You can go your own way.

OK *breathes deeply*, here it is. I haven't touched this blog in weeks (months, even). I was on an unannounced hiatus, but I'm ready to talk.

This is a place for whimsy, sharing pretty things I love, talking about clothes I can't afford, laughing at my own neuroses, and dissecting semi-serious issues with silliness. I'm not a private person. Look, you know my bra size. I have a post in the works about my gastro-intestinal woes. It's the interpersonal stuff; the hard relationship battles just don't belong here.

But, well, something big happened. So big, that I have to break my own rule and let you know what's up. I will soon want to start blogging about the transformation of my new apartment, complete with curiously hyper-feminine colour schemes and my polka-dot fridge. There will be questions. 

Here's the thing *hard swallow*: two months ago, I left my husband. 

"I'm OK."

"It's totally OK." 

I will reassure you. I will manage your grief because it's almost harder to bear than my own. I will convince you, with my laughing and with my business-as-usual tweets about puppies and pretty wallpaper and eating burritos in my underwear, that everything is normal. That I am thriving. That I do not have doubts or fears or sadness.

But I do. Sometimes.

You may not think that I am weeping outwardly enough. My level of drama might not befit the tragedy. But while you and my mother and my friends are hearing this news for the first time, know I have suffered an entire year in silence, as doubts and questions about my marriage simmered well-hidden under my lid. By the time it happened, I was already making my way towards acceptance. Not sharing much about my feelings with anyone meant that there was silent bathroom crying, private-blogging, and other out-of-sight coping. I was wearing black on the inside.

I'm at a place now where I'm not going to waste full Sundays in sweats, eating Costco-sized bags of Sour Cream n' Bacon Ruffles, watching back-to-back-to-back episodes of Being Erica (and relating to her, like, bigtime). I will be OK. But please know this: it is the hardest thing I've ever done. Ever. The decision did not come easily.

Put very simply, we grew apart. In an opposites-attract scenario, meeting in the middle sometimes involves too much compromise. You expect to grow and settle into a beautiful happy middle-ground (and we did for a while), but fiercely stubborn people will sometimes grow straight up, towards the sun, independently. We are proud sunflowers with woody, rigid stalks and we are growing in different fields, miles apart.

I spent 7 years with Alex. I love him. I have possibly too-optimistic hopes that we will stay good friends. We are co-parenting two dogs, after all. But so far, so good, you guys! I could maybe write a book on the subject of clean, mature break-ups. Or at least a future blog post. (I'm managing your expectations here.)

 Two weeks ago, I moved into my new apartment. 

Two weeks ago, I started a brand new life as a 33-year-old single girl. *gulp* 

My ensuing posts and tweets on the subject will return to the style you expect from me: "Dying alone with cats since 2013." and "Who's gonna open my jars, now!?" and "Dude, I have sooooo much legroom in bed!" and "Eating all the chips because I live alone." and "Off to get my eggs frozen, you guys!*  

But please don't think I'm being insensitive or making light of a really, really hard situation. It's a protective shell, and it's how I cope. Sarcasm = drugs.

If you know me IRL, here's some advice: I love your texts and your hugs and your visits to my tiny new pad (avec wine, please). OK, shower me with ALL THE attention, aiiiight? I need that more than I let on. And trust me, it's not an awkward subject. Ask me outright. Not a private person, remember? Not at all.

(Bra size: 34A. Current chequing account balance: $8.06. Number of meals involving tacos in the past week: 6.)

 *builds IKEA furniture by herself* *makes it on her own*

Hold me closer, tiny dancer.

It's too weird that I haven't been all bandwife-y lately, right?

I admit it's been a while since I so much as casually mentioned a certain band. THE band, obvi: The Mister's (Wonder)-bread-and-(i-cant-believe-it's-not)-butter and the fodder for many a dramatic post. Really, a huge inspiration for this blog, at least in the affecting-me kind of way (because obviously it's all about me). Annnnnyway, I've been mum for a reason. While I can't really get into specifics, let's just say that the boys are on a bit of an "indefinite hiatus". That's what I'm allowed to say (and I'm trying to be less mouthy and rebellious). 

No rehearsing, no recording, no shows, no tours. 

 { why is this not happening? like, now? cold case. }

(If you know me in real life, I've undoubtedly blabbed the whole story in person. If I haven't, we clearly need to do coffee. Stat!)

What does this all mean in the grand scheme of life/music for Alex and me? We still don't know. But while Sweet Thing is on an unspecified break, I do know that I have a lot less me-time and it's making me squirm. 

Look at me! I soaked pillows upon pillows with fat tears feeling sorry for myself and my tragic lonely bandwife condition. Now I'm complaining that I never get the house to myself? Can you believe this girl?! Impossible to satisfy. I also know that I really, really, REALLY miss it. It = everything. Especially the cheering. Oh dear. I'm a piece of work.

 

{ I mean, who ARE these people!? }

  
I should be less self-involved. This big empty space is his burden, not mine. During this weird limbo stage in his life, Alex is contemplating this: what, oh what, to DO with all of this free time! 

Well.

Write an album, of course. 

I'm sure he'd rather I not trumpet this fact to the masses (or the 8 people who read my blog) but it's his fault for marrying an oversharer/big-mouth. INYOFACESUCKA! 

He's built himself a "music room" in our unfinished basement. I am convinced that mold spores will be the cause of his untimely death. But he's a badass musician, right? A big middle-finger/crotch-grab to death!!! Not really. He's just SO desperate for his own space that he's willing to make himself a little sick for it. Sigh. We need to move.

 

{ really? unfit for humans. even for THIS caveman. }

So the music plays on, Sweet Thing or no Sweet Thing. It's a good thing. I think. It's the only "career" he really wants. But I'm pushing for a more stable Plan B in case the music thing doesn't work out. I sound un-supportive. Oh no, no. It's not for any lack of faith in his awesomeness, just complete disdain for the pathetic, crumbling music industry (especially in Canada). 

Sure, I married the creative left-brain type. I AM the creative left-brain type: "Spontaneity! Romantic poverty! Starving for art! Love is all you need!" But that side of me is very equally balanced by my plan-ahead, pragmatic right-brain: "Investments! Budgets! Colour-coded file folders! 5-year plans!"

And this side of me is displeased. But he's trying. He has a solid background in the tv biz and is going through the soul-crushing task of writing endless cover letters and applying for roles for which he's hella-overqualified. I can't believe we're back HERE again.

And what of me? Since my bandwife role has been stripped bare, I feel disconnected from his music-life. 

 { scruffy beards and wayward dress-straps? we belong in a green room }

So I've asked to help. 

We've already decided that if the solo thing takes off, I'd be his daily biz manager (ahem, nagging wife with additional accounting duties) and responsible for all of his big-upping (I'm experienced). But what about now? Oh, well, y'know, I'm just going to...

WRITE LYRICS! 


So excited. He's agreed to give me 2 unfinished songs and I get to pen the words! Are you really understanding how awesome this is?!? Don't laugh. This part requires little to no musical ability (and I have little to no musical ability, emphasis on "no"). I'm not a bad poet and I love words to death, so I might actually pull this off. The vocal melody is there, so easy-peasy, yeah? Also, if we write a hit, I'll rake in the royalties. Ha.

John's Imagine was based on Yoko's imagination, after all. I need to live up to my handle.

I'll never love again (yes, I will)

 

Look at how happy I am – ignore that it was a put-on smile, flashed between barking photo-taking directions at hubby and trying not to have a head-on collision with a garage door – but yes, HAPPY! Did I know then, though, that my love-affair with two wheels would be so fleeting? Serves me right for being trusting. Oh, no one would ever come through our back yard and into our garage to steal our bikes in TORONTO. Never. But yes, of course they would. And of course they did.

Alex and I had our babies stolen this weekend. And while my bike was bought for practical no-fuss, gettin'-around reasons, and not lust-at-first-sight like my current crush, I became quite attached to the old girl. She didn't fail me. Not once. Except that she went and got herself stolen. Girl, didn't I teach you to be wary of strangers?! Deaf ears, man. Sadly, a salesperson with atrocious handwriting is the reason that I will never see her again – a completely illegible serial number is no use for the police report. She's gone. 

While I mourn and eat ice cream in my favourite sweats (the appropriate reaction to any break-up, yeah?), a girl's gotta move on at some point.

The time is now.

I'm at the acceptance stage already, I think. A girl with a penchant for dramatics has a lot of history with (self-inflicted) grief. Man, I just roll through the 5 levels now, and I don't even think I stop on denial anymore. Express train.

Bright side? It's an opportunity to get a bike that's maybe more "me". I picked a Norco hybrid for budget/practicality, but I'm not really doing much in the way of serious cycling, so I can afford to play the style-over-function card. I'll bike to the moon (the moon!), but I'm not racing. I just need something pretty that can handle a 50-minute round-trip commute. Something light, so I don't almost die when carrying it. Something that puts the whoosh back into my life. I fall in love easily, so that part won't be hard. But as hubby says, my eyes are bigger than my wallet. So is my heart. And my wanderlust. And my bucket list. Sigh. 

I used to think being simultaneously broke and in love was impossibly romantic. Kinda over it.

The Mister has back-up wheels secured, so because he thinks I'm meow (and wants an end to the pouting) he's helping me with my own search. It resulted in a Craigslist-related fight after I vetoed 600 of his picks. It's not my fault though!!! On my way home, I was wooed by Mikey, an adorable sales-creature at Curbside Cycle and this:

This!

I very nearly swooned when I perched atop this minty baby. Sex. Just sex. But oh, $650. Hrmm. Not crazy-expensive in nice-bike world. But nuts when you're trying to be a good girl on a budget and you had a perfectly good bike just 4 short days ago. Dolla-dolla-billz, y'all. I could find ways to justify it then heap it onto credit with an audible gulp. I'm a master at justifying my terrible choices. A fucking Jedi.

But no. I am resisting her intoxicating lure. I'm back on Craigslist (with a much less eager helper-bee) hoping that I don't crack and just buy the first thing I can find. I'll hit desperation very quickly. I'll wither without wind in my hair. I will.

In the meantime, let's engage in a little self-torture, shall we? Bike porn, baby:

From top: 1) Bobbin Birdie 2) Abici Primavera 3) Bobbin Firefly 4) Public Bikes 5) Public Bikes

Check out more here, on my Pinterest board! 

It's not you. It's me.

Dear Sweet Thing,

It's been swell, but I think we've outgrown each other. I'm moving on. Can we still be friends?

Forever Your Yoko Ono,

Dayna

This blog wasn't initially created as a promotion tool for the band (well, not primarily, anyway). And frankly, at this point, they don't really need it. They have legit marketing people in their entourage, as well as their own social networking outlets. No, this blog is about me. M-E. And because my life is so tightly woven with the happenings of the band, they tend to have a pretty strong supporting role in my posts. It's inevitable.

Let me be clear: I may have married 1/5 of the band, but I in no way represent them, nor do any of my opinions reflect theirs (necessarily). I do just genuinely believe in them, and for selfish reasons I know that their success = Alex's success = my success. That's just the way marriage works. It's a "we" thing. But maybe I overstep my boundaries because I'm privy to more information than the average fan or music-media outlet? I don't mean to. I'm just sharing everything about my life, which happens to include my relationship with a music-man. Is it OK to be truly-madly!-DEEPLY! in love with Alex but to fall (a little) out of love with the rest of it?

I get the Yoko rap, unfairly. The choice of name for this blog was intended to be tongue-in-cheek, but Yoko: I feel you, dog. This is a way, way, WAY awkward position. Especially being the only legit wife (so far). But I've been really supportive, insanely understanding, and non-meddling. Really, i have. I used to think of it this way: I am in first wife position and Sweet Thing is Alex's concubine - this other woman with whom I had to share and play nicely. Now, I know that the band is actually the first wife, and I've been demoted. Not because Alex loves me any less. It just has to be that way. She gets first dibs and I'm OK with that. 

I reiterated to him yesterday that I am fully in favour of him spending more and more waking hours on band stuff. He already works so hard. Big, big things are imminent. The more he works now, the better chances they/he/we have for a comfortable future. And remember, eventually it'll be my turn.

I can't really talk about my reasons (it's oversharing that gets me in trouble), but I'm steering this blog back to its original intent, with a focus on what it's like being me. The bandwife condition. I'm distancing myself from Sweet Thing, because, well, I am. It's like a really clean break-up. We'll still be friends, of course. After I'm done licking my wounds. I will continue to tweet great band news, post photos when I snap them, and share videos and links on Facebook. But, this break-up is for the best. I'm reclaiming this blog as mine; the disassociation gives me more freedom.

It's not my job to act as a marketing arm of the band, and I've never been asked to do it. And because I'm just so bloody awkward, my helpful intentions are frequently misinterpreted. It IS my job, however, to be a rock for my husband and support him in whatever he does. It's also my job to think about myself and to not count on Alex's success. Not rocket science, right? Maybe it's not my time to pursue my own big dream in a real/all-encompassing way just yet, but it doesn't mean that my own pursuits (as tadpole as they may be so far) are meaningless.

Monday, I start a new "real" job as the EA to the President of a big Canadian bath & beauty company. I'm getting more wholesale interest in Dudley & Bea. I'm staying on as a freelance writer with blogTO. I'm considering a one-hour bike commute to work. I'm practicing hot yoga again. While Alex will be spending a lot of time on the road with Wife #1 (and no room for stowaways), I need to divert focus away from feeling left out and lonely. 

It's energy better spent on me.

Images: pages from If We Ever Break Up, This is My Book by Jason Logan.