An uncomfortable experience...

Eating alone has always been a fear of mine. I’m not sure if actually eating alone is the fear, or whether the mere thought of having to sit in a restaurant, alone, with no one to talk to is the true fear. Either way, I’ve never attempted it before this morning. I thought baby steps would be the best option for me, so I chose to eat at a fast food restaurant hoping it would be easier on my nerves.

So at 8:30 a.m., I decided to head to the nearest McDonalds for breakfast. I figured at this time, most people would be on their way to work and would only make a quick stop through the drive-thru to get their free coffee being offered through this month’s promotion. Unfortunately I was wrong. There were over 15 people inside.

While ordering, my hands moistened as I was counting out my change, and I awkwardly dropped a quarter onto the floor. I contemplated picking it up but dismissed the idea out of fear that if I bent over, my pants may split. I was already fearing to hear the expected “for here or to go” question and couldn’t stand listening to the random beeping coming from the chaotic kitchen. After I reluctantly replied, “for here,” I picked up my tray and could feel my whole body getting hot, my face turning red, my heart racing, expecting the cashier and everyone else in the restaurant to instantly be judging me. My arms began to stiffen, and my legs wobbled, making me worried I wouldn’t make it to the table before dropping my tray.

Immediately, my eyes started scanning for an open booth. Thankfully I spotted one, and quickly made my way over to it. I sat down and began to look around. I felt as though everyone was staring at me.

The most memorable of the bunch was the old married couple who were sitting quite comfortably in the middle booth, loudly chatting about the weather and their travel agenda, the middle-aged white haired business man who was frantically drinking his free coffee and shoving loose papers into his briefcase, and the Asian man who sat alone, beside me, quietly reading a newspaper. Why were the loners acting so normal? They were in a restaurant alone and yet were at ease carrying on with their day-to-day activities.

I grabbed the nearest Metro, even though I already read it earlier this morning and didn’t care to read about Christina Aguilera’s arrest for the second time. So there I was, sitting hunched over like a convict protecting his dinner plate to avoid being seen, pretending to read the newspaper, and taking quick glances around the restaurant to ensure no one was watching me eat my bacon and egg Mcmuffin.

The other customers were still continuing with their conversations, checking their Blackberries, and reading the newspaper. Why did I think I was so different from them? Why did I feel everyone would stop what they were doing and stare at me? It was presumptuous of me to think they had nothing better to do with their time then to gawk at me while I ate my breakfast.

Glancing around, I realized these loners were likely too busy to enjoy their breakfast with others, and I had never once thought that, just maybe, they wanted time alone. Time alone, something I dreaded, until this morning’s experience. I began to notice my back returning to its normal upright position, my hands were no longer moist, and my heartbeat felt normal.

At 9 a.m., after having inhaled enough of the fast food smells, I went back to the now even busier line-up to order a latte to go. As I opened the door to leave the fast-food joint, the strong wind that greeted me was a shock, but left me feeling truly refreshed. Glancing back at the golden arches on the side door of the building, I contemplated when I would return next for some alone time. 

Lester Bowser.

Meet Lester Bowser, the 67-year-old man that lives beside you on Berlin Street. Most people say he looks great for his age and you've got to agree he really does. You'd never know he was in his sixties, other than by his hair. His black crew-cut with white patches does show his age. With the exception of his slight hunch due to arthritis and stress, he seems to be in great shape. Every day he wears that same Valentino mud colored suit that he bought 20 years ago in Italy. On Mondays and Wednesdays he wears a white button-up dress shirt underneath, and on Tuesdays and Thursdays, his black button-up. You always wondered why you never saw him leave on Friday mornings, until you were told he stays home on Fridays due to being semi-retired. You'd think he would do something about that old Victorian house he lives in on his days off, it could use some renovations. You used to always see him outside with his wife, working in the yard, on the vegetable garden and the flower bed. It seems odd now that he has let it all go, when he seems so together.

Truthfully, you'd never know he lived beside you, other than when you catch him leaving for work in the mornings or on Wednesdays, when you see him at exactly 7:07a.m. That's when Lester takes out his black garbage bin and exactly three bags of recyclables. One bag is always filled with San Pellegrino glass bottles and the others with random items including plain yogurt containers and cans of tuna.  From time to time, you see Lester take his cat outside, but only in the backyard, never the front.  

Do you remember what you thought when you moved next door to Mr. Bowser?  You immediately thought of Bowser, the main villain and last enemy to defeat in Super Mario World. It seemed funny at the time, until you got to know Lester and his story. Looking back now, there are many similarities in the Bowsers. Growing up, Lester Bowser was always that guy who was better than everyone else, in everything he did. He was the smartest student, the jock at his high school, a reputation that followed him to college. He was always trying a little harder than everyone else; he wanted to be somebody important. Up until last year he’d had everything he ever wanted, until he was defeated.

Last year, Lester’s wife, Joyce Bowser, passed away. After her fifteen year battle with lung cancer, the cancer won. Lester blamed himself. He did try his best to get her the most prestigious oncologists in Halifax, and then in Toronto, when she had to get higher quality care. Lester tried everything he could to prevent this. He threw out her thirty seven boxes of Marlboro cigarettes, and even found her thirty-eighth box, which was tucked neatly away in her delicates drawer. She had wrapped the box in her favorite purple polka dot Chanel scarf, hiding it where she figured Lester would never look.  After 35 years of marriage, he knew her too well. Lester never did tell Joyce that he found that last box, and he still has that damn scarf.

Lester never blames others. He only blames himself. He's not the type to wish bad luck onto others either. He doesn't have enemies. But back when Joyce had cancer, he did question why all of this was happening to his wife and his family. He remembered thinking ‘why couldn't it just happen to someone else?’ He remembered the day, the exact moment, when they were told the cancer had returned for the third time. It was a cold Thursday on December 23rd, 2009. Two days before Christmas, and one day before the annual Bowser Christmas party, which he and Joyce held every year. They were one of those power couples. The best hosts in town. Unfortunately, Joyce never got to make her famous plum pudding that Christmas, and it was the first year that the annual party was cancelled. Lester still catches himself looking at the clock at 7:07, the time of her passing. He always tries to keep busy so he doesn't notice the time. He will never forget that moment. The moment he lost his best friend. 

Fast forward six months. Lester has returned to work at PricewaterhouseCoopers on Lower Water Street, where he works as an accountant. He's held that same position for 40 years. Everyone knows him there, but no one ever stops by to visit. He always wonders why they walk by on their way to Perks for their morning coffees and why they don't offer to get him anything, or ask if he wants to join. Lester thinks it may be the smell of his tuna sandwiches that keeps people away. Or maybe they're all just too busy. Either way, he understands. 

Each morning is the same for Lester. He wakes up at 6 a.m., reads The Globe and Mail in bed with his coffee, and then picks up The Chronicle Herald from the front step, and spreads it out in his cat’s litter box. Mr. Winkle was Joyce’s cat, who eventually became the son they never had. The gray cat is larger than the average neighborhood cat, with his straggly whiskers that are becoming weathered because of his old age. He also has an awful limp on his right paw from the time Joyce accidentally tramped on him while rushing to the washroom during a bad stint of chemo that morning. Lester doesn’t mind taking care of Mr. Winkle, he’s the only living memory he has left of Joyce. But he does cringe each time Mr. Winkle jumps up on his lap in the evenings and licks his sore paw while Lester watches CNN. It’s such a painful reminder.

 Another painful reminder is the bottles of San Pellegrino that continue to fill Lester’s fridge. They were her favorite.  Lester attempted to drink them, but couldn't stand the taste. He can still hear Joyce telling him to put some lemon slices in to add some flavor, but he never did enjoy the taste. He always leaves the bottles out on his reading table until he eventually forgets about them and they go flat. He ends up pouring the rest of the water down the sink and neatly placing the bottles with the other empties in the blue recycling bag.

Meet G.

A thin, mousey, stereotypical yoga instructor. She’d rather be called a Yogini, out of respect and all. It’s no coincidence that Yoginis are also known to be female demons. I remember my parents telling me how great G was after they had met her. They should have warned me that G is one of those people who is only nice to adults. I decided to give her a chance until I received that first email. Her email went on about how excited she was to meet me.  Nice gesture I guess. I didn’t judge her until I got to the bottom of her email where she left her personal blog link and a link to the yoga studio where she teaches. She also couldn’t think of a title for the email, and left it at “No Subject.” Enough said. No one should ever leave a subject line blank. Could she not have come up with something to put into the subject?

Our first meeting wasn’t like most initial meetings. G rang the buzzer and seemed sweet. She seemed apologetic as she had been vacuuming all day and moving furniture. She embarrassingly asked if we could hear her upstairs. We didn’t want to hurt her feelings so we said that we understood it was an old house and not to worry. She replied “Good. I came down to tell you that you guys are really noisy and I could hear you unpacking all day. I just want us to have a good relationship, so try to keep it down.”

“Try to keep it down” was something we would get used to hearing, on an almost daily basis. It’s funny because for someone so dainty and who likely weighs about 110lbs, G stomps around upstairs like an elephant. Sometimes I wake up thinking there’s an earthquake or that she’s going to break the floorboards. 

G owns concrete slippers, or at least that’s what it sounds like. She must forget that humans live below her. Frankly, she just doesn’t care. She has no idea that when she drops the smallest item upstairs, like a penny,  downstairs it sounds like she just emptied an entire bag of marbles onto the floor, on purpose. It wouldn’t surprise me if she was dropping items just to bother us. 

Not only does she teach yoga at the local studio, she also enjoys personal meditation and yoga practice in her home. Sometimes I hear G’s practice music, and it’s not the regular peaceful and relaxing yoga music I’ve heard before. G enjoys this weird African/voodoo sounding music. She’s the type of person you wouldn’t be surprised to see carrying around voodoo dolls.  

Let me make this clear, G doesn’t own the house that we live in. She’s just subletting the flat above us. But for some strange reason G is on a power trip. Not only is G a confrontational face-to-face person, she’s also a confrontational emailer.  She likes to send large emails explaining what we need to fix about our living styles and she signs “sorry to sound like a nag” at the bottom. It’s not the fact that we’re students, although that helps her power trip, but she’s not the type to be confrontational with adults. She also doesn’t like other confrontational people. So when she meets one, she gets flustered easily. 

G can’t stand noise, it bothers her. Daily conversations and dish washing make her volatile. She doesn’t understand why we can’t simply live together and not make noise; all the while she has yet to remove her concrete slippers. What bothers G the most has to do with respect, or her definition of respect.  

G doesn’t believe young people respect her. She did try to give them a chance before. G allowed two international students to live with her and she enjoyed explaining to her friends that they thought she was a goddess and they would never do anything to upset her. G wasn’t kidding. Apparently she expected that this would magically happen if she told enough people. G ended up kicking these respectful students out after a few months. 

G now believes that all young people are the same. G thinks we slam the heavy 85 year old door on purpose, just to make her cringe. G likes to call the property manager and landlord to put in an official complaint. She finds the need to call both the manager and landlord just to show how serious the situation is to her. She will especially put in a complaint if her feelings get hurt and when she feels like you weren’t being nice enough to her. 

G is a 40 year old woman who looks like she just celebrated her 30^th birthday. It must be the yoga. Actually, it is the yoga, just ask her. When people tell G how great she looks for her age, she doesn’t reply with a “thanks” or “don’t make me blush,” response. She simply smiles and replies with a matter of fact “it’s the yoga.”

G has a tough time trusting people. She especially finds it difficult to trust young people. After living above us for the past year, she still questions us every garbage day when we take the communal compost bin to the curb. “Are you sure it’s compost day?” Our response? “I think so….” while we look at the twelve other compost bins that our neighbors have placed at the curb.

G blatantly informs us of the parties we’ve apparently been having. Maybe next time I’ll be invited to my own party. G always jumps to conclusions, and expects the worst. She blames us for being too noisy and tells us that she “heard about our party.” I’m not sure how many parties G has been to, but a party of 3 girls seems rather boring, don’t you think?

Don’t get G angry though, if you do then be prepared to take a fall. When G believes that people aren’t respecting her, she won’t fulfill her winter duties which include salting the front step.

G is very nervous of leaving her car in her own driveway. So to solve this problem, she believes parking on an angle will help keep neighbors and others from parking too close to her.G admits that she doesn’t feel obliged to apologize. She never apologizes. Even when G knows she’s wrong, she will place the blame onto others.

G is that woman you see and question why she’s unmarried and living alone. But soon after meeting her you start to answer your own question.  

Game on.

Approaching the big steel doors of the sports complex, I immediately knew I didn’t belong. Walking into the new facility, the strong smell of paint overwhelmed my nostrils. Everything in this place seemed different to me, nothing could settle me down. I stood there feeling tense and unsure.

Walking to the dressing room, I was nervous. I felt the familiar nervous ball crumple up in my stomach again, the same ball I often get on the first day of school or new job. Only this time, I had a nervous feeling of knowing I was going into something already defeated. No one tried to tell me to relax, or to calm down, because I was about to compete with the best athletes in Canada. After all, this was the Canada Games. I could feel the shivers starting to cover my body, and the sweat beads beginning to cover my palms.

Upstairs on the third floor, before we headed into the dressing room, I remember walking past the gym.  I glanced two floors down at the open-concept area that housed eight badminton courts, six side-by-side, and two private practice courts in behind. Hundreds of spectators filled the bleachers, and at least a hundred more were lined across the upstairs viewing area. It was even hard for us athletes to get a glimpse of the courts we would soon be competing on. I couldn’t imagine the view from the courts, looking up at the hundreds of faces staring back down at you.

Pushing the door to the dressing room, the light gust of wind literally took the air from my lungs. I felt like I was being punched in the stomach over and over. Something was telling me to worry, to not bother competing. I was sure to lose. This feeling of loss followed me into the dressing room. The room was enormous. Endless rows of gray and blue lockers lined the walls, but nothing was in there to stay. It was a temporary place. A transitional room. Individual teams used the room for a brief period of time before grabbing their belongings to place into team piles in the gym. 

When I walked onto the court, I could feel it in my legs. I wasn’t warmed up. My legs felt like instant JELL-O, and I could feel my toes cringing in my court sneakers, like they had just stepped on tiny shards of glass and were quickly recoiling. The floor was a shock to me. It was something I had never played on before. Green and blue foam-like mats were spread across the hard wooden gymnasium’s floor. I remember thinking, why don’t we just use the hardwood? That’s what most of the athletes are used to. I knew I wasn’t prepared. But I kept trying to tell myself to stay positive. Were these nerves good? Did they have a hidden meaning? I read somewhere once that nerves were a good thing and that if you didn’t have any, that’s when you should start to worry. 

Warming up, I began to literally feel warmer. That must be the purpose of warming up? To get warm? Or is it simply a metaphorical figure of speech? I had never analyzed it. I was always too busy doing it. Either way, I was feeling a bit better. The ball in my stomach was slowly letting go, and my toes were lengthening back out to their normal state. My arms were now the target. They felt heavy. Not heavy because I had been rallying for half an hour, but heavy like each time I swung for the shuttle, I felt an intense weight and pressure pounding down. In particular on my dominant right arm.

As I tried to ignore my heavy arms, hoping that they would eventually work themselves out, I honed in on the smell of the gym. I could smell burning rubber from the court shoes all around me. I could smell wet feathers as the officials and coaches steamed the shuttlecocks before the matches began. 

Stretching out on the team bench, I could hear shoes squealing on the court. Couldn’t anyone pick up their goddamn feet when they moved? Apparently not. The non-stop conversations of teammates, coaches, and officials, mixed with spectator conversations allowed for a constant droning or buzzing sound that filled the open-concept gym.

“Kerry and McIver….” was repeated three times over the loud speaker. We were up. I didn’t know whether to act confident, or to show my fear. But I was terrified. Walking onto the court, and after meeting the four officials, and our opponents, we were as ready as we could be. The sound of the whistle went right through me, and I zoned out. There was no turning back. Game on.   

The time we didn't want to waste five bucks...

It all started in the summer of 2008 when I first met MJ. We met during my first PR co-op work term when I was back home in PEI. We immediately hit it off. One of those instant best friend relationships. We did everything together- lunch dates, coffee dates, hung out on weekends together, not just one of those “coworkers only” friendships.

Canada Day weekend was fast approaching, and we had no game plan. This was a first. We planned for everything. So why hadn’t we planned something fun on one of the biggest party weekends? Simply put? Beats me.

By the time Friday rolled around, we were willing to admit that we were losers. Until… we were told that someone in the office would win tickets to The Festival of Lights- a concert full weekend. It’s known as PEI’s biggest party of the year. Seriously. So much so that it’s now been turned into Summerfest, a family friendly event, due to all the rowdy and drunken teenagers that roamed the streets in years prior.

MJ and I contemplated spending five bucks each for simply the chance to win. What were our odds? Was it even worth it? After debating over lunch, and over our coffee breaks, we finally caved. We each regretfully pulled out five bucks, and crossed our fingers.

At the end of the day, I had forgotten about the tickets. I knew we hadn’t won. But then I heard yelling and screaming coming from the other side of the building - MJ’s division. I ran over to the Tourism department, where they told me that I was the lucky winner. Me? I don’t win anything. Seriously. And here I was, holding two licensed VIP tickets valued at $231.85 each.

Pumped, we planned for a great night ahead of us. So off we went to the concerts that evening, enjoyed the VIP tent - and not just because it served beer. When the concerts ended, we continued our evening at a few random bars in the city.

When we got to our final stop for the night, we headed into the bar, a bar that my sister was working in at the time. She came over, laughed, and told me that Chris Daughtry and his band were upstairs in the private bar. Was she kidding? Regardless, that’s all I needed to hear. We were going up to meet them. So, with a bit of liquid courage, I went up to the bouncer, and explained my situation- “I NEED to meet Daughtry. He’s a good friend of mine.” Clearly, he knew I was full of shi…beer. But we somehow mustered our way upstairs. When we sat down, I was pissed. Daughtry was nowhere to be found. 

MJ told me to turn around. At this point, she had already left our booth and was happily chatting with the band members in their booth directly behind ours. Instead of rushing over, I contemplated calling Mom to get her to book me an eye appointment until I realized it was 2 a.m. But seriously, how did I not see the band right behind me?

So there we were hanging out with Daughtry all night. Chris had just signed MJ’s liquor store receipt when he turned to me to ask if I wanted his autograph. I said no. I might have added “thanks” at the end, but I can’t remember. 

What? It’s not that weird right? I honestly didn’t have any paper, or memorabilia of Daughtry for him to sign, so why bother? It’s fine, I didn’t hurt his feelings… he laughed it off, told me I was hilarious and life went on.

So after hanging out with them for a few hours, they gave us two backstage passes to meet the other bands that weekend and see them again to take photos. Cool. Now we’re groupies.

The next day, in between concerts, we went backstage. I was sure they wouldn’t remember our names, until I heard two of the band members yell out “Hey Sheila,” and “Hey MJ.” They remembered us, this was cool.

After taking our cheesy picture, and meeting some of the other bands, who I had never heard of at the time... Mariana’s Trench? MJ and I grinned and looked at each other. We couldn't wait to tell our hilarious story about the time we didn’t want to waste five bucks to our coworkers on Monday. 

Well how will I ever learn?

Thinking back to my earliest childhood memories, one clearly comes to mind. This isn't a memory of my favorite stuffed animal, or my best friend’s birthday party. This is a memory that best describes my childhood.

According to Mom, I was 4 ½ or 5 years old and was thrilled to be going on a family vacation. We went on annual family road trips that tended to be a minimum of ten hours… in a hot and stuffy van. Sweet. This time, Mom, Dad, and my older sister Rachel, were headed to Santa’s Village in Jefferson, New Hampshire. You've never heard of it? Well Google it. It may not be Disney World, but that was last year’s trip OK? And besides, amusement parks are every kid’s dream.

Every kid’s dream, but mine. I was always interested in different things, things that the average kid my age wouldn't necessarily enjoy. I mean, I was my father’s daughter. My mom to this day says I’m the son my father never had. Super. It’s every little girl’s dream to be called a boy.

So for any little boy, a stop at Home Hardware in Shediac, New Brunswick, was better than any ride at Santa’s Village. I jumped out of the car, eager to stretch my legs and head into the store to look at cool things with Dad. He grabbed my hand, smiled, and led me to the entrance.

Looking back at my sister and my mom, I smirked. I was excited. I was honored really, that Dad wanted my opinion on car parts and tool boxes, not my sister or Mom’s. Ha, suckers.

So in we went, Dad and I took the lead, and Mom and Rachel followed behind. I remember being fascinated by all of the stuff. There’s so much stuff in hardware stores, and I had to touch it all. I was so curious. Mom said I had to know just how heavy, light, soft, or hard objects were. When Mom would say “don’t touch,” I’d put my hands on my hips, tap my right foot, and ask “well how will I ever learn?” She’d grin and tell me “I’ll tell you.” And she thought the fight was over? I’d question “Well how did YOU learn?” Sheila 1, Mom 0.

When Dad and I were ready to go, we got in the checkout line. And this is where I began to lose patience...funny right? That’s so not like me. I’m the most patient person I know…

OK but seriously, being my little impatient self, I started to get annoyed with the 3 other people in front of our family. Why was it so important for them to buy paint at 11a.m.? Were they going to rush home and paint their entire house right at this moment? No.

So to fill my boredom, I began to touch things… again. Even at 21 years old, Mom still cringes when we go into stores that have breakables.

You may already know where this story is going. As I was touching the candy bars, and small items at the front of the checkout, I noticed the biggest “front of the store” item I had ever seen. A very large and expensive lawn item. A birdbath. A beautiful, porcelain birdbath. A beautiful, porcelain birdbath that cost $500. Of course I had to touch it. Turning around when Mom called, because we were next in line, I leaned. Poor choice.

The birdbath fell to the floor, shattering in a million porcelain pieces. Oops.

Shocked, I began to cry. Dad grabbed my hand, reassured me that everything was OK, and took me out to the van. I knew everything wasn't OK when I looked at Mom. Her face said it all. You’d think she’d know by now that I don’t listen, and I’m just this curious and touchy child.

Thankfully, we didn't have to pay for the shattered birdbath. Thanks to Mom, who has the greatest debate and “I can get out of anything” attitude (you’d swear she was in PR).

And hey, maybe they felt bad? I didn't mean to! And besides, who puts a birdbath at the front of a store, where it can be easily knocked over? Maybe I was just teaching them a lesson. Well, how will they ever learn? 

Please, go visit Greenwich National Park in PEI.

I don’t usually recommend natural environments, but after a recent trip to a psychic, she told me that I would be able to best find my inner peace outside, in a natural environment. I know this sounds silly, and maybe a bit unbelievable if you don’t have a superstitious bone in your body, but give me a chance to explain.

I have to admit, I tried to recall a time where I truly appreciated a natural environment, because I think for most of us, we unfortunately overlook it. The one place however, that I do hold near and dear to my heart, is Greenwich National Park.

I remember going there with a school exchange group back in high school. I remember the day like it was yesterday. The 15-passenger van pulled into the National Park, the students noisily piled out. It was a cool day, but not one of those days where the wind literally cuts right through you. It was a calm day, not much wind and a bit of overcast, but the area still appeared beautiful.

Other than the chattering of the students, the area was completely silent. So peaceful. No animals to make a sound, only a few pesky mosquitoes buzzing, and the odd chirping from a nearby cricket. 

As we headed down the dock, to the Dunes trail, the pounding of our footsteps on the creaky wood drowned out all other noise. On the trail though, you didn't need to hear anything-the actual scenery was breathtaking. It made me feel at peace. Completely relaxed, with no worry in the world at that particular moment. Although I was walking, I felt motionless. Completely still. A euphoria filled my body, numbing my legs. I loved it here.

The trail seemed to go on forever, although it was only about 4 km, it seemed endless. Being on top of the water, looking down at the wet lands was an experience in itself. I wondered how deep the water was, and what lurked below. 

I thought that the smell of this place would turn me off, but it didn't. The smell there is best described as natural. There was no noticeable pungent smell; it smelled like the true outdoors. That refreshing smell of the natural habitat. 

When we came up to the dunes, we all let out noises of disbelief. We had never seen dunes like these before. These sand dunes were enormous. They were solid, but at the same time, they appeared vulnerably fragile. 

As the wind picked up, I remember the taste of dry sand. The wind had carried the loose sand that covered the nearby dunes and wet lands in our direction. I could taste it, along with the moisture from Bowley Pond that had seeped through the cracks of the old, but well maintained dock. 

I finally tuned in, just as our teacher was waving to us to head back. I remember looking down, seeing those water spiders swimming excitedly. You could tell they loved it, like they never wanted to leave this place. I can't say I blame them. I didn't want to leave either.