Writing – Page 18 – Rant and Roll

So many balls in the air

So lately Marc and I have been watching a ton of World Cup soccer. This of course means that we’ve been hurtling back and forth from one crisis to the next, wrapped up as we are in the drama and beauty of this incredible sport.

(Seriously, I’m still not sure that I took a single breath during the last five minutes of the Belgium/USA game this afternoon. And I definitely didn’t sit down for the last ten.)

Because just when you think that a team has sealed the deal – KABLAM-O!

The soccer gods are right there to wipe any and all of your silly pre-conceived notions of victory straight from your mind.

(Or any silly, victory-assumed smiles straight from your face.)

Simple mortal! You thought it would be that easy? HAH!

*Soccer-Zeused*

But one of the great things about soccer (and there are many great things), is its constant inconsistency. The fact that you are never guaranteed a victory until those final three whistles is the very thing that makes it so thrilling.

Anything can happen.

And it often does.

I don’t know about you, but sometimes a little heart-pounding, “will they, won’t they?” action is just the thing one needs.

It adds a real spice to your otherwise vanilla afternoon.

The only real downside to this, is when a massive dump of paprika manifests itself in multiple late-in-injury-time Swiss crossbar deflections.

At that point I could really do with less drama and more equalizing goal scoring.

But I digress.

(And fully acquiesce to the fact that if there is anyone out there who really deserves to win a World Cup, it’s Lionel Messi. FO SHO.)

A few other notes about the beautiful game:

1. The Heat.

Watching athletes careen about a massive soccer field in the excruciating Brazilian heat immediately negates any excuse I might have for not strapping on my running shoes and heading outside.

I mean, these dudes are sweating. There is absolutely no reason that I cannot slip on a sweet pair of sunglasses and just go out and give ‘er.

NONE.

2. ABS.

Oh my goodness gracious.

That’s all I have to say about that.

(Oh, and I also like all of those blogs that just post pictures of the players hugging. Hugging each other.)

Erm.

3. Costa Rica.

I nearly burst a blood vessel cheering for these fellas over Greece.

(Or Hellas, if you’re really into rhyme schemes.)

(Because let’s face it, who isn’t?)

Sometimes, you just need to root for the underdog. Especially when said underdog played the majority of the game a man down and has a goalie who dances like he’s got a colony of ants down his trousers in an effort to confuse and intimidate his opponents come penalty shots.

Because that – that is just excellent.

So well played sir.

And hard won boys.

4. Mexico’s Coach.

Is a Digimon character.

Nuff said.

5. The jerseys.

They are awesome this year! What I wouldn’t give to get my hands on a Belgian-Swiss combo.

(If there are any enterprising and generous readers out there who may now be thinking “care-package”, I take a woman’s small. And thank you!)

I am also partial to how the fit of these shirts really highlights item #2 on this list.

!!!

…

Okay, now that I have officially outed myself as a creeper McCreeperson, I am wont to bid you goodnight.

But before I do, I must ask –

Are any of you World Cup mad? And who is your team of choice?

I’ll try my very best not to sit down with you for the next ninety minutes that they play.

But breathe – that I’ll have to do.

And the itsy bitsy spider

Dear readers,

It’s May 5^th.

I am sitting on my couch. There is a sleepy cat in my lap, and an even sleepier husband dozing in the sunroom just behind me.

My butt is sore from all of the jump squats I completed yesterday.

Strangely enough, I feel no side-effects from the seventy-fish push-ups.

This must mean I am getting stronger.

(At least arm-wise; not ass-wise.)

In the past two months these things have happened:

Marc and I sold our townhome and bought and moved into a new house. We have a beautiful garden and grassy yard, with a large patio and gas bbq. On days when the weather cooperates, we like to sit under the sun’s strong rays and wax poetic about our little piece of heaven.

Our home was built in 1907.

If there are ghosts, they are friendly.

On April 6 I ran a personal best in the Sunshine Coast half-marathon. Completing the course in 1:31:13, I came 11^th overall for all of the ladies, and 7^th in my age group.

It ended up being a very warm day to run 21.1km. Regret, they name is an Under Armour long-sleeve shirt.

(I need to really remember that start-line gooseflesh is fleeting.)

I’ve been re-reading quite a bit of Robertson Davies. Six months ago it was the Salterton Trilogy, and now I’m halfway through The Depford Trilogy.

Oh! For that man’s way with words.

Marc and I have also made a budget.

Things be serious, folks.

In June I am visiting Chicago for four days. In August, Hawaii for nine.

Tough Mudder is June 21.

I will be the strongest.

(Seriously, I am Linda Hamiltoning this race like a bamf).

The one true fly in the ointment is that I haven’t been sleeping very well for the past month. In fact, there are only two days since perhaps the birth of the New Year that I can remember sleeping soundly through the night.

Sometimes I believe it might never happen again.

Sometimes I get so overwhelmed with work, and life, and thoughts, and fears, and loves, that there is no room left over to live (let alone sleep).

What I want is to live purely and plainly, without early-morning heartaches, without bed sheets soaked through from my rising panic and clammy sweat, without the sensation of a lead weight pressing down on my chest, through my chest, into my heart, through my heart.

Only I’m not sure how.

…

Dear readers,

Today is June 16th.

I recently returned from a five day trip to the land of deep dish, skyscrapers, and wind.

Seriously, Chicago is the best.

(The only thing that isn’t the best is Chicago baseball. But take my word for it when I say that this opinion isn’t a knock on the White Sox themselves per se, but more so on the sport in general. Because good grief is that crap ever boring.)

SORRY NOT SORRY.

I’ve been sleeping much better of late – trying as I might to get my anxiety in check and buckle down on long-term, effective coping mechanisms that will quiet and quell the run-run-running of words throughout my head on a second to second basis.

It’s a work in progress, but my nose is grinding away on that stone like a grinding thing.

Of late I feel like I could run forever.

Of late I like to imagine myself as swift-footed Atalanta, charging past her would-be suitors (and in the act, signing their death warrants), racing free from all worldly constraints. The only difference of course being my penchant from outlet mall spandex and race t-shirts.

One day I will spend a whack load of cash dollars on expensive beautiful running gear.

But until that day, I’m going to keep on keeping on looking like I belong on the cover of a 1979 copy of Runner’s World.

And that’s hot stuff.

…

I’ve never once stopped thinking about all of y’alls.

Thank you for your comments, emails, and words of concern and encouragement.

Tune in next time – same bat time, same bat channel.

(Same batty writer.)

I’m climbing up that spout.

Dance, magic dance

I just spent the last half an hour or so watching highland dancing videos on Youtube.

You should probably do this too because, for lack of a more eloquent descriptor, THEY ARE AWESOME.

I love watching these videos because they totally jazz me up, and I remember the good old (olden) days when I too used to be a highland dancer.

No joke.

From the ages of five to twelve, I flinged, reeled, and jigged with the best of them.

And I loved it, truly.

In so many areas of my life, my passion for dance bled through: Instead of walking places, I just danced. Sitting at the computer, I would curl my feet up into tight points, always trying to strengthen my arches, and I would hum different bagpipe tunes under my breath while I wrote tests.

More than anything, I really wanted to be Canadian champion, and more than that I really, really wanted to get married in my National costume.

A little highland dance background:

National costumes are different from Highland costumes (Highland being the “traditional” outfits that will most likely spring to mind when you think about highland dancing.)

National outfits instead are much softer and, in traditional terms, much more “feminine.”

This makes a lot of sense when you think about how the dances you complete in the Highland outfit are the Fling, Sword Dance, Seann Truibhas, and the Reel, whereas the dances associated with the National costume are the Blue Bonnets, Lilt, and Flora Macdonald.

Not exactly hard core stuff.

I highly doubt any Englishman felt a quake or two in his boots upon espying a bunch of bonny lasses, heel-toeing about to the Blue Bonnets Over the Border.

The Sword Dance on the other hand?

There’s no way in heck you’d want to mess with the crazies jumping about on top of multiple, sharp sabres.

Anywho, highland dancing was my total jam pretty much all through out elementary school. I even spent two weeks away from home after the summer of grade four at a dance camp in Red Deer, Alberta.

I stayed in the college dorms all by myself, ate at the school’s cafeteria (I had a punch card that let me know how much money I had left on my tab!) and signed up for different activities through my dorm mother and dance lead (the oldest girl in my training class.)

Every morning I would put my hair in a bun, put on my tights and leotard, and walk across the campus to class.

I don’t know if to this day I’ve ever felt as grown up, mature, and accomplished as I did at eleven during those two weeks.

The pièce de résistance was when a young piper asked me out the night that we went to the carnival. (What was this, Dawson’s Creek!?)

I mean, the guy couldn’t have been older than thirteen, but this basically exploded my on-the-cusp-pubescent mind.

A BOY LIKES ME AND IS ASKING ME OUT.

CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT GUYS.

I didn’t think things could get any more epic until the last night of the camp: all the dancers participated in a big gala, and we all performed the group dances we had been practicing over the length of the camp.

(I loved my group’s dance SO much that I practiced it every day for the rest of the summer.)

At the end of the evening, they announced the dancer who had won the scholarship to return following year’s camp, free of charge. The winner would also receive free accommodation, food, and receive a small living allowance over the course of the camp.

And would you believe it?

They announced little old me as the winner!

I was so shocked I didn’t really know what to do, so I kind of just continued sitting there, smiling like the pint-sized loon that I was.

I remember two older girls sitting behind me said something like, “Way to go Vanessa! You totally deserve it!” They then kind of pulled me out of my chair and pushed me towards the stage.

It was such an unbelievably happy moment for me walking up there to receive my certificate. I had just spent two weeks doing something I loved more than anything in the world, with a new group of friends, in a setting where I felt incredibly grown up.

Over the years I have definitely enjoyed other similar moments – different iterations of that pure joy and incredulity – but this one was definitely my first.

And watching these amazing videos is a great reminder of the brilliance of that feeling.

I hope so much that you too have a similar memory.

And if you do, take a moment and just sit back.

And press play.

These things you do to me

Alright nerds, let’s get to it.

(Nerd, being of course, the highest honour I could ever bestow, so please don’t take it as an insult.)

Today I ate the most delicious of lunches – the grilled cheese sandwich and salad combination from Burgoo – only to have it pretty much destroy me for the rest of the afternoon.

(Goodness knows that we humans were not built for that much melted dairy. Thank sweet mother of pearl that my meal did in fact come with a green salad, as a good deal of roughage is more than necessary when eating en entire wheel of Gruyere.)

Anywho, I arrived back home feeling pretty wretched: my pants felt like they were glued to my legs, my sweater was itching the back of my neck, and overall I just felt uncomfortable. Uncomfortable and hot.

(And not in the sense that I am used to, what with my incredible good looks and overall nubile-ness. Nubile-ity?)

Either way, I figured the best thing to do to try and flush the excess cheese from my system was to get back outside and go for a run.

And this, folks, was hard.

Because all I really wanted to do wasjust take off my pants and lie down on the couch for the remainder of my days.

Yet somehow I did manage to muster up enough energy to schlep myself upstairs, and slither into my running gear.

Once I took off all I could really think about was how much I was already looking forward to the run being over.

Nothing felt like it should – my legs felt heavy and my shirt too tight. Even my sweet new running playlist couldn’t break through my mental melancholy.

I figured I would run 5k and just be done with it. I had completed a very fast 7k yesterday, and an even faster 6k the day before, so today would just be a wash and I could start anew tomorrow.

However,once I got to the turnaround at 4k I decided at the last minute that I would do one more half loop and stop at the ‘work out area’ of the park and do a few resistance supersets (jump squats and chin-ups and the like.)

As soon as I arrived at the monkey bars I chastised myself for not just heading home. I absolutely hate strength training if I’m not giving it 100 per cent, and I had a pretty strong inkling that this time I would just be phoning it in.

However, I did give it a go, starting with the bars (Tough Mudder training!) before moving on to the next exercise. As I finished my first round of push-ups, an elderly gentleman approached and told me in his broken English how impressed he was with my efforts.

I was a little taken aback, what with how focused I was on the actual workout, that I never really formulated a coherent response to his words.

He continued on with his stretching and I continued with my circuit.

After my last set of chin-ups he approached again and asked me (while gesturing at the bar) “10? You 10?”

“8,” I replied breathless.

“8! Wow!” he exclaimed. “Very, very good!”

My heart nearly melted out of my chest.

With those five simple words, this man just completely turned my day around and I felt like my smile would force my face to crack in two.

“Thank you!” I exclaimed.

He smiled back.

As I finished up, he moved on to the balance beam, and I watched him stand for as long as he could on one foot, before switching to the other.

I made sure to wait until he turned around, so at the very least I could wave goodbye before I left.

For the last kilometer home I ran with a renewed gusto. I smiled at everyone I passed – runners, walkers, dogs, kids – everyone was gifted with my goofy, grinning face.

So I would like to thank that man.

For reminding me that we have the capacity to do so much good, even at the most simple and basic level.

And the next time I eat a grilled cheese sandwich I will think of him.

Which might be a little cheesey.

But that’s okay.

Especially if it comes with a salad.

If all else fails, you can count on me

Well, it’s been a year and a day (or three weeks if you will) since I last wrote anything in this electronic diary of mine (I actually like to think of it as a modern day papyrus scroll), and instead of lamenting the ever-quickening pace of time and space as I do at the beginning of all of my ramblings, I will instead just get to THE FACTS.

1.) Gold medal games.

Marc and I woke up at 4am last Sunday to watch the Canadian men take on the Swedish team in the Olympic gold medal hockey match.

I’m not going to lie, I nearly gave up on the entire venture the minute the alarm went off. Four o’clock in the morning is just TOO. DARN. EARLY.

After I managed to temporarily muzzle the buzzing, Marc leaned over to me and whispered, “Is this actually happening?”

To which I replied, “Fifty-fifty.”

But in the end, it only took me a couple of minutes to rustle myself out of bed and get ready to face the still-darkened sky (not to mention the influx of snow that had begun to fall sometime earlier that night.)

The previous day I had bought pain au chocolate for Marc and I, as well as the friends who had so generously offered to host the game, and I grabbed the bag of pastries before heading out into the blackness.

(Marc elected to catch another thirty minutes of shut-eye, explaining that he would meet up with us at the start of the second period.)

My eyeballs nearly fell out of my sockets when I arrived at Greg and Daniela’s place and saw them both in regular clothing. You couldn’t have gotten me to change out of my pajamas for all the cocoa-filled croissants in the world.

But they’re pretty relaxed folks, and know my habits well, so neither were deterred by my lack of formal dress (or really, any dress at all.)

Over the next three hours we drank buckets of coffee, nibbled on baked goods, and cheered as Jonathan Toews, Sidney Crosby, and Chris Kunitz secured our second straight Olympic hockey gold.

And then I went back to bed.

Which after drinking my body weight in coffee was not the easiest of feats, let me assure you.

After I work up, I couldn’t stop thinking about Par Marts, the Swedish coach, and just how much he doesn’t fit the mold of what I imagine a hockey coach to be.

So I made this:

Am I the worst?

Perhaps.

But either way, I am totally okay with it.

2.) Lip-synch offs.

So, I’m not a big fan of most American talk shows. As a dedicated, long-standing fan of The Graham Norton Show, I feel that most product offered on this side of the pond is, to put it delicately, sub-par at best.

However, I have to give credit where credit is due, and tip my hat to Jimmy Fallon for all the hilarious things he does with his guests. (Not to mention the fact that he somehow got The Roots to be his back-up band – a feat so nuts I’m like to believe that Beelzebub will be getting a huge influx of souls sometime in the next fifty years or so.)

For instance, this lip-synch off:

Oh. My. Goodness.

Despite the epicness of Paul Rudd’s Freddie Mercury, I am not afraid to admit that I like his Tina Turner better.

Those handshakes?

Brilliant.

3.) MY CAT.

She’s up to something.

Though I’ve yet to figure out what.

4.) This darn crazy world.

As I race about daily in my own little self-contained ecosystem, I have such a hard time processing everything that is happening outside of the petri dish that is my life.

Every time I read anything news related my heart just breaks into smaller and smaller pieces.

To combat this journalistic-propelled malaise, I have been running like a running-thing and spending all of the time with my brilliant, inspiring, and totally bonkers husband.

All we can do is focus on doing as much good as we can (starting with the petri dish!) and hope that our efforts will create spill over, and inspire others to affect change.

5.) This guy

And if all else fails?

I’m just going to follow this dude’s lead:

That’s right.

SUPERGEIL.