Third Spaces Aren't Enough, We Need Everywhere to be Free Right Now

The lack of third spaces in my city is becoming more obvious and inconvenient to me. The businesses here have taken capitalism a step further than smaller cities by not only refusing to provide space for people who aren’t paying customers to sit but also wanting to swiftly kick out customers who purchased food and who now want to eat it in their establishment. You want a table AND chairs, you peasant? You want to sit quietly and eat your sandwich while the space you would be taking up could be used by someone waiting in line for their sandwich? Who gave you the nerve? 

Everywhere I go, I feel like I’m being ushered through a lineup and then expected to pay and either leave immediately and to take my food home, or to awkwardly pull my food out of its bag and attempt to eat it standing by the front doors, getting in everyone’s way. These places now exist solely to provide food and not a place to consume it. I feel like I’m surrounded by food pick up windows that were once small restaurants.  

Recently, on a night where I was meeting up with my parents and their friend to see a play, I felt the strain of capitalism against my shoestring budget more than ever. My day started by going into work which wasn’t the worst part of my disdain at living in a capitalist nightmare but it certainly didn’t help. At lunch I texted my colleague/friend the address to the work event I had invited him to (forced him to go to with me.) He works in IT and I pitched the party to him as a way to learn more about Cybersecurity threats to our workplace in 2025, even though it wasn’t clear to me that these would even be covered in the presentations being put on by one of the vendors my workplace uses. I had to be there to shake hands and introduce myself (no I didn’t), and I wanted a familiar face accompany me  to buffer the awkwardness of going up to random strangers and asking them what brought them to this event when they were clearly just invited like I was. He agreed, but only on the pretense that the event was being held at the same venue as it was last year and that the catering for this venue had recently gone through some improvements and now all the food being served was delicious. For mass produced hors d’oeuvres, the tasters that I had at last year’s event filled me up spiritually as well as physically. He was sold, mainly because I was so insistent.

Although it was his day off, he showed up to work on time to pick me up so we could walk over to the event together. We ate as much as our stomachs could allow, I had a small glass of free wine and we decided to leave before the room emptied out of everyone except the people who were throwing the event or working there. I wanted to kill some time before meeting my parents and their friend, Jan, to see a play they had bought us tickets for that came highly recommended. It was 5:30pm and I needed to be at the theatre before 8pm. It was a 30 minute walk but the weather wasn’t being cooperative and it was raining/snowing in big wet drops of condensation. I figure I would need a drink or dinner to keep me warm for the walk.

When my friend and I left the building, I suggested we go next door to the Earl’s that most certainly would be busy. Despite this busyness, I figured it would likely have a nice window-facing table that we could sit at, people watch a thousand white men in navy suits, and eat sliders in. I thought wrong. When we got to the host stand, they said that it would be an hour and a half wait. On a random Wednesday in December. Maybe they were hosting holiday parties. We thanked them and promptly left and tried to find somewhere indoors that would take us because it was raining/snowing out. 

My friend suggested we find someplace cheap in the underground pathway leading to the subway and I vetoed this idea because everything down there closes at 5 or is depressing because of their lack of windows. We were stuck where we were and had no idea where to hang out, gossip, and eat. It bothered me because we were in the heart of downtown, in this enormous city, without options that wouldn’t make us wait for over an hour. Even though we were open to spending money there, there were simply too many people and functions to accommodate. We felt confused and disheartened. I don’t want to have to spend money to be able to spend time with my friend outside of work. I want there to be places we can go, that are indoors, and that are chill. 

We finally accepted that the only comfortable spot we could loiter and talk shit in was the lobby of a nearby office building. Not our office building, someone else’s. It was bustling and filled with people leaving for the night and UberEats drivers dropping off food for people refusing to go home. We spent half an hour complaining about pretty much all of our mutual friends and then I decided that it would be a good time to set off on the 30 minute walk to the area where the theatre was. I walked my friend to where he was going on the subway line, and continued my journey in the cold and dark. It rained and I was wearing a wool coat I bought myself in 2013 which was, understandably, falling apart at the seams. I was ill-prepared for the weather but took pride in the fact that I’d be saving myself 3.25$ in subway fare. 

As I got closer to the neighbourhood where the theatre was, I started to get excited about the prospect of the Christmas market that was being held there and how it had free entry during the week. From Thursday to Sunday, I believe they have a 15$ entry fee to the market. Regardless, I wasn’t paying that. When I got to the winter festival area, I walked in and immediately clocked how busy it was despite the rain. People were lining up at most of the outdoor kiosks and waiting to order crepes, waffles, hot chocolates, beer, mulled wine, and poutine. The fried food stands outnumbered any of the others. It was cold but people could at least pay 15$ for something to warm them up. I also noticed that each of these food stands didn’t have anywhere to stop and eat at. No high top tables to stand around, no chairs to sit and balance your boat of food on. People were expected to just stand next to those in line waiting their turn to order. 

I had made mental plans to buy a hot chocolate, assuming incorrectly that there may be tables to sit where they sold it. I had forgotten what the store looked like on the inside. I was met with a short lineup that was organized by a rope indicating where people should go to for what (wait here to order and pay, wait here for your drink, and get out if you’re not about to drop 10$ on hot chocolate, also close the door when you leave because the wind is making everyone inside cold.) 

The chocolate store was brightly lit and welcoming in the sense that the people who worked there were nice and they were making hot chocolate for everyone. It was not welcoming in that there were two benches to sit on that seemed shoehorned into the far back of the store and both were filled with people quietly sipping their hot chocolate and taking photos. I wondered where I would go once I got my drink, which was ready almost as soon as I had finished paying the woman at the register. 

There was still an hour to wait until the show started but I approached the theatre to scope it out. I also saw two people inside the theatre lobby dressed up as Santa and Mrs. Claus taking photos at a makeshift photo wall with little kids, and a sign on the door that politely asked you to not bring outdoor food and beverages inside. I felt the need to down my hot chocolate immediately so I could escape from the cold but then also didn’t want to deal with the crowds surrounding Santa and his wife. 

I tried to pick a store that wouldn’t mind my presence despite having hot, brown liquid in a cup. The nearest store I could see was a sock store. There were two people working and chatting at the till and a couple browsing the wide selection of socks. I picked up a pair of socks closest to the door and my movement caused the sock rack to destabilize and fall off the wall mounting. While I tried to hold the socks in one hand, the hot chocolate in the other, I attempted to picked the rack up off the floor. One of the women at the till came over to help me. I decided to hold onto the socks as a 28$ penance for my clumsiness. I don’t regret the purchase because they’re very warm and comfortable. Even though it was a nice purchase, I really only bought them because of the guilt I felt for my slip up and my appreciation for the women who didn’t side-eye me for bringing hot chocolate into their charming sock store. I left and went next door to a dispensary.

At the dispensary, I bought sleep gummies in cash to take before the show started. I had seen the show the year prior and had thoroughly enjoyed it. I assumed that the weed gummies would make me pay better attention to any plot points that I had missed the first time. 

As I finished my hot chocolate outside, I heard a security guard berate some teenagers for smoking weed that they didn’t even have. They told him that it wasn’t theirs and that they didn’t know where the smell was coming from and he ushered them away from the front doors, saying that the smell was overpowering and causing people to become uncomfortable. This whole interaction made me uncomfortable, and not because I was about to smash some pre-play weed candy, but because even the innocent children he was accosting weren’t allowed to stand around outside the theatre’s entrance, because the security guard incorrectly attributed the smoking to them. I wanted justice for the teens. 

When I entered the theatre, I noticed that although the crowd of Santa Claus fans had dissipated slightly, there were still way too many people standing around for it to be comfortable. Each chair and flat surface was sat and covered with someone or their items. I knew there was a bathroom in the back of the theatre so my first move was to go there to take off my coat and pee. I knew that this would only kill 5 minutes tops but I had run out of ideas and ways to waste time before the start of the show. While I peed, I texted my parents and their friend that I had arrived and was looking for a spot to settle in for the next thirty minutes before the show started. I told them to take their time getting there and that there was no need to rush because I was alone and it wasn’t fun there. As I exited the bathroom, I saw a small, makeshift sign pointing to a lounge for ticket holders. Well, I was a ticket holder. I mean my dad had purchased my ticket but he was definitely going to show up at some point and I’m sure he had emailed me a copy. I approached the lounge with caution and doubt and a young server came out from its entrance. I asked him if I was allowed to be there and he said “Yes, of course.” So I walked in. 

The lounge was a recycled theatre, empty except for the server and a woman standing behind a bar that doubled as a stand for her computer. She ignored me the whole time I was there. There were about 10 tables and chairs and a wall full of theatre seats so I sat in one in the front row. I watched as a couple of stragglers came in from the cold, like me, confused about whether they were allowed to be there. Some bought drinks and snacks from the bar. Some spent no money. We all were welcomed into this third space where we were free to chat quietly or look at our phones like I was. 

While I waited for my parents and their friend to show up, I felt grateful to have found this magical place where I could be without feeling pressure to purchase anything else that night. 

My parents and their friend arrived shortly after and we proceeded to chat in the theatre seats until it was time to take our actual seats in the theatre where the play was showing. At the end of the night, my parents drove me home. 

At my part-time job’s workplace at a café, it has benches and tables for people to use at will. Some people sit there alone and finish their food only to leave immediately afterwards. Some people linger and talk with their friends after their food is finished. Some people leave as soon as they’ve purchased their food. While I understand the frustration of serving people close to closing time and praying that they’ll leave before you have to ask them to politely, most of the time I just appreciate the company. I’ll do dishes in the back, attempting to eavesdrop on their conversations, unable to hear what they’re saying over the commercial faucet. Knowing they’re there makes me feel safe and comfortable, even if we aren’t interacting. Moreover, people very seldom stay past an hour until closing time and if they do, it’s because I know them. 

The energy I want to enforce at the place where I work is that people are free to stay if they want to. They don’t have to leave as soon as they’re finished their food or drinks. They don’t have to leave if their friend leaves, and they don’t have to spend money to take up space in the establishment. It can be hard as a consumer to not feel like you’re being taken advantage of by businesses. And small business owners are at odds because they, too, have a difficult time sustaining their profits while paying rent in an expensive city. In turn, they feel like they must be extra cautious about providing too much product, space, or employee time to their customers. This ongoing game of who is capitalizing off who the most ultimately makes me sad even though it may be self-inflicted. 

When I asked one of my bosses at the café, she said that doesn’t feel the lack of third spaces as much as I do but understands the dueling sides of my problem. We talk often about how to provide a pleasant space for customers and how to have them stick around when they want to and spend money to keep the business afloat. What I hope for is more spaces like the theatre lounge, where anyone can sit down in while they wait for their show to start. They’re welcome to enjoy their friends’ companies without the pressure to stand, pay for food they don’t want, or be a burden to the business owner by existing there without spending money.

Monarch Butterfly

When I was ten, I spent a good half hour chasing a monarch butterfly at a rest stop on the way to visit my family friends in Montreal. I loved how orange and black it was and how quickly its little wings were flapping around me. 

While my parents were preoccupied with making us food, I couldn’t stop running after this butterfly, hoping it would land somewhere close enough to the ground that I could catch it in my hands. The butterfly always flew just a couple inches out of my reach. Finally, after almost giving up, getting sweaty and then basically forgetting about this butterfly, it softly landed at the end of an old wooden bat someone had left in the grass. I crept up behind it so slowly, now that it was finally within arm’s reach. I slammed my hands down on the bat and the butterfly and alarmed myself with how forceful I was against this paper thin, defenseless bug. One of its wings was crushed. I didn’t know what to do with its almost lifeless form except hold it helplessly in my hand and cry. I left it on the end of the bat and went to my mom to complain about how much of an asshole I was. She asked what I thought would have happened if I caught the butterfly. I told her I didn’t know. I had no idea. I didn’t want to keep it, I just wanted to hold it in my hands for a few seconds and be able to observe it up close.

My mom told me to leave it alone and that maybe it would make a miraculous recovery despite my attempts to murder it. After an hour of pacing back and forth next to the old baseball bat, I watched the beautiful butterfly recover fully and fly away. There is a metaphor here.

Work Horses

There are several people that I work with and whose services I patronize that I consider real weight carriers. The workhorses. The people, places, and things who make mine, and others’ lives easier. They carry the burden of being competent, communicative, and good at their jobs in a way I find so wonderfully satisfying, like watching those compilations on Youtube of vacuum cleaner heads fitting gracefully into a corner that appears perfectly molded to it. Or the ones where they steam clean the dirtiest rugs you’ve ever seen. In a world full of cutting corners, prioritizing rest and relaxation, and a seemingly indefinite amount of excuses to not get the job done, I cling onto these people like they’re human life rafts. And in a way, they are.  

Christina 

The devil works hard but my therapist works harder. She is amazing. I know this sounds like a testament to my own mental wellbeing, but please know that it isn’t. I’m still very crazy. However, I would be more crazy if I didn’t have Christina as a therapist. We’ve never met in person, I don’t know where she lives or if she’s married, I know literally nothing about this woman except the few details I can extrapolate from her life by trying to make out what’s in the background of her zoom setup. We talk weekly, sometimes every two weeks, to discuss two of my favourite topics: my life and all the people I’m mad at at the moment. I vent, I ramble, I ruminate, and sometimes I even cry. I talk about what I’m grateful for, and for all the kind people and gestures that have touched me that week. I discover new insights about my childhood, my dreams, and my future. I feel so alive when I’m talking to her. She works harder than anyone I know.

Dr. Oben

For the longest time, I had been going to the same dentist I had had as a child. This man was not my cup of tea (an asshole). I have one vivid memory of him looming over me, both hands grasping one of those tooth jacks, pulling one of five teeth that needed removing that day to make space for my adult teeth. I wasn’t under general anaesthesia like I had been for the removal of my four wisdom teeth years later so while I couldn’t feel any pain due to the laughing gas and numbing cream in my mouth, I could feel the tooth being pulled from its socket as he shook over me with the effort. His mouth was covered by a mask but I could tell he was likely biting his lip in frustration at how deeply the tooth was packed into my gums. I hated him. He casually referred to me as Bugs Bunny because I had a wide gap in my front teeth and a massive overbite from sucking my thumb until I was ten. His jokes never landed because they were usually at my expense. He was too informal for the gravity of the procedures he was doing. I realized he was incompetent when I started to see my orthodontist at 11. HE was the funniest, sweetest, tallest, most stunning Greek man I’d ever met, and he greeted me every appointment by saying “Hello, Beautiful!” as if that was my given name. He also managed to fix my gap and overbite without making fun of me, a child, in the process. My teeth are nice now, thanks to his help. Once, when speaking about him at the lunch table at school, a friend of mine who also had braces looked shocked and said “He’s MY orthodontist too! I love him.” Our mutual admiration and respect for (crush on) him made us bond even more.

But this part is about my current dentist, Doctor Oben. At one point, after lamenting at how far my first dentist’s office was, and how much I disliked his attitude, I asked my dad about where he went. His dentist was a bit closer to my house, but still an hour’s trip on the subway each way. But my dad loved him and the dental hygienists he worked with. They were all delightfully kind and compassionate, and they cleaned his teeth gently but thoroughly. I wondered why I had never thought to crowdsource my dentist with my dad, especially given how much disdain I had for my former one. Now, I go to him as often as my insurance will allow me to (every six months and not a moment later). He’s honest, professional, he answers my questions about drinking lemon juice and oil pulling with coconut oil. He’s quiet and never rushes me out of the office. He works very hard.

Libraries

Where else can you go for free books? No late fees? Free language lessons, career classes, tutoring for kids, or just a place to hang out quietly? Exactly. Nobody is doing it like the libraries are.

Nespresso machine

The Nespresso machine in my apartment works harder than every coffee maker I’ve ever had. I use it every day, sometimes twice a day. My sister bought it for me as a Christmas present in 2017 and I haven’t sought out another way to make coffee since. I briefly considered buying a percolator because I thought it would be a slower, more intentional way to consume coffee. It also would create less waste. However, I never got around to it and simply kept buying individual pods to consume every morning like a little gerbil drinking its milk. 

It prevents me from having to buy my coffee on the way to work. It makes a loud noise. It scratches an itch in my brain I didn’t know I even had. The way I can put in a pod and press a single button and walk away from it only to come back to the most beautiful little cup of coffee I’ve ever seen. Every day it’s like this. 

At a time when it feels like you’re getting scammed every time you leave the house, when something works as effectively as a Nespresso machine, it feels silly not to acknowledge it. 

Pimples patches 

Never has a beauty product been more effective than a pimple patch. I would buy pimple patches if their only purpose was to prevent me from picking at my skin. They may not completely eradicate an unfortunate, under the skin, hormonal pimple that you get in advance of the worst period of your life. But they help. If I had these patches when I was a teenager, I would have had a completely different experience. I envy teens these days who proudly wear yellow and pink stars on their faces to cover their spots and remind me of their youth. They don’t know how good they have it with pimple patches. To wake up to a used pimple patch, having dried to your face, feeling the tug at your skin as you peel it off slowly and finding a perfectly circular white mark of oil and dirt that was once living there. Pimple patches do what they say they’re going to do, and then some, and I like that.

The Airport Express

In my city, there is an airport express that works so well it blows my mind. We are used to the most garbage public transit that North America has to offer. I’m embarrassed whenever I go to Europe or any city that has had technology on their public transit for decades that we have only recently adopted within the past six months. We’ve only just got the ability to pay for the subway by tapping our credit cards. 

This airport express is 20 minutes round trip and can take you from the farthest you can go downtown, to the airport which would be at least an hour’s drive away in traffic on a good day. It saves time. It’s centrally located. It’s reasonably priced (for now). It’s built in a way that makes sense by engineers and public transit architects/designers that don’t hate the people of this city yet. It’s quiet and luxurious, the seats are wide and there is ample space to put your luggage and feet. It’s quick and efficient yet they give everyone enough time to get off and on. It runs on a tight schedule of a train every 10-15 minutes during peak hours and runs early enough on the weekends that I can usually get home in half an hour if my plane arrives after 6am. I love it and will continue to badger my friends into taking it for every trip to and from the airport. It’s saved me hundreds of dollars in cab fare and literal hours from my life. 

Spotify Playlists & Podcasts

The other day when I told Siri to play my Waking Up playlist, she mistook my command for “Play Relax with Animal Facts”. I don’t see the connection, but somehow Siri accidentally stumbled on my favourite new podcast. I listen to it while I get ready for bed and sometimes when I’m already in bed trying to fall asleep. The fact that this podcast exists on God’s green Spotify makes me happy to be alive at the same time as the narrator. His voice is calm and quiet. I listen to podcasts on Spotify more than I do anything else on my phone. Having peoples’ conversation on in the background while I clean or go for walks is a level of peace I never knew existed outside of silence.

Spotify creates from thin air the most on brand, appropriate to my life playlists that I couldn’t even dream of curating myself. When people tell me they use Apple Music to listen to their favourite artists, I look at them like they’re morons. The interface and search functions are useless. It’s expensive unless you’re on a family plan. I just don’t see how they justify it when Spotify is so superior minus the fact that it’s too dark to look at. Spotify knows me better than I know myself. Better than my family and friends know me. Spotify knows what I want for my birthday and what I ate for breakfast today. For that, it is priceless to me.

Angie the Massage Therapist

I read a review on Angie’s website that said “God speaks through Angie’s hands.” and it’s exactly true. The shortest way to describe a talent that I often refer to as God-like, to my friends. Angie is a masseuse who I found by walking by her studio and reading a sign to her website. Angie is so short and small but she turns me out every single time I go to her. She does acupuncture and Reiki but she specializes as an RMT. I love her and would follow her into the dark. 

Harris

There is a man at my work who is so kind, I sometimes think he’s pranking me. We interact regularly and his mask of gratitude and kindness never falls off. Almost as if it isn’t even a mask at all. His only goal seems to be to help me and others and to do so in the kindest, gentlest way. He is never overbearing, he’s respectful, and his message is (usually) received loud and clear. He has taught me to listen and to apply people’s advice, instead of trying to talk over them to convince them why you shouldn’t have to follow their advice. He’s taught me that getting along with people is easy and that being antagonistic to others is hurting my career options. He is equally brilliant as he is kind and I find those two qualities very hard to embody.

Yes, and Friends

I firmly believe that most people can be categorized into one of two types of friends: “Yes, and” friends and “No, but” friends. I have always been a “No, but” person. The irony of this is that while I also have and enjoy knowing many “No, but” friends who also like spending their time watching tv, I have attracted many “Yes, and” ones working alongside them. The “Yes, and” friends come in many forms, for example, I have a friend who believes she can do pretty much anything she sets her mind to.  

My sister is like this, where she will always underestimate how long a job will take. I, in turn, refuse to start tasks because of how difficult and unmanageable I anticipate them being. This feels like more of a tactic to get out of doing my chores, constantly convincing myself that I’m running out of time to accomplish what has historically taken me minutes. Meanwhile, she has successfully installed a hanging light fixture in my living room in three hours, a trip to her house to get her tools, several calls to our dad and her boyfriend, all after saying it would take us five minutes if we “worked quickly”. My sister is a “Yes, and” friend. I love this quality in others but can’t visualize what it would look like for myself. I would have given up on this job at the first sign of difficulty. I wouldn’t have called anyone or left the house to get tools from a second location. 

Once, after moving into a new apartment, I had been slowly unpacking boxes and rearranging my life to take up a bigger space for myself. Weeks had passed and I still had one random box filled with items I didn’t know what to do with. I meant to donate or recycle some of them, but mainly I wanted to put them out on the street so passersby could look and take whatever caught their attention. After my good “Yes, and” friend had come over and we both had had a couple of glasses of wine one Friday night, months after I had moved in, she looked at my box and exclaimed, “Let’s get rid of it tonight!” I responded to her by looking scared. That was my last box. It had been sitting in my hallway for months now and its presence gave me comfort. What would I do without it? Have an unobstructed hallway leading to both ends of my apartment? 

Without her insistence, that box would still be in my hallway. This moment made me feel so truly connected to her. Her “Yes, and”ing made it so that I could clear my hallway (and headspace) to accommodate my shoes and side table. It finally looked lived in and not like I had just moved there. She wanted what was best for me, recognized a hangup that I wasn’t addressing myself, and took control of the situation. She wasn’t pushy when we found a sharpie amongst my shit and wrote “Free stuff” on the side of the box. We nearly skipped down the stairs and front walkway to the curb of my apartment building. When I came back upstairs, we finished our wine feeling considerably lighter, after having unloaded my last connection to the big move. 

“Yes and” friends hate excuses. They waste no time between having a thought that needs actioning and taking action. They don’t leave any time to think twice or to review options. “Yes, and” friends start their chores right away, so that they can get to whatever fun activity they had planned afterwards. They’re free to enjoy themselves guiltlessly because they thought ahead and got to work. They’re important in that way. 

I will always look for the path of least resistance. But I still love to do fun things. I love an assignment or a task and I love to cross items off my to-do list. “Yes, and” friends take this desire for action, but lack of follow-through, personally. If there is an inkling that I may be interested in doing something, they immediately start turning wheels in their brains to make it work. “Yes, and friends” make it their mission to force you to go outside and to have fun. Where would we be without these friends? Likely in your home, relaxing and enjoying food you made.

If you are neither a “Yes, and” friend or a “No, but” friend, maybe you fall into the “Okay, maybe” category. You are whatever friends are leftover. Sometimes a “no, but” friend” can be roused from their slumber and evolve into an “Okay, maybe” type. Sometimes “Okay, maybes” just don’t know what they’re missing out on. Or they don’t care. The importance of the “Okay, maybe” friend is that they’re open and willing to try getting involved in whatever the “Yes, and” friends are cooking. And they’re equally as jazzed to spend a day sitting on a beach somewhere, reading books with their “No, but” friends. They’re transient and malleable. They love to participate and they love to sit out. They’re versatile in a way that “No, but” and “Yes, and” friends aren’t. They’re important. 

Once, when on a work trip to Nairobi, a “Yes, and” colleague and now “Yes, and” friend made it clear that she would not accept my justifications for staying in my room. I had my period. I was jet lagged (so was she). I ate something weird last night at dinner and now felt like my stomach was unsettled. I had too much work to do, too many emails to write, too many FaceTime calls to my parents to make. On our last full day, we finished our meetings early and had some time to visit a safari. Our other colleagues were up for the trip (a half hour car ride each way and a 2 hour safari to see giraffes, monkeys, zebras, etc). After patiently listening to my excuses, she looked me in the eyes and said “Later, you will regret not coming with us. And you will be mad at yourself for giving up on this opportunity. How often are we all in Kenya together?” She was right and when my body and brain were both prepping me for the best mid-afternoon nap of my life, I went back to my room to change into my walking clothes and charge my phone for photos. 

She was, obviously, right, and we had a great time. She has since used this example every time she’s tried to get me to go out with her to do something. Most of the time, it’s worth it. Sometimes, we end up in a giant shopping mall in Vegas breathing recycled air, feeling disconnected and like the nap would have been ten times better. But the times where I’ve gotten out and enjoyed myself make these instances a small price to pay. 

“Yes, and” friends know exactly what to say to get you moving. They know what will immediately instill fear in your heart, and what memories you will be foregoing to sit on your couch a little longer. “Yes, and” friends are essential when you’re on the cusp of deciding whether or not you want to try that new restaurant when they swoop in and make up your mind for you. They’re perfect for non-committals like me. 

Mos Mos

At one of my most depressing jobs, I worked for a mortgage company calculating the variable mortgage rates on residential properties. I had no idea what I was doing for the majority of the year I worked there and never attempted to properly learn the formula that would result in the correct mortgage rates for the company’s clients. Luckily, my colleagues all covered for me. Every day I layed in bed until the last possible moment to get up, get changed, and go to work. I felt like the shittiest version of myself to ever have existed. I could not be bothered to be anything to anyone. My sense of identity was shot and I was constantly on the verge of tears. 

At one of my lowest points, I remember a rare moment of pure connection with one of my favourite coworkers. It sticks out because there were so few moments of joy at this job that I could describe them all in less than five minutes. And I can be long winded. There were so few moments of happiness that didn’t revolve around me talking shit about another one of my coworkers that I hated for no reason.  I had no will to work let alone socialize or make the day fun for myself, something I usually always have the energy for. It was the type of job that lent itself to wasting your own and other peoples’ time but I couldn’t even muster up the energy to do that. I was beyond helping myself. 

One day, my colleague asked me to grab coffee with him. We had options of places to go because we worked in the downtown financial core which catered specifically to people needing coffees at 8am and 3pm. We walked downstairs to a cafe that recently opened up in the path, Mos Mos, to order lattes. There was no lineup when we arrived, so two people, a man and a woman, holding coffee cups and a sharpie, approached us right away to take our orders. We ordered. Then walked up to the cash, paid for ourselves, and waited in the designated spot for our orders to appear. 

What makes this coffee visit particularly special and important is that both my colleague and I have unusually spelled names. Our name experiences were similar in that we were often correcting people on our names’ spelling, having our names autocorrected for us to the wrong spelling.

We went to pick up our drinks and mine came out first. I hadn’t told the man who took my order the correct spelling but there it was, the less common way of spelling my name on my coffee cup. I showed it to my colleague in surprise. “They got the spelling right!” He looked so excited for me. He had no expectations for his cup when it came out but when it did, the person who took his order at the front of the store had also spelled his uncommonly spelled name right! We looked at his cup at the same time and immediately gasped. The chances of them both getting our names right on the same day, the same time. When they never did. It was a statistical anomaly. We were floored. I matched his excitement for his cup’s correct spelling and we stopped just short of jumping up and down while holding each other.

We took it as a good omen and decided to finish our drinks in the underground cafe, giggling to each other over our good luck. Right in front of us was the acknowledgement that we not only existed, but were alive. And that our names were worth spelling right.

Koffee Barcelona

My favourite spot that I visited in Barcelona with my friend, Eve, was a coffee place called Koffee Barcelona. It was small and packed full of people both times we visited. Every high top table was sat. 

The first time we arrived at this cafe, we were frazzled. Running late, uncoordinated, and in a generally agitated and silly mood. We hadn’t had anything to eat for breakfast and had worked out as soon as we woke up so needed food urgently. We spent the short wait in line looking at their menu, entirely in Spanish (weird?), trying to translate it so that we could decide what to order. We were also laughing loudly and making jokes at each other’s expense for not better understanding the menu. Slowly, it began to dawn on me that we were being perceived by the other line waiters. For a moment, I imagined that they assumed we were American by my accent, clothing, and general disposition. Eve had the courtesy and sense to speak in her Australian voice but my Canadian accent could easily be confused for a Mid-Westerner’s by the untrained ear. 

By the time we arrived at the front, I panicked when being asked what I wanted by the woman working there. I kept noticing the people behind us in line and thinking of how ignorant and annoying we must have been to them. While Eve reviewed the menu, I stole a quick look at the lineup again and said, embarrassed “I’m sorry, we’re very dumb.” Immediate disarmament. Everyone in line’s guards dropped. A truce was called.  A couple of people shook their heads vigorously like “No! Of Course you’re not dumb!” The woman at the cash register looked impatient but like a mother lovingly scolding her ignorant children for not understanding a very simple concept like ordering food and coffee at a coffee shop. A woman in line responded to us in English and offered her menu translation services and personal recommendations so we could pick something nice. We had made at least one friend. Everyone in line nodded helpfully at us as we ordered our cappuccinos and cheese and tomato sandwiches. We left the cafe feeling heavier in our stomachs but lighter in our hearts.

Tight Clinic Brazilian Lymphatic Drainage Massage

My relationship with my physiotherapist is so precious and evolved that we no longer talk about my exercises or how my ankle has progressed beyond the first five minutes of every 30-minute check up. We save the good, material stuff for after these pleasantries. I long to hear about where she’s gone out for drinks, the time she got COVID (at a bar in March), and whatever beauty product or service she’s purchased recently. We discuss politics and COVID, books she’s reading, and her friendships. She’s taught me about her Botox and facials but most crucially, she has introduced me to Brazilian Lymphatic drainage massage. It can be done to your body or face and there are only a few spas in our city that perform it, and even fewer that are doing it well. 

A byproduct of my aging is the genesis of a constant fear of missing out. A decidedly solitary FOMO where I want to undergo every novel beauty, wellness, or relaxation treatment that our big city has to offer. If one of my friends has tried Botox, I want to try Botox. If only for the opportunity to talk about it and knowing what it feels like. Is it ridiculous to only want to experience something novel because of the ability to confidently speak about it at parties? Yes, obviously. Does that deter me in any way? No, obviously not. 

I could spend my life chasing the high of experiencing a new after-school activity that I haven’t yet tried. Aerial yoga, which on paper sounds like the worst thing in the world to me, appeals simply because I don’t know anyone who’s done it. Maybe this should be telling me something. I don’t care, though. I’m enamoured by a concert, a restaurant, a spa, a walking trail, an experience, a feeling that I haven’t felt before. Even bad emotions that I haven’t felt yet ring around my brain so hard that I can’t help but mistake them for something exciting and new. Mistake being the operative word here. 

If I haven’t yet done it, then I’m having fun. This applies tenfold to beauty treatments. Living in a city, with gorgeous women who seem, to me at least, desperate to keep up with beauty trends, there’s no shortage of boutique spas or beauty companies that tempt me to experiment with their services. 

During one of our many conversations on the topic of beauty trends, my physiotherapist mentioned being a bridesmaid for her best friend’s wedding (same), and how the bride gifted her with a treatment for a facial at this cool spot downtown. Apparently, the clinic was so exclusive that it was almost impossible to reserve an appointment unless you knew someone who worked there, had already had a treatment with them, or there was a cancellation in their fully booked months in advance calendar. Intrigued, I demanded to know more. I needed to go to the establishment to undergo this lymphatic drainage myself even though I had just learned of its existence. I didn’t know anything about the process or how dangerous it was. I didn’t care. At my grown age of 32, the intersections of my interests are niche beauty treatments and potentially putting my health at risk to experience something “new”. 

While I tried for weeks to find an opening in their schedule, I resigned myself to the fact that my face would go Brazilian Lymphatic drainage-free until I figured out when they dropped their new openings. Would I ever clinch one if the same patients kept coming back week after week? After months of back-to-back bookings, they stopped showing any available time slots. It felt like their website was telling me to give up.

One day, on my streetcar ride home, I visited their booking website on my phone while standing up against a pole. To my surprise, they had an opening at 11 a.m. that Saturday morning. Not only was I not doing anything that day, but I made plans that night where I could show off the results of my treatment to my friends and brag about getting into Tight Clinic’s club of exclusivity. I booked the $195 +tax and tip treatment and felt high the rest of the ride home. 

I wasn’t sure of what I was getting into but I told anyone who would listen about my upcoming appointment for my massage. I researched online which only served to confuse me further about the process. Because it was happening to my face, would I have to take off my top? Yes. Would they be using massage oils on my skin? Also yes. Would it be a formative experience that made me feel great for the remainder of the week? Yes and yes. 

The morning of my appointment, I woke up early expecting my life to change. I became a person who received nonsurgical, non-invasive facial treatments to combat, I don’t know, swollen capillaries, bloating, and being someone who drinks alcohol on weekends. I showed up insanely early to the appointment.

As I arrived at the clinic, I remembered the instructions to head to the side-door entrance leading to their downstairs, basement floor, despite the front door facing the street looking like the obvious entrance to the building. I would later learn that the upstairs entrance was for injectables like Botox and Juviderm filler. Those people had it so nice. 

The basement was dark, as the only light came through the window in the door leading upstairs to the street. I entered to soft music playing and a woman working in a closed-off room. There was an empty reception desk so I sat down next to it. I noticed a mini fridge with flavoured Flow alkaline water in it and a Spotify playlist softly playing acoustic versions of top 40 songs. Nice.

Shortly after settling in my seat, with 15 minutes to spare, the registered massage therapist came out of her appointment and asked me if I needed to use the bathroom. When I said yes, and after I returned, a new woman was sitting at the reception desk while the RMT cleaned up after her last client. The desk woman was gorgeous, young, and immediately engaged me by asking if I was the 11 o’clock appointment and if I had been there before. When I mentioned that I hadn’t, her eyes grew big and she gasped: “You’re going to LOVE Cynthia.” I looked into the room where the RMT was changing the sheets on the massage table. I asked the front desk woman about herself and she casually mentioned that she was the owner of the clinic. She saw a gap in the beauty market in Toronto (rare, international beauty treatments that were only being performed by registered doctors at a huge markup), and she filled it. She recounted her experience with Brazilian Lymphatic Drainage massage and how it changed how she viewed beauty treatments and how they could help other women like us. She had flown in a specialist from Brazil to teach her clinic’s RMTs how to do it to her specifications. They weren’t getting it right until this Brazilian expert arrived. I was instantly in love with her. She was the definition of a delight. You know when you meet someone and it’s like stars shoot out of their eyes? That was what she was like. I tried to be cynical about her enthusiasm but it was infectious and I just wanted to stay talking with her for the rest of my appointment time. 

Soon, my RMT finished prepping the cave-like massage room and she brought me inside. She asked me to take my top off and mentioned that I could keep my bra on if I wanted but should avoid the straps if I could. I figured it would be easier and more comfortable to remove it completely but I mistakenly wore jeans thinking that the massage might happen on a chair, sitting upright. It was weird letting myself into the gap in the sheets on the massage table in my “outside pants” but I got over it. Next time I’ll know to wear either just my underwear or at least comfortable sweatpants. 

She sanitized then oiled up her hands and started gently rubbing my face in a circular motion. The massage took turns I wasn’t expecting but the gist of it was like a workout for your face. Like Face Gym. She drew circles around my forehead and cheeks. She did that flipping her index and middle finger upward move along my jawline and above my mouth. She massaged my neck and shoulders and most alarmingly, she put gloves on and asked me to open my mouth as wide as I could to comfortably let her fingers in. It was bizarre but it felt great and opened up my face. The entire process was 45 minutes long but the time flew. It’s not the massage you pass out midway through, you do have to be present and involved in the movements being done. 

My favourite part was when I left to pay. The lady I had met earlier was gone and was replaced by someone new sitting at the reception desk. She asked me how the treatment went and when I casually mentioned loving it and feeling 100% better than when I walked in, and that I was curious about the body version of the same massage, she said that they dropped a new set of appointments that morning. It was my lucky day. I asked her to set me up with a time in December to come back for an hour to undergo the body version of the Brazilian Lymphatic drainage massage. When we couldn’t pay using my card in the downstairs unit, she suggested we walk upstairs to the injectables part of the clinic. I hopped into my shoes and out their front door, excited to see what the other side had access to. 

When we entered the upstairs, it looked like a regular house with a large walkway. A dog greeted me at the top of the stairs, wagging its tail excitedly. Even he made a good first impression. We walked into a lobby area on the landing of the staircase and three people, two new and one the lady I had met earlier were deep in conversation about their weekends. They nodded at me and the woman I had met immediately stopped her conversation and said loudly so everyone could hear: “You look SNATCHED. You look amazing.” and I have never been more complimented in my LIFE. I blushed through my already rosy cheeks. The people she was with immediately nodded their heads in agreement. She asked me to look in the mirror behind her and when I did, realized she was right, I did look snatched. I was jolted.

I took my credit card out of my wallet and immediately shoved it at the woman taking the payment. After a few tries, the woman next to the salon owner announced that she knew what was wrong and she would fix the machine for us. I paid and the owner asked me what my plans were for the rest of the day and if I wanted to take a sample face mask home. She said I could put it on for 20 minutes, have a glass of wine, and relax for the night. I couldn’t have thought of a more perfect, fitting evening to follow the morning I just had. I paid my bill, said my goodbyes, and tried to absorb the high resolution energy that I felt as I walked down the staircase to their entryway. As I left, I heard them continue their conversation and laugh. I envied their closeness. I walked out into the cold sunlight, knowing I would be back soon. 

You Give Good Gifts

“Great gift giving starts with listening”—Sylvia Obell on her podcast Ok, Now Listen. This quote reverberates in my brain when I remember it’s someone I love’s birthday and I suddenly forget every element of who they are as a person. What do they like? What have they mentioned before to me in passing, and more importantly, what have they mentioned to me repeatedly? 

Being great at giving gifts takes years of practice AND caring about the person you’re getting a gift for. You have to pay attention when your friends talk to you. You have to know what they want and need more than they do. You have to care. Which can be hard for us sometimes when we’re conditioned to focus almost entirely on ourselves.

Sylvia Obell and her cohost, Scottie Beam, established the basics of great gift giving and how to avoid a bad gift. Bad gifts are given and felt everywhere. Scottie and Sylvia talked about the worst gifts they received that made them think their break-ups with the gift giver would be imminent. They mentioned ground rules around gift giving: don’t give people something they need, give them something they want. Don’t buy people practical or cheap gifts. Don’t wait until the last minute to buy someone a gift. And crucially, don’t buy a gift if you benefit from it in some way. 

The example Scottie Beam gave of selfish gift-giving was that of her boyfriend at the time purchasing her a Peloton for Valentines Day because she had mentioned wanting to work out more and to try an exercise bike. She didn’t realize he would be keeping it at his place. While she could still use it, it felt conditional on her seeing him instead of her being able to use it at will in her home. This is not a great gift, despite the best of intentions. Although they could both use it, her boyfriend still benefited the most by having it at his apartment. 

Treating yourself is fun and important. Sometimes, I look for small ways to give myself gifts as if Gift Giving was one of my main love languages. It’s not. Acts of Service is, obviously. I look for objects I don’t have and I buy them: sheets without holes in them, expensive organic shampoo, boutique workout classes, probiotics, a fire ladder, I could go on. Sometimes, the most important gift recipient in your life is you. And, sometimes the most important gift giver in your life is also you, so (Tan France voice) make an effort. 

The best gifts often come from the most unexpected and strange places. One of my friends has bought me gifts that I will always remember and love so much. A plant (again, lol), a vinyl edition of Lemonade (I was shocked because this was something I didn’t know I needed), and a 5-minute journal that I write in daily. The journal encourages listing three people or events you’re thankful for first thing in the morning and she has occupied so many of these spaces because I think of her when I write in it. It was such a good gift that I’ve started giving it to others with a set of pens, just like she gave me. Stealing gift ideas is my main move. If it made me feel this great, and it helped me become a better person, why not give this to a friend who likes the same bullshit as me?

Another gift idea I’ve stolen was buying these art cards from Wee Gallery. My roommate bought them as a reasonably priced gift for her friends with newborns or for their baby showers. She’s a teacher and knows about child development and had heard that the cards were great for interacting with your baby when their eyes are too small and shitty to see anything besides black and white pictures of forest animals. I made the catastrophic mistake of stealing this idea and buying it for a mutual friend whom my roommate had planned to buy the cards for, without consulting her first. This was rude of me and I swiftly learned this when I mentioned casually that I’ve been buying the cards for all my pregnant colleagues and friends. She seemed mad which was very fair but I, ultimately, would have been so complimented if my gift idea had been stolen and passed off as their own. What a beautiful gift to give someone, a reusable and great gift idea. 

A gift idea that I love for people who have moved into a new home or apartment is a cutting board. Owning a variety of cutting boards is such a sign of a well rounded person. Different shapes, sizes, and materials are used for different foods. Cutting boards also serve as serving boards for cheese, bread, or desserts. Even if someone has a cutting board, they can always use more.

We all know what getting a good gift feels like. Being understood and seen by those in your life it matters most to be understood and seen by. When your loved ones mess it up, it can be confusing. Or devastating. I thought you knew me better than this. What happened?

Bad gift giving is if you’re buying something for someone you love with the eventual goal of it being returned for something they might like more or something you hadn’t thought of yet. You’ve lost the thread of good gifts. When buying or creating gifts, it helps to aim higher than something they would prefer to return for cash or store credit.

Another very annoying gift to receive is one feeding a casual, recent obsession. If it’s a gift surrounding a topic I started caring about a month ago, it’s likely not going to serve me long term. Not that I won’t still care about it in another month, but it doesn’t have the longevity of a more thoughtful, less knee-jerk gift. Buying disposable, trendy presents reflect a lack of depth to your gift-giving thought process. You wanted it to be over with so you chose the obvious, simple option. An example of this was when years ago I got into a somewhat niche TV show and someone in my life sent me a t-shirt with an inside joke from that show on it that I looked at, tried on, and immediately donated. Not only was I not going to wear it (it fit small), but it referred to a joke about an extremely niche show that wearing it would have made me think about others judging me. And I didn’t want to be someone who would go outside donning a novelty t-shirt. The person who got me this shirt is no longer in my life. It’s not a coincidence. It’s not solely because of the shirt but more of what the shirt represented: he didn’t know me by now. And he would never, ever, ever, ever know me. This man did not love me and his gift giving showed me that. 

I also very famously hate t-shirts with words or slogans on them. My sister-in-law refuses to accept this fact about me and has bought me multiple t-shirts and sweatshirts with inside jokes from the Ellen Show and Oprah 2020 on them. They seldom age well unless I’m trying to look ironic, which I’m not. She adores a shirt that says, “Girls are strong.” I don’t think t-shirts should be funny or political. I’m a t-shirt traditionalist. Why are you trying to do all that? Why are you making me read?

Experiences as gifts seem so obvious to me now. And often much more expensive than a small token that can go a long way. Not everyone has the means to get someone a nice dinner out or movie tickets. But I strongly believe that there are cheaper alternative experiences that can make both your life and your gift recipient’s life easier. My favourite is going for manicures with someone at a reasonable spot by your house. It serves dual purposes. It’s also nice to get a manicure with a man in my life. They always enjoy it, their nails look great after, and what else would they be doing? My nail friend and I often get manicures together. It’s $35 each plus tax and tip and the time spent next to each other chatting and gossiping replenishes my social and aesthetic gas tanks. 

No one would be pissed at receiving a plant in a nice, neutral pot. This gift declares, “I trust you with this plant because you’re a responsible adult.” and “I know you like pretty things so here’s a pretty thing for your apartment.” Plants that don’t die easily (succulents can be neglected for weeks and dried lavender smells amazing) are great decorative options that say, “I know you may be too busy to care for this half-alive thing, but you deserve beauty in your house regardless.” 

Being great at receiving gifts is almost as important as giving and it requires years of practice. My dad still struggles with the attention he receives when opening presents on his birthday or Father’s Day. He overcompensates and acts shocked at our thoughtfulness but it comes off like one of those forced self-tapes that actors did in the ’80s and ’90s that are used in memes. The truth is that we know he’s grateful, and his efforts to show his happiness and gratitude are to be celebrated and not made fun of mercilessly like we do. 

If in the moment, you can’t properly convey your levels of gratitude to your friend or family member, write them a quick text or note after the dust has settled. I love receiving cookbooks as presents and the first time (or second or third) that I make something from a gifted cookbook, I’ll take a picture of what I made and one of the pages the recipe is on and send it to the friend who got it for me. This gesture serves as a nice little surprise for them weeks or months after they’ve given something, long after they’ve remembered your birthday. It keeps the gift alive in a way, and that is beautiful. 

If someone buys me an article of clothing that I wear all the time, I’ll take a picture of myself wearing it and send it to them like “look at what you did! The taste. The glamour! You did so well.” It’s an accomplishment to buy someone something so personal and have them love it more than the regular stuff they’d get for themselves. How do you know me this well? Why didn’t I think of this first?

If someone buys you a plant (which is, as mentioned, an excellent gift), sending them a quick picture of where you ended up putting it to face the sun is so sweet. I love when people buy me plants because if I can keep them alive, I always think of that person when I look at that plant. If the plant dies, no harm done, you can just replace it with some herbs or something. 

When my mom was six, a family friend brought her a beautiful baby doll for Christmas and she was so overwhelmed with shock and appreciation she was rendered speechless by this man’s kindness. Her parents urged her to thank the friend but she couldn’t form words, she felt so happy. The man insisted that it was fine, knowing that she loved the doll with how big her eyes got and how tightly she held onto her new daughter. First, I aspire to this level of gift giving. I came close to it once one Christmas when I gave my nephew a giant tool set when he was four and he closed his mini fists and shook with excitement over it. It was like 40 bucks. Kids are easy to buy gifts for, though. So maybe don’t congratulate yourself for this. When on a walk the other weekend, my nieces used the opportunity of me buying a gift for a family friend at a bookstore and European novelty store for me to take pictures of all the items they wanted me to buy for Christmas. After worrying about my phone’s storage capacity, I started pretending to snap pictures until they both picked up on my lie and insisted I actually take the photos. 

As a good gift giver, I want to know that my gift meant something to the receiver. I’m selfish like that. We all are. Our gifts may not be conditional but we want you to love them as much as we love giving them. 

What to Do on a 24-hr Layover in Frankfurt When You Have Traveller's Diarrhea

• Go to the bathroom one hundred times on the plane over.

• When you arrive at the Frankfurt airport at 5:30 in the morning, marvel at how organized each gate is. Let this comfort you and lull you into a false sense of security. Feel proud that you found and bought a European adapter at the first store you see. You’re going to win this day. 

• Find a bathroom, realize you are alone in it, shit again. 

• While you wait on the toilet, listen for the other woman who just walked in and farted loudly. You saved yourself from this embarrassment by rushing off the plane in a hurry and getting to the bathroom before anyone else. 

• Wash your hands and leave. 

• Go to baggage claim and wait for 20 minutes. While you wait, realize you have to shit again and find the next nearest bathroom. Luckily there are bathrooms everywhere at the airport. Let this lull you into a false sense of security and hype up your expectations that Germany somehow has bathrooms everywhere just in case you have diarrhea while visiting on your way back from your work trip. 

• Grab your bag from baggage claim and find the exit. 

• Fly way too close to the sun and decide to save yourself 10 Euros by trying to figure out how to take a tram into town. Google made it seem so easy but when you get to the machine to buy tickets for your particular train, it rejects you and tells you to find another machine. 

• Go to the machine nearest your gate number and buy what you think is a 1 day pass to anywhere in Frankfurt for 10.60 Euros. Celebrate how much money you’re saving by not taking a cab. 

• Realize that there aren’t any turnstiles or people checking ticket purchases for the train you’re on.

• Oh. Okay. 

• Wait 10 minutes for the next train to arrive. Start to slowly panic that you may shit yourself before it even gets into the station to pick you up.

• When the train arrives, find a seat and rock back and forth on it. Contemplate whether or not sitting will prevent you from shitting your pants before your stop. 

• Obsessively refresh Google to make sure you are in fact on the right train, heading in the right direction, and getting off at the right stop. Clench your whole body. 

• Curse your hubris for thinking you could save time and money by taking the tram. Ordinarily this would be fun and exciting but now you’re legitimately contemplating if it’s dark enough outside to be able to shit surreptitiously in an alleyway. 

• Once you get out of the tram station, find your bearings and immediately realize that it’s 6am, dark enough outside to shit in an alleyway without detection, and you’re in a foreign country and walking with your iphone out in plain sight of the other two people out this early. 

• Realize that no one cares.

• Manage to find the hotel in record time and beg the two front desk people to let you check into a room early. One of the two, the chattiest man in the world, by the grace of God, obliges. The room is also, blessedly, on the first floor.

• Go to your room, unpack your bowels, unpack your bag. 

• Take a shower in the middle of the room and wonder if it’s worth the effort knowing you will have to shit again in five minutes.

• Try to sleep in.

• Get up and realize that you’re wasting time in bed and feel guilt for no reason. 

• Descend the one flight of stairs to the lobby and meet the chatty front desk man again, accompanied by his coworker, shaved head lady. She is quieter.

• Go for a long walk and look at the beautiful, old buildings. 

• Find the nearest Apotheke (lol) and speak to a kind pharmacist. Explain that you’re looking for Imodium and European skincare. She asks follow up questions about the Imodium and explains that as you’ve been travelling, your symptoms could be traveller’s diarrhea, food poisoning, or a gastrointestinal bacterial infection. She tells you that Imodium will lock any bacterial infection inside your body and will only provide temporary relief. You tell her that you wouldn’t mind the temporary relief if it meant you could do more sightseeing and she looks at you pityingly and offers a very logical, happy medium of an anti-diarrheal medication that will help you flush out any bacterial infection you may have. She strongly suspects it’s a bacterial infection. She explains everything so thoroughly and kindly. She’s the third person, after the hotel front desk people, that you’ve spoken to today. 

• She is so generous when you bring her Eucerin serum and under eye cream. She tries to find a rebate for the Eucerin but it doesn’t apply to the product you’ve given her, so she consults her coworker for samples she can throw in her paper bag full of German medicine. You pay her, thank her for her kindness, and leave. 

• You realize you haven’t eaten since the plane and it’s now 12pm. You would like a coffee but know that it will further anger whatever is living in your intestines.

• You find a popular cafe and wait in line until you get to the front of the store where the most beautiful twenty year old woman is taking orders and the most beautiful twenty year old man is making everyone’s coffee. Stare at both of them. 

• The woman asks you what you’d like in German and you respond in English. You order a cappuccino because it has less milk, a prosciutto and mozzarella sandwich, and accidentally order two cannollis instead of one. You wait until everything is ready and you walk to a nearby park to sit and eat. You text your friends and family and try to see when the nearest museum is opening. They’ve been open for hours because it’s noon on a Saturday. 

• You go to an interesting looking museum and find that they have a building entirely separate from the others for the latest exhibit of Ottilie Roederstein. You have no idea who she is but figure that it’s important to support women in the Arts. 

• You walk around looking for a bathroom for ten minutes before you lose patience and ask the front desk people to help you find it. It’s in the basement. All the bathrooms in Germany are small, clean, white, and very private. It’s heaven. Every time you’ve walked into one it’s been empty for just enough time for you to empty the lining of your colon and wash your hands before someone else walks in. 

• You proceed to the rest of the exhibit hoping that you will be okay but you start to overheat in your hoodie and jean jacket. You’re sweating and the security guard looks at you with accusation in his eyes because you’re trying to figure out how to access their back sculpture gardens by going through a door that is clearly marked as an emergency exit only. 

• You’re confused about where you are and figure it’s best to get outside before you pass out. Your hands feel tingly and your feet swell and sweat profusefly in your shoes. Your ears start to ring and you know that you will faint, shit your pants, or both if you don’t leave immediately. 

• When you do make it out the correct door, you’re back to where you started and the sun feels oppressively hot in the sky. 

• You quickly give up on the prospect of finding the sculpture gardens and start the long walk home. 

• You feel hotter than you did in the museum despite the cold chill in the air. On any other day, the sun would feel lovely against your skin but you’re distracted by the sweat drying in your armpits. 

• You walk home along the water, hoping and praying that you’re enjoying the scenery and people watching enough. Unfortunately, you’re searching everyone’s face to determine if they are supportive and generous enough to help you instead of avoiding and making fun of you were you to shit your pants right in front of them. 

• Do they give out purple hearts for this?

• Decide you aren’t a museum person after all and make plans to visit the Town Hall square where there are lovely old, distinctly German looking buildings. Every tourist website for Frankfurt insists on the importance of visiting the Town Hall. 

• Continue your walk back to the hotel and try to slow your pace to enjoy the views of the River Main. It’s objectively beautiful and peaceful but your stomach made an audible noise and now you’re panicking again. 

• Make it back to the hotel and say a prayer of thanks that the talkative front desk man is occupied by two other hotel guests. The shaved head lady is also there but avoids your eyes as you jump up the stairs two at a time to get to your room. 

• Once inside you rip off your jean jacket and top and spend the next five minutes in the bathroom. You contemplate taking another shower because of how sick you feel. 

• After a few minutes of dramatics, you open up your skincare and test out what you believe is moisturizer and under eye cream. The under eye cream smells strongly of chemicals and garbage and you throw up after putting huge dabs of it under your eyes. You scrub your face manically for two minutes hoping to get the smell off you enough to not have to puke again.

• You decide to answer work emails even though it’s a weekend and you can’t think of a more depressing thing to do besides shitting yourself in public in a foreign city. 

• You answer emails, watch German tv, and fall asleep for an hour. Your dehydration wore you out. 

• After waking, you make a game plan to visit the Town Hall, an exciting and authentic looking restaurant specializing in serving “traditional German” food and then taking the slow way home. You see the Town Hall, move onto the restaurant and get overwhelmed because there is a group of four people waiting for a table in front of you. You realize that this must be a sign from God that you must move on to your backup restaurant, a recommendation from a friend who lived in Frankfurt for six months 10 years ago. 

• You walk to the River Main again realizing that you will need to get over a bridge to reach the new restaurant recommendation. You haven’t yet crossed the Iron Bridge but saw it earlier on in the day and convinced yourself it was too much of a commitment. Also the farther away and over water distance between you and the hotel was too daunting. Tonight, you feel differently. You took a nap, shit three times since, and are a new person now. 

• As you walk towards the second restaurant, you feel yourself getting hotter and fear passing out. You promise you’ll order takeout instead of eating there as a reward for being outside for this long without embarrassing yourself. 

• As you approach the restaurant, you see a large group of people waiting to be seated outside. There doesn’t seem to be much organization but everyone is standing patiently without any rush or fear on their face. As you try to make sense of the throng of people and where it starts and ends, you recognize a pizza place you passed earlier across the street has no lineup and many people working at it. 

• You try to look up the menu online and in English but realize it’s pizza so what are you even doing. 

• You abandon your “spot” in the throng and go to the pizza place. As you barge inside, you tell the first person you see that you won’t be staying but would like to order a Margherita pizza to go and an Aperol Spritz for while you wait. They ask if you want the Aperol Spritz to go and you consider it but then remember that the clinic doctor you saw earlier in your trip advised that you not mix antidiarrheal medicine with alcohol. Also to just not drink because your stomach was in turmoil and alcohol would further irritate your bowels. 

• The people working there don’t understand anything you’re saying in English and you make no effort to speak German because you are ignorant. You make it work regardless by pointing and gesturing to the menu and the pizza oven and you suspect that they are talking about you among themselves.

• You chug the Aperol Spritz they’ve made for you and wait patiently while the pizza guy makes your pizza to go. You leave the change from your Euros on the table and run out of the restaurant into the cold night. The throng in front of the other restaurant has disappeared but you pay this no mind.

• Every step you take in the direction of the hotel is making you feel lighter and better than you have the whole trip. You’re almost home. The front desk staff will have turned over at this point and you won’t know the new people there. 

• You reach the hotel and realize it’s 7:30pm and you will have the night to do whatever you want. This time feels scary as opposed to relaxing but you use it to eat your pizza, drink water and pack your bags slowly while watching the only English news channel. You army crawl from the floor to your bed at 10pm and put on the Netflix shows you downloaded before your trip. You read and slowly drift off into a dreamless sleep knowing you don’t have to get up early tomorrow.

• You get up early anyway and decide to forgo your morning walk and coffee in favour of doing literally nothing in the hotel. Your bowels have not recovered since yesterday. 

• You laze around your bed and wait until the very last minute to leave the hotel. As you check out, you’re blessedly alone with the shaved head woman. You thank her again for finding the last possible room that was available to check in early to. She’s deferential and shows you a cab waiting outside to take you to the airport. The ride is quick and you arrive to the airport and home safely.

I'm Not A Garbage Man, I'm Garbage, Man.

Inspired by this article from Gawker’s Kelly Conaboy, I remembered my only experience with a single, straight man without a bathroom garbage can. I thought about my past and the many single men living alone that I’ve dated. And how they all had bathroom garbages. Whenever I was over, and needed to throw out my gum or replace my tampon, I had a place to discard my trash. I don’t know if there is a direct correlation between having a garbage can in your bathroom and being a nice person but it’s fun to imagine it being that simple and straightforward. And those without garbage cans in their bathrooms, where I could leave my used pads and tampon applicators, were worse, selfish people who didn’t care for those whose experiences differed from theirs. I noticed this quickly when I would stay over at a man’s apartment or house, because I get my period once a month for a week like many others. I’ve never had any hang-ups about openly discussing my period with my friends and partners so I never felt self-conscious of leaving my discarded pads and tampons in their garbage bins. Forcing them to indirectly handle the inside of my uterine lining when they emptied their trash cans once a week. Occasionally, I would accidentally get my periods in their beds while I slept, causing us to sheepishly clean their sheets the next morning.

The most frustrating experience with a man without a garbage can in his bathroom came when I was asked out by a guy at my job. While I opposed dating people from the office, he only worked part time so I wouldn’t be forced to see him every day and he was a nice, thoughtful person. Or so I believed. To buy myself some time to consider our compatibility and get to know him better outside our regular job setting, I asked that we go on a date. He suggested we walk his dog by his house and then stop by after for a drink. It all felt very easygoing so I agreed to meet him the following weekend. Again, I was fooled into a false sense of security.

That weekend, I got my period. It was likely the first or second day of it because I remember it being heavier and worse than usual. They’re always bad but I manage to carry on like a functioning adult and not complain openly, at least not to everyone I talk to. I packed my giant, black purse up with pads and tampons (yes, I know I need a Diva cup) and took public transit to his neighbourhood. We met at a large but quiet dog park by his house so his elderly dog could run around. It was sweet. We sat and chatted for what felt like no time at all then he suggested we walk back to his place and get a coffee on the way. 

As we strolled, I felt excited about the prospect of seeing his apartment. As someone who has lived with others for the entirety of my adulthood, I love to observe how people live when they live alone. Without any influence from roommates, partners, or parents. How do they decorate? Do they clean when it’s just them? Do they have snacks and drinks to host people who stop by unexpectedly? 

He lived up many floors of stairs in a cute one bedroom. The neighbourhood was far from everything I like about the city but had some nice restaurants and grocery stores that made it fun for him. The place itself was neat and organized, everything having a home and being in that place when I arrived. He had little in the form of storage but was so good about purging and keeping only what was necessary that he didn’t need storage. I remember being into his decor and art and impressed by how he made the place so clean and cozy. He passed my first arbitrary, made up test of living in a well-kept, personalized apartment. 

We went to the kitchen together to grab some water and on the way he showed me his bathroom. I didn’t notice it immediately but it didn’t have a garbage can. Why would I pick up on this when I just assumed every adult person I knew would have one? Now, every time I go to a guy’s house I clock whether or not they have one and 9 times out of 10, they do. Because why wouldn’t you? Having a garbage in each of your rooms just makes logistical sense because why would you want to leave the room you’re in to toss out your garbage in an adjoining room, even one that was a short walk away? I’m annoyed when I have to go to the kitchen to get the big scissors when my small, child-sized scissors can’t cut through the tags on my new sports bras. Why replicate this irritation every day of your life?

Everyone is creating waste in their bathroom if they floss regularly in there. Which should be everyone. Unless you’re a person with reusable floss or one of those expensive water squirting floss machines. And no one is that person. I’m obsessed with my teeth and I’m not that person. My dad recently taught me that you weren’t supposed to put floss or hair or anything that isn’t liquid down the toilet. This confused me for five minutes before I googled it and the internet explained that it could lead to clogged pipes. Fine, that’s just another reason to own a bathroom garbage can.

Regardless, this man didn’t have a garbage which I unfortunately had to realize as I sat down to change my pad and tampon. I luckily left my purse in the front hall and could bring it inside the bathroom when I felt myself about to leak through my underwear. I got up and grabbed it and went into the bathroom. As I sat down, I pulled out an extra pad and tampon to do a complete replacement of both on/in my vagina. My pants and underwear were by my ankles when I started looking for the garbage to put my applicator and used pad into. The spotless floor had no waste receptacle. I called his name. He answered, “what’s up?” I asked him if he had forgotten to put his garbage back into the bathroom. He responded that he didn’t keep a garbage in his bathroom. I asked him where he put his floss or his bathroom garbage. He said he doesn’t usually make any trash in his bathroom and if he did, he’d just save it until he got a chance to put it in his kitchen garbage under the sink. What the fuck? There was no way I was going to put my used tampon applicator and blood-soaked pad under my coworker’s sink where he also discarded his vegetable peels and plastic wrap. 

I had no idea what to do. Campgrounds have pad/tampon waste baskets. Every public women’s bathroom I’ve been in has a designated, dignified place to dispose of your period castoffs but here I was, at the height of my period volume, bleeding through my pants and not having anywhere to put my pad. The tampon could be thrown out easily enough as you can flush them. But putting in an applicator and removing it then having to save the bloody plastic in the tiny tampon wrapper is dehumanizing. And you can’t flush an entire maxi pad down the toilet lest you want to make the circumstances significantly worse by creating a flood in a trashless bathroom. I was fuming. This man was making me wrap my pad up as well as I could with the new pad’s wrapper, then envelope it once more in toilet paper so it didn’t get lost in the bottom of my purse. I felt completely unprepared and like I had somehow failed when he was the one without a bathroom garbage. 

How can someone who dates people with periods not have known to have this basic need met? How can someone who claims they cared for their ex-girlfriends, someone who dates women who get their periods now, someone who claims they like these people, not at least have a garbage in their bathroom for disposing of used tampon applicators? I don’t get it? What could this mean for the rest of his place? For the rest of his personality? What else wasn’t he showing me? I don’t think it’s a crime to not have food prepared or extra drinks in your fridge in case of a guest. It helps to keep your fridge and cupboards stocked with something that can be thrown together quickly. In the same way that you would alter your dinner menu to accommodate the dietary restrictions of your friends. It’s not their fault they can’t eat gluten. Just like I can’t help having my period. Where was this guy’s head?

I finished in the bathroom by, again, throwing all my used sanitary products into my purse and reminding myself to dispose of it at home after I left his house, which would be almost immediately. I returned to the living room where he was looking up something on his computer. Grateful for the chance to talk to him about this giant oversight, this mistake he’d want to rectify if he simply knew how inconvenient it was for me to have my period at his house without a bathroom garbage, I immediately asked him why he had never considered this? He got defensive and said that he didn’t create enough garbage in his bathroom to justify the added responsibility of one more waste bin. I asked him if he considered the people who came to his apartment, like myself today for example, who had my period right in front of him. He said that it made no sense for him to own a garbage for the sole purpose of accommodating his guests. My rage could have melted my face off. But it didn’t. I disconnected and the conversation fizzled because all I could think about was how selfish he was. His face was so smug and self-satisfied, like that answer made sense.

Slowly, he began to realize that I was inching away from him on the couch. My body language was closed off and I wasn’t ready to spend any more time with this person. He called this out and I agreed that I was missing something integral in him and that I would want to keep our relationship platonic. I don’t know if it was entirely the bathroom garbage thing. This is easily fixed by him going out and buying a garbage and then having it live there for his guests. It was more what the lack of a garbage can represented. A lack of care and attention. A lack of compassion towards my problems and a lack of willingness to help or be of any assistance at all in a time of need. Where women of the world are always prepared with an extra tampon or pad, this man couldn’t keep a vessel for bathroom garbage in his home bathroom. I wonder if he has one now. 

The Sharing Economy and What It's Worth

An exhaustive list of subscriptions I use that I don’t pay for:

• Spotify Premium (my friend pays for this and I’m on her family plan)

• Netflix (my parents pay for this)

• Amazon prime (I’m on my third student account, receiving six free months with each use of a new .edu email address.)

• Headspace (my friend gets this service free from work and gives me her login which she does not use. I use it almost every day.) 

• Disney + app subscription (my sister’s boyfriend’s gets his account for free and I use his login)

My cousin, Nick, used to create a new email every month to take advantage of Netflix’s first month free for new users. My friends and I are constantly communicating in our group chat on ways to take advantage of deals and how to get the most with the least amount of money spent. Ideally, we would spend nothing. 

I have taken advantage of countless first customer deals when I am, in fact, a very old customer. I deactivate and reactivate my accounts to capitalize on deals meant for lapsed customers who have fallen off when I’ve been consistently using the service at a discounted rate since my last reactivation campaign. I struggle with paying full price for services I love. I feel even worse about spending on something I don’t really care for at all.

Review culture is sick (so is calling it “Review culture” but here we are) but it seems to have come about at least partly because of everyone’s mistrust of new products and services. It’s not enough to describe your product in vivid detail on your website, we need to see someone opening it and using it in a video for two months.

I’m constantly trying to save myself from paying companies that I think are doing fine, not in some Robin Hood-like attempt to steal from the rich but more in a Robin Hood-like attempt to give to the needy. I’m broke. Or rather, I can afford my living expenses, have a ton of financial support from my friends and family (in the form of them giving me their logins) and I’m having a hard time keeping up with the cost of living in the city where I’m just trying to exist and work in. I debate whether moving is right for me but imagine that most largely populated cities are going through the same growing pains and becoming overwrought, industrialized shadows of what they once were. Wherever I go, there capitalism is. It seems futile to fight it at this point and my efforts are so tired and lazy that I consider going to the library to get my books to be revolutionary road.

Since many of the services I need to live (Netflix, Spotify) are now in subscription format as opposed to a pay-as-you-go for what you use deal, I’ve become resistant towards paying for these rates and losing track of my spending over time. I understand that I’d be paying for cable and CDs otherwise, which doesn’t make much financial sense either (I remember new CDs costing like 20$ and having to babysit for at least a few hours to be able to afford one.) I also understand that we’ve come a long way since then and our progress is not bad. I am, however, opposed to multiple people in the same friend groups paying for the same shit when you can all just share one login. 

Netflix has cracked down on this by limiting the number of devices that can use the service at once. I think they even spent the start of the subscription service period tracking people’s IP addresses and their uses of the app to best know how to charge their subscribers and for how many devices. Spotify has a limited number of people who can be on the family plan but also allows each member to have their own private accounts and logins. I’ve never seen a bill for either of these services and I’m happy.

The helpful trick is to have wealthy friends and family. And to shamelessly take advantage of these relationships and their riches. If you don’t have any rich friends, then you are very likely the rich friend and should be giving up your passwords to those less fortunate than you. In a similar vein, if one of your friends works somewhere and gets a staff discount, that’s your staff discount. You work there now.

It also helps to openly communicate with your networks about what you’re buying and when. I listened to a podcast that said that a great way to take part in referral bonuses on services that your friends are already using is by posting on social media about how you plan on signing up for a service for the first time. And asking if anyone had a discount code they could give you which would also give them credit off their future purchases. While I agree with this practice in theory, you’re still spending money. If it’s a product or something you can’t share with others then this works. But I would go so far as to suggest that we use this practice for mining for free logins.

This year, I have purchased a yearly subscription to Aura (a second meditation app that I use to sleep) and am paying for an online Pilates studio membership. None of my friends want my login to Aura because they don’t care and haven’t heard of it. A couple of my friends have been using the Pilates membership, though, since I signed up last summer and haven’t stopped talking about it since. I force them to let me login to the website on their computers whenever I visit them. Some ignore me and we never speak about it again. Others have really taken to it so far and we send each other quick notes about how much we like it. As for Prime, basically every person in my family and a few of my friends use my prime login.

This economy of sharing is a byproduct of our capitalist culture that I actually agree with and can get behind. I’m saddened by how we got here but enlightened and hopeful by what we’ve made of our circumstances. We buy what we like and use and we share it with those we love. Sharing my passwords is how I make my friends feel my love. I’d even share them with people I don’t love.

When you and your friends share your logins, your wealth doubles in value. You’ve invited them in to save some money and take advantage of a service you’d be paying for anyway. It’s like the modern equivalent of lending your neighbours your working lawn mower every day forever and it feels great. More people should do this. If more people aren’t doing it then why not? Why hoard your resources? You’re NOT sharing your passwords for your paid services with your friends and family? In this economy? Please. 

Stuck

During the summer last year, my friend would ask me to catsit at her condo. I love leaving my apartment and getting to experience a new neighbourhood for a weekend. I also love her kitten, who is adorable. I didn’t even get to use their pool and I still enjoyed visiting her. In the mornings I was there, I’d put in a Nespresso pod and sit on their couch to meditate for ten minutes. In the summers, when it was humid out, I would stay inside and watch movies on their projector.

On one visit, the second morning I was there, I decided to be spontaneous and go out on their balcony. The cat wasn’t allowed out there because they weren’t yet sure if she could jump down onto other peoples’ balconies so I avoided it mainly so she wouldn’t feel like I was excluding her. This morning was muggy and different. I walked out in my t-shirt and boxer shorts with my coffee and closed both the screen and outside doors. I went to sit down on their weather proofed couch and enjoy the view of the street which hadn’t woken up yet. It was 6 a.m. on a Saturday. I wasn’t sleeping right so I was always getting up freakishly early and wasting those morning hours until I could comfortably text people and let the world know where I was and what I was doing. After maybe five minutes of being outside, I decided I had had enough and moved to open the screen and door to the inside. The screen moved freely and smoothly but when it came time to open the second door, it jammed. I caught my breath in my throat and proceeded to panic. My stomach jumped and I worried that I could be jamming the door the more I tried to open it so I tried to take a couple of calming breaths. These almost never work for me, especially not in situations where I’m in trouble. My first thoughts went to my outfit and how whoever would discover me would find me braless and underwearless. It wasn’t the worst outcome from this scenario but it also wasn’t the outfit I’d choose for myself to be rescued in. I was also helped by how hot it felt outside and how comfortable I would have felt temperature-wise, if I had not been sweating profusely from stress and fear. 

The upset I was in this moment was reserved for what I believe only children feel. The feelings experienced when I would turn around in a busy store and my mom would be gone. I’d follow an equally short, brown-haired woman only to realize that she wasn’t my mom. I hated this and used to freak at my mom when she would eventually find me, which she always did within minutes. The damage would be done, though, and I’d relay my feelings of abandonment and shame at not knowing where she was. I couldn’t ask a stranger for help and what was I going to do, go to the check out and beg them to announce over their loudspeakers that I was lost? No way. Even as a kid, this would be too embarrassing. This morning, I had the same feeling by my own hand. I had abandoned myself and all the stuff inside their apartment that was now taunting me: my breakfast, my bra, my cell phone, the cat, my friend’s bed that I was planning on diving into when this was all over. I thought of everything I would be doing that afternoon when I eventually got back inside. I thought about being able to leave the apartment freely to go for a walk down the street I was now looking down at. I was ashamed at my thoughtlessness. I had let myself down and the day hadn’t even properly started yet. Tears were forming in the corners of my eyes and I blinked them away so I didn’t have to contend with my sadness in addition to the challenge I was now facing. How am I going to get back inside and how will I avoid doing this again?

I immediately thought of calling down to people on the street or to the owners of the apartment below my friend’s for help. She had mentioned in passing that they were rude to them before because they had hosted a loud party so this wasn’t an ideal option. Also, no one was on the street because of how early it was. I could wait until more people were out walking their dogs but then what would I do? The updated equivalent of asking the cashier to call my mom? Ask them to go into the lobby of the condo to speak to the concierges there? When did they even start their shifts and did I even know the unit number of my friend’s apartment? I didn’t and wasn’t about to remember it in my stress. The idea of having to inconvenience two whole strangers and one dog this early in the morning mortified me. I couldn’t even picture what the dog walkers would say to the concierge. “Uhhhh, there’s a lady on the fifth floor who is locked on her balcony. She doesn’t have a phone or a spare set of keys to get back into the apartment. Can you help?”

My other options involved breaking in through the bedroom windows but they were locked (by me the night before). I cursed my stupidity. I lamented not having my phone but didn’t even know how it would have worked to call my friend and have her call her concierge to tell them the details of my mistake. Again, it was 6:30 at this point. I had nothing to do so I decided to sit and try meditating to pass the time and to clear my head enough to be able to make smart decisions that could help me out of this predicament alone. There must be something I could do. 

After maybe another five minutes of thinking, I started to do an inventory of the objects surrounding me on the balcony. Besides the furniture and many dying plants, there was a cheap broom. I picked it up thinking I could try to jam the door open with its handle. I unscrewed/broke off the brush part and was left with a two arms’ length of stick. I was like Macgyver. I became emboldened by my circumstances instead of trapped. It was still embarrassing but I managed to spin it in my head as a very annoying adventure. Despite how early it was, I had the wherewithal to wipe down the part of the glass door that was covered in dirt with my sweaty hands, so I saw more clearly what was jamming it. This was hard because the screen door was obscuring the majority of what I was looking for. With some maneuvering of both the screen and glass doors, I was able to find that the glass door was blocked off by a black hanging drape that I hadn’t noticed before. Those hanging wall mounts you see in condos that can be raised and lowered by a little metal chain. The drape was bottomed off with a thin metal rod and part of the black drapery had wedged itself into the crevice between the door and its frame. I, at least, had this new information at my disposal along with the broom handle. 

I had tried opening the door to no avail, getting stopped at a point where I could fit my hand and wrist inside the apartment but nothing more. The cat woke up at this point and came sniffing around where I was, trying to get outside. I realized that her being on the balcony would be an extra problem so I politely moved her away from the door opening and tried to direct her to the material jammed in the door frame in the outlandish hope that she might understand my request and what? Unjam it with her teeth? She didn’t get it so I was forced to close the door completely and try not to cry from the stress. I was so embarrassed that I could get myself in these messes still and not be able to get my own self out. I’m not even that independent of a person but this was forcing me to face my fears of asking for help. From strangers. The ultimate sign of vulnerability. 

When my friend’s cat left the kitchen, I opened the door again and started pushing ever so gently. I could see the drapes getting more jammed in the corner. I didn’t care. I tried multiple times to force my body into the gap in the door that could barely fit my upper arm but I was too wide. I thought about the further shame I would feel if I were found stuck sideways between the door and the wall but brushed these thoughts away. Maybe I wasn’t skinny enough to fit through this thin partition but I had to try. This frustrated me more than ever. I started thinking about all the pasta I consumed in my life and blaming my diet on not being able to save me at this moment. Body shaming myself wasn’t working either.

Finally, I started thinking in simpler terms. What if I could fit the broomstick into the apartment using the gap in the door to unstick the drapes? I sat down because it provided the best angle for my idea to work. I couldn’t see inside the apartment so I was only able to situate the broomstick between the drape and door by feeling around with it. I started by finding the gap in the materials of the drapes then gently pushing it away from the glass door. As it was caught in the frame, it resisted because it had all this backup support. I saw through the glass that I had damaged the drape by pushing against it and it had started to rip. This new development didn’t help me but I was at least feeling more on track. I lowered the broomstick closer to the metal rod and swung in the opposite direction, hoping I was getting close enough to hit on the metal part rather than the material which had been weakened by my earlier jabs. The metal part was stuck. I blindly swung back and forth and felt like I was making progress at loosening the drapes bunching in the corner of the door frame. I didn’t want to feel too much excitement or accomplishment but it loosened enough for me to gently lift out the entire drape from where it was previously crammed. I breathed deeply and slowly, opened the glass door to its full extent and walked inside. I had finally freed myself. I could have levitated with relief. I closed the door again, drew up the blinds and I went back to bed. 

Best Ways to Acquire and Dispose of Books

Buying Them From a Local Independent and/or Used Bookstore

There are a few cute independent bookstores in my neighbourhood. Everyone who works at these stores has knowledge on every book that’s ever been written. I used to go to one by my work that was in the basement of this giant office building downtown that sold rare copies of classic novels and books of local street maps. The downsides to the independent bookstores are that they’re usually out of popular, new books and their books are expensive. But so is rent on a commercial property. So we request a copy of a new bestseller and wait to spend $37 on it to go pick it up. 

Disposing of books at used book stores is the opposite experience of buying them there. You’re looking for at least a little money back in exchange for your pre-read material but while the people who work at the stores are nice, they’re conditioned to scoff at what you bring them. I’m giving you used books and I know you need to make a profit here so let’s just move this whole process along and make it less embarrassing for me. 

I’ve only done this once or twice when I was very broke and decided it wasn’t for me because I was too lazy and it was too shameful. I didn’t want to be judged for my castoff books and told that they could give me 30 cents for the pile of what I was bringing them. They even turned away older books saying that they were mainly only interested in novels from the last ten years. I think my issue is that selling to used bookstores isn’t the move and that you should just donate them instead of expecting to make any money back. This is more than fair. Since the initial couple of times, I’ve donated my books to Value Village or Goodwill and to the odd book drive here and there. 

The last book I bought from an independent bookstore was a copy of Braiding Sweetgrass by Robin Wall Kimmerer as a gift for a friend. 

Thrift Books

Thriftbooks I love. It’s a website where you order cheap used books that are shipped to you from pretty much all over the world. I’ve received books from New Zealand and the UK but most of them come from giant warehouses in the US. They source overages from libraries, schools, and bookstores that no longer have use or never had use for hundreds of copies of the classics. I suspect that their selection was bigger but I’m assuming this is because people have bought out all their original copies. Thriftbooks is also great for purchasing books that were huge 2–3 years ago after they’ve been ordered out the nose by online retailers. If you remember books that just came out a couple of years ago then you’re guaranteed to get them at a very reduced price on Thriftbooks. Except the Night Circus, by Erin Morgenstern. For some reason, this book is either unavailable or still expensive despite coming out in 2012. 

My cousin who uses Thriftbooks more than I do says it’s great for buying cheap copies of classic American books he’s always wanted to read but never got around to. He’s a big proponent of the charming used bookstore way of acquiring books but found that they didn’t hold copies of “The Great Gatsby” when he was desperately needing to read it. He also doesn’t trust the discovering books on the street method I’ve had luck with. I feel frustrated when I think of people buying new copies of classics that they could get easily on Thriftbooks only to have them sit on their shelves or be discarded or donated once they’re done. We have enough copies of To Kill a Mockingbird. We don’t need more, buy them on Thriftbooks. To note, all the prices are in USD and sometimes the shipping costs more than the book itself. But it still ends up being less than buying them new.

I don’t think you can sell books on Thriftbooks so this is not an option. 

The last book I bought from Thriftbooks was The Overstory by Richard Powers. 

Finding Them on the Street/Free Little Libraries in Front of People’s Houses

I love to find books on the street. They’re often the most random selection of discards from peoples’ personal collections so you can see some pretty weird stuff. It’s good for the environment in that the previous owner had to do little to no work to find a new home for their past possessions. You win too because you were already going for a walk and just got to acquire a book without spending any money. All you had to do was pick it up. It’s a recycler’s dream. The downsides are that you can’t really choose what you get and there are some concerns about the books being left outside in the cold and rain. Also people will typically leave a lot of old textbooks that are no longer relevant. This is both funny and interesting but I’ve only picked up one before. “Introduction to Corporate Finance” and that went about as well as it could have. I’ve never read it but currently use it as a wall tool for my ankle stretches and as a way to prop my computer up on my desk. There’s a purpose for everything.

The free libraries in front of people’s houses are similar but distinct from finding them on the street because you’re expected to leave a book to replace the one you took. I understand this sentiment but it also requires that you have a spare book on hand that you’re done reading and ready to part with while you’re out on your walk. Unless you know of a particular free library and are prepared to leave many books there. I recently dropped off two books I had finished to one of these free libraries and it made me feel great.

I’ve started looking at the free little libraries differently when I walk past them because they’re the perfect place to leave books you’ve bought and read, but don’t want to keep. Most of my friends will ask me for book recommendations and in response, I just give them whatever books I’ve finished with no regard to their preferences or feelings. To stop pissing off these friends and getting into games of “who can drop the most books off at a person’s house at a time?”  I’ve just waited until I’ve collected 2–3 I’m done with and I find a little free library. I love opening the doors and gingerly placing the books inside. I love whenever I walk by the library again a few days or weeks later, looking into the glass to see if anyone’s picked out mine and brought them home. A few times I’ve seen a book that I’ve left still sitting there when I visited it and it offended me. Was my book not good enough? I had bought it from Thriftbooks. It’s not offensive, though, because it’s possible someone had already taken it out, read it, and returned it to its natural life cycle in the little free library. A good book should have many lives and owners. The little free library facilitates that.

I’ve never felt confident enough in myself or the weather to be able to leave my books out on the front lawn of my house. Firstly, I’m too embarrassed to leave books on the ground and two, what if no one picks them up? They might, but am I willing to take that chance and face the failure of bringing them back inside? Not sure. Maybe I need to do more thinking.

I’ve never taken a book from a little free library. The last book I left was Maya Angelou’s book of poetry “And Still I Rise.” I have multiple copies of this book because I found out there was this beautiful yellow covered version that was printed ages ago in a specific country and I was determined to purchase this edition. I first got it from the library and instead of stealing their copy and anonymously making a donation for my theft, I decided to just look for it online. Unfortunately, the ISBN of the yellow copy is the same one as the version with Maya’s beautiful face on the cover, which I already own so I dropped off my extra at the little free library on the way to the library. 

Large-scale Online Retailers

Oooooooh, no. Even though the alternatives cost more and are less convenient, I can no longer afford to spend on the large-scale online retailers. I often complain about not being able to start reading a book I want when my brain has the thought that it wants to consume this book. But the environmental cost of buying new when you could just not do that is overwhelming. I don’t deserve new books. I deserve old, dusty, library copies. I buy too much new stuff to be buying new books too. As soon as I started making more money, online retailers that weren’t Thriftbooks went out the window for me. I don’t want to say its name.

The last book I bought from this particular online retailer was Michelle Good’s Five Little Indians. That was almost a year ago. The book’s great, the retailer is not. 

Large-scale Local Online Retailers

My friend works for one of our biggest online book retailers and she gets a great discount, so, often I will use her code for books that have come out recently and aren’t available on Thriftbooks. I’m indirectly supporting her job and directly supporting my reading. It’s Canadian so it feels slightly better than other large-scale online retailers. But again, it’s hard to buy new books when there are so many old books lying around everywhere. 

The last books I bought from this online retailer were Michaela Coel’s Misfits and David Sedaris’ A Carnival of Snackery. 

Your Parents’ or Siblings’ House

Honestly, 10/10. I love taking books from my parents’ house. I often leave books for them to read too, which they don’t, but I consider it my price of admission for all the books I’ve stolen from them over the years. I will buy them copies of books that I want to read once they’re done which accomplishes two smart goals at once. I’ve given a gift and I’ve acquired a new book for myself eventually. The downsides are selection if you have different tastes in books than your parents and if you haven’t bought your parents books in the hopes that you could eventually take them for yourself. 

The last book I stole from my parents was The Searcher by Tana French. 

Trading them with your friends

This one is sweet. I love my friends and one of the least significant reasons is because we all share similar taste in books. We’ve created an excel spreadsheet where we’ve added all the books that are in our current possession and if we’re interested in someone else’s, we text them and say, “hey, can I borrow this book?” It’s really that simple. We rarely use the spreadsheet but it’s nice to see what’s already out there so I don’t go buying myself a copy of a book my friend who lives down the street has. It’s a library system with no due dates or accountability. I love it. 

As previously stated, my friends have started to get angry with me dumping my castoffs with them. I’m slowly learning to stop doing this.

The last books I borrowed from my friends were The Body Is Not an Apology by Sonya Renee Taylor and Matthew McConaughey’s autobiography Greenlights. 

The last book I lent my friend was How to Train a Wild Elephant: And Other Adventures in Mindfulness by Jan Chozen Bays. 

Library

The library is so wonderful. I often marvel at the various services it provides: English lessons, career advice, internet access, a place to chill indoors that doesn’t require you spend money, tutoring for kids, books, the list is endless. It’s unbelievable how people think the library is outdated when it’s been one of the public services that I believe has changed most with technology. It’s because nerds and overachievers work for the library. Also it’s a government job so they pay $$$. Of course, there are still buildings where you can put holds on and pick up books of your choosing. But, like the housing market bubble in big cities, people talk about the library’s obsolescence and downfall like it’s inevitable. These people are usually rich and out of touch as shit and if you ask them whether they’ve been to a library recently, I can pretty much guarantee you that their answer will be “uhhhh, no. I don’t see how that’s relevant.” I don’t want the fate of my libraries to be decided by people who don’t use the library. To those who can’t even get it together enough to sign up for a library card which takes five seconds and $6. It’s free to renew. You can do it online or AT the library. Whatever, this is making me upset.

I still use it to pick up books but my friends and mom who all have iPads or e-readers tell me that the only good way to use the library is through its e-book service where you can rent e-books then have them disappear when your e-book due date is up. I’m still behind the times in this way. Libraries are still ahead of the times in every other way and by supporting it through late fines and hold pick up fines, we should be good to go. I believe the New York Public Library System was getting rid of fines completely because they found it didn’t affect peoples’ habits of returning the books and that library users were already doing this. 

What’s objectively trash about the library are the deadlines. I don’t blame them for forcing people to be accountable to their hold pick ups and their book drop offs dates. I resent having to include important library deadlines in my calendar like it’s a goal I’m working towards. The library makes this easier by letting you pick and change your home library at will. You can also drop off your library books at any library location. A win. Also the money collected from your hold or late drop off fines funds the library so what are we even worrying about? Return your book late. Who cares? 

I currently have nine books on hold at the library and have taken one out recently (Where Wonder Lives by Fabiana Fondevila). 

Objects That I Own/love

When I was a teenager, my dresser broke. When young, you never question the furniture in your room or how your parents came to own it. It simply exists and you use it until you move out. This dresser was garbage and falling apart so my mom gave me an IKEA catalogue and asked me to find a replacement. I had never shopped for furniture before and felt overwhelmed by the pressure.

On the day of our shopping trip to IKEA, my mom drove us and insisted that we only buy what was needed and not stop for anything else. Fine by me. I’ve inherited the same genetics as my mom that make us averse to spending time in stores around groups of people when we could be literally anywhere else. I believe our aversion to shopping in person is a nice quirk rather than a seriously annoying inconvenience. We went in and found the dresser immediately thanks to IKEA’s numbering system. The dresser was midnight blue, a synthetic plastic-like material and it came in a giant flat box. We grabbed it and ran to the check out lines. I love how durable it is. It’s never broken to a point where it didn’t function and I did that Pinterest thing where I bought antique looking knobs and replaced the shitty little tabs they had in place before. The sides of it are slightly fraying from the main structure but IKEA furniture is cheap. No one breaks an IKEA purchase, they simply redistribute it to someone else they know or donate it. As my friends and I get older, we wonder out loud to each other if it’s gauche to still be buying new IKEA furniture. I’m usually too tired to argue but my opinion is always No, it’s not. Just look at my midnight blue dresser still kicking around.

The second and most obvious object is a rug I bought at a store down the street from the bra store I go to once a year to pilgrimage for bras. The bra store is filled with women who come into your dressing room with you, stare at your breasts for three seconds and immediately leave to pick up seven options they think will fit. I had just finished one of these hourlong appointments of trying on bras that I knew were already too small for me because the band made it hard to breathe and I regularly like to gain weight. Most are still sitting, unused with tags on in my bra drawer. This isn’t about them. This is about the rug place I went to afterwards. Please keep up. I was feeling depressed and insane for spending as much as I did on bras so I decided to look at rugs as a palate cleanser. Not helpful. I went inside and because it was raining, the store was empty besides me and the owner. We chatted for a bit and I pointed out a couple of smaller rugs that looked good to me. I saw their price tags and felt bad about potentially dropping more money after having just spent all this money on bras I couldn’t wear. The man, tired of my waffling, asked me my budget and if I cared if the rugs were handmade (100 bucks and no). He picked out a beautiful blue rug from Turkey and said it was made by a machine but was under budget ($90) and he’d cut a piece of rug adhesive for me so it wouldn’t slip on my floors. I was enamoured. 

I sometimes think about the less beautiful $400 rug from Turkey that I almost bought. The man was looking out for me. I left the rug store ten times happier than the bra one and put it next to my bed when I got home. I get complimented on the rug a lot. Sometimes I’ll just send someone a picture of my dresser and they’ll say, “Where did you get your rug, it looks great.” And I’ll send them to the rug store and the man who helped me. 

One of my favourite things to joke about with my coworkers is that I love Canadian Tire. Except it’s not even a joke anymore. It’s like a big ass store that has everything you could conceivably need for anything, cheaper and usually better quality than anywhere else. Loving Canadian Tire is a genetic predisposition that I inherited from my dad. There are a few close to where I work so I tend to go there whenever something breaks. For example, at one point I needed to buy glasses and a kettle for our office’s kitchen and went to three other stores before going to Canadian Tire. Each place had ugly, expensive options. Finally, I convinced my boss that I needed to go there and found both glasses and a kettle for less than a third of what the other girls were asking for. Now, I’ve learned my lesson and go to Canadian Tire first, eliminating the need to ever go to another store again. It has plants and ping pong balls. It has mice traps and school supplies. It’s huge but usually very well organized and you can even look up the product you want ahead of time online and it’ll tell you what aisle it’s in, eliminating the need to ask anyone for help when you’re there. I often go on my lunch breaks.

When I was tasked with picking up a lamp for one of our meeting rooms, I figured I would look at options on Canadian Tire’s website. They were all a bit uggo but I found an inoffensive one on sale for $15 brought down from $24. I’m no lamp expert so I don’t know what most lamps cost. I assumed this one was cheaply made and likely junk but I read the reviews and checked it out in person anyway to be doubly sure. It just looked like a basic black lamp with a little hanging pendant ball to turn it on. I bought two and left one at work. 

For a long time, I was using the little bedside table lamp that my roommate had bought and it would never turn on properly. It took me four or five times to get the angle right on the switch for it to turn on. Sometimes, when it was the middle of the night and I couldn’t sleep, I’d try to turn it on so I could read for a bit and get back to bed but I would get so frustrated by it not working that I’d just give up and go back to sleep. I changed the lightbulb but that didn’t seem to do anything so I knew it was the hardware in the lamp itself. Instead of fixing or replacing it, I just went on like this for ages. It never ended. Until I bought myself the $15 lamp. I put it together at work first then brought my own home. The pendant is such a weird but nice touch. It makes turning on a lamp (already a simple task) even easier if that’s possible. The shade is round and black and the base is silver and the wire that connects it to power isn’t garish or too obvious. The shade part of it isn’t completely opaque so it leaves a nice shadow on the walls. I truly love it. I could fix my night table lamp problem with $15 and a bit of assembly. I think about it all the time when I turn it on and off at night. The last time before bed always feels so final.

A very old colleague of mine has been using his instagram as a place to post his art. It was all digital art and he wasn’t selling prints online so I didn’t know how to approach him in a way to ask him if he had anything he was working on that was for sale. It may not be for me. One day, when I was 8 hours ahead of his time zone, he posted about a painting he had worked on and asked to direct message him if we were interested. I sent him a quick “hello, how are you doing,” message and inquired if it was still available. It was the first time he had done this and my schedule was all messed up so I figured I would have missed my opportunity. He got back to me the next day saying that a few other people had expressed interest but I was the first. I was so happy. I e-transferred him some money and we met close to his work for the pick up. I’ve since put it up in my room where I can see it every day and every day it makes me happy.

In a similar vein to this painting, a friend from university who was an excellent painter made me a painting one day when I was at work. I remember this day because I had gotten really drunk the night before, knowing I would have to work retail the next day at 11 a.m. I hauled my whole body out of bed and walked downtown to my job narrowly missing my chance to pick up McDonald’s breakfast on the way. I had a long shift but still made plans to see a movie with my roommates at the theatre near my work afterwards. After the movie, we walked home slowly together and the picture was waiting for me when I got in on my dining room table. I had tears in my eyes when I looked at it. It’s been to every house I’ve lived in since and I love it so much. 

My sister has this frustrating ability to always buy gifts that I continue to use and love years after I’ve been given them. I never expect them to be as great as they turn out when I first receive them. It’s like, oh, this is a nice bag, I could use it as a purse and I’ve worn it daily since. To think of all the places this purse has been with me. How many job interviewers have noticed this bag and admired how stylish and put together I look? It is endless. Every single one of her gifts has turned out this way and I have loved them all more the longer they last me. She’s buying me quality shit. Although I’ve had it repaired a couple of times, I keep repairing it at the lady’s cobbler shop because I just want it to last forever. This purse is probably 8 years old at this point but I refuse to give up on it. It’s black and from Banana Republic.

For months after I returned home from living in another province and breaking up with my first boyfriend, I experienced near constant sadness. I didn’t know when the next time I would laugh or smile at my friends would be. I found it hard to trust people I had known for years. It was the type of sadness reserved for your first heartbreak, the one that no one ever prepares you for or can talk you down from. I was unable to understand this new level of pain and this only served to further my suffering. I couldn’t even describe it to my friends properly. With more distance between myself now and this heavy-hearted person, I realize that it’s likely that most people have experienced this pain and I was just very self-absorbed. 

I stopped eating three meals a day because I started tasting food and drinks as if I was constantly sick, which I was. Everything was too bitter or sour or bland. I slept for hours but never felt rested. I developed a very unhealthy smoking habit that I unsuccessfully tried to hide from my parents. And I bought what I now lovingly refer to as my depression sweater. I remember getting it one day from the Bay when I was looking for a gift for my dad’s birthday. At the time it looked like something I could wear to work if I dressed it up. This was wrong as it was and still is several sizes too large for me and appears to be a very basic, striped, long-sleeved shirt. It’s both thick and thin enough to wear as a jacket or a cover-up. It’s so nondescript and unremarkable that when wearing it, I felt like I could blend into the walls. For some time, I wore it every time I left the house to do something social. Going out with friends felt like the ultimate errand at the time because I never wanted to speak to anyone. Wearing the sweater felt like the most effort I was willing to put into my outfit for the night. I could throw on tight jeans underneath and look presentable enough to be let into most bars. The depression sweater also served to hide the rapid weight loss I suffered by replacing eating regularly with smoking for breakfast and lunch then eating a big dinner with my parents to hide the fact that my diet was 75% cigarettes. You only noticed how thin I was by hugging me or by the sallowness in my face.

My lovely friends didn’t rush me out of my sad moods but encouraged me to come out despite my new antisocial behaviour. I agreed to play along and show up, but didn’t engage the entire time we spent at the bar. Later when I asked what had tipped them off to my depression, one of my friends responded that I would be out with everyone, but always offered to watch our coats or get more drinks when they would go off to dance. I participated way less in conversations. “And your sweater,” she said. 

“What sweater?”

“The striped one. You wore it every time we went out. And it looked bad.”  

Now, I barely wear my depression sweater outside. I’ve realized that it’s unflattering and creates a box where my torso should be. On cold nights, I’ll put it on and feel comforted by it. Somewhere along our journey, I’ve dropped a bit of something bright green on it that won’t come out and I can’t place what it is. I notice this stain on the left wrist more than anything else about it. It lives in my closet like an old band t-shirt, one I’m too nostalgic or stubborn to throw out. I know that at one point, it will no longer serve me but I can’t imagine getting rid of it, even then. The memories associated with the depression sweater weigh me down. It looks as though it’s lived many lives over. If it could make a sound, it would only whisper that it was tired and sigh.

Not unlike my depression sweater is my black Aritzia dress. I bought it on a whim years ago and can’t even remember if I tried it on before taking it to the checkout. During the summer of my unemployment, I wore it basically every day because I couldn’t be bothered to find something new to wear. It was exactly what I was looking for, a hands-off approach to dressing. I was hot, so I needed to wear a short dress. I was sweaty so it had to be black and not show off my sweat stains. If it were dirty, you could barely tell. It doesn’t even smell. Something about wearing it makes me feel so comforted and beautiful. It drapes over my body like a giant parachute. It hides my shape. It has a beautiful embroidered bit on the chest. It’s like a caftan without arms. 

The cost per wear for it is probably in the cents now because of how often I’ve donned it but it was around $80. It is as reliable as my depression sweater without the sad memories. 

It is my sincere hope that appreciating these material things will make me want less in life. If I’m constantly reminded of the joy they bring me, it will lead to a life of fulfillment and satisfaction without having to look for it elsewhere.

Stanley: The Best Dog

Stanley was my aunt and uncle’s dog before they divorced. Afterward, he primarily lived at my aunt’s place. He was the best dog. And he didn’t even live with us growing up. We had dogs before and after him and none of them come close to how good of a dog he was. I loved them; obviously. They were affectionate, loyal, and taught me how to treat animals with care and attention during my childhood and adolescence. But they couldn’t do shit compared to Stanley. He was a genius.

Stanley was a pure golden retriever. I don’t know where they got him from but, I believe, he was bred by God himself. He was always in a good mood. He needed to be surrounded by people and attention or he would die. Besides being the smartest dog, he was also the most forthcoming in his expressions. I felt like you could hear his thoughts by the way he moved and ran and acted. 

He had the thickest, blondest fur and he always smelled like a freshly opened bag of Sun Chips. He had big brown eyes and his nose was always just a little wet. He rarely barked, but when he did it was out of excitement because he knew someone was visiting him and he couldn’t contain himself. He’d be quiet long enough to accost the person at the front door at the bottom of a large, carpeted staircase that he would haul himself down so he could get to them first. His toys were throttled around and covered in his spit. He loved showing them off to people but not sharing them. That wasn’t his bag at all.

Once, when my brother and his friends were playing ice hockey on the lake next to the dock by my aunt and uncle’s cottage, Stanley was hovering over them and observing the game. When someone accidentally shot the puck under the frozen dock surrounded by ice and snow, my brother and his friends all gathered around where they thought it might have been and started digging. Stanley watched them on their stomachs reaching and removing snow for a few minutes and when they came up with nothing as they began making plans to quit the game because they only had the one puck. Stanley managed to shuffle under the dock in ten seconds and return it to them. They freaked. Stanley was so proud of himself after all the guys surrounded him and told him how good of a boy he was. I remember being shocked at him figuring out what they needed and getting it so quickly when they all couldn’t manage it themselves. His face was full of joy that day.

My favourite habit of Stanley’s was that he used to insist on you petting him in a ascending order of annoyance. He was smart enough to know when to push and what would be the most disturbing approach for you. First, he’d stand next to you, imploring you with his big dog eyes to pet him on his head or back, giving you the benefit of the doubt. If you ignored this initial reaction, he’d nudge you softly with his head and place himself firmly under your hands. If you didn’t move back and forth, he’d nudge more. If you left him or didn’t respond at all, he’d whine quietly to you like “seriously?” If you managed to resist him up until this point, he’d throw all sense of decorum out of the window and start licking your hands and arms. It was disgusting. And he knew people hated it. I think he didn’t want it to get to that point but it was a nonnegotiable for him. If you were in his presence and not giving him your full attention, he would make sure that you were so uncomfortable that you inevitably had to. 

He was curious and playful. You couldn’t walk him without everyone fawning over how beautiful and nice he was. It used to take hours to get to the park and back because he would play all day with the other dogs if he could. Other dogs loved Stanley and they never barked or freaked out at him. He was so chill and welcoming, the universal dog whisperer. 

At the news that he had died, my family was devastated. While I’m aware of the impermanence of our lives, particularly for animals like dogs, I hadn’t emotionally prepared myself for his departure. I don’t remember the last time we saw each other. It is my sincere hope that we brought him joy the way he did for us. Since his death, I haven’t met another dog as good as Stanley. I’ve tried but they all seem like grey outlines of what he once was.