So I was going through old piles of poetry for a project, and check out what I found!
smell the pitch.
green.
dirt, rain, pain.
paths traced one hundred fold,
trail broken skin.
heart bounding, beating
racing
over shredded field
torn grass.
blood; mud
grunt through barriers
break bones, tear muscle
grind pores into ground
shove; heave
line by line
win blade by bloody blade.
burn lines with sweat.
salt earth with victory
scream
taste pitch
queen of the green
.
Friday 19 November 2010
Thursday 7 October 2010
Top Illegal Bus Stop Activites
Oh, the bus stop theme. It was all part of content creation for a class of mine, so bear with it. I swear no more.
1. Smoking. Not to offend the millions who campaign against smoking, but honestly, there is rarely a better feeling than sticking it to the man by smoking not near or around the bus stop, but directly within the prescribed five meter non-smoking radius. And, of course, there’s the added benefit of successfully killing time.
2. Drinking. Specifically, Underage-Drinking. Remember those days? The ones where “going out” meant sitting at a bus stop with ten friends on your way to a “house party” in someone’s basement and chugging a mickey of cheap vodka? Yeah. Now tell me all those times that you had to hold a friend’s hair back as she puked off the side of the bench didn’t make you feel like a bad ass mo-fo. Thought so.
3. Pot. It may just be the social nature of the drug, or that the smell of marijuana overrides the general foot-like stench of the bus your about to embark, but pot takes the cake (mmm… cake) when it comes to bus stop drugs. Trust me, serious considerations were put into a variety of other illicit substances – but, really, no one wants to snort lines off a bus bench.
4. Graffiti. It’s almost like bus stops were designed to be doodled on. And scratched into, and painted on. They’re the ultimate urban poster board of Sally + Joe 4Evas, cartoon faces, and local trademark tags; not to mention an excellent source of time killing literature.
5. General Destruction. The bus stop offers all sorts opportunities to take part in some good old fashioned wreckin’ stuff and, by wreckin’ public stuff, you get to really partake in some serious illegal activities. Go for the gold and send a bat through the glass, bring a screwdriver and dismantle the “bus stop” sign, bring spray paint and take graffiti to the next level and just paint the whole, bloody stop.
6. Sex. There’s a bench, shelter from the elements and – uhh – easy access. And that’s without the thrill of “riding the bus” in public.
7. Prostitution. None of the previous options quite illegal enough for you? Then take it all the way and “hang out” at the bus stop – auspiciously wearing thigh-high leather boots and short shorts that allow for under-ass – regardless of whether you’re male or female. Thanks to the high traffic nature of a bus stop, you’re bound to develop a fast-paced, publicly illegal business in no time.
1. Smoking. Not to offend the millions who campaign against smoking, but honestly, there is rarely a better feeling than sticking it to the man by smoking not near or around the bus stop, but directly within the prescribed five meter non-smoking radius. And, of course, there’s the added benefit of successfully killing time.
2. Drinking. Specifically, Underage-Drinking. Remember those days? The ones where “going out” meant sitting at a bus stop with ten friends on your way to a “house party” in someone’s basement and chugging a mickey of cheap vodka? Yeah. Now tell me all those times that you had to hold a friend’s hair back as she puked off the side of the bench didn’t make you feel like a bad ass mo-fo. Thought so.
3. Pot. It may just be the social nature of the drug, or that the smell of marijuana overrides the general foot-like stench of the bus your about to embark, but pot takes the cake (mmm… cake) when it comes to bus stop drugs. Trust me, serious considerations were put into a variety of other illicit substances – but, really, no one wants to snort lines off a bus bench.
4. Graffiti. It’s almost like bus stops were designed to be doodled on. And scratched into, and painted on. They’re the ultimate urban poster board of Sally + Joe 4Evas, cartoon faces, and local trademark tags; not to mention an excellent source of time killing literature.
5. General Destruction. The bus stop offers all sorts opportunities to take part in some good old fashioned wreckin’ stuff and, by wreckin’ public stuff, you get to really partake in some serious illegal activities. Go for the gold and send a bat through the glass, bring a screwdriver and dismantle the “bus stop” sign, bring spray paint and take graffiti to the next level and just paint the whole, bloody stop.
6. Sex. There’s a bench, shelter from the elements and – uhh – easy access. And that’s without the thrill of “riding the bus” in public.
7. Prostitution. None of the previous options quite illegal enough for you? Then take it all the way and “hang out” at the bus stop – auspiciously wearing thigh-high leather boots and short shorts that allow for under-ass – regardless of whether you’re male or female. Thanks to the high traffic nature of a bus stop, you’re bound to develop a fast-paced, publicly illegal business in no time.
Place
Each tap on the canvas above is uneven. Some are loud and heavy, hammering oh-so-slowly, oh-so-steadily from bowed branches. Others are tiny pitter-patters that fill the silence between bigger drops, falling from the skies beside the trees – every knock a reminder of just how dry the blankets are inside. Inside, away from the rain and the mist and the wet of the ocean, the tent is warm. Beaten cloth circulates breath and body heat like a thermos, until even the tip of my naked nose is comfortable. The damp is meaningless.
Mulch brown walls muffle the light, filtering what’s left of the sunshine until all there is to see are outlines of arms and legs and sweaters rolled into corners, collecting the runoff of human humidity and effectively ruining the possibility of staying warm once breakfast rolls around – though the uniform grey makes time impossible to tell and the down blankets render it irrelevant. The foot of heavy of heavy air settled on our faces leaves space to cushion each pointed drop and every half beat of rain, keeps us from unzipping the flap door and leaving our canvas cocoon. So the morning is forgotten.
Mulch brown walls muffle the light, filtering what’s left of the sunshine until all there is to see are outlines of arms and legs and sweaters rolled into corners, collecting the runoff of human humidity and effectively ruining the possibility of staying warm once breakfast rolls around – though the uniform grey makes time impossible to tell and the down blankets render it irrelevant. The foot of heavy of heavy air settled on our faces leaves space to cushion each pointed drop and every half beat of rain, keeps us from unzipping the flap door and leaving our canvas cocoon. So the morning is forgotten.
Route 6b W 4 W
Route 6b Northbound, 8:37am, W 4 W
You: the blonde, fresh out of high school chick with the compact mirror and green purse sitting next to
Me: the young brunette in office attire
Hey, we all need to do our makeup in the morning – and with your face, frankly, I get it. I myself have been known to touch up my lip gloss from time to time, squished between an aging alcoholic and a school bound punk riding the bus on my way to work. So I didn’t bat an eye when you took out your compact and generously reapplied your eyeliner – okay, maybe I raised an eyebrow when you took out the foundation to smear over your numerous blemishes, and my lips may have started pursing when I saw your hands slip “subtly” down your shirt to readjust your assets. But for Christ’s Sake, tweezers? Really? Jesus woman, do you really think we want to know how much of your eyebrows you need to pull out before you resemble anything more human than a dolled-up squirrel?
Anyway – you all-natural beauty, you – I wanted to apologize for standing so abruptly when some of your eyebrow hairs landed on my blazer. I really didn’t mean to bump the sharp end of your tweezers into your eye like that. My bad.
You: the blonde, fresh out of high school chick with the compact mirror and green purse sitting next to
Me: the young brunette in office attire
Hey, we all need to do our makeup in the morning – and with your face, frankly, I get it. I myself have been known to touch up my lip gloss from time to time, squished between an aging alcoholic and a school bound punk riding the bus on my way to work. So I didn’t bat an eye when you took out your compact and generously reapplied your eyeliner – okay, maybe I raised an eyebrow when you took out the foundation to smear over your numerous blemishes, and my lips may have started pursing when I saw your hands slip “subtly” down your shirt to readjust your assets. But for Christ’s Sake, tweezers? Really? Jesus woman, do you really think we want to know how much of your eyebrows you need to pull out before you resemble anything more human than a dolled-up squirrel?
Anyway – you all-natural beauty, you – I wanted to apologize for standing so abruptly when some of your eyebrow hairs landed on my blazer. I really didn’t mean to bump the sharp end of your tweezers into your eye like that. My bad.
Sunday 6 June 2010
Formal Apologies
Dear Hush Nightclub Management and Security Teams;
I am writing to formally apologize for my unfortunate and inebriated actions at approximately 2:10 on the morning of this Saturday June the 5th. I understand the legal and business implications of having an unauthorized person entering the area behind the bar, though I assure you that my motivations were single-minded and quite sincere in regards to getting myself water. While I am happy that no injury came to Hush personnel, other patrons or myself, I regret the inconvenience I caused and – of course – the personal embarrassment that comes from drunkenly arguing over a glass of water. I apologize for my indiscretions and fully comprehend and accept any consequences.
Sincerely,
Tanysia
I am writing to formally apologize for my unfortunate and inebriated actions at approximately 2:10 on the morning of this Saturday June the 5th. I understand the legal and business implications of having an unauthorized person entering the area behind the bar, though I assure you that my motivations were single-minded and quite sincere in regards to getting myself water. While I am happy that no injury came to Hush personnel, other patrons or myself, I regret the inconvenience I caused and – of course – the personal embarrassment that comes from drunkenly arguing over a glass of water. I apologize for my indiscretions and fully comprehend and accept any consequences.
Sincerely,
Tanysia
Monday 26 April 2010
Reasons I could be a Lesbian
Reasons I could be a Lesbian:
1. Scarlett Johansson, Sandra Bullock and Jessica Alba
2. Between the rugby, kick boxing and fine arts communities, I would have plenty to choose from.
3. Diagrams and explanations of the female anatomy would no longer be necessary.
4. No longer would I have to fear “The Dutch Oven.”
5. My sandwiches would be made and brought to me.
6. The house would be clean and tidy by the time I got back from work.
7. Chocolate, Advil, and backrubs around “that time of the month” would be available without explanation.
8. Good, old fashioned tits and ass.
Reasons I could never be a Lesbian:
1. Men.
1. Scarlett Johansson, Sandra Bullock and Jessica Alba
2. Between the rugby, kick boxing and fine arts communities, I would have plenty to choose from.
3. Diagrams and explanations of the female anatomy would no longer be necessary.
4. No longer would I have to fear “The Dutch Oven.”
5. My sandwiches would be made and brought to me.
6. The house would be clean and tidy by the time I got back from work.
7. Chocolate, Advil, and backrubs around “that time of the month” would be available without explanation.
8. Good, old fashioned tits and ass.
Reasons I could never be a Lesbian:
1. Men.
Friday 16 April 2010
The Capable Essay
I was a fat child. No, seriously. Though I may look good in a pair of spandex shorts now, were you to have gone looking for me in junior high PE class, you’d have easily found me at the back of the pack, panting and huffing as I jiggled around the soccer field. I spent years with a stash of chocolate bars covertly placed between my diary and Barbie collection and hours arguing with my parents over whether or not it was appropriate for me to have seven cookies for snack. And despite my best and loudest efforts, those bastards dragged me out to soccer practice twice a week, with my round little body over their shoulders screaming, “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!”
Fortunately, my parents were not only more stubborn than I was, but well aware of just how good of an incentive an ass-whopping, wooden spoon can be. So I went to soccer practices scowling. And swim meets pouting. Then basketball tryouts, where I knew I wasn’t going home anytime soon so, fine, I’d shuffle towards the net and I’d try jogging to defence. Hell, the other girls were doing it and they looked like they were having fun. Then I scored a couple of baskets, dribbled around a few girls and wrestled a ball or two away from the other team and I began lumbering out of the gymnasium like I owned it.
“Dad, did you see that? That girl swung around when I grabbed the ball! Did you see my break-away? There was, like, no one there.”
At practice the next week, I bounced out of Dad’s car, through the gym doors, and tied my laces super tight for extra speed during scrimmages that night. I was running faster and dropping weight, but not everyone is as lucky as I was to have a father willing to confiscate anything that kept me in the house and a mother able to prod my butt out the door with her wooden spoon.
In 2004, right around the time I was getting into basketball and off the couch, almost ten percent of kids between the ages of two and 17 were obese, according to Statistics Canada. If I’d had a Body Mass Index of 30 or higher – BMIs comparing height to weight ratio – I would have been considered obese, and might have been part of that statistic. These results, on the other hand, do assume that the excess mass is fatty and not muscular, but considering how long I’d spent lolling in front of the TV, I doubt I had much muscle mass to go on.
That same year, CBC reports that 23.1 percent of all Canadian adults had BMIs over 30 and later, in 2008, a staggering 26.7 percent of adults in the United States were considered obese. Not just overweight; obese. If I remember anything from grade five, that’s approximately a quarter of all adults in North America. A quarter! That means every fourth adult getting on the bus in the morning is statistically likely to be about one thirds straight body fat, and I could have easily been one of them.
I was fifteen and playing for my high school basketball team when the math teacher across the hall started dropping hints that I aught to come out for rugby practice. I would shake my head and tell her that I was a baller not some “rugby” player and, besides, I was just getting good at sprinting my way down the court. But then she told me that I was of a build that would be advantageous on the field, that she knew I wasn’t unfit, and besides, didn’t I regularly get kicked out of games for being too hands-on? Was she recruiting me? Shit, did she just say she thought I was fit?
I decided a tryout or two would be worth my time, tackled a few girls, made the team and fell in love with the game. Even at that age, I would get off the field and vibrate happily for hours. This is not surprising, though, considering that the endorphins produced from a match’s hard running or heavy hitting are about the same as what get released during orgasm and actually act on the same neural receptors as narcotics like heroin or cocaine. Any rugby player will tell you that the adrenaline thrill that comes from a tackle which lays out the opponent is the sort worth banging your head for. That season, three of the most devoted players ended up with concussions.
These days I could probably get away with saying that I work my ass off at the gym; realistically though, strength training hasn’t done a thing to diminish its veritable size since I started seriously hitting the weight room three years ago. I had let a couple of months of cafeteria food and then a determined coach get to me and – Poof! – there I was, doing weighted squats and dumbbell curls for an hour-and-a-half three days a week. With every push up I counted and every weight I added to the barbell, I could feel my body strengthen, my muscles grow and my overall health improve.
After spending rugby practice running horseshoe-sprints (don’t ask), I came home to lie on my couch, revel in the glory of sore muscles and gloat in front of my roommates – just a little bit. I put a granola bar between my teeth, picked up my Women’s Health magazine and flipped straight to one of those articles that tells me how awesome I am.
“Dude!” I yell to my roomies in the kitchen around the oats in my mouth. “I burn an extra 120 calories a day for every three pounds of muscle. Did you know that? God, that’s awesome.”
A blonde head sticks out around the corner with the sort of “duh” expression the girls I live with have come to reserve for me. “I’ve seen your pipes, T. All you fucking do is eat.”
It’s true. Between the gym, rugby practices and kickboxing classes, I get hungry. And when I get hungry, I get weak, tired, indecisive and – worst of all – I became a straight-up raging bitch. Getting enough of the right type of nutrition all the time is not only necessary, but unfortunately complicated for any athlete. Do I get enough protein? What about my complex carbs? Does that triple-decker sandwich have enough vitamins, acids and fats to keep me going? Or was half a block of cheese not the right choice? High-intensity athletes can need up to twice the amount of nutrients as a non-athlete – like the football player who needs 150g of protein daily as opposed to the average 75g – and are put at risk of micronutrient deficiency (which results from restricting diets) and the female athlete triad (disordered eating, amenorrhea, and osteoporosis). And let’s not even get into just how much of my paycheque goes directly to food.
I pop a piece of bread in the toaster, grab myself a banana to munch on while I wait and flip back to my magazine. On the next page, I’m told that weight training not only has me eating more, but I get the added benefit of more stable joints. Sweet. Curious, I asked the physiotherapists who work with the varsity teams at UVic what they thought when I went to the Athletic Training Room later that week before practice.
“Oh I am a massive advocate of weight training,” says the girl wrapping tape around my finger. Nodding at the stretch cords and balance boards that litter half of the room, she tells me that the more you prepare your muscles for unexpected movement, the less likely you’ll be to injure yourself.
“Why do you think we get so many first years in here?” one of the trainers pipes up as he massages a calf. “They haven’t had enough time in the weight room yet.”
Thinking back to high school, I did spend a lot more time on the bench – and it had nothing to do with how slowly I made my way down the court. I remember rolled ankles, cramped muscles and pulled groins. When I was off-season too, I can recall a few times that my back spasmed on me in the pool or that I nearly popped a knee skiing. Granted, as a kid I was hardly strong enough to pick myself up off the ground if I fell on the slope and often had to get my frowning father to pull me up.
These sorts of injuries translate into the home for everyone, not just athletes and Colorado State University recently ran a one-year study comparing injury rates and BMI. They concluded that the higher the mass-to-height ratio, the more injuries were reported by the 2,575 adults who participated; the most (26 percent of men injured and 21 percent of women) being reported by the extremely obese. An entire half of these injuries, such as falls or acute overexertion, happened inside the home.
Take my mom, for example. Though she has never been obese, she let a few years at home with the kids get to her until she herniated a disc in her back. The doctors only shook their heads and told her, “Lady, there is essentially nothing wrong with you, but your back muscles are so weak they can’t hold themselves together. Get your fat ass to the gym!” (Or something along those lines.) Twelve years later she’s still working out religiously and now is so fit she not only looks 15 years her junior but could beat up most women that young anyway.
Of course, I would be lying if I said that exercise is the trump-all prevention for injury. Quite the opposite, in fact. The very point of athletics is to push the body to its limits and do it better than the competition. Runners end up with athlete’s foot for spending too much time in their shoes, tennis players dislocate shoulders swinging rackets for hours a day and basketball players develop shin splints just sprinting up and down on solid wood floors.
These injuries are not just normal consequences either. Every single woman I have ever played beside, regardless of the sport, has continued to play through an injury to “tough it out” and win and has often caused more damage for doing so. I have to admit, I’ve done it myself. I once dislocated a finger during a rugby game, popped it back in, and continued playing. I had to spend a month and a half punching without my left hand at kickboxing classes, but that didn’t stop me from trying. When I complained to my trainer about how bloody long it was taking to recover she looked at me, raised an eyebrow and said, “Honey, you play rugby.” Oh yeah.
At home for Christmas holidays shortly after I’d made a lightning bolt out of my finger, I spent the better part of the first hour in my parent’s kitchen with my mother clucking over my tape-covered hand.
“Nishy, you really should be careful. What if it doesn’t get better? We’ll have to chop it off.”
“Yeah, but look what I can do!” I dropped to the linoleum floor and proceeded to do more full push-ups than most women my age and definitely more than my parents dreamed me ever capable of when I was fourteen. And to be honest, my first basketball practices mostly involved me holding my body off the floor from my knees, trembling slightly at the thought of actually lowering myself to the ground with my own strength. Dad, watching from the kitchen table, asked what sort of work out schedule I was running on these days and nodded along as I rattled off my weekly routine.
“So long as you still have time for school,” he said. “And take a break if your body needs it. Don’t over-exert yourself, sweetie; it can be just as bad for you as no exercise at all.”
He’s right, of course, though I still have a hard time believing it. The problem with exercise is that the hormone release and the resulting “runner’s high” experienced makes it surprisingly easy for a serious athlete to over-train. One of my best friends, for example, has spent the last eight months doing nothing but training to improve his fight statistics and – though he doesn’t see it – is experiencing some considerable symptoms as a result: insomnia, moodiness and a compulsiveness to exercise. And after every two months of hard time at the gym, his body has developed a tendency to crash completely and leave him so sick he can hardly crawl out of bed.
Getting back from the gym over the break, I flopped down on the carpet in my living room and channel-surfed my way to a rerun of The Biggest Loser. I adore the way pitting a bunch of people against each other in a weight-loss competition is ridiculous and extreme, but still manages to showcase the hard work I admire. Plus, you know, I get to feel like a rockstar just watching it. Thirty burpies? Whateeeever. Two hundred crunches? Puh-leeze. Not to mention that the episode that I’d found was one from the beginning of the season, when all of the contestants range from extremely to morbidly obese and simply getting to the show counted as exercise for them.
I watched as they set up a challenge, huddling the players as close to each other as their girths would allow and explaining that they would be walking up a set of slowly rotating escalators to find out who could stay on the longest. Great, I thought, popping baby carrots into my mouth. This is going to be the most exciting show ever. They all waddled up the stairs, took their positions and, once the buzzer sounded, began huffing their way upwards. Two minutes and thirty six seconds later, it was over. Seriously. I just about choked on my carrot. That was it? That was all that an entire quarter of the North American population was capable of?
Fuck the bruises, sore muscles and scars that I am covered in; at least I can move. Thanks to the dogged-asshole insistence of my parents, I never forgot how to run after a ball, or how good sweating feels, or how to bike to school or make my muscles scream. I get to walk down the street knowing I look good doing it and knowing that I can run to catch my bus. I could have been another one of the 5.5 million obese Canadian adults. I could have run the greater risk of premature death, diabetes, heart, stroke, breathing problems, and arthritis. But instead, I feel strong. I feel healthy. And I’m capable of rocking short shorts while kicking some serious ass.
Fortunately, my parents were not only more stubborn than I was, but well aware of just how good of an incentive an ass-whopping, wooden spoon can be. So I went to soccer practices scowling. And swim meets pouting. Then basketball tryouts, where I knew I wasn’t going home anytime soon so, fine, I’d shuffle towards the net and I’d try jogging to defence. Hell, the other girls were doing it and they looked like they were having fun. Then I scored a couple of baskets, dribbled around a few girls and wrestled a ball or two away from the other team and I began lumbering out of the gymnasium like I owned it.
“Dad, did you see that? That girl swung around when I grabbed the ball! Did you see my break-away? There was, like, no one there.”
At practice the next week, I bounced out of Dad’s car, through the gym doors, and tied my laces super tight for extra speed during scrimmages that night. I was running faster and dropping weight, but not everyone is as lucky as I was to have a father willing to confiscate anything that kept me in the house and a mother able to prod my butt out the door with her wooden spoon.
In 2004, right around the time I was getting into basketball and off the couch, almost ten percent of kids between the ages of two and 17 were obese, according to Statistics Canada. If I’d had a Body Mass Index of 30 or higher – BMIs comparing height to weight ratio – I would have been considered obese, and might have been part of that statistic. These results, on the other hand, do assume that the excess mass is fatty and not muscular, but considering how long I’d spent lolling in front of the TV, I doubt I had much muscle mass to go on.
That same year, CBC reports that 23.1 percent of all Canadian adults had BMIs over 30 and later, in 2008, a staggering 26.7 percent of adults in the United States were considered obese. Not just overweight; obese. If I remember anything from grade five, that’s approximately a quarter of all adults in North America. A quarter! That means every fourth adult getting on the bus in the morning is statistically likely to be about one thirds straight body fat, and I could have easily been one of them.
I was fifteen and playing for my high school basketball team when the math teacher across the hall started dropping hints that I aught to come out for rugby practice. I would shake my head and tell her that I was a baller not some “rugby” player and, besides, I was just getting good at sprinting my way down the court. But then she told me that I was of a build that would be advantageous on the field, that she knew I wasn’t unfit, and besides, didn’t I regularly get kicked out of games for being too hands-on? Was she recruiting me? Shit, did she just say she thought I was fit?
I decided a tryout or two would be worth my time, tackled a few girls, made the team and fell in love with the game. Even at that age, I would get off the field and vibrate happily for hours. This is not surprising, though, considering that the endorphins produced from a match’s hard running or heavy hitting are about the same as what get released during orgasm and actually act on the same neural receptors as narcotics like heroin or cocaine. Any rugby player will tell you that the adrenaline thrill that comes from a tackle which lays out the opponent is the sort worth banging your head for. That season, three of the most devoted players ended up with concussions.
These days I could probably get away with saying that I work my ass off at the gym; realistically though, strength training hasn’t done a thing to diminish its veritable size since I started seriously hitting the weight room three years ago. I had let a couple of months of cafeteria food and then a determined coach get to me and – Poof! – there I was, doing weighted squats and dumbbell curls for an hour-and-a-half three days a week. With every push up I counted and every weight I added to the barbell, I could feel my body strengthen, my muscles grow and my overall health improve.
After spending rugby practice running horseshoe-sprints (don’t ask), I came home to lie on my couch, revel in the glory of sore muscles and gloat in front of my roommates – just a little bit. I put a granola bar between my teeth, picked up my Women’s Health magazine and flipped straight to one of those articles that tells me how awesome I am.
“Dude!” I yell to my roomies in the kitchen around the oats in my mouth. “I burn an extra 120 calories a day for every three pounds of muscle. Did you know that? God, that’s awesome.”
A blonde head sticks out around the corner with the sort of “duh” expression the girls I live with have come to reserve for me. “I’ve seen your pipes, T. All you fucking do is eat.”
It’s true. Between the gym, rugby practices and kickboxing classes, I get hungry. And when I get hungry, I get weak, tired, indecisive and – worst of all – I became a straight-up raging bitch. Getting enough of the right type of nutrition all the time is not only necessary, but unfortunately complicated for any athlete. Do I get enough protein? What about my complex carbs? Does that triple-decker sandwich have enough vitamins, acids and fats to keep me going? Or was half a block of cheese not the right choice? High-intensity athletes can need up to twice the amount of nutrients as a non-athlete – like the football player who needs 150g of protein daily as opposed to the average 75g – and are put at risk of micronutrient deficiency (which results from restricting diets) and the female athlete triad (disordered eating, amenorrhea, and osteoporosis). And let’s not even get into just how much of my paycheque goes directly to food.
I pop a piece of bread in the toaster, grab myself a banana to munch on while I wait and flip back to my magazine. On the next page, I’m told that weight training not only has me eating more, but I get the added benefit of more stable joints. Sweet. Curious, I asked the physiotherapists who work with the varsity teams at UVic what they thought when I went to the Athletic Training Room later that week before practice.
“Oh I am a massive advocate of weight training,” says the girl wrapping tape around my finger. Nodding at the stretch cords and balance boards that litter half of the room, she tells me that the more you prepare your muscles for unexpected movement, the less likely you’ll be to injure yourself.
“Why do you think we get so many first years in here?” one of the trainers pipes up as he massages a calf. “They haven’t had enough time in the weight room yet.”
Thinking back to high school, I did spend a lot more time on the bench – and it had nothing to do with how slowly I made my way down the court. I remember rolled ankles, cramped muscles and pulled groins. When I was off-season too, I can recall a few times that my back spasmed on me in the pool or that I nearly popped a knee skiing. Granted, as a kid I was hardly strong enough to pick myself up off the ground if I fell on the slope and often had to get my frowning father to pull me up.
These sorts of injuries translate into the home for everyone, not just athletes and Colorado State University recently ran a one-year study comparing injury rates and BMI. They concluded that the higher the mass-to-height ratio, the more injuries were reported by the 2,575 adults who participated; the most (26 percent of men injured and 21 percent of women) being reported by the extremely obese. An entire half of these injuries, such as falls or acute overexertion, happened inside the home.
Take my mom, for example. Though she has never been obese, she let a few years at home with the kids get to her until she herniated a disc in her back. The doctors only shook their heads and told her, “Lady, there is essentially nothing wrong with you, but your back muscles are so weak they can’t hold themselves together. Get your fat ass to the gym!” (Or something along those lines.) Twelve years later she’s still working out religiously and now is so fit she not only looks 15 years her junior but could beat up most women that young anyway.
Of course, I would be lying if I said that exercise is the trump-all prevention for injury. Quite the opposite, in fact. The very point of athletics is to push the body to its limits and do it better than the competition. Runners end up with athlete’s foot for spending too much time in their shoes, tennis players dislocate shoulders swinging rackets for hours a day and basketball players develop shin splints just sprinting up and down on solid wood floors.
These injuries are not just normal consequences either. Every single woman I have ever played beside, regardless of the sport, has continued to play through an injury to “tough it out” and win and has often caused more damage for doing so. I have to admit, I’ve done it myself. I once dislocated a finger during a rugby game, popped it back in, and continued playing. I had to spend a month and a half punching without my left hand at kickboxing classes, but that didn’t stop me from trying. When I complained to my trainer about how bloody long it was taking to recover she looked at me, raised an eyebrow and said, “Honey, you play rugby.” Oh yeah.
At home for Christmas holidays shortly after I’d made a lightning bolt out of my finger, I spent the better part of the first hour in my parent’s kitchen with my mother clucking over my tape-covered hand.
“Nishy, you really should be careful. What if it doesn’t get better? We’ll have to chop it off.”
“Yeah, but look what I can do!” I dropped to the linoleum floor and proceeded to do more full push-ups than most women my age and definitely more than my parents dreamed me ever capable of when I was fourteen. And to be honest, my first basketball practices mostly involved me holding my body off the floor from my knees, trembling slightly at the thought of actually lowering myself to the ground with my own strength. Dad, watching from the kitchen table, asked what sort of work out schedule I was running on these days and nodded along as I rattled off my weekly routine.
“So long as you still have time for school,” he said. “And take a break if your body needs it. Don’t over-exert yourself, sweetie; it can be just as bad for you as no exercise at all.”
He’s right, of course, though I still have a hard time believing it. The problem with exercise is that the hormone release and the resulting “runner’s high” experienced makes it surprisingly easy for a serious athlete to over-train. One of my best friends, for example, has spent the last eight months doing nothing but training to improve his fight statistics and – though he doesn’t see it – is experiencing some considerable symptoms as a result: insomnia, moodiness and a compulsiveness to exercise. And after every two months of hard time at the gym, his body has developed a tendency to crash completely and leave him so sick he can hardly crawl out of bed.
Getting back from the gym over the break, I flopped down on the carpet in my living room and channel-surfed my way to a rerun of The Biggest Loser. I adore the way pitting a bunch of people against each other in a weight-loss competition is ridiculous and extreme, but still manages to showcase the hard work I admire. Plus, you know, I get to feel like a rockstar just watching it. Thirty burpies? Whateeeever. Two hundred crunches? Puh-leeze. Not to mention that the episode that I’d found was one from the beginning of the season, when all of the contestants range from extremely to morbidly obese and simply getting to the show counted as exercise for them.
I watched as they set up a challenge, huddling the players as close to each other as their girths would allow and explaining that they would be walking up a set of slowly rotating escalators to find out who could stay on the longest. Great, I thought, popping baby carrots into my mouth. This is going to be the most exciting show ever. They all waddled up the stairs, took their positions and, once the buzzer sounded, began huffing their way upwards. Two minutes and thirty six seconds later, it was over. Seriously. I just about choked on my carrot. That was it? That was all that an entire quarter of the North American population was capable of?
Fuck the bruises, sore muscles and scars that I am covered in; at least I can move. Thanks to the dogged-asshole insistence of my parents, I never forgot how to run after a ball, or how good sweating feels, or how to bike to school or make my muscles scream. I get to walk down the street knowing I look good doing it and knowing that I can run to catch my bus. I could have been another one of the 5.5 million obese Canadian adults. I could have run the greater risk of premature death, diabetes, heart, stroke, breathing problems, and arthritis. But instead, I feel strong. I feel healthy. And I’m capable of rocking short shorts while kicking some serious ass.
Friday 9 April 2010
This Side of West
So, a while back I was called in by the up-and-coming ambitious names of the writing future to help out and write a few random things for their literary journal, This Side of West. Yeah, me in a journal. Who'd a thunk? Nevertheless, I raked something marginally respectable together for them to publish. The book is now available for the low, low price of $12.95 (I think?) or - if you use my guest bathroom - you can read my copy for free on the can.
*****
I’ve always liked to imagine that I’m worldly. It makes me feel good, you know? Sitting around my buddy’s ash covered table, twirling a peeled beer bottle, I’ll whip out references to my foreign friends like they’re some kind of celebrity.
“Oh, you know my friend Eduarrrdo,” I’ll say, rolling the “r” to accentuate his exoticness, “was just telling me he might meet me in Prague.” Propping my feet on the adjacent plastic chair, I’ll switch the topic, asking someone about their friend from work because, you know, I wouldn’t want to rub in just how traveled I am. Not outright, anyway.
It takes that special sort of occasion to let myself indulge in full-on, egocentric story telling. I’ll slur my way through a recounting of that one time, in Schwitscherland, when I smoked pot on the train and went to see bears in a pit. And the crowds will ooh and they’ll ahh and they’ll proclaim a new round of Beer Pong in my honour, and I’ll feel awesome.
Then, someone will lean on my shoulder, spilling cheap rum down my cleavage, and suggest I write a story about it.
“Oh, well, the, ah, keyboard could never do such a story, um, justice,” I’ll say, waving down their protests and insisting that my travels are almost too epic to be written down. Then, I’ll retreat behind the plastic cup-covered table, and turn my attention to the crooked projectiles of a friend’s ping-pong ball and away from my ineptitudes as a writer. At home later, I’ll look wistfully at my laptop, before I stumble and decide it’s time to sprawl on top of my covers.
When morning and the hangover comes, I will be no more able to type the story than the night before, regardless of how much more accurately I’d hit the keys. Really, all I’d done was get high and look at bears. Of course they were Swiss bears and it was European pot, but that’s nothing more to write about. Anyone six shots deep would have thought I’d been to the moon, seen a dragon – without a helmet – and lived to tell the tale.
So I leave my laptop out of it, forget that I fail to find inspiration in the setting sun of Schwitscherland, and pick up another Canadian.
“Did I ever tell you that Froweeen wants to visit when I’m in Egypt?”
*****
I’ve always liked to imagine that I’m worldly. It makes me feel good, you know? Sitting around my buddy’s ash covered table, twirling a peeled beer bottle, I’ll whip out references to my foreign friends like they’re some kind of celebrity.
“Oh, you know my friend Eduarrrdo,” I’ll say, rolling the “r” to accentuate his exoticness, “was just telling me he might meet me in Prague.” Propping my feet on the adjacent plastic chair, I’ll switch the topic, asking someone about their friend from work because, you know, I wouldn’t want to rub in just how traveled I am. Not outright, anyway.
It takes that special sort of occasion to let myself indulge in full-on, egocentric story telling. I’ll slur my way through a recounting of that one time, in Schwitscherland, when I smoked pot on the train and went to see bears in a pit. And the crowds will ooh and they’ll ahh and they’ll proclaim a new round of Beer Pong in my honour, and I’ll feel awesome.
Then, someone will lean on my shoulder, spilling cheap rum down my cleavage, and suggest I write a story about it.
“Oh, well, the, ah, keyboard could never do such a story, um, justice,” I’ll say, waving down their protests and insisting that my travels are almost too epic to be written down. Then, I’ll retreat behind the plastic cup-covered table, and turn my attention to the crooked projectiles of a friend’s ping-pong ball and away from my ineptitudes as a writer. At home later, I’ll look wistfully at my laptop, before I stumble and decide it’s time to sprawl on top of my covers.
When morning and the hangover comes, I will be no more able to type the story than the night before, regardless of how much more accurately I’d hit the keys. Really, all I’d done was get high and look at bears. Of course they were Swiss bears and it was European pot, but that’s nothing more to write about. Anyone six shots deep would have thought I’d been to the moon, seen a dragon – without a helmet – and lived to tell the tale.
So I leave my laptop out of it, forget that I fail to find inspiration in the setting sun of Schwitscherland, and pick up another Canadian.
“Did I ever tell you that Froweeen wants to visit when I’m in Egypt?”
Thursday 25 March 2010
Curiosity
Every day growing up, I would hear the same thing yelled at me over and over again. “Stop asking so many damn questions!” Honestly. You think I don’t shut up now? Imagine me six-years-old. I wanted to know everything, understand everything, touch everything, smell everything, try everything, hell I even wanted to taste everything. Building with a second door? “Mom, why does that building have a second door?” Man with a muzzled dog? “Dad, why does that dog have a cage on his mouth?” And when he sighed and told me something about keeping its mouth shut (and then going on to mutter something about buying one), I’d look back at the dog with a small “oh”.
“Do all people have dogs with muzzles? Can I have a dog? How old do dogs get? How many kinds of dogs are there? Can I touch that dog? Have you ever eaten a dog? Can I eat a dog?”
The problem is, not a damned thing has changed since I hit puberty and moved out of the house. I swear to god, were you to give me the option of a million dollars or a shoebox with mysterious contents (What could be in it? Flight tickets? A lease to a house in the Caribbean? Oh! A lizard? What about a billion dollars?), I’d be hard pressed to choose the million. And I’m not exactly rolling in dough.
The other day I stumbled upon a tray sitting on a pillar outside covered in mysterious potato-like lumps (Why were they outside? Why were there so many? And on a tray? Were they edible? Who would have put them outside, were that the case?). Naturally, I stopped dead and side tracked to go pick one up. I poked it and squished it and smelled it a little, but just as I was breaking it in half, a man stepped out of the building beside me.
“Put that down! What – did you just fucking think you’d go help yourself to something to eat! Throw that out! I can’t use it!”
Flabbergasted, I backed away from the plastic tray, potato-hunk in hand and told him that I had no idea it was his and had no intentions of eating it. “But… what is it?” The man, however, had huffed his way back through the door without even the courtesy of telling me and I spent the rest of the day wondering what on earth I had just picked up. And the worst part is that I still don’t know what the fuck the thing was.
All that being said, I got a message the other day from a guy I haven’t talked to in two years (I had to ask myself, what’s he doing now? Is he still in Calgary? What does he do with his spare time? How old is he, again? I wonder if he still goes out for drinks.). It was a short, sweet, simple little note telling me he enjoyed my writing. Dope. No, really – it totally made my day. But it made me wonder (apart from what pieces he’s read, whether he usually reads, if he’s been creeping on my facebook statuses, etc.), how many people actually read these things? Honestly. I get so many completely random, unexpected people tell me that they have, in fact, read some of the shit I post online that I really, really, really wonder who reads this. Am I imagining all of this? Am I posting stories to the vast, electronic emptiness that is my future career? Are these people even real?
So, please. Let me know? Because it is driving me up the motherfucking wall.
“Do all people have dogs with muzzles? Can I have a dog? How old do dogs get? How many kinds of dogs are there? Can I touch that dog? Have you ever eaten a dog? Can I eat a dog?”
The problem is, not a damned thing has changed since I hit puberty and moved out of the house. I swear to god, were you to give me the option of a million dollars or a shoebox with mysterious contents (What could be in it? Flight tickets? A lease to a house in the Caribbean? Oh! A lizard? What about a billion dollars?), I’d be hard pressed to choose the million. And I’m not exactly rolling in dough.
The other day I stumbled upon a tray sitting on a pillar outside covered in mysterious potato-like lumps (Why were they outside? Why were there so many? And on a tray? Were they edible? Who would have put them outside, were that the case?). Naturally, I stopped dead and side tracked to go pick one up. I poked it and squished it and smelled it a little, but just as I was breaking it in half, a man stepped out of the building beside me.
“Put that down! What – did you just fucking think you’d go help yourself to something to eat! Throw that out! I can’t use it!”
Flabbergasted, I backed away from the plastic tray, potato-hunk in hand and told him that I had no idea it was his and had no intentions of eating it. “But… what is it?” The man, however, had huffed his way back through the door without even the courtesy of telling me and I spent the rest of the day wondering what on earth I had just picked up. And the worst part is that I still don’t know what the fuck the thing was.
All that being said, I got a message the other day from a guy I haven’t talked to in two years (I had to ask myself, what’s he doing now? Is he still in Calgary? What does he do with his spare time? How old is he, again? I wonder if he still goes out for drinks.). It was a short, sweet, simple little note telling me he enjoyed my writing. Dope. No, really – it totally made my day. But it made me wonder (apart from what pieces he’s read, whether he usually reads, if he’s been creeping on my facebook statuses, etc.), how many people actually read these things? Honestly. I get so many completely random, unexpected people tell me that they have, in fact, read some of the shit I post online that I really, really, really wonder who reads this. Am I imagining all of this? Am I posting stories to the vast, electronic emptiness that is my future career? Are these people even real?
So, please. Let me know? Because it is driving me up the motherfucking wall.
Wednesday 24 March 2010
Viceps
The instant I see his wiry frame turn the corner, a smile splits my face and I launch myself in his direction, hurtling into a bear hug.
“Codyyyy!” It’s been way too long. He drops his arms around my waist and asks, grinning, if I’m ready for a beer or seven.
“Yeah, dude. How was your summer? Any crazy stories? How were the chicks? Oh man, I have so many stories!”
Cody opens the door and I follow him under the red neon signs and into the Thursday evening crowd. This pub has never failed us; we’ve been getting drunk together here since we turned legal three years ago and it’s the first place I go every time I’m back in Calgary. He swings his jacket onto the wooden back of one of the small chairs to the side of the room. Jesus, his shoulders are benefiting from all that fight training. I follow suit and sit across from him, smacking my palm on the solid table and demanding he begin at the start.
“Of my trip? Or of my women?” he asks, raising a slim eyebrow and I smile; he knows me disgustingly well. I can’t help but think like the men I’m so in love with. I’ll clink beer glasses to a well-executed tackle and take a punch in the shoulder for making a crack at the size of a buddy’s manhood. I’ll weasel out weekend blow job stories and throw darts with the best of the boys; hell, I might even be the fucking champ when it comes to being goddamn vulgar. But I love good gossip.
Cody’s chosen a great spot; the guy facing me from the table behind him is rocking a faux-hawk and a wicked jaw-line – almost like Mike’s, actually. Cody leans in, head narrowly missing the low, dusty lamp, and tells me about this one time at a beach in Puerto Vallarta and this other, after a bad case of food poisoning.
“So there I was, making out with this hot Australian at four or five in the morning and she’s got one hand down my pants when suddenly I realized, ‘Shit! Gotta go!’” he laughs. “Hah, yes, I know: terrible pun. I knew you’d like it. I tried to make it happen after that, but every few minutes I had to run, and there was no way I could explain that gracefully.”
The waiter butts in and I order a jug of honey brown, tilting my head slightly in his direction and sliding a hand up my neck. If only every man I knew could fill a shirt that admirably, thought I’m pretty sure I would get a lot less done were that the case.
“Did I ever tell you about my boss in Spain?” I ask after the waiter‘s left with our request, and Cody shakes his head, leaning back like he’s apt to, waiting for me to rattle off another story.
“Well, Paco – how typically Spanish is that? – Paco just loved women. He was the kind of guy that would forget we were talking the instant one walked by our bar. Granted, I learned a lot of different ways to say ‘tits’ in Spanish.”
Naturally, this provokes a brief vocabulary lesson and we sit there throwing dirty foreign words at each other loud enough to hear an offended gasp come from the couple in a booth across the room. Sneaking a look, I wonder what kind of tablette de chocolat the jaw-line guy one table over might be sporting. Last time we got together, Mike wasted no time throwing his shirt down to show his own off.
“Anyway, Paco. He was so bad that whenever I bent over to pick something up he would stop to watch and then ask me whether I‘d be inclined to help him do inventory later.”
“Did you?” Cody asks; the sort of question implying he’d already assumed so.
“Nah, too old. He was pretty good looking, though. And Spanish, awesomely Spanish.”
Cody smirks, hand waiting on top of the empty green coaster.
“Did I mention I love Hispanic women? They made me want to stay in Ecuador forever. Maybe I can find one to polish my door knobs and handle my broom stick, if you know what I mean. Anyone else in Spain?”
“A couple - oh, thanks.” The waiter’s back with our beer and filling glasses. He has the most steely pipes I’ve seen in a long time; I can just imagine his phonebook-ripping skills.
“Did you just lick your lips?” Cody asks once our server is gone.
“Pff, no.” Yes, definitely. “But there was this one guy… Crazy motherfucker knew a girl he wanted to marry. At 21. Marry. How ridiculous is that?”
“Ridiculous. I can’t even find a woman I don’t want to strangle after hearing her babble for two hours.”
“Hey! Some of us know how to converse!”
“You’re not a woman, you don’t count,” Cody tells me, placing a hand on mine and attempting to rub in some sort of comfort. “No one interesting on your end? It must be hard for you, considering your ineptitude as a woman.”
It really is. I get bored of men faster than a sugar-hyped six-year-old in a university lecture hall, and it doesn’t help that I spend more time hanging with my guy friends than I do painting my nails. Finding someone that is both man enough to carry me home when I’ve pulled a muscle and keep my sexual attention past Tuesday is really fucking difficult. Although, Mike did do a bang up job of squashing that spider for me last week.
“Asshole.”
His eyes crinkle and he raises a glass. The pub has become a clinking whirl of pre-weekend celebrations and we’re no longer the only ones that are catching up at the top of our voices. People have started to crowd around the table behind Cody and it’s a shame, since I no longer have a clear view of any of the god-like examples I saw milling the pub before. I look around for the waiter; the jug’s empty and I wouldn’t mind a reason to bring him around again.
“What ever happened to that tall guy?” Cody asks, remarkably focused for someone who just helped me finish a jug.
“Which one?” I say, scanning the crowd for scruffy faces and broad shoulders; maybe he’s here.
“The one who took you out?”
Oh, Mike. His eyes do the cutest little scrunch when he laughs.
“Eh. I don’t know. I mean, he’s kind of funny. And he’s sort of interesting, I suppose.” And I guess I really like him. I swig the dregs of my beer and shrug. Like hell it‘s ever going to work out; I’ll probably be unable to let him hold my hand on the couch and he’ll likely find a petite blonde to bake him cookies. “But I don’t know if he’s anyone I want to see with clothes on.”
Snorting, Cody picks the jug up and waves it at the waiter from across the room, who nods and hurries towards the bar.
“You’re just afraid of commitment. You can‘t even say the word ‘boyfriend.’”
“No!” It‘s a problem. I’d rather be single than bend to any sort of restrictions, regardless of how much I might like the reason behind them. “You know I’m just fucking picky. Besides, variety is the spice of life. Why would I settle for one ride when I have so many different models to choose from?”
Cody laughs and I smile. This is exactly what guy friends are for – never mind boyfriends and cuddling. The waiter works his way through the crowd and, smiling, stops by to switch the empty jug for a gloriously full one. His smile doesn’t have a thing on Mike’s. Cody refills both of our glasses.
“Here’s to you,” he says, raising his beer to meet mine above our wooden table. “May you be awesome forever.”
I down glass. I can really only be awesome on my own.
“Codyyyy!” It’s been way too long. He drops his arms around my waist and asks, grinning, if I’m ready for a beer or seven.
“Yeah, dude. How was your summer? Any crazy stories? How were the chicks? Oh man, I have so many stories!”
Cody opens the door and I follow him under the red neon signs and into the Thursday evening crowd. This pub has never failed us; we’ve been getting drunk together here since we turned legal three years ago and it’s the first place I go every time I’m back in Calgary. He swings his jacket onto the wooden back of one of the small chairs to the side of the room. Jesus, his shoulders are benefiting from all that fight training. I follow suit and sit across from him, smacking my palm on the solid table and demanding he begin at the start.
“Of my trip? Or of my women?” he asks, raising a slim eyebrow and I smile; he knows me disgustingly well. I can’t help but think like the men I’m so in love with. I’ll clink beer glasses to a well-executed tackle and take a punch in the shoulder for making a crack at the size of a buddy’s manhood. I’ll weasel out weekend blow job stories and throw darts with the best of the boys; hell, I might even be the fucking champ when it comes to being goddamn vulgar. But I love good gossip.
Cody’s chosen a great spot; the guy facing me from the table behind him is rocking a faux-hawk and a wicked jaw-line – almost like Mike’s, actually. Cody leans in, head narrowly missing the low, dusty lamp, and tells me about this one time at a beach in Puerto Vallarta and this other, after a bad case of food poisoning.
“So there I was, making out with this hot Australian at four or five in the morning and she’s got one hand down my pants when suddenly I realized, ‘Shit! Gotta go!’” he laughs. “Hah, yes, I know: terrible pun. I knew you’d like it. I tried to make it happen after that, but every few minutes I had to run, and there was no way I could explain that gracefully.”
The waiter butts in and I order a jug of honey brown, tilting my head slightly in his direction and sliding a hand up my neck. If only every man I knew could fill a shirt that admirably, thought I’m pretty sure I would get a lot less done were that the case.
“Did I ever tell you about my boss in Spain?” I ask after the waiter‘s left with our request, and Cody shakes his head, leaning back like he’s apt to, waiting for me to rattle off another story.
“Well, Paco – how typically Spanish is that? – Paco just loved women. He was the kind of guy that would forget we were talking the instant one walked by our bar. Granted, I learned a lot of different ways to say ‘tits’ in Spanish.”
Naturally, this provokes a brief vocabulary lesson and we sit there throwing dirty foreign words at each other loud enough to hear an offended gasp come from the couple in a booth across the room. Sneaking a look, I wonder what kind of tablette de chocolat the jaw-line guy one table over might be sporting. Last time we got together, Mike wasted no time throwing his shirt down to show his own off.
“Anyway, Paco. He was so bad that whenever I bent over to pick something up he would stop to watch and then ask me whether I‘d be inclined to help him do inventory later.”
“Did you?” Cody asks; the sort of question implying he’d already assumed so.
“Nah, too old. He was pretty good looking, though. And Spanish, awesomely Spanish.”
Cody smirks, hand waiting on top of the empty green coaster.
“Did I mention I love Hispanic women? They made me want to stay in Ecuador forever. Maybe I can find one to polish my door knobs and handle my broom stick, if you know what I mean. Anyone else in Spain?”
“A couple - oh, thanks.” The waiter’s back with our beer and filling glasses. He has the most steely pipes I’ve seen in a long time; I can just imagine his phonebook-ripping skills.
“Did you just lick your lips?” Cody asks once our server is gone.
“Pff, no.” Yes, definitely. “But there was this one guy… Crazy motherfucker knew a girl he wanted to marry. At 21. Marry. How ridiculous is that?”
“Ridiculous. I can’t even find a woman I don’t want to strangle after hearing her babble for two hours.”
“Hey! Some of us know how to converse!”
“You’re not a woman, you don’t count,” Cody tells me, placing a hand on mine and attempting to rub in some sort of comfort. “No one interesting on your end? It must be hard for you, considering your ineptitude as a woman.”
It really is. I get bored of men faster than a sugar-hyped six-year-old in a university lecture hall, and it doesn’t help that I spend more time hanging with my guy friends than I do painting my nails. Finding someone that is both man enough to carry me home when I’ve pulled a muscle and keep my sexual attention past Tuesday is really fucking difficult. Although, Mike did do a bang up job of squashing that spider for me last week.
“Asshole.”
His eyes crinkle and he raises a glass. The pub has become a clinking whirl of pre-weekend celebrations and we’re no longer the only ones that are catching up at the top of our voices. People have started to crowd around the table behind Cody and it’s a shame, since I no longer have a clear view of any of the god-like examples I saw milling the pub before. I look around for the waiter; the jug’s empty and I wouldn’t mind a reason to bring him around again.
“What ever happened to that tall guy?” Cody asks, remarkably focused for someone who just helped me finish a jug.
“Which one?” I say, scanning the crowd for scruffy faces and broad shoulders; maybe he’s here.
“The one who took you out?”
Oh, Mike. His eyes do the cutest little scrunch when he laughs.
“Eh. I don’t know. I mean, he’s kind of funny. And he’s sort of interesting, I suppose.” And I guess I really like him. I swig the dregs of my beer and shrug. Like hell it‘s ever going to work out; I’ll probably be unable to let him hold my hand on the couch and he’ll likely find a petite blonde to bake him cookies. “But I don’t know if he’s anyone I want to see with clothes on.”
Snorting, Cody picks the jug up and waves it at the waiter from across the room, who nods and hurries towards the bar.
“You’re just afraid of commitment. You can‘t even say the word ‘boyfriend.’”
“No!” It‘s a problem. I’d rather be single than bend to any sort of restrictions, regardless of how much I might like the reason behind them. “You know I’m just fucking picky. Besides, variety is the spice of life. Why would I settle for one ride when I have so many different models to choose from?”
Cody laughs and I smile. This is exactly what guy friends are for – never mind boyfriends and cuddling. The waiter works his way through the crowd and, smiling, stops by to switch the empty jug for a gloriously full one. His smile doesn’t have a thing on Mike’s. Cody refills both of our glasses.
“Here’s to you,” he says, raising his beer to meet mine above our wooden table. “May you be awesome forever.”
I down glass. I can really only be awesome on my own.
Wednesday 24 February 2010
Egyptian Royalty
“Hey Lady! Yeah, where you from? England, Habibti? America?”
In a street the size of my apartment hallway, surrounded by tables of glass hookahs and plastic pyramids, I stand out.
“Lady, very beautiful, very beautiful! Come here, Habibti!”
A heavyset man sweating in the evening heat calls to me from his seat, gesturing at the door of the jewellery shop beside him, his legs tucked away from the tourists filing through the city bazaar. The next vendor jumps into the path my mother and I are exploring, getting close enough to put a hand on my back and for me to smell the day’s work on his skin. Not that the air doesn’t already reek of flavoured smoke and familiar men in close quarters.
“Look, Habibti, I have special price for you, you so beautiful. Where you from? I have special price, look.”
I smile appreciatively, but don’t stop to browse; neither Mom nor I have any need for highlighter yellow t-shirts. I am not the only white woman on vacation, nor am I the only one to warrant a Habibti, or “my darling”, as I wander with my mother, fingering the scarves and nosing the spices. But I am one of the few under fifty, and the only one to stand six feet tall; next to my five-foot-two-and-a-quarter, 51-year-old mother, I might as well be covered in gold.
Walking anywhere through sandy Cairo has earned me a slew of stares, calls and questions. After all, my stature means that I stand a head above most of the men in the Egyptian capital and that there is just that much more ankle to stare at under my long skirts. In the mosques, I’m given gowns for decency (though they hardly covered more than my own clothes did); in the streets, school girls come to touch my hair and tell me their names; in the restaurants, my mother is offered camels for my hand - and with her years of market bartering, she could easily make a fortune. More than a handful of strange locals pull me into embraces only to take out cell phones for pictures and gather around to discuss my dimples in bubbling Arabic as Mom watches, smiling slightly and bobbing her head to the local music. The Egyptian attention has made me into royalty.
Arm in arm with my mother, I pull her away from a tobacco shop and it’s greasy, bearded vendor and towards one of the silver-packed windows that line the alleyway. I direct her around a puddle caught in the bricks and we stop in front of a dusty ledge to check out the jewellery.
“Oh, that one looks nice, honey,” she says, patting my hand fondly and nodding at a simple, hoop necklace.
“Hey! Look at you, beautiful! Habibti, come here so I can see you.”
I tug on Mom’s arm again, towards the woven straw sacks a few stalls down and farther from the tobacco vendor. Between the layers of hanging linen and above the humid smoke, the smell of a hundred spices rise like a wall from the sacks. I pause just outside to let Mom don her reading glasses and examine the labels.
“Oh, wow, Habibti, wow. Come to talk to me, Habibti. Where you from?”
She is squinting at a bag of saffron; I ignore the tobacco vendor.
“Oh, the things I can do to your body, Habibti.”
Mom snaps.
“Excu-use me?” She turns face-to-sweaty-chest with the bearded man; glasses perched on her nose, saffron clenched in her fist. “Who do you think you are?” She put a finger up to his face and he sputters. “How dare you talk like that to my daughter?” Every word becomes slower, clearer; she perfected the art of the oral-lashing years ago. “How dare you be so rude? And in front of her mother.”
Staring at my little, bespectacled mother, he backs up. The other salesmen stop pressing in on us and Mom takes full advantage of her stage.
“How dare you say things like that. Did your own mother not raise you right? Who do you think you are?”
The tobacco vendor’s beard waggles and accented apologies begin to tumble out; he means no disrespect, his mother would never have raised him like that, he is very, very sorry. At this point, Mom decides she’s had enough, puts her arm back through mine, and marches towards the crowded exit of the bazaar.
“Wait, Madame, wait! I know people, I will get you good prices! Respect, Madame, respect!” He follows us past the silver stores, around circles of men sipping tea and puffing smoke rings, and under banners of pashmina scarves.
“Madame, please! I want to give you good price. Take my business card.”
Mom pauses, and he shoves an apologetic hand towards her, waving his little card in the air. I stand behind her, watching as he begs her wide-eyed to accept his small paper offering of penitence. She huffs - too good for anything less than gold - turning once again to walk out as I tail her, all eyes on my mother.
“I‘m sorry Madame! Have a good evening, Madame!”
I was really just a lady to the queen.
Monday 1 February 2010
My Life Is Addicted
A few weeks ago, I was supposed to read two chapters of a French book for class. Instead, I spent three and a half hours reading poorly spelt and grammatically incorrect short English stories online. No joke, man. I am about as focused as a six-year-old with pixie sticks when it comes to doing homework, especially if an internet connection happens to be around.
I’d pulled my book out of my bag and opened my laptop on the table, fully prepared to pretend to accomplish something this afternoon. I am so fucking pro at pretending. Within minutes, I’d checked all four emails (including the one I haven’t actually used since grade nine), updated my Facebook status twice (“is doing homework.” followed by “can’t wait for the bar this weekend!”), and caught up with my daily horoscope (it’s weird how right the stars are about my tight budget). Then, the worst thing that has ever happened to my academic career appeared on the screen.
What I had done, was stumble upon a four sentence story about a grandmother and a “that’s what she said” joke and giggled. That was it. I read, I laughed, I clicked, and I wasted the rest of my afternoon. What I had done, was discover an online archive called MyLifeIsAverage, where nothing is average and Harry Potter fans are heroes.
By the time I reached page 37, my roommate was reading over my shoulder and the tomato sauce was burning to the bottom of the pot on the stove. Jesus, I have never wanted to be average so bad. Who were these people that had been tackled by grown men in bunny suits, had cats with ninja powers, or actually saw police men buying doughnuts? How would I ever get to be that awesome – I mean – average? All along I’d been convinced that eating cereal for breakfast, calling your mom on the weekend and getting the median mark on the midterm were more or less considered average. But no, this site had brought together just the sort people who had gone ahead and changed the very definition.
A week went by, and it became tradition at home to read the funniest stories out loud to those unfortunate enough not to be logged into the website themselves. Not that I really needed to hear it, of course, as I had gotten to the point of reading the latest submissions on an hourly basis. Twilight-dissing teachers made me smile, Banana-decked teens got me roaring, and online proposals had me cheering. I shit you not, I was addicted.
I was home, sick, from class one day when I realized that I had gone on yet another 4 hour binge on the site. I’d even gone back to the first of the 2000 pages, and was reading through the very old and very average, original submissions. Good god, I was no longer living my own life, but full out dependant on those of others; I had no magical cats, no prankster teenaged neighbours, and no boyfriend that I would ever want to propose to me with a pokeball. I called it quits, over saturated, and decided I would no longer count on my profs to credit me for the artistic merits of my doodles. I gave up waiting to be average and decided to be normal again.
Today, two weeks later, I was taking the bus home when I saw a man full-out sprinting with a massive, euro-trip style backpack. Brushing his teeth. And I smiled; finally, MLIA.
I’d pulled my book out of my bag and opened my laptop on the table, fully prepared to pretend to accomplish something this afternoon. I am so fucking pro at pretending. Within minutes, I’d checked all four emails (including the one I haven’t actually used since grade nine), updated my Facebook status twice (“is doing homework.” followed by “can’t wait for the bar this weekend!”), and caught up with my daily horoscope (it’s weird how right the stars are about my tight budget). Then, the worst thing that has ever happened to my academic career appeared on the screen.
What I had done, was stumble upon a four sentence story about a grandmother and a “that’s what she said” joke and giggled. That was it. I read, I laughed, I clicked, and I wasted the rest of my afternoon. What I had done, was discover an online archive called MyLifeIsAverage, where nothing is average and Harry Potter fans are heroes.
By the time I reached page 37, my roommate was reading over my shoulder and the tomato sauce was burning to the bottom of the pot on the stove. Jesus, I have never wanted to be average so bad. Who were these people that had been tackled by grown men in bunny suits, had cats with ninja powers, or actually saw police men buying doughnuts? How would I ever get to be that awesome – I mean – average? All along I’d been convinced that eating cereal for breakfast, calling your mom on the weekend and getting the median mark on the midterm were more or less considered average. But no, this site had brought together just the sort people who had gone ahead and changed the very definition.
A week went by, and it became tradition at home to read the funniest stories out loud to those unfortunate enough not to be logged into the website themselves. Not that I really needed to hear it, of course, as I had gotten to the point of reading the latest submissions on an hourly basis. Twilight-dissing teachers made me smile, Banana-decked teens got me roaring, and online proposals had me cheering. I shit you not, I was addicted.
I was home, sick, from class one day when I realized that I had gone on yet another 4 hour binge on the site. I’d even gone back to the first of the 2000 pages, and was reading through the very old and very average, original submissions. Good god, I was no longer living my own life, but full out dependant on those of others; I had no magical cats, no prankster teenaged neighbours, and no boyfriend that I would ever want to propose to me with a pokeball. I called it quits, over saturated, and decided I would no longer count on my profs to credit me for the artistic merits of my doodles. I gave up waiting to be average and decided to be normal again.
Today, two weeks later, I was taking the bus home when I saw a man full-out sprinting with a massive, euro-trip style backpack. Brushing his teeth. And I smiled; finally, MLIA.
Friday 15 January 2010
Silly Woman
The other day I was munching on my lunch and flipping through the Martlet when I came across a read so compelling, I nearly walked into a truck, two people, and summarily ended up falling into a pond (I’d say puddle, but no one calls something two feet deep a puddle). I am, of course, referring to “La femme de la revolution.”
Upon reading that women aught to “rise up against oppression, reject society’s definition of beauty and revolutionize how we view ourselves,” I snorted. Then, I made it to the line in which I’m told females need “to stop being objectified, sexualized and judged” and I gagged a little. By the time I reached the part where I’m told that I “must drastically alter the misconception that females are subordinate and powerless” and that I, in fact, “hold all the power to define [my] fate” I could taste the banana bile. At this point, I was so absorbed by the informative properties of the article that I had completely forgotten that my feet were still swimming.
I don’t know who the author is, but Jesus, does she ever have her cotton panties in a bunch. Though I must commend her thorough research (who knew that Ariel Levy believes women have become “chauvinistic pigs?”) and ability to avoid broad, sweeping generalizations, I simply can’t imagine why on earth someone would go through the trouble of dating themselves by comparing Playboy to genital mutilation. After all, I came into the article believing I was about to learn to which point “female dignity, pride and respect” is vanishing, but ended it with a vague feeling that I had just completed last centuries Intro to Women’s Studies.
Although I wouldn’t dare suggest that perhaps the author aught to untangle her panties, I do wonder what exactly she suggest I do. Should I begin ignoring the critique my “chauvinistic” female professors have for my work? (Though I’m not sure I’ve got the balls, ironically.) In the name of condemning “unrealistic societal ideals,” should I stop applying makeup post kickboxing class and throw out my revealing dresses? My high heels? What about my bras? Society has been pretty hard on chicks that don’t wear them lately. Hell, maybe I aught to give up showering completely. I’m fit enough, why should I listen to the rest of what society has to say?
Though I do appreciate the nod made to women in positions of power (think Hillary Clinton and Michaëlle Jean), I fail to see why other women should not wear fitting dresses or dance naked. I myself have been known to wear my rugby spandex underneath short skirts while going shot for shot with my guy friends and scream at spiders I find lifting couches. I have to wonder if the feminists of the last century meant not to create a society in which men can become strippers or women can vie for presidency, but rather to establish one in which my fellow females are required to forgo feeling “womanly” and men must ignore the assets we were born with.
In retrospect, I applaud the Martlet for continuing to publish such exquisitely informative articles. The past couple of years have really shown me just what types of individual expression and freedoms my fore“mothers” fought for in the ‘60s and ‘70s. It’s liberating to know that I can count on the women of UVic to be just as outraged as I am upon being checked out. How dare men appreciate my fashion sense or styled hair?
Upon reading that women aught to “rise up against oppression, reject society’s definition of beauty and revolutionize how we view ourselves,” I snorted. Then, I made it to the line in which I’m told females need “to stop being objectified, sexualized and judged” and I gagged a little. By the time I reached the part where I’m told that I “must drastically alter the misconception that females are subordinate and powerless” and that I, in fact, “hold all the power to define [my] fate” I could taste the banana bile. At this point, I was so absorbed by the informative properties of the article that I had completely forgotten that my feet were still swimming.
I don’t know who the author is, but Jesus, does she ever have her cotton panties in a bunch. Though I must commend her thorough research (who knew that Ariel Levy believes women have become “chauvinistic pigs?”) and ability to avoid broad, sweeping generalizations, I simply can’t imagine why on earth someone would go through the trouble of dating themselves by comparing Playboy to genital mutilation. After all, I came into the article believing I was about to learn to which point “female dignity, pride and respect” is vanishing, but ended it with a vague feeling that I had just completed last centuries Intro to Women’s Studies.
Although I wouldn’t dare suggest that perhaps the author aught to untangle her panties, I do wonder what exactly she suggest I do. Should I begin ignoring the critique my “chauvinistic” female professors have for my work? (Though I’m not sure I’ve got the balls, ironically.) In the name of condemning “unrealistic societal ideals,” should I stop applying makeup post kickboxing class and throw out my revealing dresses? My high heels? What about my bras? Society has been pretty hard on chicks that don’t wear them lately. Hell, maybe I aught to give up showering completely. I’m fit enough, why should I listen to the rest of what society has to say?
Though I do appreciate the nod made to women in positions of power (think Hillary Clinton and Michaëlle Jean), I fail to see why other women should not wear fitting dresses or dance naked. I myself have been known to wear my rugby spandex underneath short skirts while going shot for shot with my guy friends and scream at spiders I find lifting couches. I have to wonder if the feminists of the last century meant not to create a society in which men can become strippers or women can vie for presidency, but rather to establish one in which my fellow females are required to forgo feeling “womanly” and men must ignore the assets we were born with.
In retrospect, I applaud the Martlet for continuing to publish such exquisitely informative articles. The past couple of years have really shown me just what types of individual expression and freedoms my fore“mothers” fought for in the ‘60s and ‘70s. It’s liberating to know that I can count on the women of UVic to be just as outraged as I am upon being checked out. How dare men appreciate my fashion sense or styled hair?
Monday 4 January 2010
Stations
Arrivals
Two visible clocks? Check. Grease stained, gum smeared cement floors? Check. Well used vending machine? Check. And – oh, look! – the couple making out. They’re my favourite part. Awkward, I know, but watching kids lock braces somehow beats staring at train station floors for three hours. After all, I’d already named every trampled, grey piece of gum I’d seen and pushed a mountain range of cigarette butts together with my feet (being sure to avoid Lucy, Rex, Godzilla and friends); there was nothing more novel to find here than at any other station.
I was mid-adventure and ready to move on. I’d been waiting on my connection from Berlin’s Hauptbahnhof to my grandmother in Prague since noon and the end of platform 12 had not gotten any more exciting as the sun had come down. I expected the long wait but, this being the sixth time in two weeks that I’d had to sprawl over my luggage for a seat, I’d gotten somewhat bored of naming gum and memorizing train schedules. Though, on the bright side, this station’s schedules were yellow and blue, just like the ones in Switzerland.
**************
I was fifteen when I first remember experiencing a real train station; not the day to day, inner-city, light-rail transit BS I’d grown up with, but one that connected not only cities, but entire countries. My new host mother and I were lugging everything I owned and a pair of skis through the tunnels beneath Zurich airport, dodging people until we found our platform. I hadn’t thought that the first thing I’d be doing off the plane was finding my way to a train, nor had I ever imagined a train station could be so… station like. Ducking our way through crowds determined to get somewhere, all I managed were glances from the back of my host mother’s head to the rows of business yellow schedules and billboards along the halls. The platforms were endless, everything was Swiss standard clean, and I had a million questions to ask the woman I hardly knew in front of me. What on earth was a “Gleis?” Wasn’t I here to learn French? How long was the train ride? Where were we going to be living? Like hell I could have even asked; instead, I swung my 45 pound suitcase into the carriage after her and informed her that, “Le train, c’est grand.”
**************
Stepping off the train and into the dry, orange heat of Barcelona’s Estación de Tren years later, I walked into my next adventure. Here, I was alone and eager to test the limits of my Spanish vocabulary. Voices echoed from floor to three story ceiling, chattering at me in bits and pieces as I made my way down the long platform, clutching my purse to my chest and staring at the dark women around me. God, I hoped I was well enough dressed. Jesus, what if the job was a scam and that 6 hour train ride a waste? Not like wasting any more time to panic in front of a cracked girls’ room mirror would do me any good at this point, anyway. I paused in the main hall to reorganize my bags, took a deep breath, and continued through the evening crowds, past a graffitied vending machine, until I found the Salido and street beyond.
Connections
One of the first times I ever got right hammered, I ended my glorious evening hugging the rim of a public toilet as a friend shoved french-fries down my throat. We were killing another Friday night and all thirteen of us had congregated to hang out in the middle of the local train station, sitting on the wooden benches in front of the McDonald’s and doing what teenaged exchange students do best. We were spilling cheap vodka by 9 and drunk by 9:30. Our group got rambunctious, throwing made-up French and bad grammar at each other until we echoed between the tire-sized clock and the arrivals board at the end of the fluorescent hall. This being Switzerland though, nobody said a damned thing until I ran to the garbage can, sticking my head sideways through the open slots, and tried to vomit inside unsuccessfully.
**************
I’d been fanning myself with a folded piece of my itinerary for the last twenty minutes, staring out the window to watch an older madame leaning on the sandy brick ledge and dragging at her smoke. Why had they even bothered with the “No Smoking” sign? By the time I got off the train, not a single one of the dozen smoking passengers prowling the platform could care less about the palm-sized sign, nor the announcement reminding them that smoking in train stations was no longer legal in France. I had abandoned my bags on the train and, wiping at the sweat sitting beneath my hairline, decided to abandon the heat too. Glass doors parted as I entered the air conditioned building, revealing a giant board of arrivals and departures with more empty slots than there were platforms outside. Apparently there had been an “accident of persons” ahead of us that needed to be scraped off the tracks and we all would be waiting for hours thanks to the inconsiderate asshole. I had people to meet and places to discover – just not very quickly. So I wandered into the dusty streets of town but, seeing nothing save a few sandy, crooked buildings and a bank machine, I went back to my platform. Leaning into a corner shaded from the midday sun, I lit a smoke to kill time.
**************
We were supposed to be traveling from the pyramids in Cairo to the temples in Luxor and the train was late. The air smelled like garbage. The people were too pushy. And what did he mean there were no bathrooms? I had come with a tour group and was doing everything I could to make it look as though I hadn’t. I had dragged my bags across the stained floors to the far wall of the crowded platform and sat on top of them, arranging my purse underneath me and my sweater across every open piece of skin I had to avoid foreign scrutiny. Even from here, my shorts-clad group was just as conspicuous against the robes and full suits of the local Muslims as a herd of cattle in a grocery store. I sighed, leaning back against the cement to watch the group buddy up with our tour guide. It was the only way I was going to see Egypt, so be damned if I had to be seen in public places moo-ing sweetly at whatever was put in front of me. I just hoped that no one would start vocally craving McDonald’s in the middle of the local station crowd before we managed to get onto the train and out of sight. I glanced at my watch again and turned to the nearest billboard, decidedly examining Arabic advertising.
Departures
She wasn’t quite sure I would make the train on time; even once we were there thirty five minutes early, coffee in hand, and seated on the very platform I was to depart from. There were maybe two other people, a Czech guard and an accepted silence hanging on the open-air cement. Save, of course, my grandmother’s hopes that I work hard in school, wishes that my brothers and parents were doing well, and occasional speculations as to whether the train was even coming that morning. Though that was quickly answered as a shaking carriage pulled up in front of the wooden bench my grandma and I had gotten comfortable on. We’d been up late last night, drinking that last bottle of wine and wondering where we might like to go next, if either of us made it there. Her soft arm in mine, I walked her to my door and once she’d confirmed my cabin with the guard and watched me put away my luggage, I stepped down from the carriage to say goodbye to her and Prague for what I hoped would not be the last time. Cheeks red with her lipstick, I left to sit at the next window from the door, and waved until I couldn’t see her standing on the concrete ledge anymore.
**************
He tottered towards us down the platform, hollering back to his friends before stopping to lean on the bright red vending machine beside us and ask us where we were from. A bottle popped out of his bag, open and far from full. I looked him over and raised an eyebrow; he was way too fucking scrawny to be able to drink that much. He had appeared just as me and my girlfriends were getting off the train, on our way to raise hell and lower expectations, and admitted he’d overheard our English on the train in to town. Then I told him I was Canadian and he got excited, smashing a hand against the plastic window of the machine with a “noo way.” He was too and he was determined to show a fellow countryman a good time, so we exchanged numbers in the glowing, late night lights of the station hall before heading our separate ways.
He stayed with his family in Switzerland after I went back to mine; graduating high school, working his way through law school, and perfecting the art of lighting a joint with a full glass in hand. A few scattered reunions later, we stood lounging against the grey railings of a different station, my bags between us, as we worked out just where and when we would meet next. It would have to be somewhere, sometime, for some sort of awesome adventure; who gave a shit about the specifics. The train rolled in, cutting us off from a billboard of Venice we’d just been contemplating, and he heaved my bags to me once I’d gotten inside. Dangling out of the train door into the morning air, I gave him a peck as he stood in front of a blue and yellow schedule to thank him for his hospitality, only to be yelled at.
“No, no! We’ve got to do this properly!” he said, kissing my right, left, and then right cheek again before jumping back onto the smudged concrete. I stood with my face pressed between blurred handprints as the train pulled out and mouthed another à bientôt !
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