Transition Tuesday

Survived another sleepless night solo in  my sweet little Kits apartment. Practiced in the juice box on the Drive today, in a successful attempt to shake off the night's narcolepsy. Read online this morning of sudden muscular weakness triggered by strong emotions narcoleptic sufferers experience -- this sounds exactly like what happens to my mind and body night after night of late; I suddenly transition from an unstoppable force of positive, pulsing energy to an empty tank collapsed in bed.  My emotional catalyst, precursor of my shut-down, is likely reflecting on either the lack of adult company chez moi -- my boyfriend lives in Edmonton and spends every other weekend with me -- or the absence of my daughter, who, on nights I feel cold and emptied, is at her aba's house. If I am ever unable to maintain my emotional strength, I fear the morning's remains will resemble a skeleton of the vibrant heart who once beat stronger than any threat or challenge could attempt to dampen. Sounds worse than death to me, the possibility of a constricted heart, beating merely to provide life and little else.

As I sit over this afternoon's caramel cappuccino, taking in the colorfully eclectic collection of cafe campers and passerby on the patio at Turk's, happily soaking up the European ambiance of enjoy life now -- ask questions later, I am freshly determined to transition this Tuesday. Tonight I will try for sleep, fully aware of the potential reasons it has been escaping me. Perhaps I need a roommate...who likes to snuggle.

Turning Pages

Remembering...
Drunk with laughter last night, Mom and I sat on my bed and shared a rare moment -- a space in time without the responsibilities of the week, concerns of the day or doubts of what may or may not lie ahead for either one of us pressing their heaviness upon our shoulders -- we looked through old photos and got silly. Fits of giggling filled us up with the warmth of the life we have lived and the people with whom we have experienced the only reason for our existence -- love.

Busy helping put together a memorial slideshow for my Grandpa, I let some memories slip through, beneath my skin -- just enough to allow emotion its timely transition into thought, the judging and reasoning kind.

How did I get to this place September 25, 2012? More importantly, what can I do to change it?

Certainly the hearty dose of perspective I was inhaling so rapidly I came up short of breath more than once and fell completely into tears more than I care to admit was brought about by more than Grandpa quietly ending his struggle; there have been of late, a series of serendipitous events, instrumental in my tears slowly stalling, dried with intermittent smiles, helping me to see that time does not stand still, regardless of how much we may feel broken into pieces -- our children always need us and we have to clean up the mess we've made and wholly turn the page.

Reading Anna Karenina, for the simple knowledge that Tolstoy's lead allows the circumstances she's created to overwhelm her enough that ceasing her life abruptly by way of becoming train track mincemeat appeals more than enduring the trials of adultery -- has indeed brought me some emotional composure. Sweetheart, nothing need ever be that dramatic.

And drama, or lack thereof, is to what I paid particular attention last night in my practice -- 90-minutes more like therapy than any other class I've experienced. For the first time -- ever -- I sat out second set of almost every posture after triangle. And you know, it was absolutely fine...dirt off my shoulder. I'm not sure exactly why I had to take it easy, but as it turns out, not so bad once in a while.
Two breaths into pranayama, I was dizzy with electrolyte imbalance -- as of last night, it has been 18 nights of little if any sleep, which seriously throws off any semblance of normal eating habits; humidity was tropically thick; the instructor and I share a particular kinship -- the latter merited particular contemplation...

We went to Teacher Training together, our partners were in medical school together, that coupling continued happily ever after, mine did not.
She is a full-time Bikram Yoga Instructor -- respected as such by her family and now husband, a Plastic Surgeon. She is happy, contributing to the health and well being of others through yoga...period.
Somewhere out there, that will be enough for whomever I share with these 60-some years I hope to have left; if it's not enough for me -- fine -- but it will be enough for him...that's how I'll know. What makes me complete, nourished inside and out will always be enough for him.
It will be no surprise to him something in which I'm the boss will be a big part of such wholeness, because let's get real here -- a studio of my own for sure, days full of teaching, managing, learning, sharing, loving and, of course, hotness will be necessary. And little parts of us that grow up to be big parts of us -- the real sweetness of life.

Even if our visions seem lofty, they are important to have -- in all their blaring honesty -- otherwise, how are we to realize them?

I tried not to think so much in class today, ready to let it be just as it would; it was a smooth, strong, resolved practice, without any wavering whatsoever. Still no rest for the body, but I imagine I've given some to the space between my ears.

Beside You

No longer. The winged heart etched into my back has, ready or not, taken its most bittersweet flight. Its weight of late has become burdensome; once it has a strong enough wind to carry it somewhere unconditionally warm and wanting, it won't land on anything less than such a heaven -- until then -- let it rest, replenish and reorganize -- for its thoughts, words and actions have been chaotic far too long.

Perhaps some coconut water will do the trick, or a swift kick in the head -- just to remind me of its importance in making major decisions; as much as we lovers are naturally governed by often impractical but inescapably delicious fluttering from deep inside our hearts, this disconnect with logic can lead us into hopeless places -- tethered to those who sleep with one eye open and scissors under the pillow.

Don't most relationships need a thinker -- plentiful in methodologies and rationalizations about the pairing he's chosen -- insistent upon some sort of plan? If mine didn't have one, I'd take my partner's hand in mind, pull him close, and throw us both off a cliff into an ocean deep with desire and shallow with concern for societal norms and the expectations of others.

Somewhat perplexed as to whether or not my affinity for leaping before looking is as negative as some consider it, I might as well head into the hot room for an ass-kick and cap the evening with a sweetly addictive rye and coke -- because what other immediate course of action is there that lifts my heavy heart and leaves me believing tomorrow is ripe with possibilities?

Wide Awake

Now having spent a couple of weeks surrounded by the smells, sounds and tastes of Italian eats, I've been keen to expand my culinary horizons and further immerse myself in all things edible. Starting most days off with chocolate coffee is always a solid start, but I'm pretty sweet already and could use a little salt -- apart from the shake I lick before my tequila shot goes down.

Spending most of my time in Kits, home to one of my longtime foodie friends -- who just so happens to be an internationally-renown chef -- I decided to let him work some of his infamous magic on me.

In one meal, I was taken to Spain, France, Italy -- and that was with the olive oil tastings alone. As I've oft seen with anyone who can cook decently well, no matter how perfectly-chosen the oil, almost everything still needs butter.

We feasted on grainy mustard-salt-rubbed flank steak, filleted with artistic flair only someone who truly loves what he does would bother with at home. A shallot-egg-balsamic confection and garnish of home-grown watercress were the final accouterments.

I learned -- among many lessons -- my taste in wine is more finely-tuned than I thought; he paired our meal with two bottles of wine -- both of which I buy on a regular basis, one I brought to complement cheeseburgers at a recent barbecue...my fantastical career in wine sales might be more of an imminent reality than I thought.

The greatest lesson of the evening came to fruition during my noon practice the following day. Taking one of Christian's hotter-than-hell, deeper-than-I-ever-want-until-it's-over classes with a full bottle of wine coursing through my veins -- not awesome; feeling like a human again after final savasana, a cold shower and a smoothie -- divine; reminding my body and mind about the element of balance in all aspects of life -- absolutely necessary.

As I dragged my bittersweet hangover through 26 and 2, it dawned on me I'd been consuming an awful lot of the vine's sweet juice lately and might benefit from a hiatus -- perhaps a day or two, because it's important to be realistic when setting goals.

Realistic: pretending to give up or decrease my consumption of mochas is never anything but pretending -- this is the sweetness in front of me right now.

Realistic: men seem to find it incredibly difficult to be "just friends" with women -- just because I bring dessert, doesn't mean I want to be dessert.

Painfully realistic: actions without words often merit a swift slap and a timely escape; words without actions cease to have meaning, no matter how much we want them to hold -- but those of us who fall hard with open hearts would still dive right in all over again.

Morals of the story: cook alone unless you're looking for heat beyond the kitchen; if you can help it, don't go into the hot room a hot mess; it takes more than one person to keep two people on cloud 9.

Healthy Hindsight

Eventually, at some unforeseeable -- but real -- point in the future, I'll look back on the past year and smile.
June in Vancouver -- even on the grayest days, it's still a dangerously alluring place. Surrounded by the deepest, darkest blue, the lushest green and the sweet pink of cherry blossoms sprinkling the streets -- I can't help but dismiss the out-of-reach real estate and imagined air of superiority.
Taking class this morning on Commercial -- always thick with sweat and struggle -- a gleaming group of satisfied minds and bodies carrying each other through the dimmest places under the light...it was, as it most often is, completely magical. Another practice = another day I have freed myself from the limits, either self-imposed or otherwise, with which so many exist.

It's strange for me, meeting such a plethora of people everyday, observing those who choose to live shackled by the limits they have either created or accepted. As always -- open to every possibility I can or have yet to imagine -- I am feeling my way through the professional options that seem to exist for someone with my particular skill set and interests in Vancouver; I'm still teaching of course (because that is what keeps me emotionally satiated) and have recently ventured into the restaurant scene...an excellent place to quickly gain back lost heartache pounds.
5 nights a week, I play hostess with the mostess to a unsurprisingly rather affluent room of diners. Greeting hungry guests at the door, I can't help but take a quick peek right through them to catch a glimpse of what lies beneath. Those who truly sparkle are governed by the hidden gem tucked away beneath the Prada -- the truest ruby -- often forgotten by the bachelors and bachelorettes dining solo at the bar night after night. I notice the limited souls shelling out hundreds like they're never going to run dry in part because I am deeply fascinated by the human condition -- and in particular, because of the year I've had.

June in Edmonton -- spent pretending I was not about to jump off a cliff into the treacherous waters of marital separation...followed by dragging my breathless body ashore to find the sweetest sunshine bathe me in its warmth.
By August, I found reincarnation as a single mother (still a bizarre term to me, which really fails to do the reality justice). September, October and November split my heart, mind and body between two very different places. The months that followed gave me love in hopeless places, took it away and brought it back. I gained friends and lost others I probably should have denied entry in the first place. I laughed -- a lot...I cried...less. I danced in happiness -- the kind that makes you fly while your feet touch the ground.
I lived without limits.
This summer and beyond, I'll have another healthy dose of the good stuff, just a dash of the bad -- got to have some of the latter to appreciate the former -- and keep allowing the most important muscle I've got to do it's worst.

It's Getting Hot In Here

11:30 am. Strong, steady, 90-minute sweat session led by a favourite of yours and mine, Dave, the subtle powerhouse.

As I position my toes and heels together in the center of my mat and interlace my fingers for pranayama, I smile. Wobbling a little out of first-set awkward pose, I smile. Dave leads us through the always intense, focused second set of standing head to knee, encouraging normal breathing and a "smiling, happy face" -- I feel the tickle of my lips turning upward as I relax into the tremendous effort and hold solid the posture.

Class becomes dreamlike, as I float calmly through every breath, movement and muscle contraction. I want to be nowhere but in the moment, marveling at how dewy I am -- both in physical appearance and bliss between the ears. I allow a thought into the cloud of content fighting gravity to enable such a lightness in me it may threaten levitation. The question that forms in the air upstairs asks, "Have I done it? Have I gotten to the elusive place in my practice of effortless effort?" Either way, it seems all-too familiar, feeling vaguely reminiscent of another activity I enjoy that makes me sweaty and incredibly relaxed. Ah. So this is why I waltzed into class today, hydrated not by water -- like a good yogi -- but a double mocha with whipped cream -- like Allison.

Come to think of it, I arrive to class "unprepared" often and without apology. Of particular intrigue to me is how my practice seems completely unaffected. I get it now. Inside out, bones to the skin, fingertips to the toes (for those not part of the cult-like brand of yoga I teach and take, this is Bikram-speak), when I hit the mat, at least a piece of my gray matter big enough to exert visible influence is in my sex space. If my heart ends up there too, I'll start to get worried -- but the honing of pleasure, relaxation and the abandonment of expectations I've brought into my yoga have served me very well.  I practice as often as possible, with everything that I am and all that I have -- an approach most of us would do well to adopt both in the hot room and in the heated one.

Beer-Flavoured Nipples

Maybe my cherry savours sweetly of rye -- or a fine Argentinean malbec -- that must be it. There can be no other sensible explanation for why who I deem to be in the upper echelon of lovely lovers would allow themselves anywhere near my tangled web of familial misfortune. Through 29 years of societal influence and actually paying enough attention to my partners to value what matters most to them, I have come to find just how much importance most men place on the establishment and maintenance of a warm and fuzzy family unit -- in other words, the extreme opposite of the mess from which I hail.

I do tend to lust, love and nurture with an openness most people would fear allowing themselves. For the most part, such an unreserved approach has brought me what I imagine to be unparalleled passion and happiness; while that may be enough for me, is it enough for him?

I have been in several long-term relationships, one of which was a cataclysmic, yet exquisitely pure marriage, which enables me to focus on the inclusive nature in which I was welcomed into those families. There have always been hugs, kisses, "I love you's" and acceptance as a member of the pack as if I'd forever been a welcome fixture at the dinner table.

And, of course, there has been strife over questions with answers that confound those from families whose parents actually wanted and continue to want them. These queries of why, when and how so much love and acknowledgement has been lost are met with little more from me than a sweetly sad, resolute response -- for me those things never existed in the first place.

Yet for reasons unbeknownst to me, apart from my proclivity to give and get exactly what I want and need from the objects of my affection and provide what I'm fairly certain they desire in return, I seem to find myself welcomed into the arms of lovers who appear to want more than a few stolen moments between the sheets.

Bizarre. Can one person emanate enough warmth to compensate for the frigid air of abandonment of which she is so painfully aware that lingers around her, despite her insistence of its insignificance? I know I can, as most of my inner and outer circle find me reliable in my overall content nature. Generally, I strive to save the drama and focus on savouring the delights. But will that be enough as time passes and I choose another person with whom to have a long-term union, maybe another child and every element of a shared life that comes with such commitment? The cool absence of in-laws, grandparents, welcoming holiday households and a built-in support system will surely surface as a tragic part of life with Allison.

Hopefully, my je ne sais quoi will carry me through more than a few short-lived intrigues and enable the development and sustainability of something a little more serious. Time, as it always does even in its most bittersweet ways, will tell. In the interim, I'd better keep close my signature lures and divulge only what is absolutely necessary to a carefully chosen few. Who knows what accouterments I may need to  wield in the not-so-distant future? There are a lot of good boys out there; the men who ignite the fire and keep it burning are, however, few and far between.

Teaching -- The Single Mother Version

If only teaching yoga paid the bills as well as it pays the heart.

Pretty much every time I instruct or practice a class, someone makes me feel appreciated -- whether it's through gratitude, a hug, a smile or even just a look that indulges my desire to affect positive transformation. Maybe it's because I push a regular just that little bit extra -- a drive that person always has that occasionally needs igniting; perhaps a story or joke I share allows an unnecessarily-furrowed brow to soften; a practitioner may find acceptance upon facing whatever he has in the mirror and choose to work with, rather than against it.

Surely, rewards are bountiful in the hot room and tend to foster relatively relaxed, positive souls outside of the Bikram bubble. As an instructor, however, it can be painfully difficult finding a monetary balance because we truly do what we love and, of course, more often than not, what a person loves doing often fails to keep them financially afloat. The industry standard income for hot yoga instructors is oddly dissonant with the substantial role we play in the lives of our students and communities.

So as reality is often somewhat harsh, I shall soon be pairing down my teaching to seek a more stable livelihood down another avenue, one which will hopefully at least have ties to teaching, health and wellness.

Molding impressionable young minds in a high school classroom has often beckoned me. Well, if I'm being honest -- and that is the point here -- to be honest in sharing one's challenges, triumphs and wisdom accrued from such experiences -- teaching in its traditional form (the kind that provides a decent income, great vacation time, health benefits and a solid pension) has been shoved down my throat from infancy.

My Grandpa taught elementary school and, early in his career, celebrated the firm hand of authority he naturally delighted in exercising on anyone willing to submit by becoming a principal. Never fulfilled ruling one when he could have several under his firm, but loving grasp, for 14 years, he simultaneously served as a principal for six schools in the BC interior. Up north, communities are still and always were small because of course, it's up north. So for over a decade, my dear Grandpa rented out his waterfront home on Vancouver Island (the property he was able to purchase socking away most of his teaching salary) and happily squired the hearts and minds of his most captive audience.

My Mother, growing up with a stellar example of success through dedication and stability, followed suit and, by 22, was running her own classroom. Not having a natural affinity for small children, those who know her are still puzzled by my Mother's choice to teach elementary school; as she is, however, easily intimidated by independent, mature minds, those who truly know her understand completely.

I'm fairly certain she finds most of every day in the company of seven-year-old hooligans (these are privileged kids from a fairly affluent community, most of whom have grown up running amok whenever they please) grueling, but -- here it is again -- she has afforded herself a lovely life. She works 8 am to 3 pm, during which time, she has of course a fifteen-minute recess and a forty-five minute lunch, as well as occasional prep time. She has every long weekend to do with as she pleases, 2 weeks off at Christmas, spring break and 2 months off for the summer. Sure, some teachers choose to coach track and field or have to supervise recess once a week -- either way, not a bad gig at all.

The past few days in particular, having taken their toll on me physically to the point that I open my mouth to make a verbal adjustment in class and nothing but the squeaks of what is left of my virus-ridden voice are audible, I have made what I feel is the responsible decision to revisit the pursuit of teaching high school. I would, of course, teach English -- this being the subject in which I earned my Bachelor's Degree because it was the only choice I knew would keep me engrossed in and writing fanciful analyses of great books over muffins and coffees at my favourite neighbourhood haunts. I can't even tell you the extent to which I deplore libraries -- I try to avoid them whenever possible -- and studying -- of any kind. Isn't life best lived? Pleasure please; I'll take as much as I can get.

And as anyone who works hard for their money knows, pleasure comes in many forms, most of which can be costly. So as Maya's Mommy -- a girl who insists on indulging in at least some of the finer things whenever possible -- trying to make it on my own in a city of unforgiving cold, even more unforgiving men and a barely-there transit system that pretty much necessitates having a car, I've accepted the time to shift gears from a Hot Yoga Teacher to a hot English Teacher as now. Applications are due in early spring, volunteer hours required and, hopefully, by next September, my stilettos will be pounding the pavement back in Van at UBC for a year of High School Teacher certification. I look forward to a new forum in which to boss people around.

No Life Jacket Required

Last week, I was in the yoga room 15 times -- for someone with a hyper metabolism and an effortless ability to ignore the all-important inner monologue of what a girl wants; what a girl needs -- this is a substantial amount of time spent sweating out some of which I may have been better off keeping in.

I haven't spent over 22 hours in the hot box since before I got pregnant over two years ago, at which time I was a sprightly 27-year-old; at 29, back on a full-time teaching schedule and fitting in a solid practice, I may have to start pumping electrolytes intravenously to keep from passing out at the end of the day. Either that, or I could just eat and pound coconut water constantly.

Whatever symbiotic solution I find to keep me ticking and ward off the several midnight incidents to which I've unhappily awoken, completely cramped -- paralyzed from the knee down, calf muscles calling out for me to treat them more kindly (salt and potassium please Miss Allison), for now I'll simply have to take my body's transitional state one step, breath, posture, class and day at a time. This weekend, for instance, I made the easy decision to (apart from teaching doubles both days) strive for allowing only the contraction that comes from strutting around in sky-high stilettos for a Friday night downtown worthy of stunningly uncomfortable shoes and a tastefully provocative cocktail-bandage dress. So far so good. As yet, an intake of wine and tequila seems to have adequately replaced my desire for 3 am bags of salted rice chips, so I must be striking a decent balance there somewhere.

Maybe it was the incredible dinners at Vij's and Sanafir, places I would not normally have the opportunity to enjoy back to back, that replenished my depleted resources, or the surprisingly irresistible charms of the tattoo artist with whom I spent an alluring hour last night at Adrenaline.

There are so many sweet sources from which to nourish one's body, mind and heart. This afternoon, I satisfied (as much as possible from a province away) the constant craving I have to see, hear and laugh with my daughter. Over Skype, she proudly displayed her newly acquired talent for holding a pen and instead of just putting it in her mouth, with the utmost concentration, pulling the lid off and replacing it repeatedly until I distracted her with greetings from some of my curious students. A cluster of buff, bared yoga bods eagerly surrounded my laptop and giggled along with Maya at her pen-handling genius. My heart full, I blew her a kiss and headed into my home away from home to teach a double dose of the ultimate effortless effort.

Now sitting alone (which I always hate -- particularly late at night), having downed a mega-sized coconut water, working towards even just pretending to feel comfortable tucked in by myself, I lie awake, trying to lull my busy mind to sleep with Jason Mraz -- not such a hot idea as listening to "Lucky" is serving no greater purpose than creating a hollowness in my chest as if the manic monkey from Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs is ripping my heart out like he does to the unsuspecting evil gummy bear who, as a result, perishes heartless (if you've not seen the movie, stop lying to yourself and admit you loved it).

Tonight, on the floor of my sister's bedroom (my residence for only a few days more), the waters are inclement, there is a small craft warning; I could go down, flounder helplessly. But life is best managed calmly. With balance comes buoyancy. At least the clock has passed midnight and (apart from a tightness in the leg I had to keep still for an hour last night while my foot was being branded with words of limitless wisdom) my limbs are relatively relaxed. No signs of debilitating cramps this evening. Staring at my right foot, I find calm in the honest script so beautifully curved just above the instep. I will take my own advice and follow what is written there: trust, breathe, smile.

Life Lessons from the Indelible Britney Spears

Last week. I already pine for you and your final days of summer sun. The grueling schedule I kept of yoga and soaking up the sun at Kits Beach, left me little time for writing, but now the skies are ominous, offering nothing but drear and damp, so I'm back at the keyboard.

Heading home (as in the floor of my sister's bedroom, where I currently occupy a space the size of my couture IKEA mattress) in a haze of yoga high from a thick class on Commercial yesterday, I opted for the always ingenious soundtrack of Miss Britney Spears to accompany me home. Sometimes a girl just needs a little old school to remind her, no matter the current weight of life's circumstances and how unnervingly unforeseeable the future, everything will turn out alright in the end. Take our darling Brit: in the not-so-distant past, she was a completely disheveled (on the inside and out), unhinged, downward-spiraling, fury of destruction. Today, buffed and polished to a finish smooth enough to appear a once again competent mother, partner and artist (that's right, I referred to the princess of pop as an "artist" -- deal with it), she has re-emerged, relatively unscathed and back on top, continuing to dazzle and captivate legions of fans. And because so many worthwhile life lessons come from standout role models like Britney, when the going gets tough, but merits a tone none too somber and just scratching the surface of delicate introspection, her lyrics are full of diamonds in the rough.

Borrowing a gem from one of my faves, from the days of Britney's stellar acting debut in Crossroads I too have re-emerged -- a brighter, unobstructed by the expectations of others, independent version of myself.

"Say hello to the girl that I am! You're gonna have to see through my perspective."

"Overprotected" -- the theme song of life in the Sinclair (my maiden moniker -- we even have a darling tartan) clan. Released about 10 years ago -- about the same time, at 19, most of my girlfriends and I felt similarly hampered by our parents' view of the course our lives should take. Good work Mom and Dad -- I really used the four years I spent at UBC effectively. Because you said something along the lines of, "If you don't go to university right away, you will be an epic failure and no longer a member of the family we will choose to acknowledge. Well, we might acquiesce to identifying your body when the police find it under the Granville St. bridge frozen solid, because you won't survive the winters here sleeping in a box outside, which is the only accommodation you'll be able to afford if you elect to forgo higher education." Yep. I'm pretty sure the open-minded, warm and fuzzy advice of only the best intentions with which my parents provided me went something exactly like that.

At one time, I was a relatively obedient daughter, hoping to glean some affection from the confounding creatures who brought me into being by following a path I thought would appeal to their ideologies of what good girls should do. But never being one to blindly follow the pack and conform to a life that doesn't make me happy, I decided within the first semester of my English Literature Degree to do pretty much whatever I wanted. Sure, I read all the books, but only because I enjoyed them; I handed in all of my papers early and always seemed to do well, never being handed back work with less than an "A" of some description scrawled across the top. But I allowed my science requirements and electives that failed to interest me fall by the wayside, giving me a decent amount of recreational time -- which of course I filled with partying.

I managed to work my way through a solid roster of lovers, friends and everything in-between. I thought at least the life experience I gained from experimenting with what I wanted and didn't want in the people I kept close to me would prove useful, but thus far, I am still somewhat clouded with those silly lures that so often accompany short-lived unions -- you know -- a look, a touch, a smell, a certain mystery; something extraordinary that is magnetic but sadly doesn't turn out to have staying power or realness. I did, after all, manage to marry a man I hardly knew at all, but did he ever have a je ne sais quoi -- like none other.

Anyone who has played the game of love, lust and all necessary and unnecessary associated evils knows the couples that last are (much more complex than it sounds, trust me) the ones in which two people genuinely like each other; they have to laugh with each other, listen to and actually appreciate most of what escapes one another's mouths, so much so that just words can turn the wheels in the brain that ignite the fire in the heart -- and other, much lower regions in the body equally important in maintaining a certain level of interest and intensity between successful lovers. However rare, such connections do of course exist. One can choose to need them, want them, or simply settle for whatever comes -- or nothing at all.

I"ll take one of everything please. I'll see whatever comes; if it's not what I need and want, they'll be something just around the corner that is. "I need time, love, joy; I need space; I need me." If I ignore the expectations of others in the process, the only disappointment they truly experience will be their own -- in themselves.

I Am Me -- Without Apology

Does anyone near and dear to you look upon your lifestyle with disdain? If, like me, you are merely a yoga teacher in this crazy mixed up world -- you know, the one in which most people live to work -- you may be misunderstood. My parents somehow fail to grasp the notion that I am content doing what I do for the modest income with which it provides me, for which my real compensation is relaxation and happiness. Oddly enough, their heavy-handed judgement comes from a place of hypocrisy. They are not stockbrokers, real estate moguls, successful entrepreneurs, doctors or lawyers; mother is an elementary school teacher and father is now a retired police officer. Throughout the course of their careers, neither one of them has really seemed to enjoy a single day of that with which they chose to define themselves. They brought in decent coin -- nothing to impress the neighbours with -- but enough to live comfortably and raise two kids. They have healthcare benefits and pensions, all of which are, to some degree, important. But what confounds me more than anything is the lives they've carried on with for over 50 years, without ever seeming to live.

I meet a lot of people like my parents in this void of passion respect. They did what they did and do what they do because they choose to govern their existences by following the road more travelled -- the straight and narrow. Scintillating, I know. Sure, such paths have stability, predictability -- but lest we forget, nothing can be completely anticipated. Think about how many people you know today who have been slapped across the face with the news of an aggressive, life-threatening cancer, even the people who lead the cleanest, healthiest lives. Think about the random life-snatching acts of nature, human incompetence and -- worst of all, but less often random -- nurture.

How can those in this moment granted the privilege to live choose instead to adopt a "walking dead" existence? I find them unnerving -- those insipid individuals who simply move through the motions of one day after another, the fire (if it ever existed) in their eyes burnt out.

Sure, part of being an adult is accepting some level of responsibility, especially an adult (like myself) with a daughter. But irrespective of the challenges thrown at me, or the ones I create, unless it's to hook up with a vampire, I'll always choose to live among the living.

Teaching yoga, I may never be in the upper echelon of money-makers, but I'll always have enough to enjoy the simple pleasures (like this morning's mocha) -- and if I don't, I can move to Mexico. Of the highest importance will be my happiness, and the warmth it will always allow me to impart upon my daughter and anyone else so deserving.

Philosophical Foray

Bikram Yoga is like an escape from reality. Is it? Killed my Self in Cedric's class at Kits Monday night, in which he brought to our attention the backwardness of this statement. He told us to look at ourselves in the mirror and embrace this moment as our reality; this sweaty, awkward, emotional (more so for some) body-bending and strengthening session we put ourselves through so we can better manage life on the outside. I thought, this guy's for real. He know's what's up. The gym-jacked, perfectly-tanned, egocentric poser with the attention span of a toddler between me and Cedric created such a glaring juxtaposition, it was difficult to keep from laughing every minute of the 90.

This constant struggle, moving meditation, taking oneself to the brink, beyond and back -- this is reality. Walking into a brightly-lit room, wearing next-to-nothing, free of the accouterments to which so many of us are accustomed (the yoga room is one of the few places you will ever catch me without makeup), facing my own deeply introspective eyes, skinny arms, rosebud breasts, junk in the trunk, camel pose calluses attractively taking up precious real estate on my knees and not only accepting what I come into the room with, but constantly assessing every body part, muscle, ligament, joint, facial expression, to make sure it is working at its optimum level, to create a body that just won't quit and a mind so peaceful, it is overwhelmed by nothing -- this is honesty.

Reality is inescapable inside the sanctum of the yoga room, ever elusive on the outside. In an effort to make life seem easier, we often choose to make malleable the truth that is ourselves and our existence, but truth is unalterable -- it is exactly as it is and we must accept it as such if we ever hope to work with what we have, rather than against it.

I recommend coming to class just as you are, but carefully cognizant of whom that really is. Maybe you're someone who, out of habit and self-doubt, always sits down after awkward pose; maybe you refuse to practice anywhere but the farthest, dimmest, coolest back corner of the room; maybe you choose only to situate yourself front and centre, next to the podium, afraid you'll be too easily distracted or fail to push yourself otherwise (often a bad habit of mine). Whatever your deal, you're always welcome. Bring your inhibitions and transform them into wings that will enable you to become much greater than the sum of your parts.

Mr. Darcy has it Right -- Most Ardently

You know when the pieces of your life somehow untangle themselves, if only for a moment, so you can see them each clearly enough to evaluate which belong, which don't, if any need rearranging or require transformation or swift expulsion? For me, last week culminated in an epiphany of this sort; a clarity I knew existed, but had yet to reveal itself and its imperative nature until I let it.

Without my usual domestic responsibilities, as my daughter is currently with her Daddy in Edmonton while I fulfill my role as double Maid of Honour, I actually had time to reflect. I taught, practiced, partied, played, rested, relaxed and soaked up all the goodness I could get. I kept only the best company and was constantly content. Last week is up there with the best I've ever had -- and I was no where but my usual Vancouver haunts. The difference was the way in which I experienced them -- with a whole new appreciation; an openness; an optimistic warmth that lit me up from within.

I have always believed we create our own happiness; you forge the path you want or accept a life unfulfilled. Because life is short and so much of it is ridden with potholes, I choose to relish the smooth parts, even luxuriate in them. Having experienced that level of unbridled enjoyment, whenever possible, I rarely allow myself to expect less. As I draw another year closer to turning 30, I've come to acknowledge it's about time I grab hold of what I need and want before it's too late.

Positive changes already abound from my ambition to live ardently. The past few days, I have laughed to the point of tears almost once a day, felt passion, warmth and compassion in pleasantly unexpected places, worked my body only as much as I wanted, not felt I needed, exercised my mind and taught myself to hear and see things and people differently, watched zero television (with the exception of The Bachelorette finale because -- let's be serious -- that was important stuff), consumed only what I consider to be the best food and wine -- because, otherwise, what's the point? I have never felt more relaxed and satisfied. Reuniting with my daughter tomorrow will complete the picture and further elevate the appreciation I have developed for everything I have. It will also mean less selfish time, but more unconditional love. Fair trade.

Last night in Christian's class, I locked out in standing bow -- two feet in one line! I struggled and grunted my way through what I thought was (with my hamstrings) impossible and then found the sweet spot of letting go, the place where limitations cease to exist. As I started to give up, I chose instead to laugh at myself, and with a gentle nudge from Christian, kicked with everything I had. The aftermath of that class was the most relaxed contentment I could have imagined -- and it continued all night. Maybe it was the yummy Mexican food Dad took me and my sister for and the margaritas we downed or the Caper's dark-chocolate-raspberry tarts we devoured while taking in a late show of The Change-Up -- Either way, I'll have another of the same please. If Tuesday nights can be as fantastic as mine was and last week can be a game-changer, every day can be made to matter; to light the soul -- or at least try.

Damn It! I'm Not Right All the Time?

Even the most set in their ways can be undone. Today I learned an important lesson -- one I had been encouraged to consider previously, but have been guilty of failing to adopt as yet. Today, I lived the truth of some people being worth a closer look. I discovered a much deeper, kinder, generous impression of -- get this -- the intolerably distracted woman with the sweater in class. Today, for some reason unknown to me, she still came in with her cover-up, but practiced right under the podium, under my nose, looking up at me with a smile throughout class. Very strange, I thought. Maybe she simply felt wary of me up until today; I am, after all, a visiting teacher who hasn't set foot on the podium of this particular studio in over two years. As a matter of fact, almost all of the previously quiet, to the point of what I thought were disinterested, students have seemed to warm to me. They are even thanking me now after class and acknowledging me by name. The biggest surprise, however, for sure is "sweater woman."

One of my regulars this morning threw her back out, later explaining to me she had injured it a few days prior to her practice today, gotten overzealous, and pushed just a little too hard -- it's always a fine line. When in doubt, take it easy, honey. After coaxing her through how to lie appropriately in order to put the least pressure on her back, I helped hoist her up off her mat and supported her feeble limp out of the hot room.

As we finally make it to the door, who's behind us, carrying the injured party's mat, towel and water bottle? The one I had so swiftly dismissed as inconsiderate and flippant -- "sweater woman."

While this enlightening experience does not mean I'm going to ignore blatant laziness and hypocrisy from other instructors, it has encouraged me to give a person more then a moment to make an impression on me. I suppose I would appreciate the same, so why not? In the end, acceptance is just as important as striving for excellence.

Only Here for the Food

Araxi in Whistler: a dining experience we nearly aborted. Prepared to spend about $100 each for dinner, we had fairly high expectations. But even though disappointed loomed from the moment we walked in the door, none of our group of the pushover variety, we expressed our concerns at the apparent deterioration of such a notoriously impressive restaurant and they intelligently -- as on occasion I kiss and tell -- responded by rolling out the red carpet.

Upon the first sign of our distaste for our hobbit-like, mumbling to the point of inaudible, disgruntled server, the manager replaced him for a smooth, sweet, Australian treat who romanced every morsel served to us from the amuse-bouche to the double-chocolate ice cream brownie bar presented to us after we polished off the deserts we had actually ordered.

We were then brought a complimentary bottle of sparkling Okanagan wine and a full glass of the too-rich-for-my blood Cabernet Sauvignon I had asked just to taste to compare with my lower-end Malbec. Important discovery: expensive wine can be well-worth the frivolity. Drinking this particular Cab was like sliding into a mud bath (like the one JP and Ashley visited in Fiji) and being rubbed down from head to toe with warm, capable hands -- it brought a lasting smile to my face and perfectly prepared me for my first course: an albacore spicy tuna roll with which my deep appreciation of fabulous food was supremely satisfied.

Following the sushi extraordinaire was a lovely balance of creamy buffalo mozzarella and bitter/sweet beet-arugula, drizzled in a dijon-balsamic reduction -- stellar.

Bringing the tantalizing tastes to a whole other level was my main. Always one to order scallops if the preparation intrigues, I decided on the curried-salt variety, paired with aubergine and a chorizo-chickpea-tomato puree. I am a reliable predictor of choice menu items. This buttery, exotic, perfectly-balanced melding of flavours exceeded my expectations.

Funny how after swearing up and down we couldn't possibly eat another bite, when the server came over to offer us dessert, we all immediately selected something -- mine, of course, was chocolate. Barely able to eat half of the three preceding courses, I somehow managed to devour both the molten, Valrhona double-chocolate cake (which was especially prepared "double" for us as we had made it clear we were serious lovers of the good stuff) and the accompanying salted-caramel ice cream in seconds.

I share my appreciation for all things indulgent with words to the best of my ability, but sometimes words are -- well, they fail to adequately get across my intense love affair with really excellent food. But fortunately, as in my love affairs with really excellent people, I'm good at sharing.

The Hangover -- Part 3

The girlfriends who get slithered together, prance around naked (oh, wait, that was just me), share clothes, table dance (also just me), share dance partners, beds, hangovers, epic four-course dinners -- these are the ones who stay together. You know -- the ones around whom you can just be yourself and let it all hang out.

Man, am I fortunate to have friends with whom I can abandon all pretense -- like the kind I am forced to exercise in front of people who suck. As my mother and sister sit out on the patio of the condo at which I am currently staying (I can't refer to it as my mother's home, because it belongs to her fiance and in it I am treated as an inconvenient guest, rather than a family member). But this kind of cool reception is something I have become accustomed to in the bizarre world of my parents and their transient lives. Shockingly enough, I was not invited onto the patio to sit and have lunch with the girls -- so I continue going about my day looking out for me.

This morning I was fortunate to have a dose (however small) of warmth from both the students and the environment at the studio I waltzed into before the sun had risen. I taught a double, surprised to see so many hard-cores in my 6 am on a holiday, sudsed up under the ritzy rainfall shower heads in the spa-like change room and booked it to JJ Bean -- my little peace of heaven -- and solace.

A chocolate-whipped cream-laden mocha and visit to Whole Foods later, I was happily high on the simple pleasures I enjoy whenever possible and cruised home with an infectious sense of serenity I was more than ready to share until the patio party shut me out -- yet again.

But, of course, yet again, I will survive this slight. My sister knows not the exclusionary damage so unsuspectingly inflicted upon me, which is why I still want to take her for some quality bonding at Kits Beach.

So, while I head off to oil up, strip down and spend a little time at my favourite spot in Van with my sweetly oblivious sibling, indulge -- if you dare -- in evidence of some of the shenanigans that went down over a memorable bachelorette weekend in Whistler. Don't forget to blame it on the alcohol.

I Messed with the Law and the Law Won -- So Far

Beyonce knows what's up. As I'm placating the morning's sorrows in Noodle Box leftovers, tea and Much Music, mesmerized by her latest release, Best Thing I Never Had, I find myself inherently salivating over the couture wedding gowns in which she's frolicking along stunning beaches, attempting to show her ex what he's missing. As the song winds down, she smiles sympathetically and leaves me with, "Bet it sucks to be you right now." Damn right doll -- today, in this very moment, it kinda sucks.

My day started pleasantly enough with a fresh-from-the-oven chocolate-zucchini muffin and a mocha at JJ Bean Yaletown (their coffees make my heart smile). There's something so special about the ambiance at this particular location of my choice cafe; it's like the juxtaposition of the hipster staff and the pretentious air of Yaletown create a perfect vibe -- a place you just want to be -- simultaneously relaxed and fabulous.

After soaking in as much JJ Bean as my schedule allowed, I hopped on the Canada Line to teach a double at what used to be a studio to whose standards I held all others. Maybe it was just a bizarre collection of practitioners this morning, but it was pure chaos up in that joint. People left the room to pee without even appearing to consider whether or not the necessity was real or imagined. Hand towels to (gasp) wipe away any signs of sweat were rampant. One shining star actually brought a sweater into the room (obviously she does this on a regular basis) and proceeded to put it on and take it off at random intervals. I told her if she was cold, she should work harder. I'm not known to run a cold room -- ever -- unless it's beyond my control. It was like teaching in a bubble of disconnect. Just being in the room with that kind of unfocused energy gave me an overwhelming feeling of futility; the complete opposite of what I experienced practicing at a different studio last night.

Having narrowly missed a 5 pm class yesterday at Bikram Yoga Commercial Drive, I killed time in the always-electric neighbourhood, checking out the ecclectic shops and (of course) popping into the sweetest spot in the city to pick up a stash of my to-die-for dark-chocolate-halva cups. Thank you for your creations, Sweet Cherubim. I suffer dessert deprivation without you (okay, really only halva cup deprivation as I attempt in vain to find replacements).

Just before 6, I walked into the studio, warmly greeted, ready to get my sweat on in one of the now two practice rooms. Class was amazing -- somewhat like going swimming in a really hot pool with 30 of your closest friends and leaving the pool with no hamstrings -- fantastic; just what I needed. More please. Hopefully, I can hit up the Drive again tomorrow to re-energize, re-organize and re-vitalize the damage my enthusiasm for the yoga sustained teaching in the land of the lost today.

As usual, my love affair with words has delayed my disclosure of what really knocked me down this morning: a cop on a power trip. That's right, 24 hours in Van and I've already had a run-in with the law.

Apparently my aptitude for using the Canada Line is not up to par, as I failed to validate my ticket before ascending the stairs outside one of the stations. As I got to the second floor of the terminal, I was verbally accosted by a gruff, old dude trying to pull off his police duds as if he wasn't past pushing retirement. Squinting through his spectacles, he pointed out the fine print on the back of my ticket (because everyone reads the back of bus tickets), detailing the correct procedure to pay for and board the offending train. He dismissed my Alberta ID, explaining that my clear understanding of the English language was enough for him to assume I know the rules and was in violation of them enough to merit a $173 ticket. I know -- ouch. More than I made teaching two classes for which I had to ride the militarily-patrolled transit system.

But, alas, all's well that is made bearable by some of the best food in the world -- and that's certainly something Vancouver has aplenty. Tonight, we cool the burn of belligerent fuckers with cosmos and pasta at Anton's. Thanks Sarah for waiting in line with me and thanks Dad for the company -- and paying.

Hometown Glory

Waiting in the exhilarating Edmonton International Airport (it's so modern and stimulating, there's one Starbucks) to board my flight to Vancouver, I take way too big a mouthful of divine date square just as Mr. Handsome with a mischievous grin comes over to pass the time with idle morning conversation. Isn't that always the way? At least he seems entertained as I struggle to utter a response to his greeting with as much grace as I can muster in the moment. Fortunately, I'm not here to exercise my flirting skills.

I'm literally vibrating in anticipation of spending an entire month in my home sweet home -- as much of it at the beach as possible -- in the company of people and places I hold dear. I will, however, be without my mini-me, whom I have left in the capable hands of daycare and Daddy. This is the first time I have chosen to allow myself more than a few hours of adult time and, while it should prove to be a much-needed respite from domestic doldrums, I did experience several pangs of anxiety over being without my Maya for two weeks. I'll just have to party extra hard to compensate for stings of loneliness.

Shouldn’t be too difficult considering I’ve got the first of two epic bachelorette parties this weekend and at this point, I've planned tequila and cupcakes for Friday night’s menu. As it has been at least a good month since my highest stilettos have seen a dance floor, I’m overdue for a serious night (or two or three) of dropping it down. Watch out Buffalo Bill's – we ladies tend to bring with us shenanigans that are both raucous and unpredictable. Last time we graced the crowd at Bill's, I was pretty prego and threw my first drink ever on some idiot whose physically aggressive flirting methods merited him nothing more than a wet crotch and a police escort out of the bar. What can I say? I enjoy a little drama every now and then – and it was only club soda, so I knew it would wash out of his Sevens.

This weekend’s anniversary girls’ getaway (I seem to end up in Whistler for the weekend with my ladies about the same time every summer) is sure to include some theatrical moments, as any solid bachelorette weekend should, but as I won’t be an incubus of raging pregnancy hormones, and am more than prepared to deal with at least a few character-building run-ins with alcohol-fueled dudes, there should be no need for using cocktails as weapons (unless of course five girls sharing a bathroom becomes more than my limited patience can bear).

I will, however, spend a great deal of time wielding whatever kitchen gadgets I can find to keep from living on takeout or developing a vitamin deficiency staying at my Mom’s. No offense Mom, but we all know you treat muffins as an essential square meal. And as I have been honing my culinary prowess of late, prepare yourself to be highly impressed.

This past Saturday, in an effort to conquer the ever-intimidating poaching of eggs and making hollandaise from scratch, I made eggs benny. After going through only three or four eggs, attempting to delicately drop them into boiling, vinegar-infused water, I mastered the flick of the wrist required for such delicate artistry, poached perfect eggs, laid them atop whole-wheat English muffins with avocado and tomato, bathing my creation in a healthy dollop of lemon- dill-yogurt hollandaise. Check it out – I complemented my all-time favourite brunch feast with rosemary pan-fried potatoes.

Delicious. Two very enthusiastic thumbs up – actually six – as Maya and Nimrod heartily approved. Watch out world – my bistro attached to a yoga/dance studio on the beach somewhere fabulous is coming. For the moment, I’ll have to dazzle on a smaller scale.

I should say, “watch out Vancouver” – those who know and appreciate my particular brand of sharing (sometimes too much of) myself with almost everyone in my path would agree: I tend to leave a mark. Hopefully, I’ll give and get as much as I need from this visit. I’m teaching a few classes at Bikram Yoga Richmond, dropping in to a few classes at Harbour Dance Centre and eating/drinking my way through as many of my hot spots as possible. So ready for this. I think I’d better start with some really great chocolate.

Cutting Back on the Sugar

Today I played (as my girlfriend Wendy likes to put it) "hooky from life" for a couple of hours and took myself to see Friends With Benefits -- a well-chosen escape from the torrential showers responsible for taking the banality of E-town to a whole new level. There is a vaguely Vancouver feel here at the moment -- humid, grey and wet -- but without the mountains, ocean and green space.

Having spent some quality time this morning pouring over the latest issue of Women's Health (mostly because Rosie Huntington-Whiteley is on the cover and who doesn't enjoy staring at her) at Cafe Remedy with a mocha and a delightful lemon-pistachio square, I thought it prudent to continue my appreciation of the great indoors at the Cineplex.

This was my kind of movie -- hot people doing hot things in the totally stunning, impressive surroundings of New York and LA. Justin Timberlake (although somewhat overly effeminate for my taste) and Mila Kunis (always stunning) paraded their sweet little asses around, giving us a realistic taste of the kind of sex everyone wishes they were having -- you know, the kind in which each partner knows exactly how to please the other; they realized a fantastical carnal connection simply because they bossed each other around until both got it right. Because they agreed on the terms of their liaisons -- no emotional connection being important -- before hitting the sheets, hurt feelings weren't a factor. No sugarcoating. Imagine if we lived even one or two aspects of our lives being completely straightforward. I think the abundant benefits would outweigh any initial harm.

Straight shooter Tommy (an exceptionally cast Woody Harrelson) sums it up for JT's emotionally reserved Dylan when he shares his rules to live by: "If you want to lose weight, stop eating; if you want to make lots of money, work your ass off; if you want to be happy, find someone you love and never let her go." An astute, fantastic message. Sometimes, I fear we are so delicate with our words (both in communicating with ourselves and others) we impede positive growth.

Ricky gave it to us on the level in class this afternoon in encouraging us not to give up when the going got tough. As students dropped like dominoes, he shared sound reasoning: "you came here to work hard, so do it. Get the most you can today out of your experience here."

I had come to the studio heavy with melancholia and the too-recent Monte Cristo I'd had for lunch and gotten just what I needed from such effective leadership. Ricky drove the bus with a proclivity worth emulating. He was inclusive, leaving no one (even those who tried to escape or lie low) behind. That is exactly how it should be. I hope most people don't pay to coast through class in a way they could practicing on their own in their bathroom. I hope they come to be inspired and transform in ways they may have never thought possible. For me, with growth has come clarity. I am slowly realizing the real sources of happiness in my life, how I can give to and receive from them what I need to do more than merely put one foot in front of the other.

Because I'm Worth It

I hate surprises, but for some unfathomable reason, the men in my life seem to delight in throwing the unexpected my way; while they may think this makes them appear spontaneous and exciting, it does not -- it tends to irritate and disappoint. I am always impressed by actions that reflect knowledge and appreciation of a person; like when my husband has my bar none favourite chocolate confection shipped over from Vancouver -- A+; when he takes me to Thailand to stay in rat-infested hotels and have the overt sex trade thrust in my face at every turn for our honeymoon -- big, fat failure. It's like having your best friend, who knows you hate beer, serve you Corona at a party. Maybe he does it because he doesn't actually listen when you speak or really know the intricacies of you at all -- or maybe he just doesn't care, and if that's they case, you probably shouldn't waste any of your spectacular self on his complete lack of effort or interest.

Fortunately, there is such a spectrum of people with whom to associate, if one gravely disappoints, there'll be at least a few who are more than willing to satisfy. Like the lovely, inclusive friend of a friend, who welcomed me into his home Saturday night and proceeded to treat me like a VIP, even though I unintentionally crashed his intimate bbq. Shortly before I intruded, I had been left hanging by an inconsiderate narcissist that (while devastatingly charming) must have thought I didn't mind waiting by the phone with bated breath for him to tell me when to jump and how high. Not one to put up with such insolence, I sent the word out to a few near and dear that I was downtown in need of quality company with which to imbibe. Having Maya as my regular date, it is so infrequent that the opportunity to let loose presents itself, I like to make the most of such precious evenings.

The bbq was charmingly intimate and hosted by a smooth and hot like butter host with the most. As opposed to the standard grill fare, he was smoking butter chicken -- that's right, one of my favourite dishes made from scratch -- and it filled his apartment with the most enticing, heady aroma. The crowd was thin, just the host, his cousin, his roommate and date, with my friend Blair rounding out the group and doing a delightfully considerate liquor run to make sure all were provided for and content. Unfortunately, my evening suffered from being overly well-planned, so I couldn't even stay for a bite of dinner and had to politely sneak away to meet my girlfriend and her new main man.

At around 9:30, I waltzed into The Treasury, because of course, at that early hour of the night, there was no lineup and only a handful of quiet souls sipping cocktails; two of these belonging to the mellow set were Sharon and Kristof, with whom I sipped, swigged and bantered until it tolled 11, my stomach growled and the little alcohol I had consumed was keeping me buzzed as it dawned on me I had yet to have dinner. The bar's kitchen had already closed, so we strolled down the street to 100 -- this is a restaurant unworthy of its pretentiousness. For $30, I had one glass of wine and an appetizer so small, it left me wanting. I adore Sharon and am ecstatic to report the object of her affection is everything she described so my time in their company was well spent, despite having to give up butter chicken to eat lame lobster tacos at midnight.

Overall, my night on the town had been adequately salvaged, but not one to hold a grudge, I felt the need to smooth things over with the one who had left me in the lurch early on -- so, in response to an inviting text, I made my way over to On the Rocks to join the gang with which I had originally planned to slurp and sup. The club was packed, but I bypassed the lineup just by asking the bouncer -- he let me slip in despite my denial of his request to see my best "pouty face" -- and walked right into the arms of my friends. Because my host, who tonight was disappointingly without the most, is usually a crowd favourite and seems to know everyone, we were treated very well and the night culminated the way it should have started -- with good people, solid drinks and music and an all-too-rare opportunity to let loose. Cheers to more of the same please -- but next time, let's save the drama for our mamas.