The following is an excerpt from my internal monologue:
“...
I should write that query. [I want chocolate]
Those are interesting results; I wonder why I got that number. [I want chocolate]
I’d better refine the query. [I STILL want chocolate]
[It wouldn’t take long to go get chocolate]
I’d have to put on my boots and jacket and wander over to another building.
[Ok, works for me because, I want chocolate]
But I shouldn’t eat chocolate; I’m trying to lose weight.
[I STILL want chocolate]
Oh, my query is done, I should check the results.
[Nope, you should go get some chocolate]
I have work to do.
[You would focus better if you had chocolate]
Ok, still not good. Oh, I'm missing a filter.
[You are missing chocolate]
Now to run this new query
[THEN you can go get chocolate]
Hey, I think my numbers match.
[Good, NOW you can go get chocolate]
But I shouldn’t eat chocolate; I’m trying to lose weight.
[You're starting your cleanse next week. This week you can eat chocolate]
I can't concentrate
[Beacuse I want chocolate]
...
”
This has been an excerpt from my chocolate, I mean brain.
“Please send help.”
[Please bring chocolate]
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Why I Ride
I can't imagine what it is like.
Being trapped in your body.
Going from being a free and agile person to slowly losing the use of your legs, hands... entire body.
I can't imagine what it is like.
I can't imagine what people with Multiple Sclerosis have to live with every day.
After a long race I feel like I can't get my legs to move properly, that, no matter how hard I think, my legs just don't function the way they should. It is a strange sensation, it is a bit frustrating, but it is completely temporary.
The MS Bike Tour helps raise money for MS research and other efforts undertaken by the MS Society of Canada. The Tour is a two-day, 180km ride that is undertaken by many people of all fitness levels and for a myriad of reasons.
I know two people who have MS - an uncle of C and the father of S, a good friend of mine. I also know a woman, R, whose mother had MS her symptoms began to show when she was in her 40's. In a way, she was lucky; her symptoms would worsen and abate a bit, then worsen, then abate over and over for 30 years. As R put it; eventually she was trapped in her body, her mind still as sharp as ever but unable to move, her body having had betrayed her.
You may think these people are the reason why I ride, but that's only part of the reason.
The rest of the reason is simple - I ride because I can.
I ride because my friends and family will pledge me to do so. I ride because my small efforts help raise money for a good cause.
I ride because I don't have any other skills that could help find a cure.
I ride because I can't afford to fund the research on my own.
I ride because there are people who cannot afford for me not to ride.
I ride because I can.
I ride for all of those who can no longer ride.
It is that simple, I ride because it is the least that I can do.
If you'd like to support me on the ride, and help people like C's uncle or S's father, then click on the link and pledge my pedals.
It is that simple.
Being trapped in your body.
Going from being a free and agile person to slowly losing the use of your legs, hands... entire body.
I can't imagine what it is like.
I can't imagine what people with Multiple Sclerosis have to live with every day.
After a long race I feel like I can't get my legs to move properly, that, no matter how hard I think, my legs just don't function the way they should. It is a strange sensation, it is a bit frustrating, but it is completely temporary.
The MS Bike Tour helps raise money for MS research and other efforts undertaken by the MS Society of Canada. The Tour is a two-day, 180km ride that is undertaken by many people of all fitness levels and for a myriad of reasons.
I know two people who have MS - an uncle of C and the father of S, a good friend of mine. I also know a woman, R, whose mother had MS her symptoms began to show when she was in her 40's. In a way, she was lucky; her symptoms would worsen and abate a bit, then worsen, then abate over and over for 30 years. As R put it; eventually she was trapped in her body, her mind still as sharp as ever but unable to move, her body having had betrayed her.
You may think these people are the reason why I ride, but that's only part of the reason.
The rest of the reason is simple - I ride because I can.
I ride because my friends and family will pledge me to do so. I ride because my small efforts help raise money for a good cause.
I ride because I don't have any other skills that could help find a cure.
I ride because I can't afford to fund the research on my own.
I ride because there are people who cannot afford for me not to ride.
I ride because I can.
I ride for all of those who can no longer ride.
It is that simple, I ride because it is the least that I can do.
If you'd like to support me on the ride, and help people like C's uncle or S's father, then click on the link and pledge my pedals.
It is that simple.
Friday, May 6, 2011
Only Two Green Lights
The call came in from C's sister Cf - "Are you two free on the 20th?"
C replied - "No." Which spawned a negotiated series of suggested-dates and counter-dates before Thursday the Fifth was decided upon. This, of course, after first ascertaining why a date needed to be settled on in the first place – Cf and her husband, J, had bought, at silent auction, a trip in a private plane and wanted to take C & me to a neighbouring town, called Edson, for dinner.
So it was arranged, Cf & J – along with the pilot R – would fly from their town to our city and then land and pick up C & me and then we’d head off to points beyond for dinner.
What is it that they say about best laid plans?
C & I arrived early and waited in the Passenger Lounge, an interesting cross between a Bus Station and a dilapidated waiting room in a doctor’s office. We sat and waited, both eager, both prepared; C with his camera and a spare set of batteries, me with my camera and a couple of sturdy plastic bags in my purse.
I saw a small red and white plane taxing towards the “Lounge” and said – “That’s probably ours.” And it was! After hand-shakes, introductions and group photos (accompanied with jokes about taking pictures first, before we look green) we were settled into the plane and on our way!
The plane was a small, six-seater “Piper Lance”. J was seated next to the pilot, I was behind the pilot and C was next to me with Cf behind him, alone in the back row. All of us, with the exception of Cf had headsets with voice-activated microphones that allowed us to keep in touch over the sound of the engine. I donned my ill-fitting head-gear just as we began to take off.
We were all smiles and snaps as our heads swivelled around and camera buttons were pressed. R even let J fly for a while and we peppered R with questions about how long he had been flying for
Everything was fun and fine until we got to Edson.
We were flying over the airport and R was pointing out suggestions for dinner.
R started circling around for runway approach and then his voice crackled in my headset: "Oh, don't do this to me now". My focus turned from the scenery to the scene in the cockpit and watched as he began pressing buttons and checking switches.
His focus seemed to be on a triangular set of small green squares and on closer inspection (done discreetly over his shoulder) I saw they read (from left to right, & from bottom to top): “Rear Left”, “Rear Right” and “Front” – two of these buttons were lit, the third – “Front” was still dark.
“Hmm, Edson, I think we have a problem,” my brain announced.
The front landing gear wouldn't go down. Or at least the indicator in the cockpit that is meant to light up when the landing gear was successfully locked in “wheels down” position wouldn't light up.
Which left us all wondering, is the landing gear engaged or isn’t it?
R swapped the buttons around to make sure it wasn’t the indicator that was malfunctioning, nope – top indicator still dark.
R decided it was time to address his passengers and told us what I had already surmised – there was no guarantee that we had front landing gear. He explained that he could attempt to land in Edson, but what he’d prefer to do is head back to City Centre and attempt the landing there as it was closer to his home airfield and there was emergency crews on standby.
“Emergency Crews!?!” My brain yelped as I silently gave C a worried glance. He smiled in response.
As if on queue, an alarm started to sound and a red orange indicator lit up in on the centre of the console “Warn. Gear Unsafe”
Gee, thanks, we hadn’t noticed.
C took of his headset and turned to Cf to tell her what was going on – for Cf, without a headset, was blissfully, or rather confused but not alarmed by our actions.
R got on the radio with Flight Control and told them his intension.
R then said to us that he’d prefer to land on grass, “no sparks”, he said.
“Sparks?!?” my brain yelped and an even more worried expression crossed my face. C was blithely taking pictures out the window.
A minute later FC came back on the radio and explained that City Centre no longer had emergency crews on standby and would we prefer to divert to the International Airport where they do have emergency crews. R replied that that might be better and we made our course correction bearing slightly more to the South.
R dug into his pockets and pulled out his cellphone and began making a call. He stuck the phone under the right ear of his headset. “T, it’s R, I’m having an issue with the front landing gear, don’t know if it is just the light or the landing gear. Give me a call when you get this, thanks.” He hung up and handed the phone to J – “here, if it rings, answer it.”
R metioned to FC his desire to land on the grass and asked if FC knew if there was enough contiguous grass at the International to allow us to land. FC said they’d check and came back a couple of minutes later and said no.
By this time, the air traffic control tower at the International had been informed of our intension and had started to talk to R. Peppering him with questions he seemed a little overwhelmed by.
R and the International Tower agreed that R would fly low along the runway and get the Tower to inspect the front gear to see if they looked down and locked.
C looked at me an grinned, taking off his headset and covering his mic he said to me; “how often do you get to buzz the Tower of the International Airport?”
In a false state of bravado and with was probably my last fleeting bit of humour I replied; “Why do I have the Top Gun theme running through my head?”
An air traffic controller hailed R on the radio and began arranging for us to pass low over runway two and that all traffic would be held for our pass. We could overhear the ATC talking to a plane on the taxiway – asking him to hold his position as we did our fly-by.
And would the pilot mind, ATC asked, having a good look at our front gear and see if it looked down properly.
We all listened as we passed along the runway.
Pilot: “It doesn’t look down, it looks dog-legged and pointing backwards. I don’t think that’s right.”
ATC: “I agree, it doesn’t look down. please advise as to what you’d like to do.”
R said he’d get back to them shortly and pulled away from the airport and climbed in altitude as instructed by the ATC.
By now, R had thought he might like to just take us back to his airport of origin, which had, as he pointed out, several advantages: 1. we could land on the grass, 2. his mechanic could be right on the runway to examine the gear as we did a low fly by of yet another airport. 3. he wouldn’t have to worry about getting the plane towed anywhere and 4. since R, Cf and J all lived there, C and I could get a ride home easily enough.
R asked, what would we like to do.
“Land without blowing up” my wholly unhelpful brain replied.
We all agreed, that heading back to Camrose Airport was the best plan.
R radioed our plan to ATC and FC, they wished us good luck and the helpful voices at FC asked if we needed to have emergency services alerted, as they didn’t have anyone on standby there either. R said he’d call emergency services himself if need be.
C removed his headset, handed it to Cf and asked R to explain again, what his plan was.
“We’ll head to Camrose, T will be there to examine the landing gear, we can fly lower and T can have a good look. If they don’t look down, we will fly around for about an hour or so to use up some fuel, so there isn’t that much in the tanks when we land.
“I’ll try to land the plan holding the nose up for as long as possible and I’ll cut the engines just before touchdown in the hopes that the propeller stops rotating in case the nose gear doesn’t hold.”
“..thereby having us do a face plant in the grass sending shards of propellor through the windscreen and into me.” My wholly unhelpful brain added. “before we burst into flames.”
Cf handed C back the headset. C grinned at me, put his headset on and went back to taking pictures.
R put the plane on Autopilot and pulled out a binder from the pocket beside his seat, “Maybe there’s something I haven’t tried,” he said to J. “Keep an eye out for other planes for me, thanks.” He said and then opened the binder and began flipping though the pages.
It took us about 30 minutes to get to Camrose Airport, in that time, T did call back and arranged to be at the runway for our fly-by.
C had silently examined the plane for emergency exits and had planned his safe exit from the plane in all scenarios.
My brain and I had discussed the shortsightedness of having C be the only person to know where my Will is; how inconvenient it would be to be injured a week before I was to run a half marathon and how unfortunate it was that we never got to switch seats.
Cf wondered how long it would be before she could get to a toilet.
J vowed silently to never again get on a small plane.
As we approached the airport we could see two small collections of people awaiting our arrival. We were in radio contact with T by this time and he instructed us to fly about 150 ft above the ground and he’d have a good look at the gear.
We flew past and T got on the radio “Yeah, your nose gear is definitely not down, have you tried pumping the lever?” (referring to the emergency lever that looks like a hand break (possibly due to the fact that is it identical to a car’s hand break in both appearance and location – between the pilot’s and co-pilot’s seats)).
R replied he’d pulled on it a couple of times but not pumped it. He’d climb to a safe altitude, slow the plane down as much as possible and give it a try.
C, Cf, and I took pictures of the setting sun over the waterlogged farmland.
Climbing to a reasonable altitude, R slowed the plane and began pumping the lever. After about half a dozen pumps the green “Front” light popped on and R cheerfully reported this to T.
T and R agreed that the prudent thing would be to do another fly-by to have a look at the gear again before we attempted to land.
We headed back to the airport and performed another fly-by, in front of a bigger crowd of on-lookers.
T reported that the gear looked down and suggested we attempt to land.
R circled around for a final approach.
C took pictures.
I braced for impact and kept telling myself not to put the pilot’s seat in a death grip (which I did manage not to do, just grabbing it slightly as the front gear touched down and a split second before I knew it wasn’t going to collapse under the weight of the plane).
R had cut the engine before we landed, thought the prop. was still turning when all three wheels touched ground and bounced us along the runway. After a couple of attempts, he got the plane restarted and we taxied to the hangars.
As we headed towards R’s hangar, he apologized for not being able to fly us back to City Centre as his other plane was being worked on and wasn’t flight-ready.
My brain said there was no way in heck it would get on a plane again tonight, and I silently and wholeheartedly agreed with it.
We came to a stop, the doors opened and we all piled out.
Cf was the last to exit and she when down on her knees and kissed the ground. T, who was waiting at the hangar laughed and said he was waiting for someone to do that.
Cf and I made a bee-line for the bathrooms and left the men to examine the plane.
Upon our return we all agreed on dinner at a local restaurant before Cf and J drove us back to the city.
Happily sitting around the table in restaurant; T and R regailed us with storied of mechanical difficulties and near misses and safely on terra-firma, we could laugh and enjoy the stories.
R apologised again for not being able to fly us back to the city and I told him that’s ok, “because there is no way in Heck you’d get me back on a plane tonight.” Everyone laughed and R asked if I had been scared and I admitted I had been a bit, yes.
As Cf and J drove us back to the city, C tried to sleep and I tried to relax. C held my hand and I began to smile.
I smiled, partially because I was safe on solid ground but mostly because I was holding hands with C who, when faced with a stressful situation (while I worried about where my Will was), looked for the exits and the practical way out.
I could not be in better hands.
C replied - "No." Which spawned a negotiated series of suggested-dates and counter-dates before Thursday the Fifth was decided upon. This, of course, after first ascertaining why a date needed to be settled on in the first place – Cf and her husband, J, had bought, at silent auction, a trip in a private plane and wanted to take C & me to a neighbouring town, called Edson, for dinner.
So it was arranged, Cf & J – along with the pilot R – would fly from their town to our city and then land and pick up C & me and then we’d head off to points beyond for dinner.
What is it that they say about best laid plans?
C & I arrived early and waited in the Passenger Lounge, an interesting cross between a Bus Station and a dilapidated waiting room in a doctor’s office. We sat and waited, both eager, both prepared; C with his camera and a spare set of batteries, me with my camera and a couple of sturdy plastic bags in my purse.
I saw a small red and white plane taxing towards the “Lounge” and said – “That’s probably ours.” And it was! After hand-shakes, introductions and group photos (accompanied with jokes about taking pictures first, before we look green) we were settled into the plane and on our way!
The plane was a small, six-seater “Piper Lance”. J was seated next to the pilot, I was behind the pilot and C was next to me with Cf behind him, alone in the back row. All of us, with the exception of Cf had headsets with voice-activated microphones that allowed us to keep in touch over the sound of the engine. I donned my ill-fitting head-gear just as we began to take off.
We were all smiles and snaps as our heads swivelled around and camera buttons were pressed. R even let J fly for a while and we peppered R with questions about how long he had been flying for
Everything was fun and fine until we got to Edson.
We were flying over the airport and R was pointing out suggestions for dinner.
R started circling around for runway approach and then his voice crackled in my headset: "Oh, don't do this to me now". My focus turned from the scenery to the scene in the cockpit and watched as he began pressing buttons and checking switches.
His focus seemed to be on a triangular set of small green squares and on closer inspection (done discreetly over his shoulder) I saw they read (from left to right, & from bottom to top): “Rear Left”, “Rear Right” and “Front” – two of these buttons were lit, the third – “Front” was still dark.
“Hmm, Edson, I think we have a problem,” my brain announced.
The front landing gear wouldn't go down. Or at least the indicator in the cockpit that is meant to light up when the landing gear was successfully locked in “wheels down” position wouldn't light up.
Which left us all wondering, is the landing gear engaged or isn’t it?
R swapped the buttons around to make sure it wasn’t the indicator that was malfunctioning, nope – top indicator still dark.
R decided it was time to address his passengers and told us what I had already surmised – there was no guarantee that we had front landing gear. He explained that he could attempt to land in Edson, but what he’d prefer to do is head back to City Centre and attempt the landing there as it was closer to his home airfield and there was emergency crews on standby.
“Emergency Crews!?!” My brain yelped as I silently gave C a worried glance. He smiled in response.
As if on queue, an alarm started to sound and a red orange indicator lit up in on the centre of the console “Warn. Gear Unsafe”
Gee, thanks, we hadn’t noticed.
C took of his headset and turned to Cf to tell her what was going on – for Cf, without a headset, was blissfully, or rather confused but not alarmed by our actions.
R got on the radio with Flight Control and told them his intension.
R then said to us that he’d prefer to land on grass, “no sparks”, he said.
“Sparks?!?” my brain yelped and an even more worried expression crossed my face. C was blithely taking pictures out the window.
A minute later FC came back on the radio and explained that City Centre no longer had emergency crews on standby and would we prefer to divert to the International Airport where they do have emergency crews. R replied that that might be better and we made our course correction bearing slightly more to the South.
R dug into his pockets and pulled out his cellphone and began making a call. He stuck the phone under the right ear of his headset. “T, it’s R, I’m having an issue with the front landing gear, don’t know if it is just the light or the landing gear. Give me a call when you get this, thanks.” He hung up and handed the phone to J – “here, if it rings, answer it.”
R metioned to FC his desire to land on the grass and asked if FC knew if there was enough contiguous grass at the International to allow us to land. FC said they’d check and came back a couple of minutes later and said no.
By this time, the air traffic control tower at the International had been informed of our intension and had started to talk to R. Peppering him with questions he seemed a little overwhelmed by.
R and the International Tower agreed that R would fly low along the runway and get the Tower to inspect the front gear to see if they looked down and locked.
C looked at me an grinned, taking off his headset and covering his mic he said to me; “how often do you get to buzz the Tower of the International Airport?”
In a false state of bravado and with was probably my last fleeting bit of humour I replied; “Why do I have the Top Gun theme running through my head?”
An air traffic controller hailed R on the radio and began arranging for us to pass low over runway two and that all traffic would be held for our pass. We could overhear the ATC talking to a plane on the taxiway – asking him to hold his position as we did our fly-by.
And would the pilot mind, ATC asked, having a good look at our front gear and see if it looked down properly.
We all listened as we passed along the runway.
Pilot: “It doesn’t look down, it looks dog-legged and pointing backwards. I don’t think that’s right.”
ATC: “I agree, it doesn’t look down.
R said he’d get back to them shortly and pulled away from the airport and climbed in altitude as instructed by the ATC.
By now, R had thought he might like to just take us back to his airport of origin, which had, as he pointed out, several advantages: 1. we could land on the grass, 2. his mechanic could be right on the runway to examine the gear as we did a low fly by of yet another airport. 3. he wouldn’t have to worry about getting the plane towed anywhere and 4. since R, Cf and J all lived there, C and I could get a ride home easily enough.
R asked, what would we like to do.
“Land without blowing up” my wholly unhelpful brain replied.
We all agreed, that heading back to Camrose Airport was the best plan.
R radioed our plan to ATC and FC, they wished us good luck and the helpful voices at FC asked if we needed to have emergency services alerted, as they didn’t have anyone on standby there either. R said he’d call emergency services himself if need be.
C removed his headset, handed it to Cf and asked R to explain again, what his plan was.
“We’ll head to Camrose, T will be there to examine the landing gear, we can fly lower and T can have a good look. If they don’t look down, we will fly around for about an hour or so to use up some fuel, so there isn’t that much in the tanks when we land.
“I’ll try to land the plan holding the nose up for as long as possible and I’ll cut the engines just before touchdown in the hopes that the propeller stops rotating in case the nose gear doesn’t hold.”
“..thereby having us do a face plant in the grass sending shards of propellor through the windscreen and into me.” My wholly unhelpful brain added. “before we burst into flames.”
Cf handed C back the headset. C grinned at me, put his headset on and went back to taking pictures.
R put the plane on Autopilot and pulled out a binder from the pocket beside his seat, “Maybe there’s something I haven’t tried,” he said to J. “Keep an eye out for other planes for me, thanks.” He said and then opened the binder and began flipping though the pages.
It took us about 30 minutes to get to Camrose Airport, in that time, T did call back and arranged to be at the runway for our fly-by.
C had silently examined the plane for emergency exits and had planned his safe exit from the plane in all scenarios.
My brain and I had discussed the shortsightedness of having C be the only person to know where my Will is; how inconvenient it would be to be injured a week before I was to run a half marathon and how unfortunate it was that we never got to switch seats.
Cf wondered how long it would be before she could get to a toilet.
J vowed silently to never again get on a small plane.
As we approached the airport we could see two small collections of people awaiting our arrival. We were in radio contact with T by this time and he instructed us to fly about 150 ft above the ground and he’d have a good look at the gear.
We flew past and T got on the radio “Yeah, your nose gear is definitely not down, have you tried pumping the lever?” (referring to the emergency lever that looks like a hand break (possibly due to the fact that is it identical to a car’s hand break in both appearance and location – between the pilot’s and co-pilot’s seats)).
R replied he’d pulled on it a couple of times but not pumped it. He’d climb to a safe altitude, slow the plane down as much as possible and give it a try.
C, Cf, and I took pictures of the setting sun over the waterlogged farmland.
Climbing to a reasonable altitude, R slowed the plane and began pumping the lever. After about half a dozen pumps the green “Front” light popped on and R cheerfully reported this to T.
T and R agreed that the prudent thing would be to do another fly-by to have a look at the gear again before we attempted to land.
We headed back to the airport and performed another fly-by, in front of a bigger crowd of on-lookers.
T reported that the gear looked down and suggested we attempt to land.
R circled around for a final approach.
C took pictures.
I braced for impact and kept telling myself not to put the pilot’s seat in a death grip (which I did manage not to do, just grabbing it slightly as the front gear touched down and a split second before I knew it wasn’t going to collapse under the weight of the plane).
R had cut the engine before we landed, thought the prop. was still turning when all three wheels touched ground and bounced us along the runway. After a couple of attempts, he got the plane restarted and we taxied to the hangars.
As we headed towards R’s hangar, he apologized for not being able to fly us back to City Centre as his other plane was being worked on and wasn’t flight-ready.
My brain said there was no way in heck it would get on a plane again tonight, and I silently and wholeheartedly agreed with it.
We came to a stop, the doors opened and we all piled out.
Cf was the last to exit and she when down on her knees and kissed the ground. T, who was waiting at the hangar laughed and said he was waiting for someone to do that.
Cf and I made a bee-line for the bathrooms and left the men to examine the plane.
Upon our return we all agreed on dinner at a local restaurant before Cf and J drove us back to the city.
Happily sitting around the table in restaurant; T and R regailed us with storied of mechanical difficulties and near misses and safely on terra-firma, we could laugh and enjoy the stories.
R apologised again for not being able to fly us back to the city and I told him that’s ok, “because there is no way in Heck you’d get me back on a plane tonight.” Everyone laughed and R asked if I had been scared and I admitted I had been a bit, yes.
As Cf and J drove us back to the city, C tried to sleep and I tried to relax. C held my hand and I began to smile.
I smiled, partially because I was safe on solid ground but mostly because I was holding hands with C who, when faced with a stressful situation (while I worried about where my Will was), looked for the exits and the practical way out.
I could not be in better hands.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Happy Birthday to Who?
To me, birthdays matter.
Although I downplay my own, I do appreciate people recognizing my birthday without making too much of a fuss about it.
This year's was just about perfect. I got cards from family and a few close friends. I got my birthday muffin. I arrived home from work and was pleasantly surprised by an apartment full of balloons and streamers (yes, C, I was "pleasantly" surprised - despite my balloon phobia - it was a wonderful gesture). I got a wonderful dinner out with C (we don't go out for dinner much, so it's a nice treat for me) and we went to a movie as well.
Yes, pretty close to perfect - low-key but memorable.
On the flip-side; every so often I like to make a fuss about other people's birthdays! Unfortunately, more often than not, my plans and the Birthday-person’s reality are two very different events.
Several years ago I wanted very much to celebrate a close friend’s birthday with them. I thought Birthday-person (BP, for short) and I could go out for a nice dinner, or we’d order in and I could make a cake or pie for them or do something of their choosing, movie, theatre – just something fun, up to them. BP’s reality (and mine) was that a bunch of BP’s friends (which I don’t know) decided to throw BP a party and, since they didn’t know me, I wasn’t invited. So, instead I grumbled and sulked and felt completely gutted that I wasn’t able to help BP celebrate their big day.
I haven’t had any luck with special celebrations for C’s birthday in past years either. Last year I had to share him with Easter weekend and the year before that I only managed to eek out an afternoon meeting in a coffee shop.
This year, following the balloon and steamer grand gesture (for which C had to leave work early after discovering that since it was my birthday I had decided to only work a half-day) I really wanted to do something special for C’s birthday.
Since I was already cheated out of being the first to wish him a happy birthday (since he is to be out of town until the afternoon of his birthday) and also not able to make him a wonderful birthday brunch, complete with fresh homemade scones and special coffee. I thought; I’ll make him a wonderful dinner – complete with tablecloth and candles – a romantic homemade dinner for two, followed by a delectable dessert (also homemade, of course). Followed by – well, you never mind what I had planned for after dinner. The point is, it was to be special, intimate, and it was to show C just how much he means to me.
That was my plan.
C’s reality (and mine) is something I should have thought of; something, in fact, that I did think of a couple of months ago but had forgotten that I had thought of it. C and I are spending a wonderful evening with his family (his kids, his sister and his mum). I say wonderful and mean it; C has three great kids, a very sweet mum and a really cool sister and I would happily hang out with them whenever asked.
It’s just that I wanted to make C’s birthday special (emphasis on the “I” in that sentence).
And that’s what I realised about my disappointment about C’s birthday – it wasn’t about him, it was about me. Two things in particular about me – 1. I wished I had family close enough (geographically) to spend my birthday with and 2. my grand gesture of “See how much you mean to me” had a silent mirrored message “See how wonderful I am for thinking you are so wonderful”.
Were my plans for C’s big day as much for me as they were for him? By saying “you mean a great deal to me” am I also silently asking “Do I mean the same to you?”
I’d like to think not, but I’m honestly not sure.
Regardless, I have begun making some new plans, for a day that I will ask C to reserve just for me. I will hold the inaugural "C Appreciation Day" and fill it full of all of the things I had thought to do for his birthday.
Because at the root of it – C – you are very special to me and I am really glad you are part of my life and that you welcome me as part of yours.
Happy Birthday!
Although I downplay my own, I do appreciate people recognizing my birthday without making too much of a fuss about it.
This year's was just about perfect. I got cards from family and a few close friends. I got my birthday muffin. I arrived home from work and was pleasantly surprised by an apartment full of balloons and streamers (yes, C, I was "pleasantly" surprised - despite my balloon phobia - it was a wonderful gesture). I got a wonderful dinner out with C (we don't go out for dinner much, so it's a nice treat for me) and we went to a movie as well.
Yes, pretty close to perfect - low-key but memorable.
On the flip-side; every so often I like to make a fuss about other people's birthdays! Unfortunately, more often than not, my plans and the Birthday-person’s reality are two very different events.
Several years ago I wanted very much to celebrate a close friend’s birthday with them. I thought Birthday-person (BP, for short) and I could go out for a nice dinner, or we’d order in and I could make a cake or pie for them or do something of their choosing, movie, theatre – just something fun, up to them. BP’s reality (and mine) was that a bunch of BP’s friends (which I don’t know) decided to throw BP a party and, since they didn’t know me, I wasn’t invited. So, instead I grumbled and sulked and felt completely gutted that I wasn’t able to help BP celebrate their big day.
I haven’t had any luck with special celebrations for C’s birthday in past years either. Last year I had to share him with Easter weekend and the year before that I only managed to eek out an afternoon meeting in a coffee shop.
This year, following the balloon and steamer grand gesture (for which C had to leave work early after discovering that since it was my birthday I had decided to only work a half-day) I really wanted to do something special for C’s birthday.
Since I was already cheated out of being the first to wish him a happy birthday (since he is to be out of town until the afternoon of his birthday) and also not able to make him a wonderful birthday brunch, complete with fresh homemade scones and special coffee. I thought; I’ll make him a wonderful dinner – complete with tablecloth and candles – a romantic homemade dinner for two, followed by a delectable dessert (also homemade, of course). Followed by – well, you never mind what I had planned for after dinner. The point is, it was to be special, intimate, and it was to show C just how much he means to me.
That was my plan.
C’s reality (and mine) is something I should have thought of; something, in fact, that I did think of a couple of months ago but had forgotten that I had thought of it. C and I are spending a wonderful evening with his family (his kids, his sister and his mum). I say wonderful and mean it; C has three great kids, a very sweet mum and a really cool sister and I would happily hang out with them whenever asked.
It’s just that I wanted to make C’s birthday special (emphasis on the “I” in that sentence).
And that’s what I realised about my disappointment about C’s birthday – it wasn’t about him, it was about me. Two things in particular about me – 1. I wished I had family close enough (geographically) to spend my birthday with and 2. my grand gesture of “See how much you mean to me” had a silent mirrored message “See how wonderful I am for thinking you are so wonderful”.
Were my plans for C’s big day as much for me as they were for him? By saying “you mean a great deal to me” am I also silently asking “Do I mean the same to you?”
I’d like to think not, but I’m honestly not sure.
Regardless, I have begun making some new plans, for a day that I will ask C to reserve just for me. I will hold the inaugural "C Appreciation Day" and fill it full of all of the things I had thought to do for his birthday.
Because at the root of it – C – you are very special to me and I am really glad you are part of my life and that you welcome me as part of yours.
Happy Birthday!
Friday, March 18, 2011
Functional Hibernation
I have been struggling for the last couple of weeks, trying to get my life-rhythm back.
This winter has been colder than normal, snowier than normal and downright more miserable than normal and I, in turn have also been more miserable than normal. So, for whatever reason, this winter has been very hard on me.
My “Coping Strategy” for dealing with this most miserable of seasons was to adopt what I called “function hibernation”; which meant I did as little as I needed to do, going outside as little as possible.
I would go to work, get groceries and pretty much everything else was classified as “non-essential” and therefore did not need to be done until the weather warmed up. The problem was, the weather took forever to warm up.
I managed to convince myself that this was an excellent approach to winter. I wasn’t hibernating as I didn’t skip workouts, I just did them either on the treadmill in the fitness room in my apartment building, or on my bike which I had set up on its trainer in my bedroom. The problem was, I had very little human interaction having swapped the camaraderie of my spin group for the “efficiency” of just staying home. I reasoned that the decreased travel time would give me more time thereby allowing me to do longer spins at home than I would do at spin class. However, not having to go to class ultimately meant that I didn’t have to start my spin at any given time after work and workout times began to slip later and later into the evening leaving me with less and less time to do the actual spin.
But I was functioning. I wasn’t hibernating.
I resented having to dress in five layers and still feel cold. I hated trying to drive whilst bundled from head to toe. I hated the narrow roads and the poor traction and visibility.
I could go weeks without having to drive my car. Most weekends C was available to go grocery shopping with me and he would drive. Since I wasn’t going to spin and I could take the LRT to work, I didn’t need to drive during the week.
It was perfect.
…except for the fact that I began to feel like a shut-in.
…and I felt trapped.
…and I missed the outdoors.
But I wasn’t hibernating. I was functioning.
I got used to doing little with my evenings and weekends; having relegated most of my “running around” until such a time as the “weather improved”.
The problem is, the weather has improved – it is still not stellar, it’s colder than normal and it is still more snowy than normal, but it’s not so cold as to freeze the air in your lungs if you happen to be unlucky enough to want to take a deep breath whilst outside; but it has improved – but my momentum hasn’t returned.
I can’t seem to break out of my winter inertia.
Instead of being inspired by the warmer weather I am overwhelmed by the number of things I have “set aside” for better days.
I look at my list then look at my couch and my book sitting next to it and think, “these things have waited for a couple of months, what’s another week?”
I am not hibernating. I am not functioning.
I am avoiding.
…and if I don’t want to fall into a void, I will need to break free of this inertia and start to make things happen.
Winter is over, functional hibernation is over.
As the ruts melt from the road, it is time to get out of my own motivational ruts.
It is time for some Spring Cleaning of the attitude and energies.
Spring is here!
This winter has been colder than normal, snowier than normal and downright more miserable than normal and I, in turn have also been more miserable than normal. So, for whatever reason, this winter has been very hard on me.
My “Coping Strategy” for dealing with this most miserable of seasons was to adopt what I called “function hibernation”; which meant I did as little as I needed to do, going outside as little as possible.
I would go to work, get groceries and pretty much everything else was classified as “non-essential” and therefore did not need to be done until the weather warmed up. The problem was, the weather took forever to warm up.
I managed to convince myself that this was an excellent approach to winter. I wasn’t hibernating as I didn’t skip workouts, I just did them either on the treadmill in the fitness room in my apartment building, or on my bike which I had set up on its trainer in my bedroom. The problem was, I had very little human interaction having swapped the camaraderie of my spin group for the “efficiency” of just staying home. I reasoned that the decreased travel time would give me more time thereby allowing me to do longer spins at home than I would do at spin class. However, not having to go to class ultimately meant that I didn’t have to start my spin at any given time after work and workout times began to slip later and later into the evening leaving me with less and less time to do the actual spin.
But I was functioning. I wasn’t hibernating.
I resented having to dress in five layers and still feel cold. I hated trying to drive whilst bundled from head to toe. I hated the narrow roads and the poor traction and visibility.
I could go weeks without having to drive my car. Most weekends C was available to go grocery shopping with me and he would drive. Since I wasn’t going to spin and I could take the LRT to work, I didn’t need to drive during the week.
It was perfect.
…except for the fact that I began to feel like a shut-in.
…and I felt trapped.
…and I missed the outdoors.
But I wasn’t hibernating. I was functioning.
I got used to doing little with my evenings and weekends; having relegated most of my “running around” until such a time as the “weather improved”.
The problem is, the weather has improved – it is still not stellar, it’s colder than normal and it is still more snowy than normal, but it’s not so cold as to freeze the air in your lungs if you happen to be unlucky enough to want to take a deep breath whilst outside; but it has improved – but my momentum hasn’t returned.
I can’t seem to break out of my winter inertia.
Instead of being inspired by the warmer weather I am overwhelmed by the number of things I have “set aside” for better days.
I look at my list then look at my couch and my book sitting next to it and think, “these things have waited for a couple of months, what’s another week?”
I am not hibernating. I am not functioning.
I am avoiding.
…and if I don’t want to fall into a void, I will need to break free of this inertia and start to make things happen.
Winter is over, functional hibernation is over.
As the ruts melt from the road, it is time to get out of my own motivational ruts.
It is time for some Spring Cleaning of the attitude and energies.
Spring is here!
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Yardsticks and Hand Grenades
I suddenly tuned into the lyrics of the song:
“I will fight for one last breath
I will fight until the end
And I will find the enemy within
Because I can feel it crawl beneath my skin
Dear Agony
Just let go of me
Suffer slowly
Is this the way it's got to be?”
“Fitting.” I thought, sulkily, as I sat on my bike in the dark forcing my legs to turn the pedals, I was sweating profusely, breathing hard and just wanted the workout to be over.
I was angry, frustrated and disillusioned. I was at war, a war I was just beginning to realize I was waging against an enemy I was just beginning to admit I had.
“And I will find the enemy within”
The anger, frustration and disillusionment came from my deep desire to lose weight and my amazing ability to seemingly sabotage myself at every opportunity.
Why was I so completely at odds with myself – how can someone so smart be so stupid?
It was early, really early and it was dark – as dark as my mood.
I’d been on the bike 90 minutes already, and it wasn’t even 0630hrs. I didn’t see it as dedication, I saw it as the ramifications to having skipped the spin the night before – bargaining with myself at the time that I was tired and I could just get up and do it “tomorrow”.
Well, “tomorrow” had arrived, with a vengeance.
But the vengeance was mine, and the target was my lazy self.
I had made the mistake of getting on the scale Tuesday morning to find my weight up, way up and I could think of no reasonable explanation for this. I had been holding steady for a number of weeks hovering on the cusp of dropping through a milestone number.
Milestones are funny things. Like retailers marketing something for $11.99 rather than $12.00; weighing 129 pounds rather than 130, or 139 instead of 140 just seems better. Weighing the “Nine” rather than the neighbouring “Zero” is something I think most women would strive for (maybe even some men).
In the grand scheme of things, just like it’s only a cent, the difference between weighing 139 or 140 on a scale isn’t a large amount – it could be as little as having a small glass of water extra sloshing about in your stomach. The point it, it looks better. Funnily enough, this thought just popped into my mind…in weight loss, optics is everything.
There is some psychological satisfaction of being 139.75 pounds rather than 140.00.
But really my problem that Tuesday morning was I was not quibbling over a quarter pound – I had somehowwandered vaulted away from being a pound away from the highly prized Next-Level-Down to being halfway towards the next level Up.
I know if have fought with my scale before but since I do use it as one of the ways I gauge my progress it frustrates me that it is such an un-reliable beast. I know there are other gauges, other yardsticks that I can measure my success against – unfortunately I choose, more often than not, to hop on the scale and slink back off again dejected and frustrated.
But it’s when I lose sight of the fact that this IS JUST ONE TOOL (and not the best) and then turn my frustration and dejection into an excuse to bring out the self-sabotage weaponry that I really get upset.
That’s why I was cycling with a vengeance; lights off (psychologically I think it is cooler without the light on in the room) three flashlights lighting up key spots: the back cog set (so I know what gear I’m in), the bike computer and workout sheet on my handlebars and the countdown timer on the table next to the handlebars. These three small points of light creating a mini-constellation in the shape of a “Y”.
Why indeed.
I knew why I was riding hard, in some non-religious penitence or self-flagellation. I knew the “damage” I’d done was more than just delaying the workout. It was skipping the Tuesday night workout and replacing it with all the dietary hand grenades I could find. Doubling or tripling the amount of calories I should have consumed.
And yet I did it.
Why did I, when faced with a small setback that might not even be an ACTUAL setback, just a temporary glitch in the measuring equipment, why then did I, pull the pin on the two biggest hand grenades in my arsenal – buying chocolate and skipping a workout.
Somehow, at the time, I could rationalise the purchase and rationalise the skipping of the workout. But now, the morning after, feeling the junk-food hangover and all the guilt I question my very sanity.
Why did I do it? How can I have such a dichotomous mind? Why, instead of getting angry and saying – “right scale, I’ll show you! I’m going to work twice as hard this week and you will register a loss next week.” Albeit no more sensible but in some ways far less self-destructive (if not all that much better for my mental health).
Why, instead redoubling my efforts, do I throw up my arms in defeat and turn to food and laziness.
I don’t know the answer. I don’t know why I have such a Jekyll & Hyde approach to my current weight loss efforts. I don’t know why a perfectly reasonable, sensible, intelligent and rational human being becomes a roiling mass of emotions and self-loathing at the slightest setback on the yardstick, grabbing for the hand grenades only to see sense the next day after the damage has been done.
“Is this the way it's got to be?”
I know the answer to that question is “no”.
I can change. I can improve. If I can find a way to recognise the signs of Jekyll and stay Hyde, forget the hand grenades and accept the yardstick.
It won’t be easy, it won’t be fast, but getting this far with the weight loss has been neither fast nor easy – so I should be used to the pace and the hard work. I need to remember to be patient – just breathe – as my psychiatrist would advise.
Just maybe this self-abasement; this voluntary confession will help me stay honest with my self and on-track with where I want to go. Maybe this is my first "breath".
I want to be a happier and healthier me – and that’s not all about the weight, but it is somewhat about the wait.
“I will fight for one last breath
I will fight until the end
And I will find the enemy within
Because I can feel it crawl beneath my skin
Dear Agony
Just let go of me
Suffer slowly
Is this the way it's got to be?”
“Fitting.” I thought, sulkily, as I sat on my bike in the dark forcing my legs to turn the pedals, I was sweating profusely, breathing hard and just wanted the workout to be over.
I was angry, frustrated and disillusioned. I was at war, a war I was just beginning to realize I was waging against an enemy I was just beginning to admit I had.
“And I will find the enemy within”
The anger, frustration and disillusionment came from my deep desire to lose weight and my amazing ability to seemingly sabotage myself at every opportunity.
Why was I so completely at odds with myself – how can someone so smart be so stupid?
It was early, really early and it was dark – as dark as my mood.
I’d been on the bike 90 minutes already, and it wasn’t even 0630hrs. I didn’t see it as dedication, I saw it as the ramifications to having skipped the spin the night before – bargaining with myself at the time that I was tired and I could just get up and do it “tomorrow”.
Well, “tomorrow” had arrived, with a vengeance.
But the vengeance was mine, and the target was my lazy self.
I had made the mistake of getting on the scale Tuesday morning to find my weight up, way up and I could think of no reasonable explanation for this. I had been holding steady for a number of weeks hovering on the cusp of dropping through a milestone number.
Milestones are funny things. Like retailers marketing something for $11.99 rather than $12.00; weighing 129 pounds rather than 130, or 139 instead of 140 just seems better. Weighing the “Nine” rather than the neighbouring “Zero” is something I think most women would strive for (maybe even some men).
In the grand scheme of things, just like it’s only a cent, the difference between weighing 139 or 140 on a scale isn’t a large amount – it could be as little as having a small glass of water extra sloshing about in your stomach. The point it, it looks better. Funnily enough, this thought just popped into my mind…in weight loss, optics is everything.
There is some psychological satisfaction of being 139.75 pounds rather than 140.00.
But really my problem that Tuesday morning was I was not quibbling over a quarter pound – I had somehow
I know if have fought with my scale before but since I do use it as one of the ways I gauge my progress it frustrates me that it is such an un-reliable beast. I know there are other gauges, other yardsticks that I can measure my success against – unfortunately I choose, more often than not, to hop on the scale and slink back off again dejected and frustrated.
But it’s when I lose sight of the fact that this IS JUST ONE TOOL (and not the best) and then turn my frustration and dejection into an excuse to bring out the self-sabotage weaponry that I really get upset.
That’s why I was cycling with a vengeance; lights off (psychologically I think it is cooler without the light on in the room) three flashlights lighting up key spots: the back cog set (so I know what gear I’m in), the bike computer and workout sheet on my handlebars and the countdown timer on the table next to the handlebars. These three small points of light creating a mini-constellation in the shape of a “Y”.
Why indeed.
I knew why I was riding hard, in some non-religious penitence or self-flagellation. I knew the “damage” I’d done was more than just delaying the workout. It was skipping the Tuesday night workout and replacing it with all the dietary hand grenades I could find. Doubling or tripling the amount of calories I should have consumed.
And yet I did it.
Why did I, when faced with a small setback that might not even be an ACTUAL setback, just a temporary glitch in the measuring equipment, why then did I, pull the pin on the two biggest hand grenades in my arsenal – buying chocolate and skipping a workout.
Somehow, at the time, I could rationalise the purchase and rationalise the skipping of the workout. But now, the morning after, feeling the junk-food hangover and all the guilt I question my very sanity.
Why did I do it? How can I have such a dichotomous mind? Why, instead of getting angry and saying – “right scale, I’ll show you! I’m going to work twice as hard this week and you will register a loss next week.” Albeit no more sensible but in some ways far less self-destructive (if not all that much better for my mental health).
Why, instead redoubling my efforts, do I throw up my arms in defeat and turn to food and laziness.
I don’t know the answer. I don’t know why I have such a Jekyll & Hyde approach to my current weight loss efforts. I don’t know why a perfectly reasonable, sensible, intelligent and rational human being becomes a roiling mass of emotions and self-loathing at the slightest setback on the yardstick, grabbing for the hand grenades only to see sense the next day after the damage has been done.
“Is this the way it's got to be?”
I know the answer to that question is “no”.
I can change. I can improve. If I can find a way to recognise the signs of Jekyll and stay Hyde, forget the hand grenades and accept the yardstick.
It won’t be easy, it won’t be fast, but getting this far with the weight loss has been neither fast nor easy – so I should be used to the pace and the hard work. I need to remember to be patient – just breathe – as my psychiatrist would advise.
Just maybe this self-abasement; this voluntary confession will help me stay honest with my self and on-track with where I want to go. Maybe this is my first "breath".
I want to be a happier and healthier me – and that’s not all about the weight, but it is somewhat about the wait.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Six-word Love Stories
A few Februaries ago; a radio show on CBC asked for love stories, not more than six words long.
I came up with a few (though most of them sound more like bad fortune cookies or "love slogans" than super-short stories).
...I should also add I was single when I wrote most of these (or maybe, as you read them, you'll think I didn't need to tell you I was single).
Offering much love; seeking worthy recipient.
Seeking love; finding jerks! What gives?
Waiting... Call! Please call... Dial tone
Passion begat marriage; reality begat divorce
I thought: “FOREVER!” He thought differently.
The door closes. The heart breaks.
Confessed love. Unreciprocated. Awkward friendship remains.
Wanted love; bought dog; good choice!
Warm paws, constant love, always there.
Four-footed love, 15 years strong.
Heart desires; head debates; conflict ensues.
Tried again, he accepted. Relationship renewed.
Forever comfortable; always wrapped in love.
Tell the ones you care about, that you care about them! Not just today, but everyday and not just with words, but with actions.
I came up with a few (though most of them sound more like bad fortune cookies or "love slogans" than super-short stories).
...I should also add I was single when I wrote most of these (or maybe, as you read them, you'll think I didn't need to tell you I was single).
Offering much love; seeking worthy recipient.
Seeking love; finding jerks! What gives?
Waiting... Call! Please call... Dial tone
Passion begat marriage; reality begat divorce
I thought: “FOREVER!” He thought differently.
The door closes. The heart breaks.
Confessed love. Unreciprocated. Awkward friendship remains.
Wanted love; bought dog; good choice!
Warm paws, constant love, always there.
Four-footed love, 15 years strong.
Heart desires; head debates; conflict ensues.
Tried again, he accepted. Relationship renewed.
Forever comfortable; always wrapped in love.
Tell the ones you care about, that you care about them! Not just today, but everyday and not just with words, but with actions.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Wasted Time
“I need more time.” I declared one day.
I was leaving for a short trip to Mexico but procrastinated for a week about certain things that needed doing and was therefore rather far behind in my pre-trip preparations. Further evidenced by the fact that, only a mere three days before my trip, did it cross my mind to check to see if my Passport was valid – thankfully it was.
The phrase became my silent mantra as I listed off all the things I still had to accomplish before I left for my trip.
Then I thought of Beau.
Beau, my beloved dog, who has been dead for over two and a half years.
It wasn’t necessarily a thought out of the blue, as I had been getting my mini PC up to date and noticed that the picture of Beau that had been my background had mysteriously disappeared. So naturally he was on my mind as I sought out and re-established his fluffy mug as my desktop picture.
Then the phrase returned to me - “I need more time”.
I had uttered those words, or something very similar during the last few weeks of Beau’s life. As if pleading with the Universe to somehow reverse the passage of time that was leading, inevitably to Beau’s passing.
How many ways can these four words be interpreted?
Like a bad actor practicing a line in the mirror - changed the emphasis and changing the meaning - when the context changes, the meaning changes.
In a truly banal fashion, I have no doubt dismissed a waiter or two with these four words hardly lifting my eyes from the menu.
I probably uttered similar words during a particularly tough exam, feeling for certain, that I would be able to complete and conquer the exam if only I had more time.
During races when I made the unfortunate mistake of checking my watch and spending the brain power to extrapolate my progress I, more often than not, would curse internally and realize there was not enough time left for me to complete the distance I needed to and finish the race under my (completely arbitrary) upper time limit.
Then during my working days, deadlines looming with too mush work left to complete the words are uttered again. “I need more time.”
Or, as now, with the trip mere hours away, and a list of things to complete longer still – “I need more time.”
But none are so poignant or plaintive as when facing the loss of a loved one.
As a friend of mine pointed out this week - “There is never enough time.”
Time is something we seem to squander and spend freely and then moments later, lament the shortness of the time left.
I have been squandering a lot of time recently. Getting complacent with time – there will always be another day to do “this”, to do “that”, to say “you matter to me” or “I love you”.
But really, there is never enough time.
I must learn to squander less and treasure more the moments and the people who matter most to me.
I need to make the most of the time at hand because you never know when - “I need more time to get things done” turns into “I need more time to live my life”.
I was leaving for a short trip to Mexico but procrastinated for a week about certain things that needed doing and was therefore rather far behind in my pre-trip preparations. Further evidenced by the fact that, only a mere three days before my trip, did it cross my mind to check to see if my Passport was valid – thankfully it was.
The phrase became my silent mantra as I listed off all the things I still had to accomplish before I left for my trip.
Then I thought of Beau.
Beau, my beloved dog, who has been dead for over two and a half years.
It wasn’t necessarily a thought out of the blue, as I had been getting my mini PC up to date and noticed that the picture of Beau that had been my background had mysteriously disappeared. So naturally he was on my mind as I sought out and re-established his fluffy mug as my desktop picture.
Then the phrase returned to me - “I need more time”.
I had uttered those words, or something very similar during the last few weeks of Beau’s life. As if pleading with the Universe to somehow reverse the passage of time that was leading, inevitably to Beau’s passing.
How many ways can these four words be interpreted?
Like a bad actor practicing a line in the mirror - changed the emphasis and changing the meaning - when the context changes, the meaning changes.
In a truly banal fashion, I have no doubt dismissed a waiter or two with these four words hardly lifting my eyes from the menu.
I probably uttered similar words during a particularly tough exam, feeling for certain, that I would be able to complete and conquer the exam if only I had more time.
During races when I made the unfortunate mistake of checking my watch and spending the brain power to extrapolate my progress I, more often than not, would curse internally and realize there was not enough time left for me to complete the distance I needed to and finish the race under my (completely arbitrary) upper time limit.
Then during my working days, deadlines looming with too mush work left to complete the words are uttered again. “I need more time.”
Or, as now, with the trip mere hours away, and a list of things to complete longer still – “I need more time.”
But none are so poignant or plaintive as when facing the loss of a loved one.
As a friend of mine pointed out this week - “There is never enough time.”
Time is something we seem to squander and spend freely and then moments later, lament the shortness of the time left.
I have been squandering a lot of time recently. Getting complacent with time – there will always be another day to do “this”, to do “that”, to say “you matter to me” or “I love you”.
But really, there is never enough time.
I must learn to squander less and treasure more the moments and the people who matter most to me.
I need to make the most of the time at hand because you never know when - “I need more time to get things done” turns into “I need more time to live my life”.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
A Thin Line
“I don’t suppose potato chips are considered a vegetable;” I thought to myself . Then went on to wonder how many people make excuses like that to eat crap.
Vitamin “enhanced” carbonated beverages came to mind – but that’s more big business trying to help you justify your junk food.
There is only a thin line separating what we EAT from making us FAT.
EAT >> FAT
See it? One thin line.
I walk that line daily. Justifying junk food – “I did a two-hour workout yesterday”, “I’m doing a two-hour workout tomorrow”, “It’s a special occasion”, ‘Just this once”, “I’ve been good for the last little while” – the actual size of the “little while” becomes smaller and smaller as the excuses grow.
It’s only with conscious and concerted and consistent effort that I manage to either lose weight or keep the weight off.
As the excuses climb; so does the weight.
To the degree that I should almost keep track of my excuses as much as I keep track of my eating and exercise. See a bad trend and change it.
I write this now because I have noticed the excuse frequency rising of late and it is reaching an almost alarmingly exponential trend. Hopefully by “outing myself” it can lead me to being more honest and help me see the excuses for what they are – poor justifications for counter-productive behaviours that undermine my forward progress and my ultimate goals.
Vitamin “enhanced” carbonated beverages came to mind – but that’s more big business trying to help you justify your junk food.
There is only a thin line separating what we EAT from making us FAT.
EAT >> FAT
See it? One thin line.
I walk that line daily. Justifying junk food – “I did a two-hour workout yesterday”, “I’m doing a two-hour workout tomorrow”, “It’s a special occasion”, ‘Just this once”, “I’ve been good for the last little while” – the actual size of the “little while” becomes smaller and smaller as the excuses grow.
It’s only with conscious and concerted and consistent effort that I manage to either lose weight or keep the weight off.
As the excuses climb; so does the weight.
To the degree that I should almost keep track of my excuses as much as I keep track of my eating and exercise. See a bad trend and change it.
I write this now because I have noticed the excuse frequency rising of late and it is reaching an almost alarmingly exponential trend. Hopefully by “outing myself” it can lead me to being more honest and help me see the excuses for what they are – poor justifications for counter-productive behaviours that undermine my forward progress and my ultimate goals.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Just a Stone's Throw Away
When my parent's first came to Canada over 40 years ago among the possessions they brought with them was a bathroom scale.
When I was a kid, I used to marvel at this scale. I used to press down on it with one foot and watch the needle move (I even think I jumped up and down on it from time to time too - probably hastening the demise of the scale). What fascinated me most was, it only had the numbers one to about 25 or 30 marked out on it, and when I stood on it, it only went up to four or five and for the longest time, I never knew why.
My Mum eventually explained to me that the scale was in a unit of measurement called a Stone and a Stone weighed 14 pounds and therefore each number represented 14 pounds. Based on my limited math skills at the time, I think I had little interest in the concept of actually weighing myself and continued to enjoy making the needle move up and back.
Ah, yes, the lost innocence of youth.
Now I approach my scale with a combination of fright, loathing and resignation and I glare at it not with interest but more of a keen, almost rabid fixation – will the number be lower than the last time I checked?
Since late October I have been actively trying to get in better shape. Accounting for what I eat and atoning for it as well (in the form of exercise). The exercise has now become a habit and one that I do daily. The accounting for eating has been a combination of forward planning (which works well) coupled with a more-or-less-honest review of reality at the end of each day. Let’s just leave it by saying some days the reality is close to the forward planning, sometimes – meh, not so much.
Since I started my kick-my-own-arse-‘cause-no-one-else-can-do-it fitness routine (I’m not sure the name will catch on, might be a bit verbose) I have lost 16 pounds – that’s more than a Stone (in case you weren’t paying attention earlier).
Now that I have thrown off a Stone and am merely a stone’s throw (two pounds) from my first goal (Mexico here I come) part of me wants to celebrate but then I look in the mirror.
Mirrors and I have always had an unpleasant relationship. They are necessary evils, sort of (and the sort of part relates to their necessity, not their level of evil, because trust me, they are E.V.I.L.).
When I look in a mirror, I always think of the ubiquitous “Hall of Mirrors” – where there are mirrors that distort people every which way. I don’t need one of those – my brain is one of those. When I look in the mirror, I see someone with large hips and thighs.
Even now, after having lost the weight and gained the beginnings of my washboard abs., I still see giant thighs and huge hips.
Even after all this change, I still see myself the same way; overweight and unattractive.
Sad really, since I’m sure the image I see in the mirror is very distorted, and yet, even though I know intuitively it is distorted, I can’t see past the distortion.
So, I begin to wonder – does it matter?
Does all the weight loss and the increased fitness matter if I still see myself as overweight? How much do I need to lose in order to not see it? My next, and ultimate goal weight (only a mere 7 pounds away), or do I need to set a new goal weight, maybe 10, or 15, or 20 pounds away? As someone more eloquent than I once said: “…that way madness lies…”
So I will have to remind myself of my fitness motivation – it was not the number on the scale I was seeking, it was to get in better shape for the summer ahead. There are far better gauges of fitness than the scale (or the mirror) – being able to complete a two-hour spin without feeling dead the next day – having to get your pants altered to have more than two inches off the waist. Both of which I have accomplished, thank you very much Mirror.
So to both the scale and the mirror I say: “O, that way madness lies; let me shun that; No more of that.” You will be merely two gauges among many and nothing more.
When I was a kid, I used to marvel at this scale. I used to press down on it with one foot and watch the needle move (I even think I jumped up and down on it from time to time too - probably hastening the demise of the scale). What fascinated me most was, it only had the numbers one to about 25 or 30 marked out on it, and when I stood on it, it only went up to four or five and for the longest time, I never knew why.
My Mum eventually explained to me that the scale was in a unit of measurement called a Stone and a Stone weighed 14 pounds and therefore each number represented 14 pounds. Based on my limited math skills at the time, I think I had little interest in the concept of actually weighing myself and continued to enjoy making the needle move up and back.
Ah, yes, the lost innocence of youth.
Now I approach my scale with a combination of fright, loathing and resignation and I glare at it not with interest but more of a keen, almost rabid fixation – will the number be lower than the last time I checked?
Since late October I have been actively trying to get in better shape. Accounting for what I eat and atoning for it as well (in the form of exercise). The exercise has now become a habit and one that I do daily. The accounting for eating has been a combination of forward planning (which works well) coupled with a more-or-less-honest review of reality at the end of each day. Let’s just leave it by saying some days the reality is close to the forward planning, sometimes – meh, not so much.
Since I started my kick-my-own-arse-‘cause-no-one-else-can-do-it fitness routine (I’m not sure the name will catch on, might be a bit verbose) I have lost 16 pounds – that’s more than a Stone (in case you weren’t paying attention earlier).
Now that I have thrown off a Stone and am merely a stone’s throw (two pounds) from my first goal (Mexico here I come) part of me wants to celebrate but then I look in the mirror.
Mirrors and I have always had an unpleasant relationship. They are necessary evils, sort of (and the sort of part relates to their necessity, not their level of evil, because trust me, they are E.V.I.L.).
When I look in a mirror, I always think of the ubiquitous “Hall of Mirrors” – where there are mirrors that distort people every which way. I don’t need one of those – my brain is one of those. When I look in the mirror, I see someone with large hips and thighs.
Even now, after having lost the weight and gained the beginnings of my washboard abs., I still see giant thighs and huge hips.
Even after all this change, I still see myself the same way; overweight and unattractive.
Sad really, since I’m sure the image I see in the mirror is very distorted, and yet, even though I know intuitively it is distorted, I can’t see past the distortion.
So, I begin to wonder – does it matter?
Does all the weight loss and the increased fitness matter if I still see myself as overweight? How much do I need to lose in order to not see it? My next, and ultimate goal weight (only a mere 7 pounds away), or do I need to set a new goal weight, maybe 10, or 15, or 20 pounds away? As someone more eloquent than I once said: “…that way madness lies…”
So I will have to remind myself of my fitness motivation – it was not the number on the scale I was seeking, it was to get in better shape for the summer ahead. There are far better gauges of fitness than the scale (or the mirror) – being able to complete a two-hour spin without feeling dead the next day – having to get your pants altered to have more than two inches off the waist. Both of which I have accomplished, thank you very much Mirror.
So to both the scale and the mirror I say: “O, that way madness lies; let me shun that; No more of that.” You will be merely two gauges among many and nothing more.
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