Spring in my step

It’s finally sunny out so I got to take you out today. You’d been hanging in my closet since we got together, teasing me with your cheerfulness. I wanted us to be out together. I wanted to shout our new relationship to the world. But it was too soon. I knew that if we went out together, we’d be greeted with nothing but cold indifference. You couldn’t keep me sheltered from that kind of reaction. You aren’t strong enough to stand up to the task. It’s not your fault, you just weren’t meant for that. You were meant to stroll along with me in the warmth of a spring sun. You were made for fair weather, not for the harsh winter of my discontent.

But today, a new day dawned. A day that rose without fog, rain or a cloud in the sky. A day that promised highs of 12 degrees. A day that screamed - you and me baby, together at last. I thought about what else I’d wear when I finally took you out for the world to see. I wanted us to look perfect together. I wanted everyone else to see us and know that we belonged. I chose a pink sweater with white cuffs, a swirly charcoal skirt, pink tights in the same shade as my sweater and a pair of ballerina slippers. And then, I carefully took you off the hanger and draped you over my shoulders. You soothed me with your bright colour and your light weight. Your calm cream base splashed with light and dark pink flowers wrapped me in happiness. I threw a scarf around my neck, my one concession to the slight breeze that hinted to the season just passed, but it was silk instead of wool and its brilliant colours complemented yours.

As I stepped out into the bright sunlight of the first true spring day, I breathed in the warm air and lightly stroked your side (my side). You felt good. You looked good. And I looked good because of you. I know it’s too soon to say for sure - we’ve only been out once and I’ve known you for less than two weeks - but I think I love you. I think you are the best spring coat I’ve ever had. It’s possible that the weather is getting to me. That the combination of the warmth of the sun, and the budding trees and flowers, have placed a bloom on you that won’t last until the summer sun makes you irrelevant. I might forget all about you when the weather turns again and I head out the door in nothing but shirtsleeves. But right now, you are the symbol of the end of my misery and I couldn’t be happier to have you in my life. Thank you spring coat. Thank you very much.

Brush with Stardom

I was on TV last week plugging one of the books I’m involved with through work. It was for a local cable television show that has a viewing audience of about 1 million (okay, call it 1 million or 15, I’m not exactly sure). For all of my arrogance, I’m not actually a very vain person. I’m aware of where I stand on the beauty scale - Nicole Kidman is definitely hotter, but she gets paid to be so I’m okay with that. How I look isn’t something I spend a lot of time thinking about. I like nice clothes and I try to work with what I’ve got but I don’t spend a lot of time primping in front of my reflection. That said, there is something about knowing you’ll be on TV that can make even the most casual person start to think about what that’s going to look like and once you start thinking that way, you might find yourself caught in front of the mirror, critically inspecting the state of affairs. Thus occupied, I noticed three things I didn’t like (or, to be honest, three things I didn’t like that I could do something about in the week before the appearance). These were my long, unruly and somewhat split-ended hair, the gray roots on said hair (premature grayness is not a gift), and eyebrows that hadn’t been tweezed since last July.

I called and booked a haircut for the day of the interview so that it would have that perfect look that I can never repeat after the day of the haircut: smooth, straight, with a perfect little flip at the bottom. I thought about booking for colour too but I figured I’d have time to do that over the weekend. Of course, the weekend came and went and I didn’t get around to dyeing my hair. I’d also thought I’d make it to the mall to have the eyebrows done but that mission never happened either. However, because chance was on my side, the salon was able to take care of all three “problems” and by the time I left (almost three hours after I’d arrived) I was sporting a new haircut, a great dye job and the finest looking eyebrows north of Hollywood. I felt certain this was going to be the day I got discovered.

Thus prepared, I headed off to the studio with two colleagues: a demo artist who would be participating in the interview, and our PR person, who was along for moral support. I was a little nervous at the start but since I knew I looked smashing and was comfortable with the subject, my nerves did not get the better of me. The program host was friendly and sweet and her absolute lack of knowledge about the industry I work in made her less intimidating. We work in 3D entertainment and before the interview started, we had to explain that Spiderman is not actually a live character - that he is a 3D animation. I exercised great restraint and didn’t actually respond with “I realize it’s surprising but, funnily enough, Tobey Maguire can’t shoot webs out of his hands and leap from one tall building to the next. Crazy, isn’t it?” Despite that brilliant show of restraint, however, I did manage to cut her off mid-sentence twice over the course of the interview. I’d like to say I did it because I felt it was important that I assert myself just in case they wanted to give me her job but in reality, I just have a hard time letting other people talk.

In all, the interview lasted about eight minutes. I’d say something about my 15 minutes here, but I refuse to consider that my shot. If I’m going to get fame in this life, it better fill up the full 15. Anyway, I’m still waiting for Hollywood’s phone call. I’m sure they’ll be getting in touch any minute now. I’ll let you know when they do.

Chick Lit

Despite the impression you may have of me, I have to admit that I did not become this wise and perceptive without the guidance of others in my life. One is not naturally born with the ability to judge what all others should be doing. Years of observation, interpretation and, most importantly, discussion with sage souls are necessary to reach the pinnacle of awareness where you, my reader, now finds me. I’ve been blessed with wise parents, gifted sisters, brilliant grandfathers and grandmothers for whom no superlatives are accurate enough to describe. I’ve got uncles, aunts and cousins who’ve contributed in a myriad of ways. And along the way, I’ve been incredibly lucky to amass a network of friends that continue to inform and amaze me. This mosaic of characters is my research base and a description of any of them would make a brilliant entry. However, for today, I’ll limit myself to one particular group of women who have been bringing great wisdom and laughter into my life for the past six years.

One day, in the winter of 1999, a friend said, “I think you should join my book club” and since I’ve been a bookworm my entire life, this seemed a brilliant plan. I remember being nervous the first meeting. I’d met many of the members before but didn’t really know anyone but the friend who’d invited me to join. Initially, I felt somewhat intimidated by this group of incredibly well read, educated and informed women. Until that point, I would have said that no one read more than I did, that I was the bookiest of anyone I knew. Upon entering my first meeting, I noticed the host’s bookshelves and quickly knew I’d found a place where I belonged. Hundreds of great books lined the shelves of her living room and office and we’d all read similar authors. We all agreed that “A Fine Balance” was one of the best books ever written and by the time the first book club meeting ended, my intimidation had turned to admiration and gratitude. This was going to be awesome.

Over the years, the book club has evolved into a supper club where the host (whoever chose the latest book) serves the rest of us dinner. Luckily, every one of the bookies loves food and that’s obvious from the feasts we’ve prepared for each other. We eat, we laugh, we debate, we sometimes argue (but always respectfully) and we learn from each other. For instance, I’ve learned about impacted milk glands and impacted anal glands (thankfully, the latter belonged to a dog and not one of the members). I’ve garnered helpful hints for the removal of wine stains in tablecloths (lots and lots of salt). I’ve been enlightened about the nature of a “Hot Carl” and a “Dirty Sanchez”. I’ve discovered new comedians, films, and authors. I’ve found workout partners and colleagues from among my fellow bookies. We’ve shared each other’s joys, successes and disappointments over glasses of wine and cups of tea. They’ve indulged and even encouraged (through their laughter) my opinionated rants, calmly asking, “but what do you really think?” at the end of a particularly violent tirade.

When I look forward in my life, I know these women will be there. That none of us would willingly dissolve this club because beyond the wonderful books we’ve read together, we are also writing the stories of our lives, meeting by meeting. And so far, that’s the best story of them all.

Interference

Sometimes, it's hard to tune the rest of the world out so that you can really savour an experience. There probably are people out there who can stay focused in the moment without getting distracted by the noises and people who surround them, but I suspect that peace is reserved for the terribly self-absorbed. And they have other issues to deal with. I'm talking about those moments where you'd like to dig into the delicious meal you've just ordered and keep chatting with your dinner companion about the movie you saw last night but just as you are about to say something, your attention is captured by some occurrence at another table. Sometimes, observing the behaviours of others can prove torturous - the distraction pulling you out of your enjoyment and into annoyance. At other times, these diversions provide a voyeuristic form of entertainment.

It's possible I'm just short-tempered and neurotic but I also think there is some truth to my suspicion that some people are just terribly annoying. For example, I'm reading a book on the streetcar when a mother and her child board the car and take the seat behind mine. The mother starts to explain to her daughter why her behaviour that morning was unacceptable. She is speaking very loudly on the quiet streetcar as though this lesson is one that everyone needs to learn, not just her child. Her embarrassed eight-year old starts to whisper her responses but the mother continues to talk loudly, the disciplinary lecture lasting almost the entirety of my ride. While I'd love to go back to my book, the mother's voice, and my sympathy for the child (whose actions have provided her mother with an opportunity to show all of us what a great parent she is) are preventing the words on the page from penetrating the barrier of my distraction.

Last summer, I'm sitting on a patio, enjoying a beer and nachos with some friends when I notice the behaviour at the table in front of me. A man and a woman are dining together, yet the man has spent the bulk of the meal talking on his cell phone in a Slavic language. He's making deals, he's closing and buying and selling. He's obviously very important. When the waitress comes to their table, he does all the ordering, his companion says nothing and defers to him. They are eating lobster. In the few moments where he isn't on the phone, they chat briefly. She does not appear to speak English. At some point, I become convinced that she is a prostitute and he is her pimp. The conversation at our table becomes background while my attention is riveted, looking for additional clues to prove my theory. I share my thoughts with my dinner companions. They laugh. Their lobster barely eaten, the man and woman leave the patio, apparently summoned by one final phone call. We see them ride away on a motorcycle. "She's going to have sex with a fat middle-aged man now" I say as they ride off into the sunset. "Then he could have let her finish her lobster", responds my friend.

I guess it just comes down to the fact that if you live in this world, you have to share it with others: the good, the bad and the ugly. Loud talkers, slow walkers, know-it-alls, high-pitched laughers, all make up the mosaic of living in society. The idea of an island surrounded by a moat might be a nice fantasy. Meals would be uninterrupted, I wouldn't have to commute, I could live in peace with those of my choosing and never have to deal with the interference of strangers. But then whose stories would I invent? Peace and quiet might very well mean boredom. If I have to choose, I'll take all over nothing. But if I can make a suggestion to my fellow citizens, it would be this: Could you please keep it down? I'm trying to read here.

To Sleep Perchance to Dream

You yawn and decide it’s time to head off to sleep. You’re tired and since you’ve got so much to do right now, you really need your rest. You cuddle under the blankets and start to doze off. Suddenly, you jolt up thinking “did I lock the door tonight?” It doesn’t matter that you always lock the door. That you’ve never once left it unlocked. For whatever reason, you are now convinced that the door is unlocked and that something evil is about to invade the peace of your home. You step out of your warm bed and into the cold air, pull on your robe and head to the front door. It’s locked. Just to be safe, you double-check all of the windows and doors on the off chance that you’ve forgotten to secure some other possible entryway. All locked. Okay, back to bed.

You return to the warmth of your bed and try to get comfortable again. You turn one way, then the other, adjust your pillow and the blankets and finally think that will do it. You start to doze off. “Did I pay the electrical bill?” You start to trace back the last bill payments you’ve made, mentally debiting and crediting your account with all of the month’s transactions. You can’t remember. You have a vague feeling that it’s done but what if it isn’t? What if the electrical company comes tomorrow and shuts off the electricity? They probably will. You could get up and check but it seems so far. You keep agonizing about the electrical bill until a new thought enters your head. You haven’t finalized an important contract at work. It really needs to get done this month and you forgot to send the lawyer your comments. It’s now 2AM. No one is at the office. There is nothing you can do but consider your comments and make mental notes. Actually, there is something you could do. You could get up and write it all down. You could leave yourself a voice-mail at the office. But it’s cold out there and it’s warm in here, so instead, you turn over once more and try to clear your head.

You begin calculations of how much sleep you may still be able to get if only you could fall asleep right now. Right now. Okay, right now. You turn over again. You nudge your partner hoping he might wake up too and then at least you’d have company. He mumbles something and turns over, blissfully asleep; unaware of the turmoil you are in. You resent him his peaceful slumber and turn over yet again. You go to the bathroom and drink a glass of water. You go back to bed thinking that now you’ll fall asleep. You remember an embarrassing incident from high school and start to wonder if others remember it too. You feel the same mortification you originally did when the cute guy whose locker was across the hall laughed at you. You wonder where he is now and think that he’s probably sleeping peacefully. Sleeping like everyone but you. Slowly, the hours go by. One after the other while you toss and turn and agonize over the fact that you are still awake. Random nonsense flits in and out of your mind. At some point, you doze off because it’s suddenly daylight and you need to get up for work. You drag your body out of bed and into the shower. You look at yourself in the mirror and see the evidence of your sleepless night etched upon your face and sagging under your eyes. You head out the door clutching your coffee cup in hand. It’s going to be a long day.

When I'm 64

Because I live in the city and am a fairly high-strung individual, I tend to notice all of the annoying things that surround me - the faults of my fellow citizens rather than their virtues. My sister mentioned that I don’t tend to point out very positive things. Of course, to that I replied: what do sisters know? However, she happened to mention that today on the very day I saw something that made me stop, think and smile. Since I witnessed this occurrence on the TTC, I felt that was significant enough to warrant my attention.

I was waiting to board the streetcar at its terminus and a group of us were huddled outside the back doors waiting for the passengers to get off before we could embark. I could see an older couple making their slow progress to the back doors and, since I had nothing else to do while I waited, I watched them as they descended. The man came down first and appeared incredibly frail. The right side of his face was scarred and his eye was sealed shut. It looked as though someone had taken sand paper to his skin and rubbed it raw. He was bundled into his thick winter coat but even with the bulk of his coat, he was still a very slight man. As he stepped off the last step of the car, he turned to offer his wife his hand, sheltering her from the eager passengers who were waiting to get on the car. He guided her down the steps and the couple slowly walked away hand in hand.

I realize that may initially seem a fairly depressing sight. But what I thought as I saw them was that theirs was a partnership that was surviving illness, frailty and the mad scramble of the TTC. My first reaction was to cringe at the horrible scarring of his face and to feel embarrassed by his frailty. His weakness was what I initially noticed. But when he turned to offer his hand and support to his wife, he stopped looking weak as much as lucky. Despite the obvious challenges he faced, he wasn’t facing them alone and despite those challenges, he still had something to offer his partner.

Of course, they could not be married at all. They may very well be an older couple making their way to some low cost motel to conduct an illicit affair, stepping out on the spouses who’ve stood by them their whole lives. Or they could be siblings who, once out of the danger of patches of ice and rush hour commuters, would quickly stop supporting each other and resume the bickering that has defined their relationship for their entire lives. The loving couple I saw may have been a creation of my imagination on a Friday morning. But I don’t think so. The youthful arrogance of pitying the old often forgets that those we pity have already lived what we are going through. Once upon a time, the objects of my notice had been young and spry and had probably had two eyes with which to see the world. But now, at more than 40 years my seniors, these two still had each other. Not everyone gets that in life. Not everyone is that lucky.

Don't Talk to Strangers

It’s one of the first lessons we are taught as children: don’t talk to strangers. As we get older, we learn to balance the logical reasons for the rule with the need to get by in the world. Need to know the time but don’t have your watch? Okay, ask a stranger. Trying to find a landmark in a foreign city? Fine, you can ask a stranger. There are numerous circumstances where engaging with a stranger is either necessary or simpler than the alternative. It can also periodically be a very rewarding rule to break. Some of us would still be single if we hadn’t warmed up to a stranger at some point. However, for every circumstance where it makes sense to open up and talk to a stranger, there are an equal and opposite number of circumstances. And these other circumstances can get particularly tricky when the stranger in question is talking to you.

In the past couple of weeks, I’ve had two encounters with strangers that have made me want to remind people of this cardinal rule. The first occurred while waiting for a streetcar with a fellow colleague. We were chatting about work and life and the local architecture when another would-be passenger decided to join our conversation. She began to tell us at length about a building she’d seen on Queen Street that had an old sign showing “Molson Bank”. She then segued into a history lesson on how banks of old were run. Despite the fact that neither my colleague nor I had anything to add to her conversation, she never seemed to get the hint that we’d rather just be left alone. She laughed at her own jokes as she presented us with the history of Canadian banking. She ignored the fact that neither one of us made eye contact with her, or that we intermittently tried to staunch the flow of her diatribe by resuming our former (private) conversation. It wasn’t until the streetcar arrived that we were able to make a break to a two-seater at the back of the car and get back to our idle chatter.

The second instance occurred while attending an early morning spin class at the gym. Juggsy and I were trying to get a real workout after the comedy of our stripping class and were struggling with the fact that although we were dressed and ready to spin, the sun had not yet risen. We were maintaining the type of conversation possible prior to coffee and a shower – brief and intermittent. As we waited for the other students, we spotted a man who had clearly just joined the gym. He was wandering about the room, looking for something to do while obviously unfamiliar with the variety of equipment he could choose from. He asked the instructor what we were doing and was told, “we’re about to start spinning, and you’re welcome to join.” Buddy walked over and took the bike next to mine and began to talk. “I’ve never spun before, is my bike okay?” “I’ve always liked cycling, ever since I was a kid, so this should be fun!” Throughout the class, I could catch him looking at me out of the corner of my eye. I knew that even the slightest turn of my head would prompt another spurt of “gosh, this is hard but working out is fun” so I kept my eyes dead ahead.

In either instance, it wasn’t the fact that a stranger wanted to engage in conversation that bothered me. I can understand the desire to want to be a part of something or to share your experience with another. That’s part of being human. But you cross the line into obnoxious when you refuse to read the signals others are giving you. If the person you are engaging in conversation won’t make eye contact, won’t respond, and is physically turning their body from yours, you should take the hint and keep your brilliant conversation for someone else. I suppose I could have said as much to my streetcar interloper and my spinning interrupter. But, I didn’t want to make them uncomfortable (instead, I allowed them to make me uncomfortable). Perhaps the addendum to the rule about talking to strangers should be: if you poke it and it doesn’t move, that conversation is dead.

Baby, It's Cold Outside!

It starts with a tickle in your throat and progresses to a feeling that significant parts of your brain have been replaced with cotton. Gradually, your eyes begin to water and the tickle in your throat moves up to your nose. You pray for a sneeze to relieve you but it doesn’t come. You blow your nose, and five seconds later you blow it again. You blow it so often that you ask yourself where it all goes. How is it possible for the human sinus cavity to contain so much fluid? Your nose mutates into a raw, red pulp that aches at the very thought of a tissue. You’d love to sleep but you can’t breathe through your nose. You snore. You wake up with lips so dry and flaky that it looks as though someone has applied orange lip liner to the outside of your mouth. The combination of your raw lips and the flakiness of your nose ensure that you look the way you feel.

Your voice is nasal and you can’t pronounce hard consonants. You catch yourself breathing with your mouth open, and wonder if you look like Corky. Your appetite is fine but you can’t taste anything - the joy of eating lost in one of the many dozens of sopping tissues at your side. You start to cough and can’t stop for minutes at a time. Your body is convulsed and you can’t prevent the odd projectile from escaping the racking of your lungs.

You try to bargain with it. Maybe this is mostly in your sinuses and the coughing won’t last long. Or maybe if you take one afternoon off work, you’ll catch up on your sleep and it won’t get any worse. You tell yourself it isn’t that bad. That you can suck it up and just keep going. But what you really want to do is crawl under a thick blanket and have someone bring you a tray of soup, tea and tissues with lotion. You want to cry out for mommy and have her tell you how to make yourself all better. You take vitamin c, Echinacea, tea with lemon, and contact C. You do everything you can think of to make it go away, but you know it won’t. Not until it’s good and ready. And you realize that all you can do is stay home, take naps, drinks lots of fluids and wait. You have a cold and that’s all there is to it. It’s okay, you don’t suffer alone, I’ve got one too.

Who Are You Calling Crazy?

There are days when cramming your body onto the TTC or waiting forever for someone to let you merge makes you feel as though you’ve reached the end of your tolerance and you are experiencing the last few lucid moments of your life before you lose it all. Or at least, there are days like that for me. When I’m in one of those moments of crisis, I often think with fondness of a situation I witnessed a few years ago on the subway at the height of rush hour. When the going gets rough, I picture this scene and inevitably feel slightly reassured that at least I’ve got options.

It was summer and far too many of us were crammed into the car on the Yonge line heading south from Bloor station. As usual, the train was packed to capacity with its eclectic mix of students, professionals, nutters and mutterers and we were all breathing the same stale, sweaty air. I was standing towards the middle of the car and since I wasn’t getting out for several stations, I wasn’t yet concerned about the mass of bodies that blocked my exit. We reached Wellesley and I observed the struggle of a few unfortunate individuals as they tried to make their way off the train – their paths blocked by pack sacs, readers and people getting on. It was violent, sweaty work and it didn’t look like any fun. I started some careful maneuvering because although my stop was still 3 stations away, it was obvious that no one on the train was in an accommodating mood and getting off was slow, if not impossible, going. As I twisted and shifted my body into open spaces, my internal monologue was attacking all of the inconsiderate riders who blocked the way for their fellow passengers. I enumerated their many sins and reflected on how someone really should explain the concept of letting people out before you get in. As I daydreamed about a Subway Justice League, I heard a loud shout and turned to see what was going on. A woman, whose appearance can generously be described as eccentric, was shouting “I’m going to get off at the next station if any of these assholes will get out of my way.”

That is when I witnessed a subway miracle - before this raving woman, a parting of the sea of bodies. Despite the pack sacs and books and plethora of riders, a navigable path opened up in front of her and when the doors opened at College, she walked out completely unencumbered. As she left, I could hear my fellow passengers muttering amongst themselves about crazy people and how they were glad she got off. There, on the TTC, with one woman’s purse pressing painfully into my chest and a man’s elbow poking me in the back, I experienced an epiphany. Maybe she was crazy, I thought, or just maybe, she was the sanest of us all. After all, she got off easy while I was still working my way to the front, politely saying “excuse me” anytime my body inadvertently connected with another. At each encounter, my fellow rider ignored me since that was far easier than actually making room for me. I shoved and I shunted and I squeezed my way out but I could no longer tell myself there was no other way. I’d seen it with my very eyes and I couldn’t argue with the results.

Since that day, whenever I find myself held upright by the lack of room on the subway, I think fondly of that lone rider and I keep her words on the tip of my tongue. I haven’t used them yet and perhaps I never will but I feel better knowing they are there.

It's over, Winter! It's over.

I don’t know why you’re forcing me to write this all down. We could have ended this gracefully. It didn’t have to come to this. When you snuck your way back into my life last fall, I told myself it would be different this time; that you would be different this time. I foolishly looked forward to the new outfits: the tights, the wool turtlenecks and the sweaters. I bought myself a new hat and gloves - black with accents of hot pink. I tried to make myself cute for you because you’d laid yourself out at my feet in all of your alabaster beauty. I briefly thought your crispness and your indifference were a refreshing change from that clinging Summer. But now I realize that you aren’t any different. You’re exactly as you’ve always been and I just can’t deal with you anymore.

You could have left gracefully two weeks ago. We both knew then it was over. When you’d worn your way through my favourite wool mittens, and had pierced holes in my shiny pink gloves, you had to know I was losing interest in you. And yet you persisted. You tried to make yourself beautiful again. You draped the city in another white blanket and you dropped your flakes seductively all around me. But now it is I who has grown indifferent to you. And look at you now. You’re a disgrace. You are completely sullied. You’re dirty around the edges and your pretty flakes have turned into sharp points of ice. You’ve turned to slush in some areas and into treacherous patches of ice in others. No one thinks you are pretty now. And what’s worse, you’ve taken the city with you. You’ve turned its sidewalks into hazardous zones and you’ve cast a gray pall over everyone and everything.

I didn’t want to have to end this with any grand statements. I would have liked us to go our separate ways without demeaning ourselves but I see that you refuse to accept the truth. What did you think was happening when I was gazing at those flirty spring clothes? Couldn’t you tell I was ready to move on? Didn’t you hear me shouting in frustration that all I longed for was to leave the house in the shoes I would wear all day? You knew I was really talking about you. That what I was really saying is that I’m tired of you; that we are through. And yet you chose to persist. You’re still here. But now you’ve made yourself pathetic and I think you know you can’t woo me anymore. It’s over, Winter. You must accept this. Acknowledge defeat. Go away now and don’t bother me. Don’t call. Don’t write. Don’t send me long letters professing your love. Just fade away. Perhaps someday, we can be together again. Perhaps I’ll forget the depths to which you’ve allowed yourself to sink. Maybe, when you come back, I won’t be here. But for now, I think we both just need some space.

The Art of Keeping a Straight Face II

I attended my second “Art of Stripping” class yesterday and was disappointed to learn that the class doesn’t actually get any harder, sexier or funnier as you go along. With the exception of one minor move, we didn’t cover anything new this week. Of course, I realize I have some distance to travel before I’ve mastered the moves I’ve learned thus far, but I see no way I’ll make it to stripping artist status in the four remaining weeks of the class.

Last night, we worked on our belly roll (I thought I was taking the class to get rid of that but alas…), which involves a lot of kneeling followed by slithering around on the floor in uncomfortable positions. We worked on our wall slides, which, as I said last week, involve a lot of touching yourself while sliding up and down a wall trying to maintain a sexy look on your face. We worked on our sexy walk routine, which involves walking toward a mirror while crossing one leg over the other (sort of how you would walk if you really, really had to pee, only in this case, you are walking very slowly). Halfway across the room, you stop and strike a pose of which we have learned three: the Marilyn, the sideways Marilyn, and the one-legged plié. After posing and rubbing your hands along your thighs, you then continue up to the front of the class where you finally stop, move your hips from side to side in a straight legged-posture while you simultaneously walk your hands down your legs until you are holding your ankles. The grand finale is then a head snap to throw your sexy locks back from your face.

In theory, all of this is very sexy. In practice, it remains quite embarrassing. For one, it appears that when I concentrate, I have one of two facial expressions, neither of which is even remotely sexy. The first involves biting my lower lip until it almost disappears and the other involves compressing both lips together in a supremely prissy fashion. As I walk toward myself in the mirror and concentrate on the placement of my legs, I’ll think I’m dead sexy until my eyes travel up to my face where the cold shower of my intense concentration lies. It’s bad enough when I notice it, but if Juggsy sees it first, she’ll immediately mimic the expression on my face, which is guaranteed to set us both off. I suspect we are one laughing fit away from being asked to go stand outside the classroom until we’ve collected ourselves.

It’s interesting to watch how others deal with their embarrassment. Some women stop mid-move and appear to give up, ambling half-heartedly up to the front of the class deciding they’ll do better if they just start over completely. Others hoot and holler at each other throwing high-fives around as though they are the quarterbacks of burlesque. At this stage, Juggsy and I are in a quandary about whether or not we’ll actually keep going to the class. I think we’ve gotten the laughs we're going to get and since it isn’t a really great workout, I’m wondering what the point is. Of course, there is the fear that if I stop now, I’ll never unleash the true sex kitten within as I was promised by the instructor. Juggsy made a good point today saying that she felt way sexier lifting weights than she has thus far parading around the classroom like a lonely nymphomaniac. Perhaps, one’s true sex kitten can’t be unleashed by hair tossing, public masturbation or belly rolls but rather simply by getting comfortable in one’s own skin. I don’t know yet. I’ll give it another week and let you know.

We’ll Take the Bill, Please.

There are few experiences in life equal to the pleasure of savouring a wonderful meal, and sharing a glass of wine with friends. Unfortunately, there are few experiences in life equal to the torture of bickering over the tab with those friends.

Making plans to dine out with friends for the first time is always a tricky proposition. There is no real way to predict what someone else will feel is acceptable in a restaurant until you share a meal with them. On the one hand, it can raise the friendship to another level. It might be a perfect outing with delicious food and flowing wine complementing lively conversation and laughter. Of course, the success of an evening doesn’t depend on one factor alone. It’s possible to prevail through terrible food and a lack of ambiance and still enjoy yourself. It’s harder, but it’s possible. I remember one notorious night in a small Northern Ontario town. The chairs were plastic; the food was unpalatable and overpriced - our salads (Catalina, Ranch or Italian?) coming to the table in old wooden bowls that belonged on a bridge table from the 70s. All of the ingredients for a horrible night were there. Yet from the moment the laser printed menus arrived at our table to today, the mention of “Cochrane Fine Dining” will send us into peels of laughter. So, regardless of the quality of the meal itself, your night out with new pals might be the kind of night that lays the foundation of a life-long friendship. On the other hand it might not.

There are several ways your other hand might play out and those could range from a mildly boring evening, to one that will live on in infamy through the remainder of your life. The really bad nights aren’t the ones where you realize that you don’t actually have that much in common with your tablemate(s). Those evenings might feel longer than they actually are and you may spend a good portion of them thinking up excuses why you’ll never be able to do anything with your dinner companion(s) again. But they probably won’t have you leaving the restaurant in a rage. Rage-inducing evenings are usually the result of a discovery at the end of your friendly encounter, a dawning awareness that your new pal is cheap.

I once attended a dinner with about eight other women. The evening was joyful, the food was delicious and the wine was shared by all but the two women at the table who were pregnant. Some women ordered appetizers while others did not. Some of us ordered dessert while others couldn’t stomach another bite. But regardless of who had ordered what, the night’s theme was “try this”. Plates of appetizers were passed around so that everyone could get a taste of something special. Desserts were brought to the table with multiple forks and everyone had a taste. It was a lovely experience, until the bill came. One of us suggested that we split the bill evenly with the exception of those who hadn’t had any wine. It seemed fair and most of us were nodding when another of the dinner guests said, “well, I didn’t have an appetizer and I only had one glass of wine.” Silly me, I hadn’t realized we were supposed to be counting. Of course, even though I hadn’t been keeping score, I’m self-aware enough to know that if a bottle of wine is open, odds are I’ve had my share of it. However, if we’d all only had one glass, would we have been able to return the remainder to the bar for a discount? The problem with settling the bill is that as soon as someone opens the floodgates of “I had this but I didn’t have that” they force everyone else at the table to go down the same road. Which means that the final part of your evening is spent doing calculations in your head (although, perhaps if I only had one glass of wine, I wouldn’t find this so difficult). Many of us would rather spend way more than we’d planned to avoid debating over money at the end of a pleasant meal and so, on this occasion, we did.

But we shouldn’t have had to. When you go out for a group celebration or a group meal (with the possible exception of work-related functions which are not always optional) you should split the bill evenly across the group. Don’t accept the invitation if you can’t afford to go – if you’ve only got $16.75 in your pocket and you are heading out for dinner, you should either bow out or find yourself a patron. Because ultimately, if you eat out often, sometimes you’ll come out on top and sometimes you won’t but it all comes out even in the end. Because the truth is that when you dine out in numbers, you aren’t just paying for the food, you are paying for the experience itself, so unless you don’t want to be invited back, cough up the cash, my friend. And, just for the hell of it, have another glass of wine.

Sidewalk Etiquette

By choosing to live in a certain location, you form an unwritten contract with your fellow citizens. You agree to respect some basic guidelines of co-existence within your chosen context. This doesn’t mean that you’ll share the same politics, or gardening tastes as your neighbours, or that you’ll join the neighbourhood watch association. It doesn’t mean that if you live in the Bible belt, you’ll go to church on Sundays. It simply means that you’ll agree to consent to a few fundamental principles and try to get along. Of course, there are the exceptions that prove the rule: the certifiably and temporarily insane who, for one reason or another, are no longer aware of their surroundings. But for the rest of us, there really isn’t any excuse for rocking the boat.

If you live in a city, you benefit from a host of advantages absent from smaller locations. You don’t have to know your neighbours. You can probably walk down the street and find a butcher, a baker and a candle shop. You can feast on meals from a hundred different cultures and get to the restaurant on public transportation. You can see a play, a foreign film or a live band and you can buy almost anything. But you also have to share your space with millions of other human beings. And in that sharing comes some pain. However, that pain is manageable if we all just use a little common sense.

There are two areas in the city where civility is paramount: public transportation zones, and sidewalks. It isn’t possible to discuss both areas within one entry so, in order to give each area it’s due, I’m going to start by focusing on the sidewalk. After all, you can’t take the subway without getting there first. And as soon as you walk out your door into the streets of the city, you are bound to encounter some bad sidewalk etiquette.

For instance, as you make your way to the station, your first encounter may be a family of four, strolling along together, oblivious to your busy schedule. The father is pushing a running stroller with large protruding wheels, his two year-old toddler walks alongside, zig-zagging his way across the path. The mother appears lost in her own thoughts, at the other end of the sidewalk. Each time you try to pass, one of them edges in, blocking your way. You say, “excuse me” several times and still they don’t seem to notice you. You will wonder to yourself why neither parent is holding their child’s hand. You won’t want to risk making a break for it because a part of you knows that if you do, the toddler will come crashing into your legs, and will fall to the ground in tears. Perhaps you will get lucky and they will stop to look in a shop window.

You might also run into a group of friends who haven’t seen each other in days/weeks/months. They are all really happy to see one another again and they have so much to say. They’ll talk in the middle of the sidewalk, shrinking the width and forcing you to squeeze by them and the people walking in the other direction. You will share a brief moment of eye rolling with a woman coming toward you and it will briefly lessen your frustration but not enough that you won’t accidentally shoulder the last of the chatters.

If you are walking arm-in-arm with your beloved, you may encounter another couple coming towards you in a similar fashion. You will think, “if they move over a bit, and we move over a bit, we’ll all get by without skipping a step” and you will move to your right. You will then wonder why they aren’t moving to their right, why they continue to walk straight down the middle of the sidewalk. You will realize that they may be playing chicken with you. Perhaps you will ultimately discover that you are the chicken and you will fall into single-file to avoid a crash.

As you make your way along the sidewalks of the city, you’ll be forced to avoid piles that your fellow citizens have neglected to pick up after their dogs. You’ll meet people who stop in the middle of the way, people who walk out of stores without looking both ways to avoid stepping into oncoming pedestrians. You’ll have to negotiate groups of smoking, spitting teenagers “no you didn’t”-ing each other. These are the obstacles that will block your path as you stroll along trying desperately to hang on to your good mood.

If only everyone would just follow the guiding principles:

1) If there isn’t room, make room.
2) Pick up after yourself.
3) You are not alone.

Some days, it feels like a losing battle. As though everyone else around you is simply testing your patience by toying with you. But I believe there is hope that we can all get along. The other day, Mr. Titswiggle and I were walking along the sidewalk and we saw a sight that made me want to cheer. A couple was walking beside their toddler who was clearly just getting used to the idea of walking on his own. As they turned into our path, we slipped into single file suspecting we would be forced off the sidewalk and onto the street if we were to avoid a head-on collision with the little one. Instead, we witnessed a sidewalk miracle. The father softly said “honey, move in front of us, other people are coming”. The little boy wasn’t more than two but he understood his father and edged his drunken sailor shuffle over to his parents’ side of the path. No one had to stop in their tracks. No one had to step onto the street. No one ended up climbing a snowbank. We all passed each other with a smile and both Titswiggles thanked the little boy. If only everyone had his manners.