Double, double, toil and trouble.

Good grief is Canada ever a large country.

Because we have heaps, and HEAPS of space, until we get that teleportation science down, it’s going to keep taking dogs years to travel across.

This morning I was up at the ungodly hour of 4:45 am, getting ready to head back to real life here in BC.

I crawled out of bed, jumped into the shower, and slowly steamed my eyelids open.

I allotted myself as much time as possible to wake up, before heading out to the Halifax airport for my 6:20 departure. My sister Jessi and her boyfriend Adam were kind enough to drive me – he being tempted by the promise of a Tim Horton’s breakfast sandwich, and she driven by her enduring and ever-deepening love for me.

HAH!

But seriously though – Timmy Ho’s.

I tell ya. That stuff will take over your life.

It’s interesting – despite the proliferation of Starbucks the world over, Tim Hortons still reigns supreme here in Canada (minus of course several urban centers, of which Vancouver is one.)

I mean, “Double-Double” (the shorthand term for two creams, two sugars in a Tim Hortons coffee) is an entry in the Oxford Canadian English Dictionary!

WHAT.

It can be weird trying to explain this institution to someone who hasn’t lived here.

It’s just SO Canadian.

(Despite its brief American ownership and merger with Wendys Corporation. This is referred to as the “Dark Time”, of which we never speak.)

Just kidding.

Kind of.

It also has the guts to put out the most heart-wrenching commercials (aka ridiculous Canadiana propaganda.)

Let me implore you to check out this ad:

DAH.

THE EMOTIONS!

(I never said that this ploy didn’t work, now did I?)

ONE THING though – if you’re going to bring your family over in the middle of the winter, feeding them terrible coffee isn’t going to make the transition any easier! JUST SAYING.

The one thing that actually does bother me about Tim Hortons is that I have a hard time believing that people actually like it as much as they purport to LOVE it.

It’s like this business has woven itself into our national framework (mythology?) to such an extent, that we no longer know what we actually want in terms of coffee and baked goods.

Or, perhaps that it’s that we’ve convinced ourselves that easy access, trumps quality.

For instance, Tim Hortons jingle used to be: “Always Fresh, Always, Tim Horntons.” And now it’s just “Always Tim Hortons.”

(Or it might be “Time for Tim’s – I’m not sure. Since throwing away cable for Netflix, my ability to keep up with this inane crap has been severely compromised.)

Anywho, if it is indeed “Always Tim Hortons”, that is apt as all get out, because they are indeed EVERYWHERE.

And it’s not like there is anything all that great about the foodstuffs available for purchase at any of these restaurants.

Its hot chocolate is okay, its coffee – as previously stated – is just awful.

Their baked goods run the gamut of delicious (honey cruellers and sour cream glazed) to absolutely dismal (anything claiming to be “old fashioned” tastes of dish soap and will completely destroy your will to live.)

I’ve never been a fan of the Iced Capp, but those that do would give away their first born when a craving hits.

Their bagels are okay, but are always smothered in so much cream cheese you start to wonder what it’s actually made out of that they give it away in such liberal amounts.

What can I say?

I’ve never, ever in my life woken up and thought: I want nothing more than ***** from Tim Horton’s.

But the other night, whilst out with friends and family, what did we IMMEDIATELY do once we left the bar?

Oh you betcha:

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What can I say?

At my inner most core, I am Canadian.

(But only when soaked in white wine!)

OH MY GOODNESS I CANNOT BELIEVE I JUST WROTE AN 800 WORD POST ON TIM HORTONS.

Yeesh.

Please dear readers. I blame it on post-travel nackeredness. Eight hours on a plane will do that to you!

I really must be off for (another) shower and sleep.

I’ll be back to our regular scheduled program in but the (40) winks of an eye.

In the meantime, tell me your Tim Hortons stories.

We’ll see if we can get them made into a commercial.

Always.

(Tim Hortons.)

The naked truth

So here’s a thing.

Up until two days ago, I wore foundation or concealer (or some combination of both products) every single day (give or take a glitch or two in the algorithm that is my life) for the past fourteen years.

FOURTEEN YEARS.

That is over 5000 days of wearing makeup; makeup that covers up and paints over my natural skin tone, my freckles, my pimples – everything that makes my face, my face.

I wore this makeup on runs, to the beach, to work, to work out, to school dances, to graduations, to family dinners, to the grocery store, to job interviews – I wore it everywhere.

And two days ago, I stopped.

I thought – enough is enough.

I am twenty-eight years old.

It’s time.

This is very representative of how I operate in life. I won’t do something until I have completely made up my mind.

However, once the decision has been made, I will never renege, and I will never look back.

I first started wearing “pressed powder” when I was thirteen years old. I had just started grade eight, and I was very self-conscious of the patch of acne that had sprouted atop on my forehead over the past year.

I wanted to make a good impression, so what better way to do this that spackle six dollar Cover Girl all over my skin?

(The answer: be really, really funny.)

Grade nine brought even worse skin, so I graduated from just the powder, to bottle foundation (that I supplemented with the powder.)

Looking back at photos of myself from that time, I can only laugh. I wore so much of this product that I looked practically a ghost – pale as anything, with super dark red lips, and thick black eyeliner.

I was pretty much a dead ringer for one of the Twilight kids, only ten years too early.

Over the years, my use of foundations and concealers has waxed and waned.

I wrote previously on how this tied directly to my eating disorders – in times of health I used less because my skin was much clearer, and in times of sickness I used much more.

But even at my happiest I always used it.

Everyday.

But two days ago I was out at the park, running myself ragged, doing my favourite combination of sprints, push-ups, pull-ups, squats (and all their ilk) and I just felt so incredibly strong- so alive and powerful.

So confident.

So much so that when I arrived home and showered, I stood in the bathroom and just stared at myself for a long, long time.

For many years, I would do this same thing, but in a highly critical sense. I would scrutinize everything about my body – my skin, my hair, my teeth.

I would pick myself apart, and leave the pieces scattered, broken on the floor.

But this time, however, I marvelled.

At the strength of my muscles, and the glow of my skin; the length of my hair, and pulse of my heartbeat.

And I thought – I will face the world as I am.

Which is not to say that I won’t wear any other makeup ever again.

I love playing dress up too much for that.

But I won’t wear any more skin cover up products.

I’ve got a strong enough foundation as it is.

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Today. Post-run. Strong.