Death by tracksuit

Christmas 2011 has come and gone and, overall, I would have say that it was quite successful. Ev and I "hosted" xmas day at our new house for my mom's side of the family (including the fabulous Grandma Ivy). Basically, I wore a cute little apron and ensured that my guests' drinks (as well as my own, of course) were topped up while my fantastic mom prepared the turkey, stuffing, potatoes, salad, etc. My mom is awesome. Although I'm slowly entering the world of domesticated bliss with the crochet, I'm no where near capable of preparing xmas dinner for 15 people (perhaps a goal for the upcoming months??? hmmm....)

Can I get a whoot whoot!

Boxing day; however, was my favorite. Ev and I lazed in bed with Biloxi, the cat, and Dundee, the dog, until noon-ish, watching big white fluffy snowflakes fall to the ground. Never changing out of our PJ's, we watched crappy TV, consumed excessive amounts of carbs, and discussed the past and our future plans (involving House Hunters International, of course). I even threw in the crochet for good measure. I'm getting good. Wicked good. Like I can sorta kinda watch TV out of the corner of one eye whilst crocheting kinda good. I'm currently on a crochet roll, completing my 7th square last evening (only 5 more to go!) I will actually conquer the crochet. Anyway, back to our boxing day bliss. The holidays weren't always so blissful for us. In fact, the end of xmas holidays typically marked one of my and Ev's miserable, pathetic, emotionally-draining goodbyes. Man we were "good" at goodbyes.

Our 8 years of premarital dating consisted of 6 years of long-distance. 6 years! While Ev battled his way through the Montreal Canadiens system with hockey (and boy, was it a battle!), I was in Edmonton with my BFF, Janna, partying studying my ass off at the U of A. Each and every break of 3+ days, I would hop on a plane and reunite with the love of my life. This is how it worked. For 6 years!!! Gawd. I still can't believe we did it. Because Ev was under contract with the Canadiens, they owned his rights and could basically send him anywhere within their system at the drop of a hat (Montreal, Quebec City, Biloxi, or Asheville). The Canadiens did not give a shit if Evan Lindsay's sweetheart of 7 years had a flight booked to Quebec City the following day. If Biloxi, Mississippi, needed a goalie, that's where he went. It was a nightmare of altering, cancelling, and/or re-booking flights. Of course, once we were in each other's arms, nothing could stop us. Nothing...except for the looming goodbye.

Our "goodbyes" were epic. They could (and did) bring even the most stoic of characters to tears. Ev and I would cling desperately to each other at the security entrance, sobbing, embracing, and whimpering. Ev would wait until the airline beckoned him overhead, shuffle dismally through security, turn towards me, painfully mouth, "I love you," while I would drop to my knees, alone on the cold airport floor, wracked with tears. I remember one affected observer who handed me a cigarette after Ev's departure.

"Thanks, but I don't smoke," I sniffled.

"Now's a good time to start," she said.

(O dear, a tear just fell on my keyboard. must(sob)...move(sob)...on(sob)...this(sniff)...actually(sniff)...gets(sniff)...funny).

Yes, our "goodbyes" were very dramatic; however, the "Edmonton goodbye" of 2002 takes the cake. It's the winner. Hands down.

It was September 2002 and Ev was set to depart to Roanoke, Virginia for an upcoming season with the Roanoke Express of the East Coast Hockey League. I was entering my 4th year at the University of Alberta, with the goal of achieving the marks required to gain acceptance into the Speech-Language Pathology Masters Program. Ev, clad in his newly acquired Roanoke Express tracksuit, reluctantly dragged me towards security at Edmonton International Airport. We were saying goodbye after a perfectly wonderful summer together, knowing that we would not be reunited for 4 long months. As per usual, we staked our location for the dramatic goodbye, directly in front of security and began the pathetic process. Face wet with tears, I buried my head in Ev's chest as he stroked my hair, repeating, "it's ok, Kirst." Sobbing uncontrollably, I inhaled sharply and suddenly found myself choking on Ev's tracksuit. The wet nylon shot straight up my nostrils, causing me to suffocate. I desperately pushed Ev away, attempting to get oxygen into my lungs. Ev, mistaking my panic for sadness, held me tighter to his chest, repeating those soothing words, "It's ok kirst. It's going to be ok." Shit. It's not Ok. I'm suffocating. On the Roanoke Express tracksuit. Death by tracksuit was imminent. AAAAAGGGGGGHHHH. When Ev finally realized what was happening, he released his loving grip while I sputtered and coughed, relishing the ability to breathe again. What a show.

Don't let the 'friendliness' of the tracksuit fool you. Can you say attempted murder?

To be perfectly honest, that was one of the most pleasant goodbyes in my memory. The fear of being smothered to death by the tracksuit totally overrode the misery of the goodbye. Perhaps my reunion with oxygen made me momentarily high but I was suddenly exuberant. Get on the plane! Go! Go! See ya, see ya, wouldn't want to be ya! Don't forget to stop the puck! haha!

Oh wow. Good times. I can't believe that was us. To this day, my heart fills with sadness at the departure gate of any airport. Sadness, and that undeniable urge to take a deep breath.