McBeautiful

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

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lucid when I was seventeen and working at the McDonald’s restaurant across from Windsor’s largest shopping complex, the outdated and aesthetically repulsive Devonshire Mall.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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*Names have been changed to protect the guilty.

Squeezing into my skinny jeans

My skinny jeans don't fit.

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

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

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

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

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

Tuesday: See above.

Wednesday: See above (ugh!).

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

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

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

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

The way home

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Experiments Lab (no safety goggles required)

My new favorite Twitter account is this guy Arjun Basu (https://twitter.com/arjunbasu). He's an American dude. A writer. And he composes short stories using only 140 characters in the status field. They're enjoyable snipits to read and it's amazing how much he conveys in so small a space. I thought it would be a fun exercise to try, so I stole his idea. It's kind of addictive once you get started. Here are a few I wrote over the weekend. I suppose they're a decent start.

“Stop pulling the crocuses out.” Lara squinted and turned to her mother. “But I’m looking for worms,” she complained. “Go find your father.”

The skyscrapers crouched down to suffocate him. He was sure the sidewalk would swallow him whole. “I have to go,” he said and headed west.

She went to visit her father on Mondays and Saturdays. It wasn’t the same, though, now that he was buried beneath grass and all of that mud.

Sometimes Ed just needed to get drunk. Piss drunk. Fall off the stool, slur your words, “where do I live” drunk. But she’d never understand.

Did I ever tell you about the time I worked for the Devil? Seriously. Her name was German for Beezlebub. Or fascism. A monster either way.