I have a girl crush. I've had it since I entered my first "The art of newspaper reporting" at the mere age of 19 and it remains to this day, and today even more so.
I've been trying to break out of Cell Block C. A file in a loaf of bread didn't cut it. I managed the first layer of concrete only to be pulled back by my incessant need to eat, breath and live with a roof over my head. A universal call-out to the heavens didn't work either. Perhaps it's because I'm a dyslexic atheist (apologies to dyslexics and atheists alike). I do suffer from dyslexia on occasion and these last few months have left me wondering about god and my connection to him/her.
So last week, I called out to my mentor, my girl crush: Nancy Burt. And, she answered. If my arms could reach through the cell phone I would have given her the biggest squeeze and a "Squeee," as she took the time, not only to call me back after a long-winded, unabashed devoted message, but because she remembered me and the last meeting we had outside of the subway on Bloor Street West. She remembered I had married my college classmate. She remembered where I used to work. She remembered my enthusiasm. She also remembered the article I submitted to the school's magazine. She remembered to call me.
Nancy also suggested potential steps for me to take to speed up my escape from Cell Block C. She offered a hammer in the form of a contact at the only profitable newspaper in Canada. She offered me a shovel by offering to act as a reference. She loaned me a set of clothes for the outside world in the mention of a potential writing opportunity at my alma matter. Nancy offered me hope.
I still heart Nancy Burt and now the girl crush is ten-fold. We're supposed to be meeting up for coffee at some point to catch up. I can't wait. I just hope she doesn't mind too much when I start humping her leg.