I read a fascinating article the other day in (you guessed it) O Magazine. So it turns out, we all fall neatly into one of four categories: explorer, builder, director or negotiator. Which of these four categories we belong to determines what type of partner is our best fit. I suppose I should give you the run-down of each personality:

Explorer: Curious, creative, spontaneous, many interests, take risks, wants a playmate.

Builder: Conventional, loyal, detail-oriented, popular, wants a helper.

Director: logical, emotionally reserved, competitive, wants a mind mate.

Negotiator: Intuitive, emotionally expressive, good communicator, wants a soul mate.

Can you guess which category I fit into? I am an explorer, believe it or not. This article solidifies my suspicions; when it comes to men, I have been barking up the wrong tree. According to the article, explorers are best with other explorers, builders with builders and directors with negotiators. I am relatively certain that most of the guys I've dated are directors; a terrible combination! What I really need, and have always wanted, is a playmate. Do you think I'll be able to find one by Feb. 14th? Did I mention explorers are highly optimistic?

A Year in Review

Besides getting divorced in 2008, there have been a number of significant changes in my life. I've lived in three different cities, attended two post-secondary schools, changed religions ... again (but not so drastically this time) and cut my hair! Needless to say, all of these experiences have impacted my very core and it's hard to say what has been the most significant change. I'd say deeper analysis is necessary.

Let's start with the hair. I know to some this might seem like a minor change, not even worth mentioning amidst the swirl of new things that have entered my life. But it wasn't called Samson's glory for nothing- hair can have symbolic value. For me, cutting off my hair was one of the most freeing experiences I'd had in a long time and it was the precursor to even more groundbreaking life changes. When I cut my hair, I stood a little taller and felt a little braver.

Here we go again with the religion thing; I left the Morman's. I still have friends and family who are Mormans, so don't expect me to trash my former religion. For me, this change was about envisioning life outside of the box and learning to be a good person without an extremely detailed and specific instruction manual. Does that make any sense? If not, feel free to skip ahead. Since, going back to being a regular ol' Christian, (a very open minded one I might add) I have done several naughty things that would have been taboo during my more religious days; I've worn sleeveless dresses (the proof is on Facebook); I have the odd alcoholic beverage or two; I steal candy from children - ha ha ha, just kidding! The point is, I feel less restrained and more able to enjoy this glimmer of youth that I have.

Three different cities, three different flavours, and one little old me. I have been on a whirlwind tour of the West Coast. I was in Victoria for eight months, Vancouver for three and now I'm stuck in Nanaimo for two years (I'm currently about four months into my sentence). I have to say that Victoria enchanted me the most. I was swept away by it's purity and charm; I fell in love with the downtown area, which sparkled in the winter and blossomed with cherry trees in the early spring. Many of the people were as charming as the city itself ... sigh. Then, I was off to Vancouver, a city of bright lights, style and sexiness. The shopping, the restaurants, the constant buzz - it was fun for the summer, but also exhausting. And now ... now I am in Nanaimo. Nanaimo is what one would call a port city. It has all the ingredients of a beautiful city - water, mountains, greenery, but is seriously lacking in charm. What have I learned from all this moving about? I know that I can be happy -or miserable - anywhere I live. So far I feel like I have been in the right location for each successive phase of my life. I really have no idea where life will take me next and I like it that way.

So that was just a glimpse of my 2008, which, incidentally, was my year according to the Chinese calendar (year of the Rat). Whatever 2009 has in store, I say bring it on!

Sporty = Spicey

It has finally happened; my efforts to avoid watching, reading or hearing about anything sports related have been thwarted ... or at least discouraged. According to my brother, who loves sports and beer and all things manly, I must know at least a little about "man" sports (a.k.a blood sports). This is the key, he insists, to landing a decent guy. According to my brother, men dig chicks who know about sports. If this is true, maybe that is why I only attract engineers and guys who love math (plus the occasional drunkard). This new information places me in quite a predicament. There are so many things I would rather do than learn about sports, like curl my hair, or watch Oprah ... or dance like a maniac to 90's music in my bedroom (did I just say that out loud?).

Keeping up to date on the latest sports headlines is sounding more and more like a chore. I don't think I am desperate enough to pursue this option yet. After all, there are plenty of handsome, funny, athletic and cultured guys who aren't that interested in sports ... right? Can't I just wave the occasional pom-pom and be done with it? Rah Rah! Shish Boomba! Gooooooo [insert hot guy's favourite team here]!

A Worldly Woman

After years of feeling shackled by the constraints of an intense religion and a marriage I was not ready for, I'm relishing my freedom. The best way to describe my current state of mind is that I want to take a huge, cheek-bursting bite out of life. Most of all, I want to see the world. I want to see the usual places like France, Spain, Italy, Australia, New Zealand, etc. But I also want to see the darker side: Rwanda, Columbia, Afghanistan (not just yet, since I value my life). For some mysterious reason, I feel the need to connect with the suffering of the world's oppressed. Perhaps seeing the haunting faces of countless genocide victims at the Kigali Memorial Center will force me to realize my own insignificance. I hope so. Sorry if this sounds morbid, I'm just trying to articulate my desire to see the world for what it really is - beautiful, dark, dangerous, exciting, and ever-changing. I consider this time and this age (23 and counting) the spring-board for the rest of my life.

Glass Women

I have known a fair amount of glass women. They are the women whose frail physical appearance mirrors a deeper emotional fragility. They have soft-spoken voices and delicate gestures. Sometimes they are pretty, sometimes not.

I've been trying to figure out what is so appealing about these women. Is it the fact that they could shatter into a million pieces at any moment and being there to pick up the pieces makes one feel heroic? Could it be that the obviousness of their insecurities makes others feel more comfortable with their own misgivings? I don't know. But I must say that at times I admire such women, or at the least I am intrigued by them.

I'm sure by my tone you can infer that I am not a willowy, tenuous woman. I am sturdy physically and I like to think that I am emotionally resilient. I am sensitive, I swear, but I rarely let my emotions spill into public view. I hold them tightly to me and if they make me feel weak or helpless I try to get rid of them. I purge my emotions by writing them down ( no surprise there) or going for a run. Does this make me less appealing or less feminine? If I did shatter into a million pieces would Prince Charming rush to rescue me?

Figments of Cyberspace

I was recently weeding out my email contact list for the first time in several years. I was shocked at how many quasi-friends (if one could even call them that) I have accumulated. Close friend or mere aquiantance, so many of the names struck an emotional chord. I found myself reluctant to press the delete button even though I knew I would never contact these people again. Whatever happened to ziggpop66 or diamondpoet or perfectloves? They represent a part of my life that must stay in the past, but somehow I can't erase them from my list ... or my memory.

Most of these people are on my Facebook so I can creep through their albums and post them a message any time I wish. But somehow, seeing their names (or cheesy email names) on my personal contact list reminds me that I once had real contact with these people. They're not just a figment of cyberspace. For the most part, I don't want to see their vacation pictures from last summer or their new baby photos; I want to see them as they were when I knew them - the totality of their existence summarized by still images packaged neatly in my memory and visited rarely. If I delete their names, how will I remember to think of them?

Brains or Boobs?

I've been pondering the idea of identity lately. So many of us are labelled early in life: "smart girl", "pretty girl", ""shy girl". I must admit that I have been considered all of these. I don't know that this is such a good thing. For the most part, being so narrowly defined can be likened to an actor being typecast; It is has a limiting effect. What if I had simply accepted being "the pretty one" in my pre-teens? Would I now be a shallow, brainless Betty? I suppose what I'm getting at is that I am a multifaceted human being with the capability of dawning many distinct traits. I cannot be summarized by a single word or phrase.

I have heard that researchers found a correlation between breast size and academic performance. Supposedly, more bountifully-boobed ladies tend to have lower grades. If there is any merit to these findings, I would argue that these women too readily allowed themselves to be defined by their physical appearance.

I for one refuse to settle for just one identity. I can be glamorous and/or a tomboy and/or have a wild side and/or be the girl next door. I can be all these things (unfortunately, I will probably never be bountifully-boobed). Why should I limit myself?