The Waffle Debacle (with a side of French Toast Taunter)

"And in the dream there were waffles in the freezer.  Lots and lots and lots of waffles.  So I knew exactly what I would have this morning," says Rissa as she comes down the stairs.

"Hmmmm?"  I'm on Facebook.  The way I used to be able to split my focus - pre-internet?  That no longer exists.  The noise of Rissa opening and closing the refrigerator a few moments later seeps into my consciousness and I look up.  I hear the word 'breakfast.'  "Pardon?"

"Have you eaten breakfast?" 

"No.  Un-unh."  I was planning on having a granola bar with some soy milk - I remain in post-holiday food recovery.   But when I see the egg container in her hand, my stomach betrays me. "Are you making scrambled eggs?"

Rissa looks at me and rolls her eyes.  "Mummy.  French Toast.  I am making FRENCH TOAST.  I had a whole back story about it.  You weren't listening."

"I did hear the waffle bit..."  I say apologetically.  This not-listening of mine is happening more and more.  The other night I was reading as David was talking, and I didn't hear a word of what he said. Not a single word.  In my defense, I did recognize that noises could be heard in the room.  Plus I was reading Harry Potter at the time.

I hurt his feelings.  He actually huffed at me - turned his head away from me even.  I had to do some major emotional back-pedalling.  Shit!  Maybe this is becoming a thing - the not-listening.  Is this a pre-cursor to early-onset dementia?  Between this and not being to remember people's last names and proper nouns - I'm pretty much fucked.

Rissa's still talking.  "I had to console myself with French Toast...  (tuned out)  "You and Daddy can fight over the last egg guck."

"Hmmm?  Egg guck?"

"I lied.  There wasn't as much egg guck as I thought.  So I used it up."   She shows me the empty bowl with egg and cinnamon residue on it.

"So basically you're a French Toast Taunter?"

"I didn't mean to be.  It just happened.  Plus, you didn't care about my waffle debacle - AT ALL - really you're getting what you deserve."  Mic Drop.  That's my girl.

Death by Nordic Socks

I picked up as many pairs as I could carry in my arms to the cash.  Nordic socks from Old Navy.  Colourful, Skandihoovian...  perfect...  until you try to put them on your feet. 

(movie trailer announcer voice)

In a world where quirky fashion puts its foot forward, Heather thought she'd hit pay dirt.  Will her beautiful new socks save her or destroy her?

I will fully admit that I'm not a pixie when it comes to foot size.  I'm about a size 9, with calves that would make an Olympic athlete proud.  But these socks - these beautiful socks that said Ladies Size 5-10 - gave me such hope.  Thing is about intricately patterned socks - most seem to actually have full-on wool knitted into them.  Wool doesn't have as much give as say - pretty much anything other than wool. 

The sock barely goes onto the ball of my foot.  Others, less determined, would stop here.  They'd recognize that the tensile strength of the sock more than likely outweighs the strength of their arms. But I, I refuse to admit defeat.   I use the not inconsiderable muscle of my upper back, shoulders and biceps to pull the socks up past my heel.  Thankfully my heels - so calloused from walking in bad shoes - can't feel anything other than pressure - a whole lot of pressure. I inch  the unyielding garment upwards  - I still have another 6 inches to go to summit my full calf.  My knuckles gain purchase to the fullest part of my calf - I pry those suckers up.

"HAH!"  The sock is up.  "THE SOCK IS UP!!!"

I look down at the other sock and square my shoulders.  I am wearing these.  They will adorn my holiday feet. 

The dermatographia on my legs after wearing these socks for a day is like nothing I've seen before.  Both calves are bruised from my knuckles walking the wool up.  And sure, I was perhaps a little woozy and my feet tingled from the lack of blood flow, but the socks were stupendous, spectacular...  splendiferous.

After I'd taken the socks off - Rissa tried them on.  (I'd also given her some of these socks - and she had complained of the difficulty in wearing them.)  Because my feet and calves are larger than hers - putting on my pre-worn socks didn't maim her.  A big holiday lightbulb went on over my head.  I could simply get David to pre-wear the socks for me... problem conquered.  Plus, I'll have pictures of David in colourful Nordic socks, which is pretty much a win-win.

Middle Aged Spread...

I fucked it all up last January.   That was when I had a sore throat that turned into the flu, that turned into bronchitis which knocked me on my ass for about two months and instead of pushing through as I usually would, I actually rested.  Mostly on account of the fact that after walking from the bedroom to the bathroom, I needed to lie down.  I rested so much in the winter that my body said "Hey, I LOVE this resting thing, let's do more of that." I rested so much that my body forgot that it craved exercise.

I compensated for this lack of movement by eating salads every day at lunch.  My body rediscovered vegetables.  "Green things.  I like these green things.  And the red things and yellow things.  They are so... crisp... so... tasty..."

And then in the spring, I got to feeling better so hopped back on the ol' treadmill.  By summer, I was going for lots and lots and lots of walks in the actual outdoors, forcing the spouse with me so that the pair of us could mock those poor non-exercising schmos from our moral high ground.  Rissa and I started exercising in the evening - doing strength training.  And you know something?  Doing 60 squats a night?  After two months?  It actually makes one's ass look spectacular.  My ass looked fucking spectacular.   I used one of those exercise band thingies to strengthen my arms, I had defined triceps again.  I was feeling good, I was feeling strong, I was feeling fit...

And then?  Then I stood in a group of "20-something" girls in NY.  NEVER do that.  Stand next to one maybe, but not FIVE of them.  Don't surround your middle-aged body with women who are 25 years younger than you.  Their tiny bodies with their tiny waists, tiny asses and tiny thighs make you look like God-freaking-zilla amidst a terrified population. Next to these girls I looked like the big-boned middle-aged Aunt visiting from Europe with a uni-boob in a dress that, until placed next to these girls, I'd thought was flattering.

I persevered though.  I continued to be mindful of my eating, my exercise.  I kept doing those squats and lifting those legs.  Then I went to see my endocrinologist...  who put me on the scale and informed me that I'd gained 6 pounds in the last year. 

"I'm sorry... I did WHAT NOW?!?  But I've been exercising and eating salads!!  I know that it's not about the number on the scale, but what do I have to DO here?  Do I have to actually CUT OFF a limb to get to within 15 lbs of my ideal body weight??"

I'm not saying that I want to be 135 lbs which, according to most statistics, is what I should weigh.  I would look like a fucking corpse if I weighed that amount.  I'd be ecstatic arriving at the 150 lbs mark - which still means I'd have to lose TWENTY-FIVE POUNDS!!  I'd have to lose the equivalent of two, 3-month-old babies from my body.  Oh fuck - that's disgusting.  I have THAT much extra weight on me??  Jesus.  No wonder the vintage dress that I've been holding onto since I was 24 no longer fits me!  There's no extra room for my body and two hip babies!!

I blame peri-menopause (which has so many adorable symptoms, but the one I'm focused on right now is the seemingly inevitable weight gain), hypothyroidism (again crazy-amounts of symptoms - but ... weight gain), and...night caps.  That Rusty Nail that I have every now and again or mug of mulled wine while I'm cozying up with a book or binge-watching Netflix, that contributes, I'm sure, to the issue.  So I ask you this: How much more exercise would I have to do, how little food would I have to ingest to still be able to enjoy those night caps.  'Cause when the depression hits about not fitting into a dress from 2 decades ago, jogging 5 times around my small town isn't my go-to.

"You cannot post about that!"

Says David.

"But it's so good.  It's a great bit."

"I am not a great bit," he says determinedly.

I raise my eyebrows at him.

"I am serious.  I don't feel comfortable with you leading a post with that."

I pout.  "You're taking away my comedy."

"No, I'm taking away MY comedy.  I don't want people reading it and saying 'Hey David, nice about your (redacted words),' when I see them on the street."

"Even if it's for a really good cause?"

"What, this is going to help stamp out Islamaphobia?  It'll cure cancer?"

"You never know.  Laughter is very freeing."

"I don't feel comfortable."

"Can't I just mention the  (redacted words)?"

"No you may not."

"What about the  (redacted words)?"

"No."

"(redacted words)  (more redacted words)  (Still more redacted words, with extra fancy redacted phrasology)??"

"Un-unh."

"But it's so freaking charming."

"I don't care.  That is just between you and me..."

" 'I came here for a party and what do I get?  Nothing.  Not even ice cream.' " I say in my best Groucho Marx.

"Too bad for you."

"Spoilsport."

And you shall not run...

I've got the PF.   Plantar Facsiitis.  I can no longer run.   I mean, sure I could run if something was chasing me - or if a building was on fire - but I'd pay for it later.  I'd get up the next day, attempt to stand on both feet and then collapse to the floor when the heel of my left foot gave out. Just the left foot.  MY left foot.  And unlike Christy Brown or Daniel Day Lewis, I have nothing to show for my left foot.  I sure as shit can't paint or write with it.

I haven't injured my left heel.  It's not like a car ran over my heel and my body is still processing.  This ailment is just from arriving into middle age. You run when you're a kid and you can run forever;  you laugh as you gallop, skip, sprint... You run in middle age and apparently you're pretty much fucked.  I ran to catch up in the parade last weekend and now I'm limping like hamstrung giraffe.

Do a quick poll of women of a certain age and you'll be amazed at how many also suffer from PF.  It's an epidemic of failing foot ligaments.

You might say, off the cuff, "My heel's been giving me grief."

Six women over the age of 40 will turn to you. "Plantar Fasciitis," they will nod, commiserate and suggest exercises.

If they're really good friends they'll get you in to see the hot physiotherapist.  You know, 'cause a cheap little thrill at our age makes one's day brighter.  Although if I were to do that, I'd have to pluck my toe hair, paint my nails and pretend I don't have hammer toes.   That seems like WAY too much work.  So much easier to simply inform the poor schmuck who's caring for your feet that it's coming up to winter and what lies under your socks ain't gonna be pretty.  Unless the physiotherapist is  REALLY, REALLY hot... And then, I mean, come on... I defy any person not to take an interest in their pedal appearance if they have someone of Matthew Goode's or Scarlett Johanssen's ilk touching their little piggies.  Tough call. 

Porta-Potty Peril

"It must be tough to be a highway construction worker," says Rissa.

"Hmmmm?" I respond.  I glance towards the central median of the 401, taking in the construction zone.  "Yeah, especially when you're working there."

"I mean, when do you pooh?"

"Pardon?"

"They've got Porta-Potties, but really, who could ever be comfortable enough to actually have a pooh, when there are cars whizzing by you at 100kms an hour?"

"I guess you get used to it."

"HOW?!?  How would that be possible?  Most people aren't comfortable poohing in a public washroom..."

She's right.  I myself, couldn't poop with anyone nearby until well into my 20s - until I'd developed a spastic colon because of my unwillingness to acknowledge that a #2 was a part of life and sometimes when one did it there was noise.

"I'd be there all day.  I couldn't do it.  I would have to wait until 3:00 a.m. and then do my business."

"Let's light a candle for them when we get home, to give them strength."

"Oh God, they're mostly dudes.  Mostly dudes nervously using a Porta-Potty on the 401.  They can't light a candle in there.   How can we send bulk Poo-Pourrie to road workers??"

Chasing Cyd Charisse

In the mid-80s the bus dropped me off on Ness Avenue and I walked two major blocks south to get to high school.  I walked down the alley behind Ainsley Street -  this was Winnipeg - we had alleys everywhere.  I had two goals every morning: get to school early and walk faster than Francine Bishop.

I would see Francine walking ahead of me down that alley and it became my obsession to overtake her.  It was an impossible task.  Francine was at least six inches taller than me, with Cyd Charisse legs that bent the laws of physics and physicality.  Her legs appeared at least 10 inches longer than mine.  Maybe I had a long torso and she had a short torso, but I swear those legs went all the way up to her fucking arm pits.  I looked up to her, figuratively and literally.  She was a year ahead of me, took drama was super smart.  I have no idea why the need to walk faster than her kicked in.  Maybe my inner Neanderthal took control and needed to be the lead hunter/gatherer.

"Gronk need be first!"  Chest thump.  "Gronk fast!"

It was ridiculous.  I'd have to practically run to even get close. I'd be pumping my arms, speed walking - then, if I managed to get within striking distance, I'd have to act all nonchalant as if I was not attempting to break the land speed record to catch up to her and her unbelievable legs. 

I did it once.  I passed her, offered a cheerful "Good morning!" and then kept powering through, the lactic acid burning in my legs, the muscles in my ass twitching by the time I made it to the school.  I could barely manage the stairs before collapsing beside my locker.  But as I lay there, gasping for breath, I imagined the head of the Olympic Committee presenting me with a gold medal.  In a near-coma I saw the Canadian flag being raised as I mumble-sang Oh Canada to the crowd.  It never happened again.  I think maybe the day I passed her she was sick, or tired... or humouring me.