In my youth, I invented the This Is It Boyfriend. I believed he was out there waiting for me, at the next café or my first day on a new job. Or magically next to my window seat on a train ride back to Ontario. When I met him, I would know. This would be it. He would lead me out of my perpetual state of angst and longing and sugar cravings and around the corner into a charmed existence of fulfilling my enormous potential plus three-to-seven decades of endless and glorious, good hard fucks from behind. (In my youth, I often conflated these two things). Back when an eating disorder caused me to puke in my mouth, I believed that my This Is It Boyfriend would cure me of this. This Is It wasn’t just a boyfriend. It was a place. In the land of This Is It, I’d be at peace with my life. I wouldn’t obsess over thighs or lunch choices or emails to my deadbeat of the month. I would not obsess.

Nothing’s more boring than other people’s sleep stats. But throw in a few dream recaps and one of the top reasons for being in a relationship is celebrating your sleep performance. That, and having someone to help you take your windows in and out to wash them. And help you put the duvet back in its cover. And drive you to Ontario to attend funerals and other high-pressure family functions. And of course, the groundbreaking sex.

But failing that, what a joy to wake up to daily praise, simply because you managed to sleep. “You cracked 5 a.m. again? Honey, you nailed it. Wow. I’m so proud of you!”

“I had an active childhood,” I always say if ever anyone asks me how I get my biceps. An active childhood, and a professional eating disorder. But on Thursday, March 17, 2011, I swallowed my last spoonful of vomit. I was cured. With the caveat that every morning before breakfast, I needed to crank myself through 1.5 to 2.5 hours of yoga or risk a spectacular emotional catastrophe. Oh well. What’s a little yoga, right?

When I was 29 going on 30, I broke up with the star of my life’s first great love story. I had moved from Montréal to Halifax for love and probably a little bit for sex. Back in Montréal, one of several sublets included an apartment I shared with two 34-year-old women. As I unpacked my two-and-a-half suitcases, I asked my new roommates what their love lives were like. Apparently, neither of them had dated seriously since their late twenties. I was like, how did you let this happen? Followed by the conviction, this will never happen to me. And yet it did. I can pin this down to approximately three reasons.

“Do you meditate?” asked the Million-Dollar Chiropractor. It was July 2021. I was weeping on her table as she engaged in some esoteric dialogue with my body and soul. Apparently, my body had lost all the joy of being alive.

At her question, I cried harder.

Everybody always says that.