Pride 2012

There are too many things to write about this Pride, which was undoubtedly the best Pride I've had yet, but I'll try and get out the best bits and pieces for the enjoyment of your eyeballs and for the sake of me writing down all the joyous details before they slip from my memory.

The City Is a Drag

Friday began with Bek and I giving our friends giant rainbow lollicocks as hostess gifts and ended with me spooning/straddling a giant teddy bear in their living room as I fell asleep. The in between was something else. Something ELSE.  The Crew glammed up at their place and headed out for the evening. While we had a drink at his apartment and waited for Amy's boyfriend Darby to come home, we were all treated to the delight of conversation with their co-worker, Anthony. I can't describe him, other than say that he was beautiful, insanely smart (among many things, he told me about the Roman Emperor Elagabalus...look him up), and he wanted to borrow one of our credit cards to order a replica SS cap off the internet. He also treated us to delightful rants about how Jim Morrison was a douche bag.  Also, he coined the phrase "limp wristed frivolity." I heard it there first. Now you heard it here. Fly my minions, fly!

We ate sushi, and after that, I watched as the others got their pre-drink on by filling measuring cups (there were no real cups) 3/4 full of booze and splashing the mixer in for posterity. I sipped my juice flavoured wine beverage, keeping in mind I had a 5K to smash the next morning. Judging by the faces everyone was making, juice flavoured wine beverage was the way to go.

At Crews & Tango, the bar was a sauna. We literally sweat out just by existing. Up on stage an array of gorgeous drag queens paraded their stuff, their ability to walk in heels higher than the CN Tower, and chatted with the audience. We were incensed. The excited energy in the air was a cocktail with the raging hormones, the eccentricity and the booze.

Over the course of the evening, we crept closer and closer to the stage through the crowd until we were right up front with the best view of the action. At one point, Alli put money in the front of my dress and shoved me up towards the stage. The queen performing took the tip from my decolletage...with her teeth.
A beautiful drag queen from Montreal also pulled Alli up on stage to dance with her... on account of their matching giant knockers. I had thought that I had lost my voice screaming and cheering already, but at that point I found another octave. We belted out Pink, Gaga, Nicki Minaj, we danced hard, we sweated profusely. I ended up slow dancing to Gaga's Speechless with a boy who told me he knew how to dance because he had, "slept with a lot of dancers."

We split back for home at two. As I laid down to fall asleep that night, I found what I had been waiting for the whole evening: pre-race jitters. With me and the darkness, there they were, putting my bravery on life support. I was never going to fall asleep.... I was up, feeling around in the dark. Muttering to myself. Finally, Bek had had enough.

Bek: "What are you doing?"

Me: "I need to get the bear."

And when I finally found the giant teddy bear and spooned the damn thing until I could fall asleep.

Omen

I woke up on race day, not feeling overly strong, but very thirsty. The entire weekend was hot and humid. The water you drank instantly came out of your pores. The alcohol went straight to your head. I packed my post-run backpack and dressed my running gear. At the race line, I said goodbye to my support team and went to find a place in the pack of jostling, antsy runners.

It began with a rainbow explosion. I do not exaggerate, as confetti rained down from above. The run was hot. HOT. HOOOOOOOOOT. I found out AFTER, that the city was on smog alert, the sun was bearing down on us and here we were, 1100 people running, like it was SANE. (I maintain as I always have: runners are crazy.) 
This run was monumental. I couldn't breathe deeply enough, which put a colossal stitch in my side. As I watched the elite pass me by, and I passed by people reducing themselves to walk in the deadly heat, I could feel my resolve begging for mercy. I had started the race with the intention of busting the ceiling of a sub-30 minute 5K run. But I was sweating, gasping, the thick wet hot air into my panicking lungs. My new goal was to just SURVIVE. To just. keep. running, no matter how hard it was. The second lap of the course by the water station saw me dump the entire glass on my head. Which relieved me for about 15 seconds before the cool evaporated and left me sweltering again.

With 3 minutes left before my goal time slipped away, I could see the finish line in the distance. I remembered what Jill had told me: Leave everything on the track. You only have to run so fast for that little bit longer. I forced my legs to work hard. I could see it. Omen by the Prodigy pulsed into my ears, through my blood stream and my legs pumped harder. The finish line is always a shot of adrenaline. You see it, you're in pain. Suddenly the pain is gone as you fly over it. When you reach the other side, the pain returns with your lungs, your legs, your panicked feelings. As I crossed the barrier from run to complete, I saw 29:29 on my watch (aka 29:27.4 by chip time!). I had smashed my goal and my best 5K time ever by 41 seconds!

I wandered from the finish, grabbing a bottle of water from a volunteer, gasping, sweating, dying but AMPED.  I sat down on a curb, and I admit it, I got misty. I started to cry, just a little. Never ever ever would I have predicted that I would do such a thing in my lifetime and the impact of the accomplishment had moved me to tears. Thankfully, my ladies showed up and moved me back into smiles. AND they brought Justin in tow with them. We hugged hard, and they all congratulated me. I rambled off about the race and running stuff, they were obliged enough to listen, and then we all went out for brunch. (Banana bread French toast with almond-maple creme anglaise. Take me now.)

Give Them Hope

We wandered around the grounds, including the Stag Shop, where I was accidentally punched in the face by Bekah with a fisting dildo. On the walk to my tattoo, Justin, Bek and I saw the beginning of the Dyke march. Lots of women on motorcycles, revving engines and inciting the screaming crowd into cheers: awesome!

At the tattoo parlour, we were literally less than twenty minutes. The time it took me to fill out the form was about the same amount of time it took to do the tattoo I've been waiting on for a whole year.

Give Them Hope. Not just a "gay" thing. Learning about Harvey Milk put me on the path to activism and working towards gay rights. And my interest in rights and activism has changed my life: I mean...I want to graduate from University three years to work in non-profit organizations and make a difference. Give Them Hope. A reminder that  no matter what happens, it's important to be that beacon. Be bright, be amazing. Who are we not to be?

Strongbow & Espresso

By this point we were all pretty tired, so a couple of us went out to the Hair of the Dog, a local bar for some brews. This was followed by dinner (inappropriate jokes about the hotness of the waiter), getting ready to go out (GLITTER EVERYWHERE) + cake flavoured vodka and Sprite, followed by heading out to the Village once again (MORE GLITTER EVERYWHERE). We had a few more drinks which had me feeling a teensy bit silly. Cutting loose. However, our group was tired and jaded to partying in the city they lived in. So our kind hosts gave us the keys to the apartment and went home. Bek and I networked with Justin, who had a friend with him.

"Hi," said the vaguely tipsy me, smiling and being glowingly social as I put my hand out for a shake , "I'm Riley."

"I know," she said flatly, "we've met before." I don't know why, I think it comes out of old habits, but the most important thing to me when being even on the caboose of the tipsy train is proving to people that I'm still capable of all that I am sober. I'm trying to relax because I know there's nothing wrong with a little drinkie-poo, and being silly. I think it has something to do with my anxiety. Either way, the air was out of my tires, despite the fact that I am terrible with faces and names at the best of times anyway. Let alone up late bear spooning, up early, 5K death run, hot sweaty day, tattoo, no nap, Strongbow, and the doppio espresso I was drinking as I said this.

Sorry, Mom

We ended up going to a lesbian bar called Slack's, which was something I'd never done before. The DJ was this beautiful vaguely androgynous woman who spun everything from Backstreet's Back to Umbrella with amazing skill. Bek and I agreed a lady of such a caliber made us question ourselves as red blooded allies... more than we did already. And we danced. We helped a girl with a makeout contest. (Sorry mom.) We danced a LOT more, until 3AM. On the cab ride back, Bek and I commented on the fabulousness of the heels worn by a woman on the street corner. The cabbie laughed, "That's a hooker," he said. It's so hard to tell around Pride Time.

Part the last: in which I am bad at being hit upon
Sunday, the day of the parade, Bek and I met Josh and Reb (first timers!) at Union Station. After giving them a brief tour of the grounds I had to split from them for my volunteer shift. I left them in full clothes, and the next time I saw Josh, he was wearing literally nothing but a pair of Espana briefs. (OLE!) There's nothing quite like the most liberal celebration on the face of the Earth to reduce your friends to frolicking around rainbow junction in their underpants.

After dinner (ALL THE CHICKEN WINGS IN THE WORLD), Bek and I took in our last taste of the festival. As our group worked through the crowd, a guy did a 180 to look at me so dramatically that I looked at him in return. Not just any guy. This guy was a black guy. Don't think that I'm being racist when I say that when I get hit on, 99% of the time, it's a black dude. Now, this guy was GOOD looking, all up in my personal space and my first thought was WOW, followed by ALL MY FRIENDS ARE STARING AT ME, followed shortly by the third: IS HE ON SOMETHING?

He looked my right in the face.

"You have really nice eyes," I said, which was the fourth thought, and the first thing out of my mouth. In my imagination I am the smoothest flirtiest flirt in the West. In real life: I am the polar opposite. 

"I like your lips," he said, smiling, and I honestly couldn't tell you all the details about the conversation because men giving me attention turns me into a stammering dork without an ounce of sass or clout.

I accused him of not being a real live lesbian and he assured me that he was one. And in my embarrassment of having I attention, because I realize in retrospect that having my friends being treated to street theatre made me even more awkward, I told him his friends were waiting and I probably had to go. Well. This boy was firmly determined. He put my arms around his neck and uh. Kissed me? And I panicked more, being the worst person under pressure of ALL FUCKING TIME. And leaned away, stammered something about having to go, thanking him for the flattery and wishing him a good evening before making a beeline for the nearest merch tent, in a daze, a panicky daze.  And when my friends caught up with me, I couldn't even explain what happened.

GOAL OF LIFE: BE SMOOTHER.

Then I bought a bright purple  shirt emblazoned with the word FAG across the front. I don't know why I wanted it, I just did. We packed up and drove home that very evening, listening to Jack White and being very. Very. Very tired.