What the world needs now – Page 3

For Boston

I’m having a hard time finding what it is I want to say.

I started Running when I was ten years old. I capitalize the R because anyone in my family will tell you that I have been running since the moment I started to walk.

My formal training didn’t start until the summer after grade five when my dad would take me out with him on short routes on Saturday mornings.

I absolutely loved this time we spent together.

Those minutes, hours, kilometers, miles, defined by an intimate ease, a shared love. Moving our legs in unison, marking our way in the world with nothing but a simple stride.

Sometimes we talked, sometimes we didn’t.

We’d run the length of Jericho beach, past the old concession stands, and the gleaming, gorgeous, newly erected “Beach Cafés.”

We’d watch the gulls swoop and glide overhead, listen to the roar of the surf, hear the shrill trill of an approaching bicycle bell.

Our sun-baked skin, glistening in the heat.

Our quiet breath, constant.

Arriving home my skin would smell of sweat, and sunscreen, and the sea salt air, and my shoes would crunch underfoot, coated with a golden sand.

I would stand exhausted in the middle of the entranceway, feeling the remains of the run course throughout my legs, my arms.

With each pump of my heart: around, and around.

Around again.

Seeing what has happened today in Boston has struck a chord inside of me and – I just don’t know.

I don’t know as a human being.

As a sister. As a wife. As a daughter. As a friend. As a runner.

I just don’t know.

I have run so many races.

I have loved each experience so much that I’ve always found it hard to properly communicate what it means for me to participate in these events.

They are camaraderie.

They are fearlessness.

They are grit.

They are endurance.

They are excitement, and heartbreak, and exhaustion, and triumph.

They are love.

They are human beings getting together and doing something that they love.

Together.

Running may be a predominantly solitary sport, but come race day, those other runners are your peers.

They are your friends.

They are your support, your energy, your kick, your drive.

They encourage you, they test you, they make you run harder, and faster, and longer, and better.

They make you better than you ever thought possible.

And for someone to see this, and decide that they are going to take this away – that they are going destroy a peaceful event that serves as a support and conduit for all these amazing traits of humanity – well, it breaks my heart.

And I see these pictures everywhere and I cry.

But I also know that nothing can come from my tears.

So I think about how one day I will have a child.

And I will teach them to be a kind-hearted, open, supportive, loving person.

And I will take them running with me.

Is it worth it, let me work it

I have worked a number of crazy jobs in my relatively short time here on planet earth.

Like many other young ladies, I started out as a babysitter, but quickly learned that it wasn’t really my jam. I never cared for the portion of the evening that included the kids being, well, conscious, and it was pretty devastating to learn that most of the families that I worked for had mediocre pantries at best.

If I was going to give up my Friday night, I figured I might as well get a week’s worth of junk food stuffed in my face – AM I RITE OR WHAT LADEEZ?

Anyways, after my failed and relatively short-lived foray into the world of child monitoring, things took a turn for the serious, and I was hired on as a Safeway cashier in the summer after grade ten.

For my then teenage self this was HUGE. I was making eight dollars an hour and I got to nonchalantly creep on all the weirdos who came into the store.

(And by creep I mean epically judge them based on the goods they were purchasing.)

This job was nuts for many reasons, the first being I had the absolute WORST assistant manager of life.

Sanjay* was a young, cocky, sexist jerk who was constantly on one giant power trip. The guy wouldn’t allow me to wear sweaters (so instead I would just wear the massive winter coats that were reserved for the dudes who collected the shopping carts at night) and he once made me cry in the upstairs back room by telling me I had failed a secret shop, despite having no material evidence to back up his claim.

According to him, I hadn’t thanked the secret shopper by their name on the store receipt. For my “punishment” he made me read aloud the names printed on about two hundred receipts, just so he could be sure that, and I quote: “I could, in fact, read.”

I pretty much sobbed through the entire thing, choking out the names, my cheeks burning with shame and embarrassment. Every so often I would squeak out, “This…this isn’t right…”

You can imagine how, for anyone, let alone a fifteen year old girl, this kind of thing can be pretty darn traumatizing.

I ended up filing an informal complaint against him (and by informal I mean I stuttered out my frustration to the actual store manager, letting him know how I thought it was unfair that Sanjay would let other girls wear sweaters but not me, and about how he told me I had a failed a test when I clearly hadn’t.)

And that yes, I could read, thank you very much.

I never expected anything to come from my actions, but amazingly from that day forward Sanjay never spoke to me again. He wouldn’t even make eye contact with me when he would come around to give me more change/bills for my till.

Just remembering those tense, awkward exchanges gives me the heebie jeebies.

Other than that, Safeway was pretty par for the course in terms of high school jobs. Working crappy shifts, bonding with my co-workers, having a laugh when my friends come through my line.

Also, I am strangely proud of how Speedy Gonzalez I was on the till. I had those PLU codes DOWN (I will never forget bananas – 4011), and would often make it a contest to see how quickly I could clear my register.

Sometimes customers would even be nice enough to compliment me on my mad skills.

(Or maybe this was just because I looked a bit like a rapper in my massive, massive winter coat.)

Anyways, my tenure at ye olde Way of Safe came to an end when I received a job a small café the summer after grade twelve.

I literally left a letter in the upstairs office that read: Please accept my resignation effective today.

Looking back, it probably wasn’t my finest hour, both in terms of politeness and leaving on a positive note, but by then I was so worn down by the store’s rampant culture of apathy and soul-sucking awfulness, that I really didn’t care.

After the café (which ended after that summer) I worked a number of jobs throughout my time as a university student, including stints at an international newspaper and magazine store (which also rented international movies and had a massive pornography section).

In the two years I worked there only two dudes came in to rent from the latter category.

I just figured they must be crazy traditionalists.

This job was great because I got to keep a ton of the magazines, which meant my collection of international fashion, nature, political, and photography periodicals grew like (paper) weeds.

I also watched a lot of great foreign flicks.

After that, I was hired as a temp at a chocolate store to help them in their lead up to the Easter rush, worked as a receptionist at a physiotherapy clinic, and then as a barista at a coffee shop down at Granville Island (MY FAVOURITE JOB OF LIFE).

After my stint with BIG ORGANIC FAIRTRADE COFFEE, I tutored and then took on a two-year stint with immigration with the government of Canada.

And now? Well, a girl has to have some secrets, doesn’t she?

Looking back, I wouldn’t trade in any of these jobs.

They introduced me to lifelong friends and provided me with experiences (both good and bad) that have helped shape who am I.

Which is of course, a rapper in a giant winter coat.

AM I RITE LADEEZ?

*Name has been changed, despite rampant douchbaggery

Some food for thought

Once upon a time I was scared of food.

Not all food, but most kinds.

Anything that I did eat had to be rationalized and picked apart, and most often times, thrown up.

Food was stressful.

Food was guilt.

Food was not fun.

These days, food is (for the most part) none of these things.

Food is a friend, not a foe. It is a tool that helps me lead a healthy, happy life – one that allows me to run like the wind, and tell funny jokes, and make mad-cap films with my map-cap husband.

And not those kind of films, you dirty jerks.

But the busier my life gets, the harder it can be to keep a level head (let alone any semblance of a regular eating schedule) so it’s imperative that I remain extra vigilant, lest I find myself (inadvertently) slipping into oh-so destructive, and oh-so familiar eating habits.

Of late I have had to really catch myself, and take a step back (or ten) just to make sure that I take better care of my health.

So this is why, I present to you the following photos, which I will title – FOOD I HAVE EATEN – as a reminder of why I need to continue to focus on this part of my life, and the brilliance and joy it has, and will continue to bring me.

Veggie burger.

I made this last Wednesday evening. I had just arrived home from work, rain-soaked, and wind-swept, shivering, and starving.

Everything in my being was telling me to flop down on the couch with a box of wheat thins and a giant mug of hot chocolate and just call it an evening.

Instead, I took a long, hot shower (the kind that sufficiently fogs up the entire top floor of our place), and crawled into my pajamas, before setting up shop in the kitchen.

With my favourite radio program playing in the background (As it Happens), I chopped onions, and fried mushrooms, sliced cheese, and grilled a patty.

I even roasted some yam fries.

M was working late so I turned on the fireplace, curled up on the couch with little miss Nymeria, and watched some Portlandia, while chomping down on this delicious piece of soy heaven.

I posted this photo, because in the past, I would never have taken the time to make myself something, let alone a meal that was both nutritious and delicious. Plus, sometimes putting something together – even as simple as a burger, makes me feel like a four Michelin star chef.

Or Ratatouille.

Brunch it.

My brilliant and beautiful friend Emily of the fabulous Well Fed, Flat Broke, invited me over to her house last Saturday for a “reunion” brunch of sorts.

Myself and all her guests went through UBC’s undergraduate Creative Writing program (nearly five years ago!!!) and it was so lovely to have the chance to catch-up and find out what has been going on in everybody’s lives since our last seminar together.

As we chatted, we munched on all the mouthwatering dishes Emily had prepared (truth be told, there was less chatting the more we munched) including a caramelized onion torte, tandoori cauliflower (my two favourites), roasted squash, and potato salad. Not to mention homemade kiwi sorbet.

In truth, it was a perfectly decadent and divine way to start a weekend (and laid back, thank goodness, as I had been out until 1:30am after my stand-up gig the night before.)

I posted this photo because for many years eating in front of others gave me tremendous anxiety. Everything was calculated, down to the very smallest bite. I wanted to cultivate an image of myself as “a skinny girl” who still “ate a lot”. Now, I can interact with all the smart, sweet people in my life, and still enjoy their exquisite food. I am able to let what I am eating take a back seat to what’s really important – spending time with these wonderful friends.

Birthday cupcake.

My sister in-law’s fiancée’s daughter recently turned six. Being the utterly incredible soon-to-be step mum that she is, V took it upon herself to not only make pretty much the most amazing birthday cake I have ever seen, but also a batch of outrageously delicious cupcakes.

Hanging out with them last weekend, I was lucky enough to sample some of these wares.

Believe me when I say it was a dessert experience and a half.

(Seriously, V should think about moonlighting as a baker. I WOULD BE HER #1 PATRON.)

I posted this photo because just eating a cupcake and not letting it tear me apart is not yet something I take for granted. I used to drive myself crazy rationalizing desserts (all food really, but sweets were the worst.)

Did I exercise that day? How much else had I eaten? Could I throw it up if needed?

The fact that I can eat a cupcake and be at peace with this fact, may sound silly, but it means more to me than I can really say.

…

So that’s it. Food I have eaten.

A series I hope will continue to run, for much time yet.

You can’t handle the truth!

Everybody lies.

At least so quoth the ever enigmatic, and exceptionally surly Dr. Gregory House who both angered and titillated thirty million North American television viewers at the height of the program’s popularity.

And he was right. Most people, as much as they would like to admit otherwise, distort the truth in one way or another (sometimes even on a daily basis.)

Why, it’s bloody hard not to. Take the classic example:

A: “Hi!”

B: “Hi!”

A: “How are you?”

B: “Good! How are you?”

A: “Good!”

This exchange is the absolute worst. Not only is it shallow and formulaic, but it actually makes me think that we are preconditioned to not tell the truth.

I mean, when talking about fleeting exchanges (picture you and the other person as two ships in the night), I can pretty much guarantee that neither of you actually wants to know how the other is doing when you ask. It is but a mere formality – an extension of the actual greeting.

In fact, hihowareyoudoing is one pretty much one word, the opener, which is expected under normal greeting circumstances, while finegreatgoodokay is the expected answer, the closer.

End of story.

Both parties may walk away satisfied.

I can totally understand why in some cultures you don’t even bother asking this question unless you are prepared to really find out how that person is – because, really, otherwise what’s the point?

Now, I am willing to concede that there is probably at least one of you out there, shaking your head, thinking to yourself, “I always tell the truth no matter how I’m feeling!”

So dear reader, if you manage to actually (sincerely) articulate how you are doing every time someone asks you, I bow down to you and your amazing resolve.

I would also like to meet you.

And your friends.

(KIDDING!)

As for me?

I’ve been known to tell a few porky pies. And not just about how I was feeling.

I’ve told my husband that I have eaten breakfast when I haven’t, just because he likes to eat right away in the morning and I don’t, and I once told the mother of one of the kids I tutored that I got migraines instead of just outright quitting the job.

(That was one strange kid, believe you me.)

I would watch as these little white lies fluttered out of my mouth, like ivory-winged moths escaping the dark, searching for a light. They would burn up, the farther up they fly, and I wondered, as I watched them disappear, what purpose did they serve?

To answer this question, I once spent a ~~week~~ day trying not to lie.

Which I found to be hard. Very hard.

I was unsuccessful on many fronts. But mostly I was incapable of getting over the hihowareyou hurdle. No matter how hard I tried, goodgood seemed to get away from me without my noticing.

Every time I would have to take back my words and try again. But even then I couldn’t successfully complete the task.

What can I say? I’ve been programmed.

And I’m okay with that.

Because otherwise I like to believe that I lead a fairly transparent, truthful life.

And let me tell you this: when I ask you how all you beauty cats are doing, I mean so with the most sincerity.

63194_10150362839625179_6369553_n — This is me asking you, “HOW ARE YA DOING CHAP?”

And that, I promise, is no lie.

A very hairy situation

Let’s talk about body hair, shall we?

So.

As a white, western woman, I feel as though it is socially (culturally?) expected of me that I remove most of my visible body hair, save for that atop my head.

I don’t know if it’s my newly minted old age* or what, but I just really haven’t had the time for these expectations of late.

*SARCASM PEOPLE, OKAY?

But seriously. I mean, I really, really hate shaving my legs. Almost as much as I hate shaving my armpits. I hate shaving my armpits THE MOST. Especially in the winter. I’ll go for months without taking a razor to my limbs because of my rampant MEH syndrome.*

*Also sarcasm, but sometimes it does feel this way.

I’m also completely lax about plucking my eyebrows, and I’m starting to believe that the only time I really get around to using my tweezers is when it becomes apparent that I’m only using my eyebrow pencil to differentiate my actual eyebrows from the ever-thickening unibrow taking over the width of my face.

And I don’t know how to feel about this.

On one hand, I don’t want to have to worry about carting around a fainting couch for all those I inadvertently scandalize should they catch a glimpse of my underarm hair, but then on the other hand, I do worry, because my initial reaction to seeing my own armpit hair is pretty darn unfavourable.

(Luckily though, I have yet to employ the use of the couch.)

But overall, this reaction of mine does bum me out.

The fact that I’ve internalized prescriptions of what’s acceptable and what is not when it comes to the completely natural growth of hair on MY OWN BODY makes me glum.

And it is this glumness, combined with my before mentioned apathy, that makes me feel as though I am catapulted back and forth between NOT CARING and CARING about my body hair.

(I should look into whether or not that correlates with not summer, and not summer.)

Either way, right now, I have engaged NOT CARING mode.

Plus, at the base of it all, I am one of those people that just doesn’t care for sticking around any longer in the bathroom than I absolutely must.

I don’t want to faff around getting ready for LIFE, because LIFE is already completely bonkers and as such, I have enough things to do already.

And also, excuse my horn blowing, but I kind of think that I’m pretty darn snazzy looking as is, and I’m of the mind that whether or not I remove my leg hair everyday – during the eighteen years of winter I am currently living through no less – isn’t going to put a significant dent into my hotness quotient.

At least not in my eyes.

I mean, isn’t that what it’s all about anyways?

If you think you look good, who cares either way?

Unless you’re telling me that my leg hair is slowing down my running.

Then we might need to talk.