The French Revolution: Transition

I called home last night for the first time since the move on Saturday, to hear mama's voice. I rambled on to her about my profs, people who express with passion the romanticism of grammar, and swoon over the 100+ word sentences of Charles Dickens. (I'm not kidding.) Then she asked me about the commute, the cat, and how everything was going. How was I feeling?

It was then, I had a moment of pristine verbal clarity, something that does not happen to me very often. "Mom," I said, "No one daydreams about the transition period."
No thirteen year old on the cusp of puberty lays down in the evening, starry eyed about growing pains and acne. They wax hopeful about new heights, about breasts and curves, about muscles and low voices. The end result.


I never sat with my psychologist, pouring my heart out about the excitement of struggling with my social anxiety. I looked forward to a time when heading into work wouldn't be the cause of tears and panic, when I didn't care so much about what people had to think of me. When I could feel 'normal.'

So, I guess what it boils down to at this moment in time is: Am I 100% happy?

No. Of course not, I'm in transition. I've been in the city not but a week, without a full week of classes under my belt. I've not yet stretched my legs out and headed to the higher ground. I haven't had much opportunity to make new friends, or build a new life here, or get into a routine. Those things take patience and time. When people spew entire whip-lash paragraphs of Quebecois French at me, my brain still shuts off, like it's white noise. Je ne comprends pas. This English-outcast mentality has put my confidence offside. Where once I felt strong and confident, I now feel.... paled in comparison. Reverse ugly duckling syndrome.

I knew this wasn't going to be easy, and I'm not miserable, I'm just incomplete.  I have to make what I want for myself. "Putting yourself out there," is nowhere near as simple as it seems.

I had a similar discussion with my friend JG, who lives in Liverpool at the moment, but is planning on making the move to Edinburgh. I lectured him that moving to Scotland wouldn't be a cure all for any discontent he had with his life. I said he would have to take pains and put in effort to get what he wanted. Well, it seems as though I may as well have been talking about this to myself. Advice that I ought to take straight into my heart, until I find my niche, where I belong, and this new brave world of happiness. I guess we'll see. It's a little premature to be developing anything, and little early to be despairing too.

Awkwardness. And they say you only go through puberty once?

Mama bird

My mom found out about my second tattoo tonight... the one I wanted her to never find out about.

We were sitting and chatting with the Kennedys on in the background when suddenly, she stopped mid-sentence. "You have a tattoo," she said, "I just saw it." It was an accusation, not an observation, by the way. And sure enough, there it was, peeking out of the dress I was wearing.
I guess these things happen. They're bound to, with warm breezy clothing on the way. Ah, summer.

For those of you who don' t know, it's a nightingale on my left side. Also, for those of you who don't know, she hates birds slightly more than she hate tattoos. Happy mothers day, right? I guess that's a gift that keeps on giving.

When I explained I had gotten it in the summer and had successfully hidden it for a good eight months, she relaxed a little. Then I added that it was for the eating disorder I had been been actively fighting, and she accepted it a tiny bit more. She even asked me what the tattoo actually was, "waffles?" She took something that I thought would shock and appall her... and she accepted it with humour. She might not be crazy about it, but she took it in stride and listened.

That, and for many other reasons, is why I love my mom.

Then of course, I had to guiltily confess I have another tattoo appointment booked for the end of June, and her chief concern was that I can't afford these things when I'm paying off student debt. So I used her own philosophy against her: life is short. I've said it here before and I will say it again: yes, when you get a tattoo it's for the rest of your life... but there isn't a standard length of a human life. I could die in five minutes, or I could go years from now. How long that ink is under the skin is a testament of time. So she told me I had better explain what I wanted to get before we spoke to my father about it.

That's why I love my mom.

We briefly tuned in and out of watching the Kennedys and she told me she remembered where she was when she learned about each of them dying, these moments of history she was alive to remember. We ended up talking about a little bit of anything and everything. A little family history, and in the spirit of the day, she told me my birth story. About how the doctor on call pushed his intern out of the way to pull me out, how I was born blue, without air, instead of crying. How when I was born, it was pouring rain outside.

That's why I love my mom.

I'll post pictures from our Mother's Day Lunch later today... in the mean time, go call your mother. Hug her. Kiss her on the cheek, or invite her out for a cup of coffee. She deserves a little of your time. Tell her why you love her. Write her a blog post.