical possibility. Additionally, many studio apartments are basements so it's likely the ceiling will be pretty low.

It would be a shame if the only reward a house guest got for clambering up a step ladder to get to the top sofa was a dislodged vertebrae from cracking their head on the ceiling as they tried to sit down.

So while I am endeavouring not to count my chickens before they're hatched, all I can think about is the sheer joy of having my own little place. Somewhere I can walk around starkers if I feel like it. Where I can smoke weed indoors. Where, in the words of a journalist friend of mine, "You can get up and make scrambled eggs at four o'clock in the morning if you want to". A place where I can do whatever I want, whenever I want, and however I want.

I don't even like scrambled eggs, but I totally understand what she's saying. I do find that I cannot help but react to my housemate, and it seems that affectiveness will continue to be part of my personality rather than just my personality disorders. I tiptoe when he's in bed. I avoid the bathroom when I think he wants to use it. I feel guilty if he mentions doing his laundry and I still have my clothes in the machine. And, most important of all, he's not keen on me having people over, which is in direct opposition to one of the facets of my recovery plan. I crave company, and whilst I do find social 'en masse' situations draining on occasion, when it comes to close friends I love to have them over and - if possible - to cook for them. It would feel like strong, certain progression in an upward direction. It would make me feel empowered, more in control of my life, more independent, and less emotionally injured. Less like 'damaged goods'.

If I'm really lucky I'll either find a place that's completely soundproof, or has deaf neighbours who can't hear stonking house music at several decibels when I'm letting off a little steam.

But, like I say, I am cautiously optimistic. If I get my hopes up and then for some reason I don't get the job at the Apple store then I will have a much greater height to fall from emotionally. It's happened before, and I think not getting a job as a bike mechanic at MEC was the biggest disappointment. Never mind a 'slap in the face'. Jesus, what a comprehensive kick in the balls that was. It was as if I was tied down naked with my legs spreadeagled, as Arnold Schwarzenegger took a run-up at my cowering testicles after donning a pair of steel toe-capped boots. How can someone who's been racing bikes since 1986, has five years' retail management experience, and who could probably disassemble a bike blindfold not get that job? If nothing else, it makes it easier to understand why such cognitive distortions as, "There's a national conspiracy to ensure I commit suicide because I can't fend for myself" were so difficult to fight at the time.

I have to go. Obsessing about how I could have done the interview better or, more aptly, what reason the store will come up with for not giving me the job won't do me any good so I have ensured I have social plans to execute and lots on my to-do list. Hopefully, one of my next few posts will be about how I've managed to get my first regular stream of income since Interbrand last year...hopefully...

A body of evidence

The good news is that I've recovered enough from my injuries to be able to blog again. I know, I'm sure you're all terribly relieved because there's nothing better to read on the planet than the indulgent ramblings of this particular nutter.

I took these pictures about a week after my rib-cracking flight over the Don Valley, the second crash in almost the same week I think...? It's a shame I didn't get these pics at the time (there was lots of blood/mud and the wounds looked really impressive) but it hurt way too much to pick up my camera! Actually, it hurt too much to do almost anything. Of all the injuries the two gashes to my left elbow (see picture right) are probably the most annoying. I must've landed in the trail elbows-first because a not insignificant amount of my skin and AB+ was invested in the dry earth there. It's annoying because I can't get them to scab over properly - they're both right on different sides of the bone so there's not much flesh underneath. Also, they're right on the pivot point of my elbow where the skin is constantly stretched every which way. Hence I've been going to bed wearing a long-sleeved top after waking up one morning to find that the bedsheet had mysteriously become part of my arm during the night. You'd be surprised how much one leans on one's elbows in an average day, although I'm starting to finally learn that hurts so probably shouldn't be done.

The most innocuous wound is where some vicious flora stabbed me in the back of my right thigh (see picture left) as I was somersaulting through the air...or should I say undergrowth. This makes it hurt when I sit down, and being the GAD sufferer I am I just assume everyone thinks I have haemorrhoids.

The most serious, and yet disappointing injury by far is the bruised and/or cracked ribs on the left side of my rib cage. There's no photo because there's nothing to see, and this is the disappointing part given how much it hurts.

And in different ways too. At the peak of the painfulness, getting out of bed was a humiliating five-to-ten-minute affair. As you can imagine, bending or stretching out from a prone position was impossible because of the ribs, and I couldn't prop myself up on my left elbow because that hurt too much too. I tried to roll myself out of bed and onto the floor and got trapped halfway on the ledge that runs along the side of the mattress one morning. Thankfully I didn't drop any money at this time, because reaching as far as the ground was an utter impossibility, and attempting it was enough to make me yelp out loud with the pain. If it had've been a $20 note then I'd have just had to stand on it with one foot, and remain in that place - wherever it was - for three or four days until my flexibility returned.

Good job it didn't happen on the street somewhere.

Basic bodily functions became a battle of endurance too. I lived in fear of the humble sneeze, which would take me by surprise and made me actually scream out loud. Coughing was out of the question too, particularly when you consider that it hurt too much to even clear my throat. This for a couple of days I sounded like Darth Vader dying of cancer as the phlegm death-rattled and rasped in my throat whenever I spoke. I couldn't blow my nose either so had to rely upon fingernails a lot of the time.

Going for a poo wasn't a barrel of laughs either. Did you know you used your ribs to poo? I didn't until I tried it. Damn, that hurt. My Mum had previously suggested I eat lots of fruit to make sure I didn't have to strain too hard, and I think she meant it as a joke but it turned out to be uncannily accurate. I'm not one of these people who treats dropping Mr. Brown off at the coast as a genuine day trip - I don't disappear into the bathroom with a book or a magazine for 45 minutes. Either I just don't appreciate it all that much or it doesn't stimulate my prostate gland as much as it does in other men. However, during my period of injury I found myself sat on the throne one day wishing there was a bottle of cod liver oil somewhere within reach. The idea would have been to chug the entire litre so that everything would just pour out of me as I finished off 'War and Peace'.

It's (literally) a relief to have all my *cough cough* movements working again properly, although the ribs are still twinging enough to make my shy away from the idea of an off-road ride anywhere. In a way this works out well because it gives me time to get the two pairs of wheels I've damaged fixed at the bike shop.

Equally, non-cycling parts of my lifestyle have been affected too. I haven't been able to grocery shop because there's no way I'd be able to lift the rucksack, get it on, or carry the additional bags I usually carry. Lifting weights is out of the question too, so the combination of zero exercise and only intermittent eating has my body looking in pretty poor shape...before you even consider the 'orrible yellow hue that the bruises currently are.

Anyway, the good news about all this is despite the pain and the inconvenience, I'm not really put off riding again, nor riding that particular trail. This is one of several signs of improved resilience lately, along with the communication breakdown I had with my magazine editor the other day. I seem to be coping better, which reminds me - I need to update my 'moods' line graph.

The simple love of a good woman...

...is what I'm really missing right now.

In another spectacular crash in the same section of the Don Valley trails I managed to plant the front wheel, 'endo' the bike, and bounce on my handlebars before being thrown over them and into the shrubbery. Similar landing as before, with the bike being another two-to-four feet down the slope.

I have bruised ribs. Well, I assume they're bruised by the symptoms. I don't think they can be broken because nothing in my rib cage moves when I press on it. So now I can't laugh, yawn, breathe in deeply, cough, blow my nose, move, or reach my hands over my head. Sneezing is fucking agony. Sitting down and getting up take 5-30 seconds each, as does getting in and out of bed. Anything that gets dropped on the floor, well, it's history. I'm typing pretty slowly too, though I am able to use my left hand as well. In fact I'm typing a lot faster than I'm actually moving right now.

Times like this make me remember I'm single - when you know there's no-one there when you get home. Nobody to dote, to nurse, to reassure, or even help me get into a comfortable sleeping position so I'm not screaming out loud as I try to wriggle myself comfortable. Nobody to tell me they love me despite the fact I feel like an invalid right now.

I'll type more when it hurts less. At least it gives me time to get the now S-shaped back wheel fixed while I can't think about riding anyway.

The jagged learning curve

I'd forgotten what a big deal career change is.

The last time I did it was from retail management to public relations, which required a trip to university in 1994 for three years, and a total of 123 rejection letters before I finally made it into a PR agency in London.

When I think back to that time, there was a lot if industry lingo I didn't understand. I didn't know the significance of 300dpi. I didn't know what "solus" meant. I had no idea what a DPS was. I even had to look up "stet" the first time I got a news release back that had been proof read by my boss.

Similarly I am having to learn many things the hard way when it comes to writing for a living.

The first thing I learned was that PR people tend to be reliable only for specific requests. I lost the best part of a week by e-mailing all my PR contacts just after receiving my first commission letter. I can now better understand that few PR people know their client organisations well enough to be able to select particular individuals that meet a story brief. However, I'd have appreciated more than two replies, and it was this that threw me the most. I thought my e-mail wasn't working, and the way I learned PR one ALWAYS responds to journalist requests, even if it is to say that you can't help this time around. I'd usually reply within 24-48 hours too, because it builds integrity with that particular journalist, and means they know no content is coming and its time to invoke the back-up plan. It's the best thing you can do when you can't actually give the journalist what they need.

It turns out that I need to scale back my expectations a little. Seeking information that way is very similar to applying for jobs. You send your request or application, and then hear nothing. Perhaps this lack of response is more a Canadian thing than a jobhunting thing?

My second mistake was in not getting back-up spokespeople. For one story I had a specific day and time in my calendar, as proposed by a spokesperson. He failed to show, and has failed to answer any of my e-mails since then. This lost me several days because the article I'd been commissioned to write needed to be based on an interview. I had no back-ups.

The one thing I've learned is that writing directly from web research is actually much quicker and easier than I'd previously thought. The trouble with interviews is just the basic logistics of them. Even when I'd found the right person to interview, just the simple task of pinning down a day and time when we could speak proved to be the most frustrating and time-consuming aspect of the whole process. Some interviews have been only 20 minutes long, but they've taken several days to identify the right person, and another few days to reach them...and another few days to find a slot in their diary.

The odd thing about writing is that the writing part doesn't take that long - it seems to be more about the research beforehand.

In terms of my ability to cope with all the above then I don't think I'm doing too badly. I'm a bit stressed when I'm on, or past deadline (for that has been the case a couple of times). However, depression has been noticeable only by its absence, and for most of the time I have been able to divert anxiety into action. I just wish my first proper writing assignment had gone more smoothly. I feel a little bloodied by the jagged spikes on the learning curve, and I'm embarrassed by the fact that my editor, through no choice of her own, has been 'along for the ride' on my rollercoaster of falling flat and picking myself up again.

The only way I can make it up to her is via better, more timely stories. So I'd better get on with it - I also need to drop my main MTB wheels off to get the cones tightened, the broken spokes replaced, and the rims trued. The new bottom bracket needs to be re-tightened and I may have to fork out $20 for the wrench that fits it. I need to find references for my application to the Apple store. The washing up is overdue, and I still haven't set up my 'work' phone line that'll enable me to claim the tax back in April next year. And I need milk and lime juice, amongst other things.

We live and learn.

plentyoffreaks.com

Phew.

Everything is an effort right now.

It's half-past-two on Sunday and I just staggered back with the grocery shopping, an experience made all the more interesting by the two days that preceded it.

Friday night was a bit of a sesh with the chaps, and as a result I had a bit of a sleep in on Saturday. Well, quite a large sleep-in on Saturday. OK, I admit it. I didn't actually get out of bed on Saturday at all. So, cue Sunday lunchtime when I eventually surfaced, one day and four hours behind in my drug regime. I popped the pills anyway, showered, brushed my teeth, dressed, wrote a grocery shopping list and stumbled out the door and into the street.

Cue weird withdrawal effects again, though this time I felt so sedated I was barely capable of emotions at all - they felt like too much effort. I walked slowly and carefully South down the street, feeling like a decent gust of wind might blow me over. My T-shirt felt a little slacker on me than usual, contributing to my overall conclusion that I am wasting away.

Tim Hortons was the next stop. No milk and no bread = nothing for breakfast and no coffee possible so a pit stop was essential to stop me from fainting from somewhere along the way. Surprisingly my dark glasses weren't enough to prevent the most persistent of women from speaking to me in Tim's, even though they and my overall body language clearly communicated, "Leave me alone". I wolfed down a BLT and guzzled my coffee so I could leave all the sooner. As I drifted into and along the Danforth my thoughts dwelled on the invisible woman again.

It's a week since I e-mailed her to say how I felt, how much I wanted to see her, and what information and preferences I'd need from her in order to visit her in hospital. For example, the name of the hospital might help me narrow things down a bit. That's where she's been, and that's the reason for the lack of communication of late. Yet a week has gone by and I've heard nothing, so it looks like it's all over. There doesn't seem to be a role that I can play in her life. I'm pretty sure she could use having me around, and all week I've had daydreams of showing up with a bag of grapes (which I'm lead to believe is the traditional thing to bring someone who's in hospital) and a tea light. Why a tea light? Because I could have lit it and placed it on her bedside table as I popped the occasional grape into her mouth, thereby proclaiming the occasion our first candlelit dinner. What a terrible waste of such thoughtful and romantic consideration.

The good news is that I don't feel depressed. I don't even feel sad right now, just exhaustively resigned to the fact that I am wasting my time trying. In retrospect, I have tried everything possible to invite her into my life and to get into hers without invoking a restraining order. From the start I've only asked two things of her, to be honest, and to keep me in the loop. Yet she seems unable or reticent to do either of those simple things. I am always out of the loop, usually last to know, and frequently fighting for even the slightest sliver of information. Sometimes that sought-after snippet of info arrives, but then it isn't always true so it makes the waiting worthless. And all that before I even mention the cognitive distortions I get every day, telling me she's not really real. I've tried to get these eliminated too, by asking her to meet with someone else from her life - her Dad, who also mountainbikes I'm led to believe. Her ex-husband, who appears to be doing the majority of the care taking right now, lives only a few blocks from me I'm led to believe, and could probably use an extra person to split the load with. Yet all these requests have been e-mailed into a black hole and never, ever returned.

It just makes me feel that I can't be that important to her. So, why am I even bothering?

This train of thought got me as far as Zellers as I ambled along, steering clear of other people and trying to disguise the fact that I was blatantly light-headed, and probably walking as much from side-to-side as I was walking forwards. I fought to maintain the absence of smoking I'd enjoyed by being passed out for a day but gave in by the other side of Zellers, stopping at a convenience store to grab some smokes. I already felt like I needed to go to the bathroom despite doing so before leaving the house, so I had a very slow walk under the shelter of the storefronts around the parking lot. I finished my cigarette at the ashtray affixed to the wall, and fumbled in my pocket for the quarter (25 cents) I'd need for the shopping cart in Metro. When I turned into the store, I wondered where all the shopping carts had gone before I realised I was in Staples rather than Metro.

OK, so despite the food I still wasn't functioning as well as I should be.

I turned around and made it into Metro, a few steps further along the sidewalk. I floated my way through three Men's Health recipes, the deodorant, and facewash I needed. Thankfully they have a customer bathroom there so I parked the cart and headed in with my rucksack, clutching my stomach as I went. The floor was as wet as the shower room in the last gym I was in, but - thank heaven for small mercies - they did actually have toilet paper. I mopped the seat thoroughly.

It was good that I did risk the public bathroom. Let's just say that what came out had a high water content so five minutes and 50 metres of toilet paper later I was ready to wash my hands and leave. Grocery shopping has been an arduous task since the separation, mainly because it was one of the few times I'd use the car. Along with the short pause at Tim Horton's it was a two-hour round trip. As I flipped and flopped across the parking lot towards the Victoria Park Avenue subway station, rucksack straining on my shoulders and the 'green' shopping bag in each hand brushing my legs as I walked, I reflected on the plentyoffish.com date I'd had Friday afternoon.

It was OK I guess, though on meeting her outside of the theatre where we were to catch a comedic play on Friday afternoon I realised why her POF.com photos had all been headshots. Still, she looked cute, wasn't unattractive, and didn't mind that I was a few minutes late. We chatted, sank a beer, caught the play that turned out to be funny because of its inherent and unrelenting un-funniness, and went for nachos. I thought the fact that she was a paramedic was pretty cool. We didn't click though, and before writing this I sent her a short e-mail to say as much. After all, there's nothing worse than ambiguity - the experience with the invisible woman has reinforced that belief, if nothing else. Unfortunately, I'm still subconsciously using the invisible woman as a 'gold standard' by which to judge other women. Those were the things I noticed on the date: "Hmm, I'm nowhere near as sexually attracted to this woman as I am to the invisible woman," happened almost immediately. "There's no innuendo, no ball-busting, no verbal jousting, no 'zip' like there is with her," was the conclusion I came to as we finished the nachos. I walked her back to her bike but we both fumbled our words when the conversation turned to the topic of a next date, so I hope that she's feeling similarly to me.

Still, at least it didn't turn into a POF horror-story that caused me titling my blog entry so. I've heard many horror stories from friends, and will probably either blog about them soon, or even turn them into an article if I can find the right publication to print it.

The other, sadder conclusion though was that - as lonely as I feel from time-to-time - I'm not ready for another relationship right now. I think I'll leave my POF profile up in case a woman comes along who cannot resist contacting me, but being a man that's unlikely even in this pseudo-female liberated time we live in. When it comes to dating, women are the buyers and it's a buyers market.