Runner's Delight

On Sunday, I ran my third half-marathon (the Scotiabank Toronto Waterfront Half-Marathon). Go, me.

I felt nervous before the race started. It was still dark outside when Dave and I arrived at Nathan Phillips Square at 6:45 in the morning. The caffeine from the cup of coffee that I downed before leaving the house had given me a buzz: it made feel energized and excited, but it might also have been the source of my jitters.

Or, maybe it was all of those serious runners that made my stomach fill with butterflies. Some of those runners looked real intimidating, like they had a giant electrical current running through their bodies that made them ripple from head to toe every time they took a step. But I tried to ignore the hardcore racers and visualize the race that I was going to run. I said good-bye to Dave (he started in a different corral than me since his pace is much brisker – they were colour-coded according to your estimated finish time) and felt slightly at ease when I looked around at the runners gathered in my corral: these weren’t superstar marathoners. They were average people like me, who were probably just as anxious to get started as I was. Some of them wore humours, self-deprecating t-shirts that said “Training for Boston 2043” and “I will finish this, whether I run, walk, or crawl.” I smiled, which relaxed me. I felt at ease with the average-joe runners surrounding me. They weren’t there to win the kitty, or break world records: some were running for their mothers who were battling breast cancer, while others were running for their nephews diagnosed with bone marrow disease. They were running to prove something to themselves: that they could reach their goals, no matter how much blood, sweat, and tears it took. Let alone hours.

Once I started running, my fear evaporated and I felt good: there were no aches and pains, no doomsday thoughts dragging me down. The sky grew lighter. By the third kilometre, lots of people in my corral had slowed to a walk (amateurs, clearly; started out with too much gusto) and I breezed past them, still feeling confident, relaxed, ready to work – and yes, maybe a tad pompous, because I had so much steam left at a time when others were strolling lackadaisically, as if they were window shopping on Bloor Street.

Kilometres passed. I climbed hills, gave the “thumbs up” sign to my cousins whose cheering made me run faster (thanks, guys!), and wondered why I was doing this again, as a creeping ache colonized my right calf.

When I got to the 19 km mark, I said, “I don’t want to do this anymore.” I wanted to quit and walk it in (head bowed in defeat). All I could see in front of me were sore, tired runners who didn’t look like they would make it to the end. Seeing all of these people ahead of me made me feel claustrophobic. It made the finish line seem impossibly far away. “If I just stopped now…” I started to think, but I put the kibosh on negativity and made a compromise with myself – the same one I had made during the previous half-marathons: “Fine. I’ll run to the end. But I’m never doing this again” and I kept moving my legs, one foot after the other, until I crossed that damn finish line. (As I neared the end, I could hear my mother’s voice calling my name – “Katie! Katie! Go, Katie!” – from the large group of spectators gathered on the sidelines. I looked left to see if I could spot her, but everything was a blur. I couldn’t decipher her in that faceless crowd, but just hearing her chant helped me squeeze out the last dregs of energy needed to cross the finish line just a tiny bit sooner.)

Finally, after 2 hours and 2 minutes, the finish line had been crossed (conquered). Relief. Exhaustion. Dehydration. I walked with the enormous hoard of runners as we snaked our way through the fenced-off finish line behind City Hall to the open space of the square and I realized that, though I usually despise crowds, I didn’t mind this one so much; because this was a special kind of crowd. This was an accomplished crowd. This crowd didn’t have a subway to catch, or a meeting for which they absolutely could not be late. People felt proud – pooped, sure, but proud. They (we) wanted to languish in the charged glow of achievement. We wanted this rare, blissful, fleeting feeling to linger. And we wanted to do it right smack in the middle of the city.

As I broke away from the crowd to find my friends and family, I thought, “Why can’t people always feel this good? This proud? This unbothered by the strangers around them?” I spotted my posse by the fountain (Dave was there too, victorious). They were smiling and I returned the gesture, feeling very happy to see them and glad that the run was over.

And then: “Never again,” I promised myself. “Never again.”

Love actually

Fall is hands-down my favourite season. I don't love what comes after it (the humourless, drawn-out winter), but there are a million autumnal pleasures to savour - most notably, the season's fashion.

I almost died when I saw this Smythe jacket in the Globe and Mail Style section this weekend: I have to have it! I shrieked, already piecing together the perfect outfits for casual shopping days, nights out, and weekdays at the office. I love the chunky hardware on the pockets and the loose, button-less style. It's so effortlessly chic and avant-garde that it's no wonder they called it The Left Bank blazer.

My heart was pounding and my hands got clammy when I saw the picture of the edgy jacket in the newspaper and I knew that could only mean love. I was falling in love - instantly, unconditionally - with the perfect image in front of me. This jacket is so me that seeing it for the first time was like looking in the mirror, like it was already part of my identity. It was the culmination of all my fashion prayers, flown down to earth from the sartorial heavens, just for me.

But my elated heart shattered when I read the fine print and saw the price tag: a horrifying $575.00. So not in the budget. When I realized I couldn't possess the object of my desire, I desired it a thousand times more. It consumed my thoughts and I lost my appetite because what good would eating do me if I couldn't do it in my Left Bank blazer?

I knew that like any dejected lover, I needed to move on. I inhaled deeply and assured myself that Club Monaco or H&M would have a rip-off version on the shelves in no time. But these imitations would hardly satisfy because I would always know that it was a copy and not the one for which I truly yearned.

Actually, just knowing that I can't have the original version has pretty much already ruined my entire season, before even a single leaf has turned.

Sara's Bachelorette

Forget about Jillian. In my opinion, Canada's favourite bachelorette is my adorable friend, Sara.

A few Saturdays ago, we threw a party at our house to show her how much we love her and how excited we are for her upcoming nuptials. There were no sleazy strippers, but there were cupcakes, sushi, pictures of a stripper (long story), karoake and trampolining, and even candy nipple tassles for the bride-to-be. Sounds all of the ingredients for a smashing bachelorette bash. Here are some highlights.

That's some serious bling, Sara!


A few bachelorette tramps take a break from the afternoon trampolining session to pose for a photo opp.


Sara in her bachelorette garb (plus a little somethin' extra in the background).

Fellow party organizers, Robyn and Gudrin, and of course the blushing bride.

Sara belts it out diva style (this looks like a Mariah song to me).

Sara sings her finale after a long night of champagne, karaoke and lots of laughs.

Congrats, Sara! Can't wait for the big day!

No Money, Mo' Problems

I used to read the newspapers at the beginning of this mess. You know, back in August when the megabanks on Wall Street sank and everyone had recession on their lips.

It wasn't long, though, before I was also drowning - fighting to keep my head above water in a sea of opaque moneyspeak. It was easier to flip right to the Style section to read my Horoscope and preview winter fashion trends instead of trying to decode confusing (let's not forget depressing) financial news.

Eventually, I felt so lost and uninformed on the topic that I was afraid of any articles with headings that included "recession," "bailout," "hiring freeze," or "economy." These words made me feel dizzy and scared. I mean it. I broke out in hives or lost my breath if I stumbled upon certain financial catch-phrases. So I recoiled from my fears and created a euphoric bubble of ignorance for myself, completely void of any frightening, gut-wrenching recession headlines. I knew that the world had no money and mo' problems than ever, I just didn't have a clue about the details.

This doesn't sound like an intelligent confession. But it's also the honest-to-God truth. It's not that I have raspberry pie filling for brains; it's just that they made me anxious, all those gloomy reports about the tailspinning economy. Especially since I was looking for permanent work with hardly a penny to my name and an anchor of student loans tied to my toes.

But my story ends well, for two reasons: (a) I got a permanent full-time job (phew!) and (b) I listened to an episode of the radio show This American Life over the weekend and I feel enlightened. I feel less afraid now. Dave had told me about this episode, "The Giant Pool of Money," before, but I always forgot about it once the conversation was over. Last Saturday, we took the Go bus to Dave's parents' house in the country and listened to the episode on our way there. Let me tell you, I was a different girl as we re-entered the city later that evening: finally, I felt brave enough to stare down a scary headline in the Business section of a newspaper - and maybe even read the article, too.

"The Giant Pool of Money" is smart, hilarious and touching. I'm by no means an expert on the crisis, but I at least have a better understanding of the factors that led to the economy's demise. So, even if you're sick to death of reading or hearing about the recession, I still say you check it out. It's the safest investment of time you'll make all week and the returns are immeasurable.

Click here to find the episode and listen (for FREE!)

McBeautiful

My high school drama teacher was fabulous; she was vibrant, eccentric and ginger-haired. Although she worked in Windsor, she and her husband lived in a posh Detroit suburb and she believed this gave her the authority to claim that Windsor was “the armpit of the world.” I didn’t spite her for this, though, because the truth was, I agreed: any way you looked at it, Windsor was a cultural black hole.

This notion became painstakingly lucid when I was seventeen and working at the McDonald’s restaurant across from Windsor’s largest shopping complex, the outdated and aesthetically repulsive Devonshire Mall. It was wintertime and I was working the late shift. Some asshole had missed the chrome bull’s-eye in the basin of the urinal and it was my turn to clean up.

Morale was low as I scrubbed the rancid tiles in the men's room and my teacher's shrill warning tore throuhgout my skull like a fire alarm. I buckled over and puked into the toilet bowl I had just polished after a sickening realization punched me right smack in the gut: I am living in an armpit and working in an asshole.

Everything about that workplace reeked of asshole. The patrons who left their half-masticated remains on the tables were assholes. The teenage boys who made it their Friday night ritual to break beer bottles in the bathroom were assholes. And my boss, Dom*, the man with the striped golf shirt and the golden name tag, was also an asshole; a corporate, all-powerful, capital A asshole. Dom wore this uniform to distinguish himself from the bunch of us lowlifes in our modest burgundy tees. Without speaking, Dom's fancy Oxford shirt proudly announced his superior ranking. He neglected the corporation’s teamwork policy and instead created a culture of tyranny in a fast food restaurant that epitomized American democracy and idealism.

So citizens of “the Armpit” came into “the Asshole” demanding food. It’s when they ordered this food and I worked my ass as fast as it would move to fetch it for them that I became a slut to society. I became, suddenly, a “Big Mac Combo” Hoe. I transformed into White “Vanilla Cone, please” Trash. You could tell from the burns on my forearms that I was a “French Fry” Wench. My plastic nametag insisted that I was a “Customer Care Specialist,” a clever corporate euphemism for “Cheap McDonald’s Whore.” I was the first to admit that’s exactly what I had become: I sold my body for $6.40 an hour and performed filthy, degrading acts for a man I'd never love - night after night after unholy night.

Let’s get something straight: I didn’t stick around that dump for long. My breaking point occurred at a staff meeting when Dom grunted at me after I politely inquired why we didn’t recycle the dozen newspapers that we daily threw into the garbage.

“Can’t.” His sentences were as stumpy as his figure.

“But isn’t it our social responsibility to respect the environment? If every McDonald’s restaurant is doing this, surely we’re causing harm to our planet?”

“Don’t care. Not gonna happen, sweetie.”

He glowered and swiftly moved on to the next topic (how to increase productivity by cutting down on the construction time of a Quarter Pounder with cheese by .03 percent) and I silently made (and seconded) my motion to submit my two-week notice of termination. I quit the habit, just like that, over newspapers and a guilty social conscience.

I don’t where that drama teacher is today, but I owe her for my salvation. She’s probably still fabulous and sashaying into drama classes across Windsor on an impassioned campaign to ensure that young Armpitonians are sensitive to beauty and don’t end up living and working in corporeal crevices for the rest of their lives.

*Names have been changed to protect the guilty.

Squeezing into my skinny jeans

There was no way for me to anticipate, when I graduated from my M.A. last June day as a determined, confident young woman, that the next 9 months harboured a strange labyrinth of missteps and dead ends. It seemed that only maggots and worms lurked under every rock I overturned. Sure, there have been some strokes of luck and happy fortune, but overall, I would characterize this as a period of struggle and an anxiously knotted stomach.

But of all the dismal experiences I've encountered during the past year, I have to admit that the most crushing is the fact that my skinny jeans are too tight.

I'm not talking about drainpipes that cling to your thighs like Saran Wrap and are impossibly narrow at the bottom. I just mean the comfortable bootcut jeans that, as of last May, fit me like a glove and were a wardrobe staple. In ways, they were like a best friend: they were comfortable, reliable and familiar and they made me feel good about myself.

It's not that I don't love my lady lumps as they are - they're a bit more plush, perhaps; there's more jiggle in my wiggle, if you will. And I'm not striving for a scrawny physique like Kate Moss', either. It's just that I fit into those smaller jeans during a period when I ate because I was hungry, not because I was feeling anxious, or overwhelmed, or inadequate, or terrified or just plain bored. I listened to what my body wanted and needed and kept up a regular exercise regimen. That made me fel happy; gloriously, unabashedly happy. These smaller jeans, then, have come to symbolize a healthy spurt - a balanced, nutritious time when I was taking care of myself and feeling good about my eating habits.

It's all boils down to control, or the illusion of it, anyway. When things in my life feel frantic and disjointed, my eating habits follow a similarly frenetic pattern; routine creates a sense of safety or security and when I feel stable in other areas of my life, it's easier for me to control my diet. Now that I have a steady income and a 9-5 work routine (that stability I've craved), my goal is to create that necessary balance in my life again. So this desire to fit into my old jeans is not a total act of vainity; the greater goal I'm hoping to acheive is to re-train myself how to stick with the good habits that make for a that naturally healthier, stronger self. Fitting into those jeans is just one of the positive side effects of completing this goal.

To prove to myself that I was serious about reaching this endpoint, I've been doing the jeans test before getting dressed over the last few weeks. I've also documented how they fit from one day to the next to mark my progress (no matter how marginal). Here is the log so far.

Monday: Can pull them halfway up my hips. Really tight in most areas except the ankles.

Tuesday: See above.

Wednesday: See above (ugh!).

Thursday: Decided to skip the test for today, predicting results would be as uninspiring as the last three mornings.

Tuesday: After an intense workout last night, I can edge the jeans up higher onto my hips. Still a large gap between the button and its hole.

Thursday: Can do up the button (yes!), but movement severely restricted.

And, folks, that's all I've got so far. But I will continue with my plan for a calmer, happier, healthier self and hopefully, just in time for skirt season, I'll be able to slip on those jeans without any awkward yanking, twisting or grunting.

The way home

Rode the early train home from Windsor this morning and kept my eyes peeled on a flaming sun that rose violet, amber and tangerine behind a squadron of dark trees. My eyes, weak with sleep, wrestled to stay open because it all looked so pretty, so goddamn peaceful, out there on the other side of the dusty windowpane.

I felt happy and thankful for a lovely weekend with my kin. We celebrated resurrection with a turkey and chocolate eggs wrapped in fluorescent tinfoil. On Sunday, we dug a hole in the ground and planted a lavender hydrangea bush at my father's marble plaque in the churchyard. I silently thanked him (my dad) for being my dad and for all the lessons he taught me during the fifteen years we shared together.

At 10:10 am, the train chugged into Union Station and I was glad to be home, back in this chaotic, glittering city.

I met up with Emily in Rosedale for a run after work. I was exhausted, but oh well; the run re-energized me and I was glad I did it. On our way home from the subway station, we passed a crime scene. It looked exactly like they do in the movies, or on CSI: the policemen, the fire trucks, the ominous ambulance and the yellow tape surrounding the site, alluding to danger. We shuffled by, horrified to see thick pools of blood glistening on the pavement. It was fresh - the wounds, the violence, even the spectators who gathered and recounted what they had seen or spun theories about what they had missed. There was a stabbing here, but we didn't know that yet. Someone was strapped to a stretcher in the back of the ambulance, out of sight, but his white sneakers, coated now in blood (his own? the attacker's? a morbid splattering of both?) were left on the sidewalk. There was a single sock there, too, missing its mate. At least there weren't any faces for our brains to remember, no open wounds to dwell on.

We walked home, disturbed and shocked into silence. We told Catherine what we saw. We checked the radio, television and Internet for details, but no one had updates. Finally, 15 minutes later, we heard that it was a stabbing. No other information was available at this time. A stabbing, right over there. Can you see? Right there, next to the corner where you wait for the bus every morning.

We sat at the kitchen table and ate dinner with friends. Old friends. Good, solid-gold, true-blue friends. Conversation was easy and comfortable; the grilled food was delicious. We laughed and chatted and gossiped like we always do. For the most part, we'd already accepted that violence erupted just around the corner from our cozy home.

It's bedtime now. Or probably past it if we're going to be dead honest. The early rise this morning will probably screw up my sleeping schedule for the rest of the week. I call my brother. He is playing video games in Windsor and he reminds me that I left my scarf at his apartment this morning. That is so characteristic of me it's almost frightening. My forgetfulness is as predictable as Time. The shower I took at 5:00 am seems like a lifetime ago. I nestle into a bed with clean sheets and am thankful to have made it here, finally, after a very full day.