Too Short

26Jan10

I’m sick of creepy, old men. They’re oblivious and lecherous. And they’re incredibly annoying.

Take last Friday night. I dashed out to run some errands while Paul was making dinner. On my walk home, I had two questionables say hello to me. As if I’d respond! I just glared at them. And in the one store I had been in—liquor grant you, but still—I had the older guy who worked there be “all take charge” and treat me like a “lil lady.” Gross.

Often I walk to Whole Foods at lunch. A week doesn’t go by without some creepy, older guy trying to talk to me. Sure, I’m a woman and I’m relatively used to it, but maybe I’m getting more annoyed as I get older (cumulative annoyance) or by their aggression. San Francisco creepy guys are definitely more aggressive than Toronto creepy guys.

Here’s an exchange I had one day:

“Hello beautiful.”

Glare. Silence.

“I said hello. The polite thing to do is to say ‘hi’ back.”

Well, THEN I responded. I told him that I have a choice about whom I want to talk to and I didn’t want to talk to him. I told him to leave me alone.

The thing that astounds me is that they expect a response, or for me to be overjoyed by their overtures. Haven’t they heard of playing fields? I foolishly thought everyone was born with a radar – an awareness of whom they can “get.” Maybe these men have lost that awareness along with their waistlines and their teeth. Of course I’m beautiful to them! Any woman aside from Medusa is!

A complete creep made me jump out of my skin a few weeks ago. It was around 10 p.m. I was a block from home and waiting at the lights of the busiest street in the city. I was checking something on my iPhone. This horrible, gruff voice started telling me how…exquisite—yes, I believe that was the word—I was. He was so close it felt like he was breathing on my neck. I actually was scared. Since cars were still flying by, I could only take a step or two to put some distance between me and Mr. Wheezy. I turned to see who the freak was. There was this crazy-haired, fat man, eyes aglow, hands a flutter, spouting out what he saw as my virtues. I couldn’t even say anything I was so in shock (and fear). I did note that he may be stoned before the light thankfully turned green. I avoided the desire to run and instead walked quickly away from him. Shudder.

I have a theory about why I get all of this horrible, unwanted attention from these pathetic guys. I’m small and relatively short. I have lots of attractive friends and sure, like all women, they get bugged. But I get bugged quite a bit more. My only other friend who has to put with the same amount of inanity is also short. I think we look like easy prey.

I hate creepy, old men. I’m going to get some mace and blast them all.


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Injury

16Jan10

I have a healthy ego. However, I learned maybe it’s too healthy, thanks to injury.

Last April, I broke a bone in my wrist when I was snowboarding, got bored, and decided to attempt my first jump. Ouch. That meant no more snowboarding for the season and—once I realized it was a break and not a sprain—a long hiatus from yoga. No plank, upward dogs, downward dogs, or many of the usual for me.

Without snowboarding, but especially yoga, things started to feel a little weird. On top of it, I wasn’t biking in SF then. The initial route I had plotted to work made me feel like I was cycling on a highway. Three of my favourite things were gone, and only in hindsight do I see how much their absence affected me. Not only was I not getting the exercise and meditation I’m used to and crave, I wasn’t doing things that in some way helped define me. What you choose to do, says a lot about you. I was a little at a loss.

Then, just when my wrist was on the mend, my sciatica really acted up. Good grief. However, the timing turned out to be good. It was the final straw. I had been plagued with varying degrees of pain down my left leg (even into my shoulder and neck) ever since my bicycle accident almost eight years before. Chiro, accupuncture, physical therapy, massage, and osteo hadn’t helped. I decided to finally go to a sports doctor.

This doctor helped. He explained all about spinal discs (L5, S1 in particular) and nerves in a way that made sense. He got me into physio (groan, again), but this therapist also helped. Within one session, my pain went from a six to a one. Wow. So for anyone reading this who lives in SF, I would highly recommend the Sports Clinic at St. Francis Memorial Hospital.

Having my pain decrease was really eye-opening. I slept better. I could walk around for long periods of time without feeling like my leg would unhinge at the hip. I think my temper even improved – being in pain can make you have a short fuse.

I got to thinking about other stuff. I decided I should try biking again. I plotted a new route. I still avoid the massive hills, but I no longer feel like I’m on a highway. Biking in SF is way nuttier than Toronto but, for me, it’s better than not biking at all.

During physio, I still wasn’t allowed yoga or, rather, much of it. It turns out I have a hyper flexible back, so I can crunch my discs really easily. Therefore, there was no backending whatsover for me, and that really killed any asana flow. And, duh, no wonder my sciatia had persisted!

Woe was me for a while. Here I had been doing yoga fairly faithfully for 10 years. And now I was stopped for months and months. While I was getting myself out of the pain rut, I also had to get myself out of a thinking rut. It wasn’t about the fact that I did yoga, but WHY I did yoga. I had to think bigger and actually apply the theory. After getting over the pity party in my head, I realized I just needed to find something else that was routine-based, cerebral, and non-cardio. I found a wonderful pilates trainer. Although I like that yoga-related type of exercise and will continue it, I still find yoga to be the compelling mistress.

So finally, last week, I returned to a yoga routine. I’ve had to pay close attention to what causes the slightest twinge of pain. Inevitably, it’s when I listen to my ego. It’s frustrating to only be able to do the tiniest cobra. Heaven—and my back!—forbid an upward dog. I must keep my knees a bit bent in forward stretches so I don’t strain my back. Constantly I have to try to disregard the voice in my head – the voice that tells me what someone who’s done yoga for a long time SHOULD do or act like. I have to act like a beginner. It’s hard. I’m writing this to try to justify it yet another time to myself. Interestingly, it’s possible I’ve never been so present in my practice.

Through my significant year of injury, I was and still am astounded at what creatures of habit we all are. We often define ourselves too narrowly. I put up with what I didn’t have to for way too long. I’m almost glad that I broke my wrist.

It’s all got me thinking about my other ruts….


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Jet Lag Snippet

15Jan10

swollen-eyed. bleary-eyed. sleepy at 8 p.m. and awake at 5 a.m. after three trips in three weeks, i’m on toronto time. ugh. i’m anxious and distracted. i hate jet lag.


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Teeth are Stylish

01Jan10

When I was back in Toronto for the holidays, I paid more attention to people’s outerwear than I had in the past. Having left sweater-weather behind in San Francisco, I was preoccupied with being warm and how others were going about that rather tiring task.

I had noticed before, but never so definitely how people under 20 often shun warmth for—I guess—style. They don’t wear hats. Their jackets are open. They wear shoes rather than boots. Yep, if you’re under 20-years-of-age, chances are great that you think less is more even when the temperature is dropping and nose hairs are freezing.

I thought back to about grade six or so, when I became the proud owner of Cougar boots. You know, the light-brown, leather ones with the red lining, and the ever-so-long nylon laces? Très stylish, especially when paired with my navy Adidas bag. Of course, I tied my boot laces loosely, thus ensuring that the red lining was exposed because the boot tongues flapped over a bit. I happily set out on my walk to school, not minding the cold because I knew with certainty that I looked cool.

What wasn’t cool is that before I hit the half-way point of my walk, I also hit the sidewalk. I face-planted, narrowly missing taking out my front teeth. I easily attributed my wipe-out to slippery snow or ice, and kept sauntering on. But after the same crashing down happened a few more times over the next couple of days, and I very obviously was on a bare, windswept sidewalk at least once – well, I had to take stock of the situation. I was grateful I hadn’t reached my friend’s house yet, and that the guy I liked was no where in sight.

So at that tender age of 11 or 12, I came to the harsh revelation that my cool boots were making me walk like a loser. Or, more accurately, I was tying my cool boots like a loser. The laces were too loose. They could catch a hook of the neighbouring boot and take me down at random.

I started tying up my boots tightly after that, forcibly hiding the red lining. I even convinced myself I still looked cool because I no longer was wiping out and finding my face an inch from pavement.

I’m glad I learned the lesson early on that you can have style and warmth…together. Most people over 20 years, who live in a northern climate seem to embrace that concept. I had to admire Torontonians during the holidays and how they make their style statements by their choices of knitwear, jackets, and boots. Colour, chunkiness, and length are the things that matter.

As for the people who don’t see the statements waiting to be made with the cornucopia of layers, I have to wonder what it’ll take. Me, I almost lost some teeth.


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Take Three

16Dec09

I was pick-pocketed on a busy bus and discovered it only a couple of hours later, when I opened my purse. I couldn’t find my wallet despite effectively burrowing to the bottom of my bag, where everything ends up. I didn’t get that sickening pit in my stomach. I accepted that, yes, wallet number three was gone.

I knew exactly what to do. Seven years before I had lost my wallet in Costa Rica; my wallet had also been stolen about four years ago. Now I keep only the bare minimum in my wallet. I went home to my handy-dandy folder of ID numbers and crucial phone numbers. I cancelled cards and applied for new ones.

Even though I did everything I could, that night I had weird dreams about my wallet being gone. In one dream, someone stole my identity. I also kept waking up intermittently, feeling paranoid and wondering if the door was locked. I even got up to check it.

The next morning, when I was thinking a little more clearly, I was fascinated about how bizarrely we’re wired. Sometimes logic doesn’t prevail. In daylight, I could see that my mind was linking this theft with the previous one.

That whole incident was very upsetting. Deb and I had left our purses just inside the foyer of my house. Apparently when we were downstairs watching movies, someone tried the unlocked front door, walked in, and helped themselves to our bags. It’s only when she was getting ready to leave that we realized what had happened.

I felt so violated. I also was angry because the one time I had forgotten to lock the door – look what happened! The cops came but it was painfully obvious they had better stuff to do. Their questions and report were just a formality. I felt more safe once the locksmith came in the wee hours and replaced all of the locks.

Things, however, got worse. A cop called early Monday morning, waking me with questions that he needed answered in order to finish his report. When I was in the shower, it struck me that a lot of the questions were redundant with the ones asked by the cops on Saturday night. Since I had to fly to NYC for work, I got Colin to check with the station. He called me later to confirm my suspicion and share the creepiness: the cops hadn’t called. Great, our house was being cased! Until we got an alarm system, he wouldn’t leave me at home alone. I dreaded going into the kitchen because I felt on display, given the large, glass doors leading out to our backyard.

It took an alarm system (albeit kind of gross) and a couple of months before I felt safe in my house. But ever since, whenever I’m stressed, I wake up in the middle of the night, either to wonder about the front door being locked or inevitably to go and check it.

The mind does play tricks, but sometimes for good reason.


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Lump

02Dec09

This post is an important reminder for all of the wonderful women in my life.

A couple of days before leaving for Hawaii, I had my yearly physical. I never thought much of having one. I rarely get sick and I always feel really healthy. So I had time stand still when the doctor was examining my right breast and said that she felt something. Just like that, my heart and the suspect breast dropped through the examination table and the cold floor below, into a gaping hole.

I tried to focus on the doctor’s questions. No, there was no history of breast cancer in my family, but my sister had had a scare with a cyst about a year ago. The doctor then said something about the lump in my breast not being hard, but kind of squishy, which is characteristic of a cyst. She wanted me to make an appointment before my vacation, so I could have an ultrasound as soon as I returned.

She also asked if I do monthly breast exams. I had to sheepishly answer, no. I felt really ridiculous. Here I exercise regularly, eat healthy, and proactively deal with physical hiccups as soon as they surface, yet I don’t do breast self-exams. Crazy. How long had the lump been there? I had no clue. Foolish.

I chose denial (or maybe it chose me) for the next two weeks and I had a fantastic vacation. I lost only a few hours sleep when I woke up one night and I thought of all of the horrible things breast cancer would mean. During those tedious hours, I played out lots of awful scenarios. However, I also got re-acquainted with the well of determination in me. I would fight! And I even tried to think of a perk: a wig could be cool. But overall, I was really sad to think one of my girls may be sick and may have to be lopped off.

One day, Paul and I were driving around Kauai listening to crazy funny surfer radio when next thing we knew, these dudes were talking to a doctor who had called in about (duhn duhn duhn) – BREAST CANCER. Talk about a crazy coincidence. What the doctor said was really interesting. In the U.S., from the age of 40 upwards, women are encouraged to get yearly mammograms. However, each mammogram increases their risk of cancer by 1% because it exposes their delicate tissue to radiation. I panicked upon hearing that because when I had called for my ultrasound appointment, the receptionist informed me that she was going to automatically schedule me for a diagnostic mammogram, which my doctor hadn’t even mentioned.

I returned from vacation and had a few days before my appointment. I got in touch with Michelle whom I can always count on for sound medical advice. She concurred that the radiation from yearly mammograms isn’t good, and encouraged me to clarify that I wanted an ultrasound first and then a mammogram only if necessary. She also told me about breast MRIs, which give no radiation. I called the breast health centre and explained my concern about radiation. I said I was interested in progressive diagnosis – ultrasound, breast MRI, and then mammogram. The receptionist noted all of that but suggested I speak with the technician during my appointment.

The fateful day arrived. I felt emotionally—and physically—weak. As luck would have it, I had had food poisoning just the day before. I was grateful for calm Paul who stayed with me through the hospital check-in and all of that. Since I was going to be tested for upwards of two hours, I sent him back to work. Little did I know they were going to tell me the results immediately after!

Well, they did. My story ends happily this time. I only had to have an ultrasound. I had a few cysts. Relief. I truly felt the weight of my good luck when I was leaving and saw a woman crying in the waiting room. My heart got all twisted up.

All you lovely ladies out there, please learn from my scare. Do your breast self-exams monthly. And be sure to understand the procedures and tests you’re sent for.


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Duality Snippet

12Oct09

late-night spadina station. i hurry from the subway to the streetcar. near the column a homeless guy urinates with (ahem) abandon. everyone picks up their pace, regretting the reason.

fast-forward 12 or so hours later. it’s mid-day and the same spot. this time i’m retracing my steps to the subway. a fragile fluttering catches the corner of my eye. almost warily, i turn towards the column. a pretty black and yellow butterfly dances about, seemingly confused by the walls and roof. suddenly there’s collective acuity. the crowd shares a just perceptible pause to admire the pretty, little prisoner.


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Stupid Tourist

20Sep09

from my travel journal: 19 july 09
kathmandu, nepal

I felt like a stupid tourist at Pashupatinath. Zsoka had said, “Go see the burning bodies.” But it didn’t register until I was there that I was trespassing (or so it felt to me) upon families’ funerals.

As soon as we paid our admittance fee, a man who wanted to be our guide hurried us up some stairs and proudly presented the platform we stood on. He gestured to the river and then ushered us to the platform’s walled edge. I tried to distance myself from him because I didn’t want a guide. I was wondering how we were going to lose him. Those thoughts were hastily swept away when I peered over and saw we were right above a couple of funeral ghats. A foot was just being licked by orange flames. My stomach jumped into my mouth. I felt sick – a human body was burning less than 10 feet from me. I also felt liking becoming invisible. I felt I had mis-stepped boundaries and cultures. I wouldn’t want groups of foreigners watching my loved ones’ funerals. Some things are meant to be private or, in this case, shared only within a known community.

Things got worse, in my opinion. (I’m very aware that I may have projected my personal discomfort, but I don’t think so given the glares we got from families.) We left the platform—and the guide—and crossed a bridge, which took us over the sacred river. Facing us were stone steps, like prehistoric bleechers. On them were at least 30 or so other foreigners all wearing—groan—matching red t-shirts. They magnified my tourist humiliation. The steps. The shirts. A disrespectful sporting motif tinged it all for me. What must these locals think of us? (And yes, I may as well have been wearing a red t-shirt.)

Sure, you can argue that the temple is a UNESCO world heritage zone for which tickets are sold. Sure, tourist revenue helps with the up-keep of the reverent area. But, I highly doubt the locals who are there, trying to say good-bye to their loved ones, were ever asked if they minded the foreign attendees. From the cold looks they gave us, I’m guessing an overwhelming “no.”

I took one surreptitious photo of the funeral ghats. There was an eerie beauty to the smoke and fire above the river, reaching up the late-day sky. When I focused on that view, I felt the reverence I wanted to communicate to the mourners. Stowing my camera away, casting my eyes down, and getting out of there as quickly as I could were the ways I knew to show some respect for the sadness that permeated the place.

The whole experience reminded me that I always have to put thought into where I go as a tourist. I feel I usually do. I can’t recall another place that overwhelmed me with regret. (You could even argue that that’s good.) The experience underscored to me that forethought is always so important. I hate feeling like a stupid tourist.


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Fifteen Minutes

08Sep09

from my travel journal: 19 july 09
kathmandu, nepal

All Kathandu’s traffic—foot, bicycle, auto—travelled and converged together in a water-like swirl down the main streets. The amount of hassling was high, but maybe that was requisite because the energy was also high. Walking was a challenge. But I sometimes like when things that should be easy, are hard. Puts things in perspective. And, believe me, my perspective got battered.

Aside from the traffic’s black spit-up, the city is vivid. Saturated saris. Overflowing stores. Painted pilgrims. Stone idols with pigments pressed on. Decorated rickshaws. And all moving, or being moved, at a frantic pace, often like a photograph’s blur. In hindsight, Kathmandu made a good impression on me because I loved its craziness. However, I didn’t like a lot of things that happened to me there. Especially….

Stephanie and I were walking down a street in search of a cab to get to the “monkey temple” (Swayambhunath).  Two boys walked on the other side of her. The older (12-years-old?) held the hand of the younger (eight-years-old?). The little one kept pace with her, trying to catch her eye and fiddling with a foil-wrapped candy. He offered a hundred rupees intermittently and something else that I couldn’t catch. Naïvely I thought maybe he was offering the candy. But once they passed us, Stephanie, looking somewhat horrified, said she thought it was for sex. And with my stomach lurching, I came to the same conclusion.

On our circle back, a ten-year-old boy flanked me. He flung out, “15 minutes, 500 rupees.” I felt sick because, yeah, he had to be offering sex. I had been offered everything else, from drugs to trinkets. His proposition only mentioned time and money, leaving an implicit and, therefore, explicit blank. He was clandestine, furtive. Even when I had been offered drugs, the tactic, though similar, stated what was being sold.

Street kids are rampant in Nepal. Of course I know about child prostitution. But having it right in my face was shocking, even if it sounds cliché. Knowing something and being faced with it are very different things. I felt the harsh, palpable difference.


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Otter Snippet

07Sep09

from my travel journal: 18 july 09
driving to kathmandu

waterfalls streamed across the road, making our bus slow and letting us see how the locals were enjoying the surplus water. my glance up caught a jubilant boy on a green terrace. he was all shiny and sleek from the water being splashed on him by other kids. his face was open and his body was closed, hunched over. he was expectant for the next dousing, loving and hating it at the same time.


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