To Sleep Is Human, To Nap Divine

Napping is pretty big. This article in Elle delighted me. It presents a defence of napping and its mental and physical benefits. It’s eloquent and well interviewed. I love to nap. I thought everyone did. But it’s come to my attention that some people view it as lazy or like an interruption to their otherwise productive days. How sad. 

I can see beyond this shortsighted and uninspired take on napping. I’m aware how sometimes you get up feeling like you don’t know where you are or where any of your stuff is. My only response is that you can learn to embrace this feeling. To get right back into whatever you were doing pre-nap would be a lot to handle and I don’t encourage it. I like a slow start post nap which eventually turns into a buzzing avalanche of doing other things in the afternoon or evening after you get up.

The location of my nap is irrelevant. While I love to couch nap at my parents, I only nap in my bed at home. I don’t prefer one to the other but I can see how tricking your body into sleeping midday in your bed can be confusing for it at night. Wasn’t I just here? I also don’t differentiate between the naps my body needs and the naps I give to it. I can appreciate how some people create a ritual around napping, like in the Elle article full of napping pros. My naps are more perfunctory and less ceremonial. I just want a little more sleep in the middle of the day. 

It takes a lot for me to feel comfortable enough to nap. There are wellness rooms at my office for those who need it for breastfeeding, to pray, to inject insulin, or as a recovery room for their illnesses. I’ve only used it after regular working hours when I’ve been at work for a late meeting. The idea of taking up the room for a nap when other people need it more urgently worries me. I can’t even get comfortable enough during off hours to get a decent enough sleep in. Work may not be the best spot for naps so it’s off the table for me. But I respect certain workplaces’ commitments to napping, nap pods. 

Same mentality goes for napping on public transit. I’ve only ever envied the people comfortable enough to fall asleep not only in front of others, but on a moving train rapidly heading towards their stop that they presumably have to get off at. They could just be resting their eyes or with someone who will alert them to their upcoming destinations. But I worry for them. Maybe they’re so tired they’re willing to overshoot by a couple of stations. Also, they clearly need the extra sleep. They’re a part of the nap conglomerate. 

When you wake up after your night sleep and your first thoughts are when you will be able to go back to bed, napping gives you that sooner than your regular bedtime would. Napping with other people brings you closer to them faster than it would be without naps. On a very early cottage trip with two of my new friends from work, we set ourselves up to read and chill in the living room. We each had a couch and as the weather got rainier and the room got cozier, we all drifted off to our respective dreamlands. When we each woke up separately about an hour later, I was surprised that we had all felt comfortable enough to close our eyes and fall asleep in front of the others. The ease and casualness of the whole experience made it so special. 

One of my first boyfriends and I napped together before we slept together. We’d fall asleep on the couch watching TLC and move to my room if we woke up and were still tired. Like my friends from work, the naps accelerated our intimacy and allowed us to see each other sleeping in the light of day. A different experience than sleeping next to someone at night, in total darkness. More than once, I’d wake up to find I had drooled on his shirt. I just wouldn’t get this level of connection sleeping next to him overnight.

Naps can be a way to compensate for bad sleeps the night before. I don’t know if this is a true fact but I know it’s what makes me feel better when I toss and turn during my regular sleep schedule. If you’re napping, which often happens spontaneously and without meaning to, you’re not going to toss and turn. 

When I close my eyes for a nap, I never know what I’m going to get. Will I get upset by not being able to fall asleep and get up ten minutes later, more tired and frustrated than I was before I lay down? Or will I conk out completely only to wake thirty minutes later with a foggy brain and what feels like a minor hangover?

I like a mid-morning nap but these are rare. My body is like “I can use another half hour to an hour of sleep.” And my brain is like “What.” These are the naps where I dream the most. It’s like my subconscious is making up for the lack of dreaming during my night sleep in my morning naps.

An afternoon nap can also be helpful. I’m now used to the tiredness I feel after a big lunch, which happens often during quarantine. Most days I resist the tiredness and maintain a regular work schedule through my preferred napping hours (between 3 p.m.-4 p.m.). Some days, the distance between my bed and my desk is so short that I can’t help but throw open my sheets and comforter and quickly jump in for a twenty-minute rest. These afternoon naps are always 20 minutes. I don’t know how my body knows when to wake up but it does. I feel rejuvenated and ready to go most days after I nap. Occasionally, I will have caught myself in a nap sleep cycle and wake up feeling “sluggish, lazy, stupid, and unconcerned.” These naps affront other people but feel like one of the smallest prices to pay for the chance at a good sleep in the middle of the day. What more do you really need from napping? 

While I try to avoid napping after 5 p.m., sometimes it has to happen. My favourite post 5 p.m. naps go off because I’m trying to go out later and not fall asleep at the bar lest they throw me out and accuse my friends of putting roofies in my drink. These are necessity naps and I wake up from them feeling limitless and like I’ve just crammed a whole night’s sleep into half an hour.

The benefits I get from napping are seemingly endless. When you crave the reset of a good night’s rest but can’t wait until nighttime to achieve it, napping has you covered. You get the same outcome with a fraction of the effort. While I try to limit my naps to weekends, they can slip in sometimes. I wake up a bit groggy, but ultimately more productive and better off for having slept when the rest of the world is buzzing around me.

There is something that I find so irresistibly hilarious about shitting your pants. My friends know that talking about shitting their pants or referencing someone they know shitting their pants is the quickest way to improve my mood. I have so many memories of difficult conversations being punctuated by someone making a joke to me about shitting my or their pants. There are stories peppered throughout my writing that point clearly towards this fixation. Even the term “shitting your pants” makes me laugh out loud. I’m a person.

Many of my critics (family members and friends) think that my obsessive insistence on them telling me their shitting their pants stories is juvenile and disgusting. And they’re right. Knowing that children find jokes about poo funny doesn’t make me feel any better or worse. It is just a natural truth. As natural as shitting your pants is funny. Children finding it funny is basic and understandable and this extends to me.

There are exceptions to this rule, obviously. I don’t think that old people shitting their pants is funny, or people who have suffered from serious medical problems, preventing them from being able to make it to the bathroom in time. I, also, obviously don’t think kids or babies shitting their pants is funny because why would that be funny? If I were to venture a guess to an age where it starts being funny, I’d say teens.

It begins with an innocent ask: “When was the last time you shit your pants?” Most people balk and then tell me they don’t remember. This seems unlikely. But they can at least humour my question and make something up. Or tell me about A time they shit their pants and not necessarily the latest. So many conversations I’ve had at dinner parties have been interrupted by my loudly addressing the table with: Tell me, who here has shit their pants as an adult? I have the sense and wherewithal to wait between courses to inquire. 

My favourite shitting your pants story is my dad’s. He’s never told it to us directly but my mom has on more than one occasion. It makes us laugh so hard. She will tell it when all the girls are together and she’s recounting stories of before me and my older sister were born. It happened at Martha’s Vineyard after my dad lost control of his bowels and didn’t have anywhere to go because the men’s bathrooms were being cleaned. The story is so far-fetched and insane that I have a hard time believing it all went down the way my mom described it. I’m positive she’s embellished parts of the story, even though everything checks out. I’ve never tried to get my dad’s version of the story, as I imagine it’s repressed in the recesses of his heart due to the sheer level of embarrassment he must have felt driving home in a tiny car with his own shit caked to the back of his legs and shorts. But this is what makes these stories so endearing and important to me. 

My second favourite is one of my mom’s friends’ sisters’ that she told us all at dinner one night when I had asked if anyone had any shitting their pants stories. Her sister was a journalist and was on assignment in Zimbabwe. She had been going for runs around the hotel every day and the time it happened she had only been running for a couple of minutes when her stomach flipped and she shit her pants. What makes the story so good is that she was wearing those tighter sweatpants from the 70s that gather at the bottoms with an elastic band. So she’s stuck on her run with shit bunching around both ankles and has to immediately head back to the hotel where there was a security guard and a metal detector machine she needs to walk through in order to reach the privacy of her hotel room. While her ankles are soaked in shit. I think she appealed to the security guard there and he let her walk straight through without any trouble. 

My third favourite is David Sedaris’ entire chapter on shitting his pants in Calypso. I read this at such a formative time in my obsession with shitting your pants stories that I felt like he was addressing me specifically. I remember where I was and what I was doing when I came upon this chapter. I was in the backyard on one of my roommate’s fancy outdoor chairs. I called my dad who had read my copy of the book before me but he didn’t pick up. Probably for the best. I read and laughed outside until the sun dipped behind the buildings around me. I tried to remember the last time I laughed that hard at a book.

I believe all adults I know have a shitting their pants story. All adults have definitely had a near miss but these are not included in my definition. You had to have shit in your pants for it to qualify according to my standards. You had to have gone through the indecency of either cleaning up your own underwear and pants at home or throwing them out while you were on the road. The lucky ones, like myself, have only shit themselves in the safety of their own houses. I have had near misses out in public. I have felt such terrible stomach pains and started sweating out of the blue only to miraculously have my friend find me a public bathroom at the last minute. But no one cares about these stories. They want to hear about the shame and shock you get when you realize you have to shit and there is no way for you to get to the bathroom in time.

I don’t like scenes in movies where people shit their pants. Bridesmaids is the first that comes to mind and it feels overblown and contrived. Like it was shoehorned in for laughs when it was already a funny movie. Movies where people shit their pants are missing a feeling I’m chasing. It feels like you’re getting access to the private room, where no one else is invited. Most people, regardless of how well you know them, feel enough distance from the events (unless they’ve recently happened) that they want to take ownership back over their experience. They realize, like most sane people do, that shitting your pants is objectively one of the funniest, grossest things to happen in one’s adult life, and it’s important to capitalize on how rarely it goes down. Your misery is everyone else’s entertainment. Withholding these stories is cruel and unnecessary. My fuel is pants shitting stories and you are my gas station. 

The most interesting part of the concept of shitting your pants in public, to me, is the logistics of getting home. Do you walk and run the risk of it escaping down your pants? Do you take the subway or subject a poor Uber driver to your predicament? 

I’m respectful when I ask anyone for the first time. Some people don’t feel comfortable enough opening up. Others simply don’t have a story of when they last shit their pants because it’s never happened. I feel sorry for these people, it’s like they’ve never lived. Shitting your pants builds character. It’s humiliating and it equalizes us. I imagine many celebrities have, like me, shit their pants. They’re just too surrounded by yes people and helpers that no one would hear about it. They’d have someone wipe them down with wet wipes and a new pair of pants in minutes. Anyone can shit their pants. This is what’s so beautiful to me.

Do Not Buy Me a Stand Mixer

I don’t want a stand mixer. Unless you require help in the form of this machine doing mostly everything for you. And you might.

Stand mixers do not deserve the accolades or attention they get. They shouldn’t cost as much as they do and they don’t provide enough reasons to own them. They’re cumbersome and huge, they take up so much counter space that you typically have to store them away from all your other appliances so that they’re not readily accessible. I used to notice them in pictures of rich peoples’ kitchens and think selfishly, “oh, cool! A mixer. I wish I had that.” But now my eyes zero in on them immediately and I seethe. This person isn’t a good baker. This person likely doesn’t even enjoy baking. The stand mixer indicates a lack of ability or dislike for feeling each ingredient being incorporated into your baked good. 

If your stand mixer is out in the open, on a visible countertop, it’s already taking up way too much space. A big mixer can weigh 20 pounds. Too much. If your stand mixer is hidden away, it decreases the likelihood that you will use it. It will take up precious space in your kitchen storage which could be used for appliances you bring out less often but that serve a purpose. For my heart health, I need to know that your overpriced appliance has a function and can significantly improve your life. Especially if it’s $400 and new iterations are coming out yearly. If your $400 tool can be replaced by a $10 whisk then it’s not a good tool. If your $400 can be replaced by a $30 hand mixer, why wouldn’t you use that? The spatial and financial expenses are so overblown that I’m upset we haven’t stopped to wonder why it costs as much as it does. 

It would make more sense to me if they were collapsible or nice but they’re so garish and can’t even be helped by interesting colours. Their design is helpful to those who may have mobility issues or who may require assistance with mixing. They’re also great for people who don’t like to bake. What better product to use than one that you can turn on, set a timer for, and walk away from until all your components are mixed and you can throw them in a baking tray and go? Do people who use stand mixers know that they can experience a way more intense, involved, enjoyable form of cooking? 

The mixing stand mixers do is the same way my roommate cooks. He turns a burner on, puts a pan down, throws some oil in it then places whatever food he’s cooking in the pan, seasons it, and promptly walks into another room. He hasn’t forgotten about his food, he’s just leaving it to do more interesting stuff that isn’t in the kitchen. This behaviour stumps me because he’s constantly burning shit. If I’m nearby, I will run to whatever burners are turned on at full heat and turn them off so that he can preserve whatever is left of his food. But often, it’s too late. The chicken skin is burned or the pot of boiling water and quinoa has overflown onto the three other burners. This is what the stand mixer does. You set a timer, you set the stand mixer to the level of intensity the recipe suggests and you can walk away. You don’t even have to look at the contents and you can’t put your hands or kitchen tool into the machine to scrape the sides down when the whisk attachment is going. The relevant difference is that the stand mixer doesn’t necessarily ruin your food while your back is turned.

The stand mixer is overpowering while also managing to not always get the ingredients in the very bottom of the bowl. I don’t want to sound like someone who fantasizes about and romanticizes the past or how “things used to be done” but mixing with a whisk or even a hand mixer is totally fine. You might get tired of whisking manually. I can identify because one time at Thanksgiving, we had pumpkin pie and cream but no hand mixer so my family and my brother’s friend all took turns whipping the cream by hand. It took what felt like hours and the cream wasn’t even fully whipped by the end of it. My point is, there is a point of diminishing returns with whisking technology and it stops at the hand mixer. Any efforts to improve beyond this are futile and yield the stand mixer. Which, to me, is Cuisinart’s best scam. So I’m not anti-technology or anti-progress, I love both concepts. In fact, I love throwing my money at very stupid new things that I don’t need in the off chance they might be worth their price tags. I just think it’s more stupid when expensive kitchen appliances aren’t worth shit. Very controversial take here. 

I’ve made cupcakes, icing, and doughs using a stand mixer that belongs to my roommate who owns every kitchen tool that is sold. I’m a diligent recipe follower so if it requires a stand mixer, I’ll unearth it from the shelf it lives on on the island in the kitchen. But I’ll be upset about it. Every time I’ve used it, I’m amazed at how little I have to do and how little control I have over what is happening. After tossing in all the ingredients, the most I can hope for is selecting the right speed which can be confusing because the mixer lists numbers and the recipes call for low, medium, or high speed. My opinion on speeds vary by the day. The only speed I can rest assured is right is that 6 is medium as it’s on a scale from 1 to 12. 

Walking away while something you’re about to bake is being whisked by a robot is such a weird feeling. I know I have other things to tend to, but my plans were to bake so why am I suddenly outsourcing this job at the most important juncture in the baking process? Outside measuring, mixing has to be one of the most crucial steps to ensure your finished product comes out edible. Why would you want a mixer to do that part for you? Do you want to see your snack form before your eyes or have this image blocked by the dough mixing attachment, the dark bowl and the speed at which the mixer is going? I always wonder about stand mixer people and if they’re familiar with the other ways of mixing and just prefer to not be there while their food is preparing itself. Are they tired? Do they need a break from their lives? Do they have kids running around that they have to tend to simultaneously? What am I missing? Are there recipes that can’t be made without the mixers’ attachments and power? The beauty in baking is its precision and commitment to detail. You miss this with a stand mixer whose main goal is for you to add everything to it in the right order then turn a knob and press a single button. Just one. 

For a while I thought the stand mixer actually did something that I couldn’t do. When I read about making cinnamon and bread rolls at home, each required your own stand mixer with a dough attachment. Did we have one of those? We did. But we didn’t need them. Is the stand mixer promising a better tasting product? Or is the main sell really its convenience? Please get me one of those cool cordless hand mixers.

Manifestation Works

I am skeptical of most new age practices and products that hotter, younger women try to sell me on the internet. I would like to only consume their content while battling my feelings of extreme jealousy and inadequacy. I don’t want to buy their products in an attempt to achieve what they have. A common theme among these savvy business people focuses on self-love and manifestation. While I can get behind their prompts to love myself, I’m reluctant to buy anything that requires that you believe in its abilities to work, like manifestation. I understand the placebo effect, but if this is what is needed of me for making manifestation effective, I don’t know if I have what it takes. I’d like what they’re touting to speak for itself. 

I worry about the young, less disillusioned people absorbing these lessons and not being able to explain why it doesn’t work. Or thinking they’re somehow flawed should it not yield the results they’ve been promised. Another frustrating development in manifestation is that you can manifest anything you want, but it might not look like what you had originally anticipated. This is an annoying argument. Isn’t that just what eventuates in life generally? You wanted a car when you were younger, but manifesting that car now would be insane because you have responsibilities and you don’t want to own a Camaro anymore so you buy a Honda Civic. That’s not manifestation, that’s just the passage of time. This theory justifies its own existence by insisting that whatever you end up with is what you had asked for originally, just in an iteration that you weren’t expecting. Why can’t I just get what I want now? I’m tired.  

These young women create TikTok videos that are eventually posted to their Instagram accounts, where they point to floating words by their heads indicating what they’ve manifested in the past year/month/day. Moving to LA, 100,000 followers on TikTok, the love of their lives, a fail-proof business idea that they’re beginning to monetize. This all sounds pretty pure-hearted in my book. It feels a bit crass to openly request and expect a specific dollar amount from the universe. Like it’s some sort of interplanetary bank. And these people tend to avoid outright saying that they’ve successfully manifested x amount of money. Instead, they skirt this topic by insisting they manifested their dream jobs or they paid off their mortgages in less time than they had originally expected. I appreciate their avoidance of saying that you can manifest money into your life because doing so might hold them accountable in a way they aren’t prepared for or that is unrealistic. I believe them, for the most part.

My favourite manifestation story happens to be the first time I ever heard about it as a teenager. Oprah was featuring guests on her show who participated in the production and filming of the documentary The Secret. Oprah believed she had been practising The Secret for years, without knowing what it was or attributing it to anything specifically. They called it the law of attraction and the basic message relayed was that you attracted what you thought about. Simple, straightforward, easy to understand for the average viewer. I ate it up. Then Oprah began her story of how strong her manifestation skills were. During her birthday month, gifts had been accumulating in her office for weeks leading up to the big day. Her birthday came and went but her pile of presents kept growing and it became overwhelming so she just stopped opening them. Lol, I love Oprah so much. 

One day, she had a show where she invited talented sleight of hand people like magicians and pianists to show off their skills. I had seen this episode, because I watched every episode of Oprah daily after school so I knew which guy she was talking about when she mentioned the bubble man. He created enormous bubbles that floated through the audience and seemed to never fall or pop. He used huge instruments and what could be best described as a kiddie pool full of soapy water to form his giant bubbles and Oprah was fascinated. Everyone was. She remembered how she wished she could make her own giant bubbles like this man had on her show. The same day the episode was filmed, she returned to her office and started doing some work post taping. She decided that she would open one present as a break in her work and the one present she opened was a giant bubble maker. She informed the audience that it wasn’t from the man, it was randomly gifted to her for her birthday weeks before his episode. It had to have been The Secret.

I love this story. It’s so wonderfully random and delightful. I love that what Oprah wished for most in that moment was “I want to do that too.” And then she was immediately rewarded for her efforts. I believe that Oprah has powerful manifestation skills that most people won’t ever be able to achieve. I also believe that Oprah is Oprah and the idea that anything she’s earned or achieved by being the best at literally everything (hosting, producing, acting, most jobs she’s had) could be unfairly attributed to her manifesting that success? Preposterous. Unfair. Wrong. Now, I know that Oprah is aware of these non-manifestation related skills. But I worry that some people, myself included, may confuse working hard towards manifesting our goals and working hard in general. It’s because it’s confusing. I have read studies sent from trusted colleagues and friends who present the benefits of creating vision boards in productivity and goal achievement. The science exists and it makes sense. Having a visual representation of your goals and desires makes it more likely for you to fulfil these goals. In the same way that speaking about them to others (feeling a sense of accountability for your goals and outward motivation and encouragement), writing them down, and creating a plan to achieve them also supports their coming to fruition. It isn’t far-fetched to believe that manifestation could and would help you. But it can be difficult to determine what to attribute your dream fulfilment to. Was it the manifestation that worked or was it your hard work? Did your manifestation enable or assist you in making the work less hard? Was the promise of realizing your goals successfully what helped you or the efforts themselves? Is working hard at manifesting something you want the same as working hard for that thing?  

What about manifesting people or specific behaviours from friends and family? Is it morally questionable to write down that you want your ex to get back to together with you? What if their manifestations dictate that they want to meet someone new? Does wanting to manifest someone you know acting a certain way for your benefit make you a controlling person who believes they should be able to realize their dream life at any cost?

Ultimately, manifestation is still a catchall argument that I think encourages you to work more forcefully on your beliefs than the required actions to make them successful. It overemphasizes the importance of thoughts and unwavering positivity and optimism rather than just doing the labour yourself to make what you want to happen, happen. 

 I confuse myself often with my manifestation beliefs. What are you supposed to do if you don’t believe that your beliefs dictate your reality? Your actions and thoughts rendered pointless? Or you can’t ever manifest successfully because you doubt its existence? There are many goals that I strive towards that I know are impossible to achieve. Not because of any failure or lack of effort on my part, but more having to do with the fact that these goals are literally out of the realm of possibility or accessibility to me. Manifestation would have me believe that everything is attainable and that it’s my beliefs that are preventing me from achieving these supposedly unreachable objectives. Even writing this feels as though I’m dooming myself to failure. The absence of any conceivable room for lamenting our setbacks or considering defeat is disconcerting. I’m not that positive. 

For me, for the manifestation to work successfully, it should be quick. But most manifestation professionals will insist that it takes years to hone your skills and even longer to manifest your dream life. I can acknowledge that certain aspects of a great life don’t shift like good health, having energy, love from friends, family, and romantic partners, money, security and a sense of purpose. So if I’m manifesting these, then I’d like to say, I’d want them to continue for me, in perpetuity. But, my opinions on what constitutes a great life are constantly changing. I don’t want the life I wanted for myself five years ago. I want the life I want now, now. What use is it otherwise? The only way this works is if I’m able to somehow manifest wild dreams for myself and make them appear overnight then continue to manifest change as my feelings and needs change.

I’m certain that I have successfully used these internet versions of manifestation in my life. I’ve manifested time speeding up when I was uncomfortable or bored. I’ve manifested good sleep after days of unrest. I’ve manifested meals that I’ve craved by living in a city with a bounty of great places to get takeout. The other day, as I was going for a walk alone, I thought, “I want a sandwich” from this place where I had ordered a sandwich from before. Their system is you text them your order and they’ll tell you when to come in to pick it up. Being on the move, I looked up the last text message I sent this sandwich place and resumed the conversation. “Hi, do you have any eggplant and smoked ricotta sandwiches left by any chance?” “We do! Is 15 minutes okay?” “Yes, thank you!” Then I picked it up. Was this manifestation at work or a food craving realized? Or both? I think this perfectly encapsulates my belief that manifestation can be attributed to many other factors at play but it demands all the credit. As if manifestation is responsible for all our successes. As if manifestation got me that eggplant and smoked ricotta sandwich. I’m too selfish and vain to give this credit away so easily. I did something too.

The last time I successfully practised manifestation, I went out for a morning walk at my parents’ house. My mom slept and my dad got groceries and I didn’t have to work for a couple of hours. I left the house and walked through a park with no real destination in mind. Was there coffee at home? Did I want to be outside while it rained? I considered these questions while I thought about my many blessings and how fortunate I was to be walking at 7:30 a.m., undisturbed by anyone around me. What else could I want or ask for? To manifest more when I didn’t need anything was selfish and greedy. Despite this, I thought I’d try, as an experiment. Without any idea of what I needed in this moment, I manifested abundance by repeatedly saying abundance in my head to test out my theory. Abundance, abundance, abundant abundance, everywhere. It continued to rain around me and as if I had conjured it out of thin air, I threw up in my mouth.

Rewards & Points

In Canada, there are many free systems to accrue points by purchasing a lot of shit. It defeats the purpose if you end up buying more in order to earn and cash out on points that don’t yet exist but I like to think that I have enough self-control to avoid this. I don’t, but I like to think I do. Below is a list of the points systems I have tried to use in exchange for “free” rewards. You have to spend money to earn fake money.

Air Miles:

If you’re planning on purchasing flights, food, or alcohol, regardless of their reward, it feels obvious that you might also try to benefit on earning points at the same time. While I struggle to understand how other people redeem Air Miles (I’ve never successfully redeemed points from their program so this might be my fault), I have many friends who insist it’s easy and that they’ve paid for flights this way. Some friends even have their credit cards set up to receive Air Miles for their spending. It feels like a job to me and if I have earned points with them for years and can’t even get a juicer to show for my work, then I don’t understand it and likely never will. 

Rating: 1/10

Usability: Low

What have I redeemed: Nothing

Marriott Bonvoy:

These points liken themselves to Air Miles in my difficulty in redeeming them. And they require way too high a balance to do anything worthwhile like earning free night stays, upgrading your room or getting credits toward food or spa treatments. I wouldn’t even know where to begin the process. It could be an online portal or it could be at a hotel check in desk. I’ve seen them work in action with friends who exclusively frequent the Marriott for travel accommodations but I mainly use this points system to get free wifi in my rooms which I feel I should be given anyway by spending money to stay there. If I can easily steal your lobby wifi then I shouldn’t have to sign up to your rewards program but here we are. 

Rating: 2/10

Usability: Low

What have I redeemed: Nothing. You get free wifi for being a member. 

Aeroplan:

This is a Canadian points system that rivals Air Miles for flights and accommodations rewards. I have never redeemed these points for flights or hotel upgrades. Because I haven’t earned or spent any points in over a year, I had 6 months before their expiry period of all points due to inactivity on your account for 18 months. I have a hard time with points expiry dates. I understand that it encourages you to use and earn more, but I don’t think they’re properly advertised or featured when you initially sign up for the program. Also these rules have changed over time. I know that Air Miles didn’t always have an expiration date but this was added after I first started earning miles. They sent out a warning email but, I don’t know, it seems sketchy. While I understand that points systems are governed by the businesses that own them, and while their value doesn’t extend to dollar amounts, I don’t think they should expire. Like gift cards which is another form of fake currency. 

Recently, I received an email from Aeroplan encouraging me to redeem and earn points from their new partnership with Starbucks. You could buy a gift card for a reduced number of points for a limited period. In order to avoid my points expiring on Aeroplan, I purchased a $20 gift card to Starbucks that after a few days of processing time, could be uploaded to my Starbucks app, which I also use for rewards. The convenience was shocking for me, helped in part because I had forgotten I had purchased it. They send you an email confirming your purchase detailing how many points you spent and how many you have left and then tell you to wait a few days before receiving the reward. I struggle with spending money at Starbucks, especially when coffee is very cheap and easy to make at home. So being able to redeem gift cards in exchange for booking flights that I would have to take regardless is a bonus I’m grateful for. 

From my understanding from my limited online research of Aeroplan points hackers, there are few viable flights where you can redeem a lower point amount for flight vouchers. I once saw a guy’s website whose entire job it was to advise you on how to use your points effectively (from telling you directly to calling the Aeroplan customer care line himself on your behalf) in exchange for a percentage of your points. It’s a genius strategy because the last thing I ever feel like doing is calling someone to ask them to help me redeem what I view as imaginary currency to buy a flight somewhere I want to go. 

One time, someone in Detroit bought a gift card to Best Buy using my Aeroplan points by hacking into my account. I found out right away because I got an email notification indicating I had made the purchase and sent it to a random address in Detroit. When I called their customer care line to cancel the transaction, they gave me a phone number to a legal team somewhere in New Jersey who promptly cancelled my purchase and reallocated the points to my account. It was an exciting couple of hours. I like to think that they still shipped out the card regardless so that the person could make purchases at Best Buy in the US. 

Rating: 6/10

Usability: Mid-level

What have I redeemed: One $20 Starbucks gift card. My friends who excel at this have redeemed a lot and insist it’s easy. I guess that person who hacked my account unsuccessfully redeemed that Best Buy gift card. 

Starbucks Rewards App

This is just an app you keep on your phone. You can use it to mobile order your drinks so you can skip the line in Starbucks. Since getting it, I haven’t waited in a Starbucks line unless I wanted to, which is enough to justify the whole system itself. It feels so elitist and unfair that I can walk into a busy Starbucks only to jump the line to where they’re all waiting for their drinks that they ordered from an actual person and to pick up my little oat milk latte. I also took advantage of this perk by making my friends at work pick up my order when they would go down for their own. It worked on so many levels. You could order as a group or by yourself and they always came out at the same time no matter when you did it. Like magic.

Earning points felt secondary to me but I started paying attention to days and specific promotions that would allow me to receive more points. I was ordering Starbucks when I didn’t even want it which is exactly how they get you. I’m not above being won over by points systems, clearly. This one did not help me. I’ve since reeled in my spending but their points also expire which is still some bullshit. I have 87 points as it stands and it takes 150 to get a free fancier drink of any size with any milk. Due to the pandemic, I’m not going out for coffee but when it’s safer, I will keep ordering via mobile order and will continue to earn and spend points. It amounts to about 1 free drink to every 10 purchased which checks out in my books. 

Rating: 7/10 (for convenience of ordering and earning points through the app)

Usability: Easy

What have I redeemed: maybe 3 free drinks

Optimity/Carrot Points

The Carrot points system started as an app that was funded by initiatives through the Governments of British Columbia, Newfoundland and Labrador, Northwest Territories and Ontario to encourage people to move and work out more. It calculated your steps daily, creating an average walking score that you were meant to beat for points. If you checked in at night, your phone would sync your steps to the app and determine whether you had beaten your daily average in exchange for a set number of points. The points could be redeemed for gift cards for gas and movie tickets. 

I used to love the Carrot points system. For a while, I was making sure that I would walk 10,000 steps a day to achieve my daily points from Carrot. I also used to do challenges with my friends where together we would be responsible for hitting above our average steps in a day for two weeks. It helped my activities level and kept me connected to friends I couldn’t see as often as I’d like. Knowing how many steps they needed to make their daily goals made me feel closer to them. But the system was flawed in that it required that you continually increase your steps for each challenge until your average grows to something over 15,000 steps a day. For me, this would amount to 2.5 hours of walking in the span of my 14 waking ones. It just wasn’t feasible unless I walked to and from work every day. Also the average would continue to climb so it would be impossible to keep beating your average without eventually running out of time and energy to do anything but walk. Your average would lower, you’d lose your daily walking challenge and then you’d try to not walk a lot or take your phone with you anywhere for two weeks in order to significantly decrease your walking average. It wasn’t a sustainable system. I, however, didn’t pay to go to a movie for two years using Carrot points to buy Cineplex gift cards for the value of a movie ticket.

While the expectations of continually increasing your walking for months wasn’t attractive to my friends and I, we still used the app daily to check in on our walking. It bonded us. I used to make fun of my friend at work who wouldn’t check in all day and had a walking score of 36 steps by 4 p.m. There was also a great deal of shaking our arms up and down to mimic the action of walking and in turn, tricking the app into thinking you had completed more steps than you had that day. I’m embarrassed to remember all the time at 11 p.m. I would sit up in bed swinging my arms so that I wouldn’t let down my friend who I was in a challenge with that week. The app encouraged cheating is what I’m saying. This comes out as a wash because I could still earn points but I wasn’t getting as much exercise out of it. Unless you count swinging your right arm in bed exercise, which I don’t think you should. 

Eventually, Carrot stopped offering the chance to earn points through the walking challenges and meeting your daily step goal. It turned into a more complicated system that required you do challenges that included actual workouts and running challenges. Not for me. Either way, they have since gone offline and rebranded as Optimity which I have still yet to download on my phone. I get their promotional emails but it seems none of my friends have started using it either. From my understanding, the requirements to earn points are like Carrot’s later ones which I wasn’t used to or wanting to do ever. While I lament the changes that have been made, I also appreciate the free movies gift cards I unlocked along the way. 

Rating: 7/10 (before, not now)

Usability: Easy

What have I redeemed: a free movie every 1–2 months for two years which is more than I need.

PC Plus/Optimum Points

Optimum points used to be a thing when you could earn points at Shoppers Drug Mart and redeem them in money off future purchases. It was easy to earn points because every time I walked in there, I’d leave having spent $100 on shampoo, sunscreen, and bug spray. Too easy. It was great because you’d earn so many points and there were special days when you could earn triple the points or your points were valued at triple their original worth. My smart friends would exclusively shop there on bonus days. I would use the points to reduce the costs on my deodorant and nail polish. 

Since Loblaws bought out Shoppers, we’ve been graced with PC/Optimum points where they can be earned and redeemed anywhere owned by the Weston family. This is huge for me because of how close I am to many of their grocery stores. Originally, I had a card that I would swipe and I never earned points there because you had to load up the weekly deals and then present your card to the cashier. I always forgot to load the offers but this is no longer an issue since I got the app on my phone. The offers are based on your past purchases so I find them just posting deals for food I’d be buying anyway. It’s a great way to see how often you buy onions or organic peanut butter. 

I use PC points all the time. I’m either earning them or spending them. The conversion works out to 10,000 points to each $10 and so on all the way up to $500. You can’t spend half amounts like 15,000 so you have to wait until the next $10 up in order to redeem but this can happen quickly if you’re strategic about what you buy. I know I said that I tried to not buy items purely for the points accumulation but I’m only human and it has become thrilling to me to review my receipts not as a reminder of what I bought but as an indicator of how many points I earned in that one shopping trip. I will wait until I’ve earned $20 worth of points before asking the cashier to reduce this amount from my next shopping trip. It’s easy and fun and makes shopping more bearable. I know some people who save up until they have $500 worth of points so that they can buy Xboxes or Playstations from Shoppers (which they sometimes sell on sale) but I’m fearful of hackers stealing all these points. They target bigger accounts with points totals that are over 500,000. 

Accumulating points is a slow process (1000–3000 points per trip where I spend between $50–100$ on groceries.) It amounts to literally $1-3$ off in the end but I get such a huge rush knowing that I’ve contributed to my pool. It’s a great system.

Rating: 10/10

Usability: High, I redeem these about once every two months on the every two months

What have I redeemed: Likely hundreds of dollars off the price of my groceries

Pilates Class

Before lockdown, I was already aging out of the workout classes I liked most. Which surprised me as I was also getting priced out of most of them. How were these newly working teenagers affording this? I can think of nothing sadder than a twenty-two-year-old spending almost $30 to spin for 50 minutes on a Saturday morning but here I was doing the same, silently making fun of them. Why weren’t they at home, nursing a hangover like the rest of their friends? Normally, this niche workout market would fly over my head.

In a pandemic that has made me question everything about my body when I might not otherwise, I have looked for workouts that don’t make me hate myself and working out. They’re rare, but I manage to discover a workout I like once or twice a year. The trick is to find a class that is so distractingly fun that I forget that I’m putting my body through it. I always used to get sick and now that I spend the majority of my time indoors, avoiding public transit at all costs, I feel a pressure to strengthen my immunity to common colds and anything that renders me weaker. What am I going to do with this time and how will I emerge at the end of it?

I first started this class with doubts. But my sister wanted to capitalize on a second two weeks free introductory package and needed my credit card and email to do it. Once I signed up, I sent her the password and carried on with my life. She didn’t prompt me to try it but mentioned in passing who her favourite instructor was. I forgot this information immediately. 

The first class I did was with a thin blonde woman, a human salt lamp. She was full of advice about your energy and forgiveness and how you can’t move on until you course correct. Alright….. It felt strange but the workout itself stayed with me for hours. She spent a large majority of the middle parts just dancing on her mat, the part that my sister affectionately refers to as the rave party. You throw your body around with no regard to how you look. You’re meant to chase the feeling of freedom and this feeling came so quickly the first time I had to stop dancing to catch my breath. How had I not tried this before? It combined everything I love about working out with none of the tedious, boring stuff that I wish would be missed in each class I pay for. There’s very little pain involved with the class but it does require your full attention, something that has plagued me since I got my first iPhone in 2013.  

The class begins by planting your feet hip’s width distance apart with one hand on your heart, one on your stomach. You close your eyes and breathe in and out deeply. It’s a grounding pose that signals to your body that it’s time to work out and that you’re safe where you are. All distractions are meant to be put aside for the hour-long classes. They also have restorative and express options that are 45 minutes.

Although I tried to make it social, it’s a quiet, solitary practice. No one knows I’m doing it when I’m doing it, except maybe the sweet lady who lives below me who can hear my jumping jacks. The instructors sometimes mention the hundreds of people online who are also watching the class and how we should all be tapping into this collective energy. When I know my friends are doing a class while I am, I text them throughout. I try as hard as I can to make it as though I’m with people when I’m not. Despite this, the class forces me to participate alone. This is probably better for me.

The next few classes were like the first. I began to notice a pattern to the schedule. I developed a sense of loyalty to instructors that I enjoyed. I avoided ones that I hadn’t tried yet. This, it turns out, was very normal for my friends. After the initial two-week intro deal, I signed up and started paying for it monthly. I sent my friends my login information and most of them ignored my gentle pushes to try at least one class with my favourite instructor, the same as my sister. One of my friends in Australia couldn’t get the right timing down because the live classes’ schedule was opposite to hers. The website has on demand ones, though, and she also found her favourite instructors. My latest buddy to start tried a woman I had largely avoided for no real reason. Then, I started doing her classes with my friend and we would text back and forth between and during exercises lamenting how hard it was. This instructor had seen some shit. She is now another favourite.

After the grounding pose, you typically begin by squatting to an up-tempo song. The second part of the class transitions between the squats to a leg exercise on the floor. Like a lift or something where you’re kneeling and in repose then you lift your leg back and bounce it. Or push it up towards the side of the mat then down again. You do this repeatedly on one side then sometimes, if you’re lucky, it’s still the middle of the song and you get to switch legs. Other times, when you have a long bit of class left, the instructor just repeats the exact same song but on the opposite leg. This always happens later in the class with a few songs between the repeated one. They say it’s an act of balance to finish off the other side. Your body didn’t forget and neither should you. 

I used to believe that if I enjoyed something, it meant that it was good. I have since learned that this is truly insane thinking. I am, however, certain that this class is as close to perfect as an online workout class can be. Falling in love with this class felt like how you fall in love for the first time. A casual interest at the start where you see each other every few days. Then, after what feels like an overnight, you’re taking daily naps together and planning on where you will settle down. I started doing the class daily.

The constant workouts have predictably changed my body. My biceps are defined where they weren’t before and my back is inexplicably more toned than anything else. My knees have thinned and I’ve developed one of those lines that run through my calves. I still struggle with lifting heavy objects but less than I did before. I have an overarching sense of feeling fit and healthy that I haven’t had since I used to have classes at a boxing gym. My energy levels have increased and I’m hungrier than usual. I can eat more than I used to.

When I injured my foot this summer and stopped working out regularly, I noticed the difference right away. It bothered me that I was spending the majority of my time elevating my ankle instead of doing my practice. I ate way less and stopped wanting to go for walks after work. The effects of not doing the class on my mental health were immediately obvious.

I felt more antisocial and less motivated to do anything. The hopelessness of the pandemic and life in general crept up on me and I didn’t have my little workout to look forward to. My body changed again where all my focus went to healing myself rather than becoming stronger like I was just getting accustomed to. I was in a shittier mood and had a shorter temper. I don’t think it all necessarily relays back to missing out on this boutique Pilates class. Some of it was my own doing and commitment to having a bad attitude. I could have avoided the injury and I blamed myself for my carelessness. But the class made me feel less hard on myself and discourages negative self-talk.

In the full-length classes, there are sometimes two sets of burpees. The recurrence represents an opening and closing, a reminder to our bodies that we can do hard things and not be overwhelmed or weathered by them. The first burpee set sucks and by the time the second set comes around, you’re prepared both mentally and physically and do a much better job. Discovering your improvements by the end of the hour is rewarding. Like anything that you get better at over time, noticing the subtle progress makes it easier to keep trying.  

Typically, I hate the burpees. I do the modified version so as not to disturb my bum ankle. But I recognize their value regardless and copy the instructors, throwing in the full version every couple of rounds. The modifications are meant to be inclusive of most exercising levels. They mention pregnancy, injuries and just general discomfort with the movement as reasons to adjust to the earlier settings. They name them as versions 1, 2, and 3, in descending order of engagement. The version 1s involve keeping your feet planted and less of an impact from jumping around. The distinctions aren’t important, though, which I am regularly reminded of by the instructors.

The instructors are all women; the vast majority are small and white. A couple of them have been pregnant which thrills me to see and follow along. There are three compact, short brunettes who have the most charismatic and engaging energies and I confuse them often. I take almost everyone’s classes and enjoy them all. Some of them bring up books they like, some allude to the politics that are happening in the US and how crazy it all is but they insist that their classes are places of respite and are for you.

The prompts during exercises remind me of the prompts from the spinning instructors I’ve had but with less of a sense of urgency and forcefulness. Their words run the gamut from gentle suggestions to caring about yourself and forgiving yourself and others to accepting responsibility for your own happiness. Because no one will do this for you. I’m always laughing or smiling at their open conversations to the camera, a woman alone in a candle-lit studio, jumping around her mat or flexing her shoulders in a cat/cow position insisting on her self-worth. Forgiving themselves for their intrusive, unhelpful thoughts. Seeming to discover their humanity in the fifty minutes we have been moving together. It feels like a revelation watching them, like I’m being let in on multiple secrets. More than once, an instructor has whispered, “I am enough” emphatically into their Britney Spears microphones. I laugh then earnestly repeat it to myself. Sometimes they ask you to yell your own name. Once one of my favourite instructors mentioned that she had been feeling a bit negative about herself that week. She spoke clearly and definitively when she declared proudly: “Not everybody hates you. You aren’t useless.” It felt way more intimate than I expected it to.  

The class ends with the heart clearing. Sometimes they call it heart opening. The goal is to wrap up the class, shake off any residual feelings of stress and effectively move on with your day. It’s my favourite. You know it’s starting because the instructor advises you to bend at the knees and double yourself over your legs. You rest for a second in this position, maybe by extending the knees a few times but you end up kneeling with your butt sitting tenderly on the soles of your feet. The instructor tells you to open your arms wide as if you’re about to give someone a hug. I lift my head as high as it can go and feel the effects of the last fifty minutes. Then the music starts playing. The move looks so goofy. The best way to describe it is arm flapping, like a bird. Like you’re trying to take off with the momentum of your pendulous arm swinging.

When attempting to convince a colleague to try it, I insisted that she wait until my favourite instructor’s next class a few days away. She loved her like I did. We became obsessive about this instructor, following her on Instagram and sharing her posts despite having already seen them on our own accounts. At one point, the instructor stopped having classes on her regularly scheduled days. I inquired to my friend about what might have happened. She didn’t know. Then, the instructor stopped having classes altogether. There was no announcement and we didn’t realize that she was moving and was using the time off to quarantine. Eventually, she posted to her Instagram that she would be returning to the studio to teach the class again. It was in a story and my colleague forwarded it to me. I did that horrible thing where you respond to the person who created the story as opposed to the sender and wrote, “Oh thank god.” The instructor responded a few hours later with three heart emojis. Shocked, I forwarded the notification to my friend saying that I meant to respond to her directly but mistakenly messaged our hero. We were buzzing. After collecting myself, I read my messages and responded to the instructor directly this time, saying how much her classes meant to me and sending back my own hearts, clear and opened.

No New Friends

As an adult, I struggled with the idea of making new friends. While I would try to form relationships at my jobs, I resisted when people I wasn’t that close to approached me and suggested we spend more time together outside regular work hours. The whole two times it happened.

I met this friend at my last job. I was hired full-time while she worked hourly, finishing off school, showing up later in the afternoon a few days a week or on weekends. We didn’t sit close to each other initially, so I knew nothing about her besides the fact that she was pretty, unapproachable, and quiet. We rarely talked.

As the weeks wore on and my probation period ended, we started messaging on Slack, but only to ask work-related questions. Typically, we were apologizing for making the other finish an open ticket from an especially annoying customer that we couldn’t wrap up ourselves. Once, I heard her make a joke under her breath. Later, one of my bosses, whom I disapproved of, was openly talking to a group of us about how funny and sarcastic this part-time person was. How unexpected it was for her, because this girl was so quiet. Because of how much I disliked this boss, I made a mental note to avoid her. If our boss thought she was funny, she wasn’t funny and we would never get along. 

Then, another one of our supervisors moved us to the same island of tables. Suddenly, we were seated side by side. Our schedules still didn’t align completely but I started looking forward to the hours when she arrived. Some days, I would check the app that showed our schedules to see when she was next due in the office. When I knew she wasn’t working, I had nothing to look forward to, my posture making myself sink lower in my seat. On days when she was there, regardless of who I was talking to or messaging, I’d stop what I was doing and smile in her direction, greeting her as she walked in. Like a human golden retriever, wagging its tail when its owner came back from being away for too long. 

She is so funny. I have never met anyone with the same sense of humour as her. It’s not weird or cryptic, you just have to be quick and paying attention to get it because it’ll whip past you or go over your head. She still makes jokes that I don’t understand until later or that she has to remind me she’s made. I laugh so hard when she makes the same joke again, insisting that I laugh because I missed it the first time.

I used to think: was she good enough for me? Was I good enough for her? Would we be good for each other? Then at one point when we were sitting next to each other, she started quietly singing, “Stacy’s Mom.” I couldn’t help myself and chimed into her singing with my own backing vocals. I whispered “after schoooo-oo-ool” in her direction. It still makes me choke when I hear that song. These important moments accelerated and intensified what I was already feeling. When new friendships are born, how do you know if they will last? The dumb memories we created every time we were together are what kept me invested in knowing what would come next for us. 

I had no idea what she was like at home. I knew she lived with her boyfriend in a condo and that she walked to work most days. She spoke Spanish to her parents and sometimes used it to listen to conversations other Spanish-speaking employees had because they didn’t know this about her. She loves to read. Our interest in books is one of the first qualities we discovered that we shared and it bonded us. Did she want to borrow this book that I just bought? This new phase of our relationship represented a sense of trust and friendship because we knew that we would be sticking around to keep exchanging our copies and discussing them. I never felt attached to my books before but started to gently inquire about whether she would want to read something I was thinking of purchasing. We joked that we now consider the other before buying books online. Would she like this one too? If yes, then that book doubled in value.

As our friendship progressed, I learned details about her that wouldn’t have come up had I not pressed her repeatedly. How did she know Photoshop? What did she take in school? How does she learn Garageband and Adobe? Does she think these apps are easy to use because she’s younger than me? Or just more open-minded? I found out that in school she lived in a house close to my parents’ place. What were her other friends like? Why does she know so much about skincare? Why does she like Glossier? Is it because she’s already hot and real makeup would appear too thick and obvious on her face? What was her experience being an only child?

I underestimated our closeness. I was open to meeting new friends, especially at work where bonding over mutual hatred of the same people and processes was encouraged. But I struggled to imagine making friends from this job. I truly hated being yelled at by strangers on the phone. I mean duh. I didn’t want reminders of this pain and stress in the form of people I bonded with. I also struggled with the fact that she was 23 and already smarter, more life experienced, and unquestionably funnier than I was. Although our humours complimented each other perfectly, the constant comparison to her dry, deadpan wit and beautiful 23-year-old skin bothered me. Why couldn’t I live with my casual jealousy of her AND be her friend? 

She and another colleague from work, who is also smarter and younger than I was, insisted I get a drink with them or go to a yoga class after our shift. I declined. I reasoned that I already had friends from high school, university and my other jobs and that I couldn’t afford time for these newer, better versions of my past self. Although, this is arrogant on my part. I wish my past selves were as great as they are. 

At one point, we discovered an artist we both liked was coming out with a new album and would be playing a show. She asked if I wanted to buy tickets with her. My initial answer was noncommittal and I changed the subject. She asked a week later when tickets were still not selling out. The concert was six months away. Would we both be working at this job? Would we still know each other and want to go to a concert together in six months? We were and we did. The concert was thrilling and full of fond memories and I have since gone to two more concerts with this friend, cementing our love for each other and our shared music tastes. For me, the comfort of dancing in front of and with your friends at a concert is a space that is so sacred and pure that to be let into that space and to let someone else in was a monumental step in our friendship. 

The beginnings of these relationships are always magical in that you aren’t immediately aware of all the moments that bring you closer together. But some stick out more prominently than others. Slowly, we started saving each other seats next to each other on the picnic benches during all staff meetings. These were rare opportunities where we got to catch up after our boss realized we were talking too much instead of working and separated our desks. Once, during one of these all staffs, she leaned her head gently on my shoulder and left it there in her tiredness. I froze. Had we achieved this level of intimacy yet? Did we unlock a new tier to our friendship? I felt so close to her and made extra room on our bench so she could adjust to a more comfortable position. 

We started taking our lunches at the same time. Our conversations over Slack changed from being work related to making jokes at the expense of our colleagues and customers. I stopped turning down her invitations to hang out outside our job. I asked her for her phone number because I didn’t want to stick to one form of communication. She, like me, was noncommittal and didn’t answer right away, but now we text each other regularly. 

I wanted to hear from her when we were both chilling at home. I wondered about her opinion on decisions I was making in my life. Should I apply to this job? Should I accept this offer? Would this jumpsuit look good on me? She had quickly caught up on my entire history and could help me make informed decisions that would improve my life. I felt like an expert on her life too. It was as though we were old friends catching up from years of not being present for each other. It became essential to fill in all our knowledge gaps. 

I started repeating stories to her, which she would insist frankly that she had already heard before. Her insults became more biting and specific. A true sign of a strong and lasting friendship. Rather than earning each other’s trust, it was as though it had been there since the first time we eye rolled at each other. She’s the friend whose non-verbal communication style I learned quickest. I saw what she was thinking from across the room of any bar we were at. When she was promoted, and I was on 8 a.m. shifts every day, she would text me from her walk to work asking if I wanted a latte. For months, she’d quietly drop a latte at my desk while I was on the phone. When we could, we’d pick up lunch for each other and share coupon codes to the spots around our neighbourhood. They were mainly her codes. Anytime we saw a two for one deal, we’d be there, cashing in together. 

I don’t know who said I love you first. But I do know that we started mentioning it so casually when leaving each other that I didn’t even notice the first few times. After these times, I’d think about us saying it and it was so obvious to me that we had loved each other for ages. And it wasn’t because we saw each other every day but because every day we stopped whatever we were doing at work to do something to make the other person’s life easier. We’d sit at the communal picnic tables and bully whoever joined us that day. We’d joke with each other until we were doubled over our desks, crying and shaking with laughter at how far we had taken a passing comment the other made. She made a truly unbearable job one of the ones I’m most grateful for. I always recognize this lovely gift that being hired at the same time gave us. 

It should be easy to write about the friends you love most. But to encapsulate this friend and how much I love her in words feels a little fruitless. It’s funny now thinking back at all the good she’s brought me and how easily I was initially willing to overlook our obvious bond. Recently, our other friend shared some memories’ from her phone’s photo album from a year ago when we all went to a concert together. A concert that my friend got us tickets to because she outsmarted the Spotify algorithm. It’s a sophisticated algorithm. At one point during the concert, the artist started playing a song we shared at the beginning of our friendship. She rested her head on my shoulder and I leaned in closer.

Times I Have Cried Watching Season 40 of Survivor: Winners at War

When Tyson talked about how Survivor gave him more opportunities to stay home with his daughters instead of working a 9-5. And when he celebrated how Survivor supported him in using his random skills which is why it’s the perfect job for him. 

When everyone on the edge of Extinction (Natalie, Amber, Ethan and Dani) were tasked with bringing 20 pieces of firewood one at a time down a mountain to earn only 1 fire token (Survivor’s new currency). And when Ethan struggled with the challenge and he almost passed out. And everyone walked with him on his last trip up the mountain to support him because it mattered to them and him. When he thanked them and talked about it afterwards.

When Ethan was getting a pep talk from Parvati when she showed up on the Edge of Extinction after he said he was feeling hopeless and overwhelmed. He was comparing the Edge of Extinction to having cancer and saying he was worried about the effect it would have on his body and she asked him to do some yoga with her and gently pushed him towards focusing on more positive thoughts. When she told him he had been through much harder things than this. Then she mentioned that he didn’t need to go to those thoughts of his cancer reemerging because “this place is already dark enough.” Ethan explains to the camera people that he’s comfortable talking to Parvati and she makes him strong. I cried a lot at this one.

When everyone cried privately after the firewood challenge on the Edge of Extinction. Natalie in the water. Amber on the wood bed.

When Tyson talks about Natalie’s generosity in buying him an immunity idol with her extra fire tokens in case he gets back into the main competition.

When Natalie won her way back into the game. 

When everyone on the Edge of Extinction saw their families show up on the island. The time they each spent with their families. Natalie playing with her niece and sister. Parvati playing with her baby in the water.

When everyone on the main island saw their families for the first time and didn’t have to compete in a challenge but they got to take them all back to their camp to chill and relax all day. When Tyson saw his daughter and wife. When Jeremy’s family came out and hugged him and everyone cried.

After playing scenes from the next episode, they show Jeff saying goodbye to the jury and sending them back to the Edge of Extinction only for Boston Rob to say: “ … hey Probst. Thank you.” Everyone runs up to him to hug him and express their gratitude for letting them see their families despite being on the Edge of Extinction. They yell, “Thank you for the gift!” and “It meant so much to us!” and it’s truly the most emotional moment. Jeff Probst, overwhelmed by their show of love and gratitude for him, smiles widely. He insists “That was a ‘thank you’ to you guys.”

Irish Exit 2020

Our third day was our longest and most ambitious. We had booked ferry tickets to go to Inishmore, the largest of the three Aran islands. We debated on the other two but they’re all small, and we were told Inishmore had more to see and do. The lady from the shop put it into clear perspective for us. It felt as though we were leaving our hotel right as the sun was rising. The view on the way from Galway to Rossaveal was beautiful. Luckily, we stopped at a Spar and asked the man there for directions to the parking lot of the ferry place because we were about a five minute drive from the right pick up spot. Spars saving us became a common theme throughout our time in Ireland. We drove the remaining five minutes and paid for our tickets from the lady at the front desk. We saw a hot French man and spoke to him briefly before getting on the ferry. The ride was quiet and we enjoyed catching up and talking more about our favourite parts of Ireland. Eve showed me her texts with a guy she was dating at home and they were so cute and sweet to each other. I love to creep.

When we got to the island, we found the bike rental spot. Despite having no cash on us (cause we’re dumb), the man let us give him an IOU because we looked like trustworthy people, I guess. Also, we were on an island and couldn’t go anywhere else. Also, we would have to come by the bike rental spot on the way back to the ferry and it would be awkward if we didn’t return the bikes and give him the money we owed. We vowed to get some at the Spar on the island. Spars are everywhere and I liked that you could buy alcohol and junk food from them and walk it all home and have a party. The convenience. We waited around for our day to get started because we wanted to go to this one cute little restaurant on the opposite end of the island (west maybe?) and buy some sheep’s wool sweaters. We got cash from the ATM and left on our bikes.

We travelled along the one road ahead of us and stopped whenever we saw something we liked. There was a little beach where the waves were coming in strong. There was an abandoned church. There were all these little houses that looked lived in but the island itself was devoid of people who weren’t tourists or shop keepers. It appeared exactly how you expected a remote Irish village on an island to be like and I felt myself holding my breath often to not be distracted by my thoughts or energy that day.

As we continued biking, I kept holding Eve back. She would speed ahead off in front of me and do that thing where you stop until I caught up to her then take off again. I wished there was a way to better communicate that I was content staying back and taking pics by myself but she was too far ahead and the signal couldn’t connect on our phones. Also, it would be weird for me to text her when I could catch up and tell her in person. We found the cute restaurant. It looked bright and open and there was this giant stone fireplace heating the place up. The air inside was fresh. Eve ordered a salad and I got lasagna. We both noticed this rich chocolate Guinness cake that looked amazing so we asked for a piece, only for the first few bites to taste bad. But it grew on us.

We left the restaurant house then Eve spent four hours trying to decide on a colour and knit for her sweater at a nearby shop. They were all beautiful. She landed on one and we kept biking. This part of the day felt rushed because we had to get back before the ferry and still had to pay for our bikes and didn’t want show up late. We compensated by absolutely booking it the fuck back as quickly as we could, which stressed me out. We didn’t have much time to enjoy the scenery and I kept insisting we take the more straightforward way. We don’t know if we made the right call but we still got there with, like, a half hour to spare so we dropped our bikes off (and paid for them, relax) and waited by the pier for them to let us back on the ferry. It started to rain more forcefully at this point. 

Once on the ferry, they couldn’t back out of the pier and had to turn the boat around in the opposite direction. It took us an extra half hour of waiting and my phone died but Eve let me watch the double rainbow guy video on Youtube on hers. We were pissed we’d have to book it home because we had reservations at Loam, the Michelin-starred restaurant I forced Eve into going to. I had already pushed the booking back by an hour because of our trip to Inishmore, so felt wrong requesting to move it further. We got to Rossaveal and paid for our parking, at which point it started to torrential downpour on us. Everyone was trying to leave at the same moment and we strapped ourselves in for a long drive back to Galway so we could eat at this restaurant we were both not feeling fancy enough for. With limited time to get ready. Luckily, the rain subsided pretty quickly and I tried to find pump up music on my phone to play on the drive back but it was mostly Modest Mouse and Bright Eyes. I need to remind myself to never let it play on straight shuffle when in the company of other people.

We made it back with a perfect amount of time to shower off our bike riding sweat, throw on some nice clothes, apply the lightest sprinkling of makeup, and head out the front door. Eve kept insisting we take the stairs, which drove me insane, but ultimately contributed to our step count so I got over it. We walked to Loam in the dark and rain and made it basically at 7:00 p.m. It impressed me. Some nice men took our coats and led us to our table in the middle of this enormous room. It looked like the lobby of an office building, with a big glass fire and decorative art everywhere. Sculptures. The vibe of the place was esoteric. We weren’t supposed to understand. Eve was reluctant to buy into the fanciness of it all but quickly realized her mistake when the server brought us these three amuse-bouches. We maintain that these were the best parts of the whole meal which could mean disappointment for us. Strange to start off with such a culinary prize, but I think we’re improving at noticing good food when we taste it.

We ordered a glass of wine each and proceeded to eat the rest of our meals in peace. The spot was so quiet we felt weird taking pictures and laughing loudly at everything we were saying but it livened up by the time we got our desserts. There was this one miso caramel dessert I almost couldn’t finish and felt obligated for decorum’s sake and also because we were spending a fortune on it. Either way, Michelin-starred restaurants’ food can disappoint. I said it. I’m honouring them with this privilege because not everything everyone makes has to be of quality. Take this Ireland trip summary, for example. 

This time was another night when we tried to go out but failed because I was too tired/thought I would shit my pants. I made it back to the apartment and waited for Eve to get back so we could drink some wine and watch Netflix before crashing hard like every other night of this trip.

The next morning, a Friday, we had to be up early to check out of our apartment in Galway and into a small bed and breakfast in Doolin. We were tired and didn’t eat breakfast because we figured we could consolidate meals on the road. I didn’t Google any restaurants before we got in the rental car, so we had to keep coming up with ideas for places to stop in on the drive. It appeared as though most of these places were only open for dinner and after a few false starts we finally called this restaurant in Lisdoonvarna and the man who answered the phone seemed startled by my area code and non-Irish accent. He said they were open and serving lunch so we promptly found the Roadside Tavern on our maps and drove straight to him. A nice lady greeted us and sat us while we looked at the menu. While we were deciding what to eat (leek and potato soup and coffee), the man from the phone stumbled out of what seemed like a closet but was more likely a door to stairs that led to an office on the floor above. Our presence scared him as we confirmed that I was the person who called earlier to ask if they were open. We discussed his pub and our trip so far but there seemed to be a bit of an accent barrier. More than once Eve, who is Australian, had to translate what I was saying to Irish people. Confusing. 

Before the Roadside Tavern, we went to the Cliffs of Moher. They were beautiful and much like Inishmore, exactly how you imagine them to be from the pictures you see of them online. I worried about the young people who were standing on the edge and not adhering to the signs’ requesting you refrain from jumping over the ropes but here we are. Was I going to spend my afternoon freaking out about this disregard for the rules? Probably, yes.

After this we continued on our drive to Doolin where we could drop our bags off at our Airbnb, take another shower (I only felt the pressure to do this because of Eve’s regular showering; otherwise I would have saved myself a ton of time) then have a nice dinner in town. We didn’t mismanage our schedule but we also didn’t account for the sun setting that night. It already felt dark in the part of the country where we were, which was helped by the overcast sky and impending rain.

I did some work and googled “good pubs Doolin.” Luckily, there are like three and we ended up picking one within walking distance. Which meant basically anything within 45 minutes so we opted for one that was half an hour away. We didn’t think we’d get into town when the sun was setting and when most of the other shops were closing, so we wouldn’t get to experience walking around and getting a coffee to keep us up for another few hours. We arrived at six and the bartender said they had live music at every pub in Doolin that night but that theirs would start around nine. The pub was delightful. A thing I noticed about bars in Ireland is the people hanging out around in groups whose ages vary. There was no uniformity in age groups at most of the tables we saw, unless it was a couple. Young men and women in together with an older couple or something. It made me wonder why I didn’t go out to pubs with my parents and then I remembered all the times I’ve come home to my parents’ house in the middle of the night to throw up and sleep only to have them wake up and look disappointed at me and decided it was better this way. Leave this custom to Irish people to do.

We stayed until nine, at which point a younger man held his banjo with his grandfather (or friend) playing the guitar. They were good. Eve and I were glad we stayed and left at the perfect moment because a group needed a seat and we were occupying a nice corner spot. Before departing, we had a hard time determining the best cab company to take back to the b&b but this had more to do with the fact that cab companies don’t exist there. When we asked the bartender, he mentioned we could consult a list on the wall in the front doorway (complete with the five most Irish-sounding names I’ve ever heard, which included the owner of the pub we were in) but followed this up with saying we were better off walking because no one answered their phones and if they did, it would take an hour for them to get to us. 

We set out to jaunt home in the darkness of the night back to the Airbnb. We were both wearing our big raincoats and comfortable shoes and were protected from the cold. At one point, we were almost running. I also, as it usually happened at night, felt that I would shit my pants which wasn’t helped by the fear I was feeling getting back to our random house in the dark. We tried to distract ourselves by chatting, but I was out of breath and we both focused on getting home without getting hit by a car and thrown into a ditch. The road was a straight shot back, but it was bumpy and unpredictable the closer we got to our spot. We finally saw the sign outside the front gate and quietly made our way to our room. Eve, very sweetly, let me use the bathroom first and we both showered and did face masks. We proceeded to have the worst sleep of the whole trip because I was hot and couldn’t find a comfortable spot so kept moving. Maybe it was the leftover adrenaline from the walk/run home. This movement kept Eve awake so she slept on the floor. She’s a saint and a true friend because she never got upset or annoyed with me. A real A+ pal.

In the morning, we had to wake up before the sunrise because we had to be in Dublin to drop off our car before 10:30 and it would take us three and a half hours to get there from Doolin. This idea turned out better in practice because it meant we saw the coast again on the way North and a few spots we had missed on our way down from Galway. Driving in the dark along these single-lane roads through fields was so funny and weird. Being there with Eve to share the experience made it better. I talked about how great I thought it was and she echoed my enthusiasm, even though we both hadn’t slept much and it was still 8 a.m. We drove up into the mountains and around these areas with remains of castles. Our drive was specifically bringing us to all these visually stimulating places without us trying. Is it that or does Ireland have a high capita of interesting, beautiful spots to look at and you can’t help but hit them all whenever you travel over long distances there?

Seeing the sunrise while driving through the fields was especially great for me. We stopped to get snacks and had a stressful remainder of the drive to Dublin, though it was pretty simple once on the highway. Where we messed up (and by we, I mean I) was on the roundabouts. We made it to the car rental place with, again, barely a minute to spare and took a bus into Dublin where we walked around twenty minutes to our hotel, trailed by our big ass bags. It was lovely and the man at the front desk made me feel instantly at home by letting us 1. Check in early and 2. Get separate beds to make up for the shit sleep we both got the night before. I thought if I could guarantee this for Eve, it might somehow pay her back for my being so annoying to sleep next to, she had to physically remove herself from the bed. 

We power napped for an hour once we had situated all our bags in our room and put the TV on and decided what to do for the rest of the day. We went to Two Pups for brunch and we walked to Saint Patrick’s cathedral where I awed over everything. It’s huge. I loved looking inside and outside the churches we visited. They were beautiful and huge no matter where we went and most of the time you don’t have to pay to enter. You did for St. Patrick’s Cathedral, though. But I maintain that it was worth it. Eve drew me a picture of Dorcas and we went on a little walk to explore the rest of Dublin. This was our time to loiter outside museums and see if we could watch a virtual tour on our phones, instead, to save ourselves the €8 price of admission. Eve wanted to shop and eat and I liked walking around and looking at the buildings so we were happy to keep on going outside until we found stores and restaurants that seemed good to us. We walked by the Dublin Castle and I, again, forced Eve to go to the Trinity College Library which was stunning and huge but also packed full of people. It was interesting to see although, it would be cool to visit at a less busy time. Tourists can be so goofy, right?

We walked around more and finally went back to the hotel to get ready for dinner. We ate this greasy vegan dinner and then decided to go out for drinks. It wasn’t great but we shared some wine and I was buzzed. Maybe for the first time of the trip but it wasn’t the energized buzz you feel after you have three beers and commit to staying out until at least 2 a.m. We tried. We did. But as usual, Eve had it in her and I could crash at any moment. I also picked a fight with her because she said she didn’t like the Phantom of the Opera or any musical period and I couldn’t understand why. It wasn’t a good time. We made it back with plenty of time to spare to get a solid 8–9 hour sleep. It was nice to do my bedtime routine with Eve there picking something we’d both like to watch on TV and making us tea. This was a favourite part of the whole trip, when Eve made me tea or coffee every morning and knowing what I liked. I hope I repaid her by finding good restaurants and coffee places to go to.

The next day was our first and last full one in Dublin so we wanted to do the most. We didn’t overextend and didn’t make concrete plans but knew we needed to eat at the Landmark for dinner because it looked cool, was close to our hotel and we couldn’t get in the night before because it was too busy. Exclusivity was our downfall. It was sunny and gorgeous again in Dublin and we walked to Brother Hubbard for brunch. The neighbourhood vaguely reminded me of home but mostly in the way you look for any resemblance to a place that you’re familiar with when you’re on vacation, to anchor you or something. I don’t know why I do this but this particular neighbourhood looked like the nicest, richest neighbourhood on its best day where I live. And this was one small part of Dublin. I took a picture of a realtor’s sign for an apartment because I started contemplating living there like, for real for real. 

Everything at Brother Hubbard tasted delicious and we left in good spirits and energized from our brunch instead of lazy like I usually feel after a big meal. We walked through a park I didn’t recognize called Iveagh Gardens. It was like St. Stephen’s Green’s but cooler. At one point, we saw these huge chandeliers hanging from a tree in someone’s garden and we kept walking until we got to the back of the literature museum. We opted out of paying the entrance fee and just kept to the gift shop and St. Stephen’s Green. It was gorgeous out. 

After this, we walked to the Natural History Museum which we went into (because it was free) and we saw many taxidermied animals. It was cool but my favourite part was overhearing the little Irish kids marvelling at what they were seeing. There was this one family with two young girls and one of them kept saying, “LOOK!” to every animal she saw. We went upstairs and washed our hands and as we left, it began raining again. It was gross enough out that we started looking for a Spar we could get snacks from. I wanted to send some postcards home but it required finding not only international stamps but also a post box to send them in and I got bored seeking these out. So I bought some wine that I love which isn’t widely available at home and a corkscrew so we could drink it at our hotel before dinner that night. I walked around with this bottle in my jacket pocket and Eve went to a department store to browse sunglasses which she bought and loved. They looked sweet on her. 

At this point, the weather started picking up and we decided to stop at a cafe we had been considering for brunch but which lost to Brother Hubbard.

We walked back and further contemplated buying a little Irish apartment of my dreams with my dream money at home. We ended the night getting a Guinness and more fries at the Landmark and deciding to skip the live music playing on our way out. We were exhausted and we had had this experience already. We walked the rest of the way back to the hotel and crashed hard. We felt under-slept and scandalized that we had our flights home the next day.

Truffle Pigs: Field, BC

Deep in the mountains of Field, BC is the cutest restaurant I’ve ever seen. It’s part of a lodge and it’s called Truffle Pigs. There, I ate the most delicious mussels I’ve had with what was basically a half baguette of homemade bread (also great). It’s one of the best things I’ve eaten.

When I lived out west, I unintentionally ate at some of the loveliest restaurants I had ever been to before, consuming the most delicious food I’d eaten. I hadn’t been exposed to much being 21 and being unadventurous when it came to trying new things. I used to order steak pretty exclusively and some form of potatoes as a side and maybe a salad thrown in for health reasons. I reasoned with myself and whoever I was eating with at the time (usually my boyfriend who would implore me to try something else) that I needed the red meat because I was getting my period and felt low in iron. 

I was introduced to Truffle Pigs by a chef I was working with at a hotel restaurant in Lake Louise. Being tired after a long breakfast shift picking up dishes after busloads of tourists, I walked into the managers’ shared office to fill in my hours and sign out when he asked if I wanted to get lunch with him that week after one of my shifts. We planned for him to pick a place for us to go to later in the week because I didn’t have a car and was unfamiliar with any of the Rockies that weren’t Lake Louise and even then, I didn’t know shit. Working out west was great because you never made plans anytime after your morning shifts besides smoking weed and going for hikes. Occasionally we’d drive into Banff to go to McDonald’s and shop at the Roots there because it was the only clothing store until Calgary that had weather resistant loungewear. 

He picked me up after work and we drove for a half hour to a spot I hadn’t visited before. I had only been to the border between Alberta and BC once and it was along a set of train tracks and this was a different place. We ventured into Field, BC in Yoho National Park where we saw Takakkaw Falls before walking back to the car. They were nice and projected a rainbow where they met the river. 

We drove to what looked like a bright yellow lodge with a parking lot out front. The person who greeted us brought us to our seats right away. The restaurant was huge and filled with locals. It had high ceilings that sloped (you know, in the way lodges do) and it was painted in bright colours like its outsides. It had tons of cute decorations on the walls including pictures and newspaper cutouts of their reviews. The food was so good. The chef I was with ordered us an appetizer (foie gras and baguette, terrible) and I got the special of the day (lamb if I’m remembering correctly, which is also morally bad) and we considered ordering the mussels but we didn’t because it was warm outside and not the weather for it yet. I think I ordered a glass of white wine too. 

The summer started and we were getting excited about the prospective new activities we could do at the lake. Canoeing, running, hiking and swimming. We rock paper scissored for who would pay for lunch and he drove me home. On the way, we stopped at the grocery store and I texted my boyfriend that I had to take him back on our next day off. 

When we were both free, we checked that Truffle Pigs was open for lunch and he drove us there with me using directions from his phone. We ran through the exact same day I had with the chef including the Takakkaw Falls first and parking ourselves at Truffle Pigs for a couple of hours. He also took the lead on ordering and insisted on getting the mussels as previously mentioned, were perfect. We joked about ordering multiple courses for each of us so we could try everything and proceeded to order multiple courses. I have such fond memories of Truffle Pigs and the people who worked there that we grew to know better with each trip. Every time we went back, we ordered the mussels and whatever else we were feeling that day and they became a part of our experience out west together. 

Every time we left, it was as if we were saying goodbye to a loved one that you knew you wouldn’t see for a while. We would go back every couple of weeks. We drove out of the parking lot one night and were stopped at a train crossing for a few minutes. He turned the music up on his phone and we opened our takeout containers that we couldn’t finish because we were too full and picked at what was left of them. 

Years later, a friend I know from high school had posted a picture of himself and a group of his close friends at Truffle Pigs when he was in BC for one of their weddings. I dmed him right away asking for context and how they had found this remote little restaurant I had described to so many people fruitlessly. I never felt able to properly convey just how cute it was, how nice the staff who worked there were or how good the food was. Finally, I had someone I knew from my life at home to compare notes with. He responded right away: Truffle Pigs!!!!!

Ireland 2020

Earlier this year, after thinking about travelling to Europe and visiting my friend Eve, who lives in Cambridge, we met in Dublin for our first trip together. Eve looks like a model and has the most beautiful red hair I’ve ever seen. She’s funny and we could talk for days. Our love story started at a summer camp we both worked at one year when I was hired in mid July (after getting fired from my job at a tennis club). She was the “weaving” expert (I think she taught the kids how to make bracelets) and I was the receptionist (sorting mail and answering approximately one phone call a day from the boy’s camp across the lake). We became quick friends and bonded over our schedules and making fun of each other. 

At the end of the summer, when I heard of her and another friend’s plan to stay in my city for a couple of weeks at a shitty hostel, I invited them to stay with me instead. My parents weren’t around for the majority of the summer and were renting a place close to downtown with an extra room. They were on board so we all travelled back to the city together and planted ourselves at my parents’ house to finish off the last couple weeks of the season. It was largely uneventful until one night, my sister came home to us watching a movie in bed and eating all the Oreos from the package, as you do. She started crying and accusing us of being selfish assholes, after only having met my two friends a few times in passing. I still think of this memory and laugh. Eve was terrified.

We stayed in touch for a long time and grew to be closer friends when she did a semester of school here. Since moving, we’ve kept in contact largely through mailing each other cards and messaging on WhatsApp. When she relocated to Cambridge on a year-long trip for a job, she insisted this would be the ideal time to travel with her in Europe. I resisted at first but eventually booked my vacation and tickets. We had narrowed our choices down to Scotland, Italy, and Ireland as she had seen enough of England and had already been to Portugal, Poland, Spain, France, etc. She’s well travelled and just gets up and goes places. I often marvelled to her about how crazy it was that as adults, the world allowed us to travel. The idea of walking through an airport alone scares me and the fact that anyone would trust me to keep important ID and my carry-on felt so strangely grown up and unlike who I was as a person (fundamentally immature and at odds with international travel). I only found out recently you can bring nail clippers and razors on planes. This whole time on trips requiring I take a plane, I’ve been refraining from shaving. 

When I arrived at the airport, I went through customs alone (because I was travelling alone) and made it out into the general waiting area. I found the car rental desks and sat down on a bench only to have a loud Irish lady position herself next to me while taking a phone call. It sounded dramatic. I brought out my computer and waited for Eve by watching an episode of Stranger Things. She texted when she had landed so I went to the arrival waiting area for her to come through. It had been probably six or seven years since we last saw each other and it was so good to see her again. It wasn’t exactly as if no time had passed because we had both gotten older and better (hopefully).

We got our bearings and picked up our car rental which only Eve could drive. Also, it was a stick. I tried to get into the driver’s side first because of my not being accustomed to driving on that side of the road. I made this mistake a few times. Eve’s driving skills impressed me the whole trip.

I was responsible for navigating out of the airport and onto the highway’s straight route we would be taking to our little hotel in Galway. It couldn’t have been simpler but I somehow managed to bungle the directions and set us up in what seemed like hundreds of roundabouts. So many countries have been burdened with roundabouts and I can’t get over it. The exits all look identical and to be able to notice the signage while also driving feels too difficult for me. Like you’d be slowing down while everyone who knows where they’re going passes you on the other side of the road.

Eve handled driving and my navigation skills like a pro. We made a quick stop to this little fry up spot in a small town. It was nice to sit down and catch up on what seemed like years when we didn’t see each other face to face. She admitted she was nervous about how we would get along. I said she was nuts to worry. Maybe we were on our best behaviour because we hadn’t seen each other properly in ages or maybe we were just happy to be on vacay. But it felt easy to chat with and overcome all of travel’s little hiccups with her. She’s a true partner. 

It’s crazy how driving can take so much energy out of you when you aren’t the person doing the driving. I imagine I was also jetlagged and Eve didn’t have the same problem. She did, however, have to deal with my talking and choosing what music we listened to in the car which I bet is like having jet lag every day. 

When we got to our hotel, we managed to successfully find the hard to pinpoint parking garage underneath a mall and walked with our luggage to the front desk. The lady there gave us the option to upgrade to a two-bedroom apartment across the street instead of the one-bedroom room we would have had if we stayed put in this old, creaky house. We were a bit confused but decided to go with the bigger option, only briefly wondering to ourselves if it was all a scam to get us away from the cooler one bedroom experience. It wasn’t and we walked across the street to the apartment building, following a woman who had taken the same deal we had. We had previously seen this woman outside but she had come back to the original building to ask for clarifications on the instructions given by the front desk person to “cross the street.” The lady was also given a map to point out the location of the apartment building we were looking for. The front desk people decided it would be best to send her ahead with a member of their staff who knew where to go so we followed along happily. Once in the building, Eve and I took the stairs which were brutal given the large luggage we both were carrying. Once on our floor, we met the lady from before who had turned around from the only door that could have conceivably led to our respective apartments saying, that our rooms “weren’t there” and “we were likely on the wrong floor” like she was. As I was pretty sure we were on the right floor and 100% sure this woman was an idiot, Eve and I decided to gamble on the door the lady had insisted led to nowhere, the only door available to us, and walk through. When looking ahead, you could see a sign indicating the exact way to get to our apartment doors. The lady from before bustled in behind us saying she didn’t notice the sign and thought she was in the wrong place because there was a cleaning cart in the way. We separated from her and made our way to our apartment for the next three days.

The space was lovely and huge and we each had our own bedrooms and bathrooms so we could shower at the same time. There was a giant kitchen and living room with floor to ceiling windows where we would sit in, in the mornings after Eve had made us tea and coffee. The space felt way too big for both of us and we expressed gratitude to have it as a place of rest after packed days of walking. 

Galway was beautiful and cold. We were there in the midst of winter and the wind from the ocean and piers made it feel cozier when getting into the car to drive somewhere or walking into a place for brunch. Every restaurant in Ireland had cold, unheated bathrooms. This confused me. Do they not want you to linger too long in bathrooms? Why not? We ate so well in Galway. We couldn’t pick a bad restaurant. It felt both like a bit of a tourist destination and full of students and locals. 

The rest of the first day flew by, because I was on my time so we picked a spot to eat that was recommended by an Irish colleague and walked there before it got too dark. We had pasta and ate out of these edible, compostable bowls. We left and went to a pub for a pint of local beer. It was both mine and Eve’s dream to have a pint of Guinness in Ireland and she believed it was more crucial to have it in Dublin where it was made. Instead, the first night we had this reddish beer from Galway that we liked. We drank at a pub and felt familiar enough in the streets to walk home with little directions from our Google Maps. I still stayed glued to my phone in case we took a wrong turn but as I said, the streets were easy to navigate.

The next day, our plan was to remain close because we had bigger plans the rest of our time there and we didn’t want to blow our load too quickly. Also there was a lot to look at and explore and it was again one of those cold but sunny days that make it nice to walk around in. We had brunch at Ard Bia and spent a solid five minutes debating whether or not we should buy their cookbook and totes and cute stationary. We decided against it because we travel light and didn’t want to be carrying around all that shit all day anyway. I knew I’d want to have a break but not right after brunch, you know?

We walked around to a couple of places and went into this woman’s store who was so lovely and a great first person to meet on our trip (besides the lady from the apartment but she wasn’t Irish, I don’t think). Her store is called My Shop…. Granny Likes It: https://www.myshopgranny.com/. She had this cool dog whose vibe I couldn’t put my finger on. At some points the dog wanted to be pet and at others, the dog would growl a bit at us so I decided to wait for it to approach before giving it too much attention. She was great. The wares in the store were sweet and I bought some Irish cards. The lady took out some paper and asked us if we wanted advice on where to eat and shop. She wrote us a bullet list for our reference and helped us locate each of the spots on our Galway maps. Irish hospitality at its best, if that’s a thing. I remember her often and fondly. She even asked us if we wanted to go to her trivia night which I’m now regretting having missed. What were we doing this night?

We continued on our journey and bought some expensive chocolate from this bougie chocolate place and looked at this enormous bookstore that felt as if it had a million rooms but it was more like 3–4. I didn’t buy any, though. Self-restraint.

We eventually walked on the Salt Hill coast route which felt as if it took ages but it was beautiful and took us a bit out of the city part. It brought us closer to the part I called “over the river” Galway or like the part of Paris where Notre Dame is where you have to go over a bridge to get to it. In my head, there was a line of demarcation and it was defined in real life by the water and bridges. At Kai, we had some tea and some fancy cake Eve ordered and decided where we wanted to go next. I was tired so I probably suggested we go home for a power nap which I did. Eve worked out, I believe, because she’s disciplined and needed to burn the extra energy off. I slept soundly during every nap and mostly woke up feeling great. We had some conversation about dinner and both landed on Tartare (https://tartaregalway.ie/) where we ate a vegetarian dinner and shared a bottle of wine. Eve inspired me to eat more vegetables and less meat on this trip and I was in a better mood and had more energy, despite my jet lag, to thank her for it. We had potatoes and a cheese board.

Eve was more intent on going out to drink but I can stomach about ¼ of the alcohol that she can and would slow down at night after all the walking. I tried to keep up, I did but I would feel my eyes getting heavier and would be blinking to stay awake. We went to this cool-looking pub I imagine would get considerably busier as the night went on but I didn’t have it in me. We ordered more red beer and went off to get fries and onion rings at a chips place before bed. Bed was so sweet that night. We crashed hard.

Working Out

An unanticipated stress of my life has been keeping tabs on (and ensuring I don’t miss) all the workout classes I’ve signed up for and paid for that have expiration dates. It sounds ridiculous (because it is) but it has caused me so much unneeded and unwarranted anxiety to know either I, or one of my well-intentioned family members have purchased a series of workout classes for me in good faith and that I will use them to better my life, only for them to go unredeemed. 

The one that sticks out in my head the most is when my mom bought me yoga classes from Groupon which weren’t close to my office or my apartment and which required you to register for a subscription with the gym they were held at to redeem them. I tried to sign up online but after reading the fine print on the Groupon email, I realized I’d have to go to the gym and sign up with someone there instead. Because I’m bad at planning, I showed up right after work knowing the next yoga class wasn’t for another two hours so I had to go inside and fill out a personal intake form, tour the gym I would only be able to access for the two months that I had to take five yoga classes in and leave after I had signed the papers. After leaving the gym, I lamented over the fact I likely wouldn’t get my act together enough to return to this area that wasn’t accessible via public transit. And I didn’t. I forgot to mention it to my mom and we never spoke about it again. I guess I could have just used the gym in this time but that is neither here nor there.

I’m obsessed with intro offers to boutique gyms, spin, and pilates studios. I believe I have tried most free intro classes that exist in my city. Unfortunately, some intro offers allow unlimited classes for 2–4 weeks requiring the discipline to, again, get your act together enough to attend for the $50 to be worth it. Often, for these intro offers, I will go twice, maybe three times, and feel I’ve accomplished enough to satisfy the weird, workout obsessed version of myself. But at least these offers expire after a short enough period of time, ending my guilt swiftly. 

What does me in are the longer terms we’re allotted to buy and use your workout classes starting either from the date of purchase or the date of the first class you attend. To extend this waiting period, I will occasionally, delay my first class which alleviates my guilt until the clocks start running again. I’m fundamentally against the idea that you can pay for something once and have it expire and no longer hold any value. The provincial government made it illegal to have gift cards expire because so many had gone unclaimed and they realized it was all a big scam. 

Charging people huge sums of money to work out at your fancy gym should not have an expiration date. It’s hard enough as it is to leave your house or workplace to flail yourself around a room in front of strangers, that the prospect of potentially losing money in your quest to do this feels especially cruel. I’m trying. I have no self-discipline when it comes to eating food that is good for me so I need to do something else to maintain a reasonably healthy body. Also, I’m not convinced spending money should be your primary motivation for working out. This is limiting. To spend so much money on a gym membership you feel guilted into attending its classes is sad to me and defeats the purpose. Working out can be fun like once every three months.

I have woken up so many times in the middle of the night, wondering if I had any remaining classes leftover on the three studios I have attended this past year (pilates, spin class, and boxing). I have an online account for each of these studios I can easily log into to check what remaining credits I have. These credits expire after either three or six months. These studios offer discounted prices the more classes you buy at once. However, the expiration date doesn’t change for any number of classes you get so you either have to cram them all in one month when you realize you’ve missed your weekly class or be an organized, thoughtful person who remembers to book a weekly class. 

Another flaw in this system is a lot of the classes fill up ahead of time and you’re forced out of the desired time slot or instructor or Rihanna themed bike ride you had planned to attend weeks ago. Sometimes, you only have one shot at the beginning of the week to book your class and it’s annoying to have to always be online to get this chance. A pilates studio I liked shut down one of their locations so it became almost impossible to book a 6 p.m. weekday class unless you logged onto their website at 5 a.m. the week prior when the classes were posted for sign ups. I ended up going to this one meditation class repeatedly because it was right after work and every other class had a waitlist. Which is another bullshit system. You sign up for the waitlist and only know if you get the spot the day before and you only get a couple of hours to cancel your spot and if you don’t, you lose it and are charged? A conspiracy. I still enjoyed this meditation but it was glorified napping with the instructor occasionally putting a crystal on your forehead or chest or stomach. Which felt amazing. 

A way I attempted to cheat the system was to invite friends and my dad to classes and have this trick use up an additional credit in my limited time frame. This worked most of the time until most of the places I went to implemented a policy where purchased classes couldn’t be transferred to other people. This seemed mean. The money was still spent. The class was still attended. This felt like a way for the studios to squeeze more money out of my friends instead of only me. When I tried to make up an elaborate story about how my dad needed to take pilates classes for his back and he couldn’t do them alone but didn’t want to invest any money so it would be great if I could just dip into my account’s classes for him to attend a class with me, the studio person responded to my email by inquiring about my dad’s physical capabilities and suggesting I purchase him one on one classes with a pilates instructor to teach him the basics for $400 an hour. I could, of course, attend with him if I wanted to so he didn’t feel weird or alone. That……wasn’t what I wanted, no. Thanks. Consequently, I had to make up an elaborate story about how he was going out of town so maybe I would reach back out in the new year. Either way, I still had four classes to use in four weeks and I was running out of spare time. 

After making a friend impersonate me for a few of them, I decided to attend the classes myself. At one point I got up early enough to notice an abs and butt class that was almost always waitlisted and I logged into my account thinking I would finally be able to redeem my last class and never have to worry about buying more group classes again. I would only buy single classes and pay a stupidly high premium for it from now on. This would be my cross to bear. When I logged into my account to book, a notification popped up: You are out of credits. Please purchase more to attend this class. I was free. The relief I felt overwhelmed me. I went back to sleep. 

Lions vs. Polar Bears

When I was in the fourth grade, my working mom agreed to be a chaperone on our class trip to the zoo. This was a huge win for me because she never came to class trips because of her 9-5 job being peoples’ boss. I forget if I pressured her or if she felt self-induced guilt by not being included in my school life but it was crazy and exciting and I convinced her to bring me and my sister candy shopping at Shoppers the night before so I would have snacks on the bus. This wasn’t a school trip tradition but we made it seem as if we needed candy for the bus ride. Either it worked or my mom was just humouring us. Likely humouring us.

She told me she wouldn’t take the bus with the rest of the kids, teachers and other chaperones, but that she would drive there in her car and meet the class. I asked her how she would find us in the literal zoo area of the zoo and she said she would figure it out. This was very “my mom” of her. And it was very “me” of me to not question her because I’ve only known her to be an aggressively confident, competent person. She used to tell me she liked dressing up as a witch every year for Halloween because she liked what it felt like to not be beautiful for a day. She is my idol.

When our group got to the zoo, we moved in one solid pack and decided to visit the lions first because they were closer to the entrance. I didn’t want to stray too far from the lions fearing my mom would look there first. It felt like the obvious choice. The lions were entertaining, although all they were doing was sitting down and looking at us and each other. When I approached my teacher, she said my mom would catch up to wherever we were and she wouldn’t miss us. This felt a bit lofty to me so I proceeded to complain to all my friends about abandoning my mom at the lions. My friends told me not to worry, that she would show up, and we moved on.

Next, we visited the peacocks and the otters and at each stop, I felt my mom getting further away. I was told as a kid by most adults supervising me that in large public places, should you stray from your buddies, you’re meant to stay in one spot for them to find you. At this rate, we were asking for her to never find us. We walked towards the polar bears and I sulked the whole way there. I couldn’t even enjoy how brightly white their fur was or how lazily they swam through their small enclosure.

I was there for a solid minute when I felt my mom’s distinctly small hands over my eyes and because I was frustrated and distraught, I didn’t quite know how to respond when she said, “Guess who?” When I turned around, it felt as if we had been separated by time and space for years. I could have crumpled at her feet and cried I was so happy and relieved. She brought out more candy and gave some to me to share with my friends. When I asked her how she found us, she proclaimed: “I went to the lions first, because, of course, I assumed you’d be at the lions! The obvious choice. When you weren’t there, I got a little worried about being able to find your class but then I decided to just let my feet guide me and they brought me here to you and the polar bears. I could feel where you were in my bones.” I asked if it was that easy and she responded, “Yes, I always knew where you were. I just had to connect to you to find out. And the answer was right in front of me.”

How to Balance Having a Job

This year, alongside being alive, I have also had to feed, clothe and house myself. In order to do this, I’ve gotten a job. While employment provides me with something to do during my waking hours and basic healthcare benefits I need, it also sucks out any potential to work towards anything else in my life. Any hobbies I’ve had or wanted to try, have gone out the window. I’m annoyed by having to work out in my spare time and doing anything artistic feels so outlandish it’s almost funny. What spare time, honey?

So you, also, have succumbed to capitalism’s firm grip on society and need to work 40 waking hours a week to feed, clothe and house yourself? It’s okay. You don’t need to panic because you will be fine. You just need to learn how to balance it all. You know, working, and having a job and surviving and buying objects to help with working and living that will effectively let you buy more objects to go with the ones you recently bought. Again, you don’t have to worry. With my guidance, you can learn to balance having a job and having a job. It’s not easy or worth it but it’s definitely required of you. 

Firstly, push your hobbies to the side. Unless they’re hobbies that will help you get promoted at work or allow you to earn money ON the side. A much-needed distraction from work that also pays the bills like work does? Priceless. 

Second, invest in self-care. And healthcare. Your work’s drug plan covers a certain amount of your premiums so you’re good to go there, but make sure you’re seeking therapy and alternative forms of healthcare to deal with all the colds you’ve been catching by showing up to work via public transit daily. 

Third, invest in a brand new wardrobe for work. You can try to make it interchangeable with your personal wardrobe and style but it has to be more expensive and more time consuming to clean. Like having to pick up and drop off blazers to the dry cleaners on weekends will make you grateful you aren’t at work but will ensure you are still able to spend your hard-earned work money on cleaning your work uniform. Everybody wins. 

You can go on vacation but be sure to check in with work regularly so you know everyone isn’t fucking shit up while you’re away. Don’t be surprised when people are surprised when you’ve responded even though your out of office message has been on since Friday at 4:59 p.m. 

Take up an expensive workout hobby like spin class to spend more of your money. Laugh at how naive you were to be shocked by the $28 each class costs but try to justify the price with the fact that they provide you with shoes and a towel and free ear plugs. You have to show up and accept the hot instructors yelling at you, trying to be heard through the EDM playlists on their little laptops. 

Only ever talk about work to your friends who you will see maybe on weekends, maybe on Facetime when they call you on weekends. Weeknights are for talking to your parents and responding to more work emails you didn’t get to during the day. If all you do is work, all you ever want to talk about is working, right? Forget your friends have partners and lives and work of their own until the last minute when you ask: “So what’s new with you? How’s work?”

Lessons in Pottery

I had always judged my sister’s pottery when she gifted it to us for Christmas. Weird, small, misshapen plates that you couldn’t fit anything on. The colours were splattered and random, the texture of the glassware looked uneven. I remember once accidentally dropping a mug she had made on the floor when I was reaching for a different mug because hers was small and couldn’t fit enough coffee in it. I looked at my dad. He shrugged and pointed to the other seven mugs of hers that had somehow made their way up there and said, “Honestly, I think it’ll be okay.” We laughed and I cleaned up my mess. I felt nothing towards her pottery except this weird responsibility to preserve it and show it off because it was hers and she had made it with her hands. How did we not understand the gravity of her hard work?

Now, I look at my sister’s pottery with reverence. It’s clean and the colours compliment each other. The mugs are all even and fit a perfect amount of coffee in them. They’re functional and beautiful.

When I signed up for pottery, I wanted something to do weekly and I had missed the deadline to apply for a woodworking class to make your planter. I was disillusioned about pottery before I had started. Starting pottery, as it turned out, did not help.

I immediately resented having to be somewhere for three hours without the ability to check my phone or answer emails. I physically couldn’t because my hands would be full of wet clay. I thought pottery would calm me down, and it did in a way, but I was still mad. I could only think about what I was missing from my life instead of what I was gaining.

I signed up with my roommate who, like me, wanted to try something new and thought pottery would fill our creative voids. Between us, the two lawyers who were on their fifth series of pottery classes, and two teachers who also registered for the first time, we made a pretty one-dimensional crew. The girls were lovely and we often chatted to each other about our lives and our jobs and our feelings on pottery. I loved receiving compliments on centering my clay because it was what I lagged in. We provided positive reinforcement constantly because we were so nervous and bad at doing pottery, it felt celebratory if we did something remotely right. Only the lawyers could effectively apply what the teacher was telling us to do but they were experts at this point so it really was their world and we were just living in it. Above all else, pottery taught me to support and to accept support. Our group wasn’t tight but I remember each woman because they all spent time providing me with advice on how to fix whatever project I was messing up and to encourage me when I was doing a good job.

Pottery also taught me it was okay to be messing up constantly. My roommate occasionally got flustered, mostly because she wasn’t mastering the art as quickly as she had hoped but also if anything went slightly wrong. I didn’t understand because from the beginning I had resigned to my shittiness and leaned into my mistakes. My collapsed cup would become a plate. My collapsed bowl would also become a plate. Basically, anything can just become a plate. This, I like to think, is a metaphor for life’s mistakes too. It was humbling to be fixing your problems by redirecting and making something that was still workable and pretty.

I also learned to approach my projects with patience. The most gruelling and frustrating process in pottery is centering your clay. If you don’t centre your clay, there’s no point in making anything because it will become uneven and wrong and won’t be able to support any weight and the kiln will ruin it. This made me crazy. Centering your clay is not simple and straightforward. It’s not a cursory step you do to begin your routine but a complicated, difficult, often easily messed up part of the entire process requiring your full attention. If you make a mistake, no matter how close you’ve gotten to perfectly centred clay, you have to scrap the whole mound and restart. It can be annoying and stubborn and you can do the same actions each time and end up with a different product. I often overworked my clay in the centering process and made myself nuts by having to throw it into the recycled clay bin. By the end of my first few classes, I would have only made one or two pieces because of the number of times I had to reset my clay. This slowly became normal for me and I felt grateful for the pieces I managed to complete. It was okay to be constantly fucking up and I could still make some passable pottery.

Near the end of the last class, I learned I was mainly good at one thing which everyone was good at because it was easy. I learned to prevent each piece of pottery from sticking to the inside of the kiln, you had to gently remove the paint and glaze that covered the bottom. I did this with such tenderness and affection our teacher, Heidi, complimented my patience. I said it was probably what I was best at in the class and she agreed. While it isn’t difficult, it’s important work and it’s especially crucial to not take it for granted. Pottery had so many rules and waiting that I didn’t understand and didn’t agree with because of my lack of understanding. You mostly had to trust the instructor knew what was up and was steering you in the right direction. Along with not excelling at pottery and making peace with it, I learned to let go. Being able to let go of the idea that I was there to learn a new skill and become a better person immediately reestablished my expectations and changed my perspective of my experience. My pottery turned out fine, and I would too.