Cancer, you miserable beast, you have sunk your dirty talons into the wrong person. You don’t know who you’re messing with.
You think you are clever by showing up in first his knee, and now his lung and spine, but my brother will outwit you yet, you have not seen the likes of him.
He is smarter than you. Not only book smart, but street smart. He will read you under the table, and find a method of beating you at your own game. He will lull you into submission and have you eating out of the palm of his hand in no time. He will win this battle. Stand down.
He is an endurance athlete, did you know? You have been at him for a while, but he hasn’t even begun to fight back. He hasn’t shown you his A game, it kicks in right about now. He has just been warming up for this battle, playing you. You haven’t seen anything yet.
He is a fierce competitor, if there is a win at stake he will pinch hit, get the overtime goal, dig deep to save the day. He has had lots of practice at this, and I can tell you he is a winner. This is another game he will win, prepare to be defeated.
You are not his worthy opponent.
Were you thinking, here’s a nice guy to pick on? A champion teacher, fantastic father, loving husband, all around hero in his community, I’ll take him down? That was your first mistake, because he’s often mistaken for a nice guy, but what you don’t know is he is a chameleon; a wonderful person but a terrifying rival. He will wear YOU down, and it won’t be pretty.
His resolve will blow you away, but then again he is not a regular person.
My brother has the determination of a gladiator, the strength of a leviathan, the wit of Adam Sandler and Tina Fey combined, and the heart of Sidney Crosby, and also like Sid, a team of enormous depth cheering him on from all corners of the earth. He will play the game, like the sportsman he is, but make no mistake that he will beat you in the end. He will send you home with your tail between your legs.
His spirit will outmatch your cruelty.
As crowds of college kids congregate around the pool, my daughter asks me, “Why do boys wear underwear underneath their swimsuits?” That is an excellent question, I reply, as I notice every one of the boys has the waistband of their underwear showing above their swimsuits. We ponder their decision to prioritize coolness over comfort, surely having a bunch of wet cotton between your legs can’t feel great.
They look like babies, these kids, yet surely they must be in university, I don’t see any parents hovering around. It looks like they all grew a foot overnight, and are getting acquainted with their new height, stooping to accommodate themselves. If I squint, the large group morphs into versions of each other, the same person save for different coloured swim trunks. They carry blue plastic cups around the pool, likely filled with more alcohol than mix, liquid courage.
Families are interspersed amongst the kids, as invisible to them here as we would be if we stumbled into one of their frat parties. As we keep a watchful eye on our children, guarding against the recurring nightmare of drowning, we keep one eye on the partying college kids, remembering what it was like to be on spring break. What it was like to be totally self-absorbed, before responsibility descended.
While in university, people were always telling you, “Enjoy it while it lasts,” and we would laugh and agree, but inwardly think that life would always be this good. We could control our destiny and make it wonderful. Youthfulness is a state of mind. Pass the baby oil, please, our skin is as invincible as we are.
Life will inevitably deal these kids hands of worries and cares, they will one day be more concerned about things like interest rates and health care, but they are oblivious at this point. They laugh, cavort, and play-fight like puppies, as they discuss which bar they will try to get into tonight.
I bite my tongue to refrain from telling them what we are all thinking, it is futile. No matter what their GPA’s, they cannot fathom what the weight of the world might feel like on their shoulders, when not a single burden is on their horizon.
Our experienced eyes know that it will happen to them just the same, as sure as we are sitting here.
I live a somewhat healthy lifestyle. Kale smoothies, whole grains, vegetables and lean proteins make up the bulk of my diet. But lurking in that qualifier, “somewhat,” amongst chocolate, wine, and coffee, is my guilty pleasure that I start the day with, and have ever since I was a child: I’m addicted to Honey Nut Cheerios. High in sugar and sodium and low in protein and fiber, I doubt Jillian Michaels would be enthusiastic.
It’s all my mother’s fault.
Easy going on most issues, my mother was staunchly opposed to sugar cereals. When Lucky Charm and Honeycomb commercials came on during the Saturday cartoons, making breakfast look as fun as a trip an amusement park complete with leprechauns and Flintstones, I salivated over my Shreddies (which added a little flavor).
But for some reason – likely fatigue – when General Mills introduced Honey Nut Cheerios, they made the grade for my mother. I took to that buzzing bee on their box like a fish to water, and have not looked back since. They have seen me through grade school, university, and now adulthood. My faithful companion. The ideal complement for my simple palate, the perfect combination of honey sweetness and crunch.
They are the low-water mark for groceries: I can substitute canned pears for fresh fruit, and whip up vegetarian concoctions when there is no meat to be found in my fridge, but when we’re low on Honey Nut Cheerios, I give in and hit the grocery store. I get panicky when the last cheerio and all of that dust falls into my bowl.
I have avoided studying the nutrition chart on its brown and yellow box for years; ignorance is bliss. But a friend recently pointed out that there was almost as much sugar and sodium in this cereal as Cocoa Puffs, forcing me to reconsider my favorite breakfast choice.
In search of better nutrition for my morning meal, I have gone through stints with various healthier options like steel cut oats and Kashi Go Lean Crunch. The steel-cut oats take too long to make and the Kashi Go Lean necessitates so much chewing it hurts my jaw. After a week I invariably retreat back to my old standby.
I’m trying another cereal this week. My health-freak dentist sold me on Nature’s Path version of Cheerios made with quinoa flour. He enthusiastically bade me to try it last time I was in for a cleaning. “Not bad,” I told him. “Revolting!” I thought. Yet every morning this week, I have reluctantly reached past my super-sized Honey Nut Cheerio box for an eco-packaged, nutritional version of my favorite cereal.
They have a much better nutritional score: no sugar, low sodium, higher fiber, more protein, all organic ingredients. Paired with skim milk, they are not quite as revolting, but still taste more like cardboard than food. I tell myself I’m doing my body a favor, but my heart is not in this change.
I console myself with the thought that when life gives me lemons, I will pour myself a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios and let their sweetness override any of life’s sour taste. In an effort to eat healthier I have replaced white rice with brown, plain pasta with whole wheat, mashed potatoes with quinoa. I need to draw the line somewhere.
My children started their two-week spring break today. They watched television, played on the computer, played Wii, and then told me they were bored at 10 am. I knew that dreaded adjective would get some air play this week, but even the seasoned mother I am had hoped it would not emerge until day two.
Last week I was looking forward to some time doing nothing, but now I am panicking. My calendar has never looked so daunting in its bareness.
I had been bullish with optimism: at school age, my children are now adept at entertaining themselves (I thought), they are so busy during the school week between education and sports, I thought they’d enjoy some time to chill. They could frolick, hang, perhaps even simply play.
Isn’t this what we did in days gone past? Wander around the neighbourhood, popping back home when our stomaches growled louder than our friends could yell? We played in brooks, chased each other through forests, hung out in our basements. I don’t recall parents getting involved.
Times have changed.
Some gentle intervention was needed, lest they tear each other’s heads off. We went for an adventure walk, to the extreme chagrin of my oldest. We did yoga – my child’s suggestion, they are doing it in school – but she only lasted one downward dog. We baked a cake.
By the end of the day, they were getting the hang of hanging. Tonight I reshuffled my to-do list for the week, and replaced it with one word: play.
Whenever I’m in a book store discreetly trying to find a self-help book on how to make my life perfect, incognito in hoodie and sunglasses, I inevitably bump into another woman I know.
We exchange weak smiles and tell each other we’re looking for a gift for a down and out friend.
When I was growing up there was a copy of Dale Carnegie’s bestseller, How to Win Friends and Influence People, floating around my house. My brother was a disciple of this book, and quoted it often. I once thumbed through it, but quickly determined it would not help me in any way break into the cool crowd in high school. That was a different chapter altogether.
My inclusive but not exhaustive list includes: Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus, 7 Habits of Highly Effective People, All I Needed to Know I Learned in Kindergarten, Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff, The Happiness Project, The Four Agreements, and The Secret. I draw the line at anything with Dummie or Chicken Soup in the title.
It was worth a shot, I thought, if the key to the perfect life was written in black and white, it would be silly of me not to to read it. Like buying a lottery ticket, they were a harmless gamble. But the only thing any of them did was instill in me a desire to write a legitimate self-help book, one that would actually give practical tips on living a better life.
I’m slowly getting it. The secret is there is no secret.
None of these books seemed to speak to me, personally. Of course they didn’t, they were written for the masses. They were written for the world at large, as though our brains function similarly. As though we are all wired the same.
We are so not.
I once saw Sia, a folksy Australian singer, in concert. She came out on stage wearing massive seven-feet high paper mache wings. It was quite a spectacle. She told us they were made out of every self-help book she had ever read. Ironically these heavy wings caused her to suffer from heat exhaustion and she left the stage after only four songs.
All those self-help books did was weigh her down.
And so it goes. Last week I went to the Momcafe in Vancouver, where the speaker implored us to stop looking for that last self-help book. The room erupted in laughter, we all knew what she was referring to. The answers can’t be found on a book shelf. Yet we can’t stop ourselves from looking, which is why The Power, the sequel to The Secret, has become a bestseller. Obviously, The Secret didn’t quite get it done.
Like Dr. Seuss summed up so eloquently in Oh, the Places You’ll Go!, so many of us are in the waiting room. Waiting for the phone to ring, or the snow to snow, or waiting around for a Yes or a No… Everyone is just waiting.
I was waiting to read the perfect self-help book.
The answer is in each of us, if we care to listen. What’s important to me might not be important to you. What I love you may despise. Listen to yourself, and don’t let a book tell you how to live. Instead, write your own personal version.
When terrible things happen to other people, it’s a wake up call to live your best life now. There can be no silver lining from Japan’s tragic earthquake, simply a reminder to all those more fortunate to not take any day for granted, squeeze whatever you can out of today because tomorrow holds no promises.
In creating its famous advertising campaign, Nike inadvertently gave us all the perfect slogan: Just Do It.
Between Nike and Dr. Seuss, I have all the self-help I need. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some wings to build.
Well, it sort of did. But if at first you don’t succeed, they say to try, try again. So I will try again, but first, a little tale of woe.
Grouse Mountain hosts Snowshoe drop ins every Monday and Wednesday night, so after hearing several people tell me how amazing it is, you will absolutely love it I believe were the exact words, I took the tram up the mountain to check it out. They had just received a dump of great snow, so despite poor visibility and low temperatures it held the promise of a snowy adventure.
I wedged into the dark tram alongside snowboarders and skiers, amazed at people’s stamina after 6 pm, when I’m usually thinking about going to bed. Stifling my yawns at the thought of curling up with a good book, I tried to draw from their energy and enthusiasm as we ascended to the base of my favorite local mountain.
After signing in with about seventy other night owls, they split up into groups of varying abilities. Because of high avalanche risk, the back country was closed, which meant the runners would be sticking to Paper Trail. I heard some groans, but it sounded innocent enough.
From the word go, the runners were off at a break neck speed down a steep pitch, powder flying up the back of my jacket as I frantically tried to keep pace with fading voices and fainter headlamps. The last time I sprinted downhill was never, so I tried to go as fast as I could without breaking my ankle, or worse, neck, as I navigated between dark forms that I hoped were trees.
I managed to barely keep them in sight, when suddenly, several beams of light were coming towards me. The sound of labored breathing – other than my own – was approaching me. Having come to the bottom of the steep pitch, they had abruptly turned and were now trudging back up. Obediently I turned and brought up the tail end of the group as they made their way back up.
Someone has to be last, I told myself, as I again tried to keep pace with these jackrabbits. After fifteen minutes of a heart pounding, calf searing climb, I was relieved to see they were taking a breather. I joined their circle as someone yelled “Let’s go!”. I bent over to take a full breath into my lungs, but they were off, screaming down the hill that I had just labored up.
Surely, this is a joke.
Wondering what was going on, I trailed these inhumane people. Once again, I just caught up to them at the bottom of the hill when they turned and headed up. “How many times do you do this?” I managed to ask between breaths, meaning it took a long time to get out that sentence. “Four or five,” a snowshoer called over his shoulder.
I never did see any of their faces, just clouds of snow as they ran downhill.
A curious thing happened the other day: my daughter refused to bring McDonald’s to school for lunch. So not cool, mom. The negative stigma associated with fast food has trickled down to today’s youth.
I was one part proud, one part annoyed.
Since I’m writing this on the heels of admitting my Honey Nut Cheerio addiction, I hasten to tell you we very rarely eat McDonald’s, but it happens to be conveniently located next door to my dentist. The superstar mother I am managed to get all three of my children in for their 8 am cleaning appointments, minus their lunches. I fell from glory when I couldn’t convince my child to walk into class wielding a golden arch emblazoned bag.
Put it in your lunch kit for heaven’s sake – no one will be any the wiser! No dice. The smell, she said, would surely tip them off.
Interestingly, we had this conversation over muffins and juice inside McDonald’s – breakfast was also sacrificed to arrive at that early appointment (fine, so I was more drill sergeant than super mother). She has no trouble eating the food, she just didn’t want to be seen eating the food by anyone she knew.
My other two children could not believe what had just come out of their mother’s mouth – they were being offered the jackpot of all lunches, would be the envy of their classmates. I couldn’t go back on this offer. In the same way I refuse to be a short order cook when they all don’t like the dinner I’m serving, I wouldn’t be running to different restaurants for their lunch that day. It was McDonald’s or nothing.
I was in a position I never dreamed of: singing the praises of the fast food chain that in previous conversations I had proclaimed as evil, trying to cajole her into a quick and easy lunch. My words were coming back to haunt me, I had been too convincing in my earlier life, when I had more time for nutrition.
Other kids get Whole Foods, and I get McDonald’s? The high water mark for lunches is now the over-priced organic grocery store, incidentally. While undeniably full of healthier options, Whole Foods was not at my disposal.
We settled on a fruit and yogurt parfait and a couple of biscuits with jam, taken out of their packaging and disguised by her lunch kit. Hardly a lunch of champions, but under the rushed circumstances it would suffice.
Another day, another life lesson: be careful what you wish for.
Retail shopping is so yesterday.
I refuse to pay full price for anything anymore. If it’s not on sale, forget it. With huge outlet malls cropping up in suburban areas, and email alerts conveniently telling me when my favorite shops are busting out goods at huge discounts, who needs to?
The only thing better than driving south of the border to hit these outlets is when these outlets come to you, in your own backyard, a new trend that is catching on like wildfire.
My friend has an in on a sweet line of Sun Ice ski jackets and outdoor apparel – her family owns it. Instead of shipping their extra stock off to a discount center, she is setting up racks in neighborhood homes and selling them at big discounts. I went by her house for a sale where she had partnered with a local yoga line, Tonic. We had coffee and I left with a super cute yoga outfit and raincoat that both rival Lululemon – but at half the cost.
I was giddy with delight, flushing with victory so pure I was puzzled. I felt something was missing, and then realized it was that feeling of buyer’s remorse. Unlike usual, I had none. No guilty feelings thinking, “I didn’t need that”. I had gone with the hope of finding some new yoga wear (whether doing yoga or not, I live in this stuff) and a raincoat that was a tad different from everyone else in Vancouver. I found both within the confines of her friendly living room and spent a fraction of the cost.
Life may be beautiful, but mine is seldom this easy.
I am being invited to sales like this on a regular basis; women hosting jewelery designers and clothing lines in their own homes. The environment is much more welcoming than harsh fluorescent light and those mirrors that make my hips look wider than they are. I’ll gladly exchange the bored out of their mind teenage shopkeepers for honest women who know a garment flaw when they see one.
The concept of shopping is changing as quickly as the world is shedding its landlines. I don’t aimlessly browse through shops in the hopes of randomly discovering something I like and is on sale (unless, of course I’m at Winners and in need of retail therapy). My shopping is much more purposeful and driven by red tags.
I’m ignoring the middle man in favor of neighborhood homes, my days of mall crawling are officially over.