Some mornings you wake up ready to take on the world. Other mornings you begrudgingly hit the snooze a few times, drag your ass out of bed and begin your dull and painstakingly monotonous morning rituals.
This morning, this snowy, mucky chilled and grey morning I found myself in a place of regression to hilarious proportions. At first attempt in pasting together a blog on this I feared telling the full truth of the matter. But THAT my friends, would not be human or setting any kind of example. I’ll always stand firm in my belief that all we have is the truth, our honesty. So here she blows.
Bundled up in my mis-matched version of stained grey 80’s track suit, I slip on my husbands dingy and well worn white tube socks OVER the bottom of my sweats and march down our narrow wooden stairs to release the hounds. This morning started off with a broken promise from my car dealership – irk #1. So after giving up the only sleep in morning this woman takes per week, I make the very responsible decision to walk the dogs in the falling snow to let off some steam and wait for a tow truck.
I have two dogs, one of which is food obsessed and maniacal about it at best. Save for dog fur, there is NO need to sweep, swifter, mop or dust the floors in my house. I wouldn’t recommend you eat off of them, but his sniffer catches even the tiniest speck of food imaginable. Wasted talent.
Our walks usually begin with me reminding myself that the “black one” will pick up something disgusting and eat it on our walk and that will be just fine. I resolve NOT to recussitate if he eats poison or street drugs for THAT will be his punishment for sloth and gluttony. Letting him get swiped by an angry cat through a neighbouring fence the other day was also some perverted lesson in “minding your own”…..which once again he did not learn from.
Anyway, galoshes on, toque, ridiculous white 15 foot woollen scarf gifted to me from an ex-friend (constant reminder that should go in the Sally Ann box STAT) tied around my neck we head out into the muck to clear our collective minds.
Breathing deeply we cross the empty streets, not one tire whirring through the wet slush, just the steady clomp clomp and click click of my boots and their claws on the sidewalk. Peace, wonder, zen, ohm….good idea Sasha, really, this walk is a great idea. I dream ahead to the day of meeting new people at this hula hooping workshop I’m headed to (heckle if you must, I’m preparing for Burning Man people, character study…gah!) and how it will at least be an amazing work out and a people watching experience, networking…tout c’est possible.
Turn the corner past the old bottle returning depot on Victoria Drive, we’re walking and peeing and clicking and tension is being released. My mind wanders, I’m pondering the sock to sweatpants combination I’m currently rocking underneath my wellingtons and I instantly return to the land of the slouch sock. 3 pairs stacked could make for a sweet rainbow ankle effect, or a simple single slouch could accompany any “Get in Shape Girl” outfit magically. I find myself believing it may be a great idea to bring these back, wool knee socks have been a great winter accoutrement after all, what about their lazy cousin the charismatic slouch?
I’m pulled from the middle of my 80’s day dream to find “the black one” feverishly digging under a pile of browned oak leaves nestled up to a condemned building. In a flash he fishes out some foodstuffs, can’t say what it is, but it looks to be bread like and partially eaten, protected from the elements by it’s leafy mulch. At once, I hit the red zone! A place I haven’t visited in many many months since leaving my conventional life behind.
FURIOUS!!!! I whirl the dog around the leash, scream for him to “drop it” – with which he complies and pick up my pace to make for home closing a very small loop on the already shortest ever dog walk. I trip over the potholes littering the alley behind my house, cursing out the dog in my mind, gritting my teeth and splashing muddy oily water up and over the edges of my boots to the pseudo-slouch below.
Entering the final stretch home I have this overwhelming urge to have a coffee. A coffee???? I left that stuff in the dust ages ago. Gives me anxiety worse than any conventional drug out there (that I know of) and though its flavour and aroma are still intoxicating – as much as the smell of bacon (yes abolitionist vegan nightmares I said it. I don’t EAT it, I just have to give the smell a high 5), it’s not enough to make me trade in the feeling of dying a slow death – or is it?
I push through my back gate, let the dogs off their leashes and find myself rattling around in my kitchen cupboards for my grinder, my percolator and some ethical beans. Coffee bubbling to perfection on the stove I reach into the fridge for a slice of homemade Strawberry Rhubarb pie (vegan thank you very much) and wolf this down before the coffee has brewed.
As I sit here. Belly full of dessert, coffee in hand, with the hint of clove from my medicine making of yesterday, I realize I have had an impromptu visit from some of my old flames. Nearly all at once, kind of like at that uncomfortable party I was at once in the early 2000’s – ugly, ugly night.
Today I basked in the slouchnitude, I devoured the sins of the pie and I revelled in the power of a morning coffee – all before 9:30am. Guilt? Not anywhere to be found. The anxiety from a coffee – I’ll have to fill you all in.
My revelation today came for me to share with the world, because you too have left behind a bunch of old flames. Some (like cigarette smoking) you can look back on with shear wonderment and disgust. Others, like a strong black coffee and a piece of pie you can shake hands with, catch up on the street and let go until next time. It’s all human, it’s all healthy and it’s all good – when the timing is right.
Yours in health,