“If my life wasn’t funny, it would just be true, and that’s unacceptable” – Carrie Fisher
You know your week is not going to go well when it starts off with you being woken up at 3:30 a.m. by a bright shining light. No, not the authorities: the light in my ceiling fan that has been broken/out/not lighting since December. My first thought after being roused from a deep sleep was, “How do dead bulbs suddenly come alive?” I decided not to think about it and went back to sleep. Less than 3 hours later, I was woken again: this time by a jarring loud bark. Ah…doggie wants out. While I was up, I decided, stupidly, to unscrew the glass shade around the light and unscrew the 2 small, but bright, dead, but apparently alive, bulbs. With my bare fingers. Ouch. I am currently typing without the use of my thumb and index finger.
This particular week was ‘errand’ week. I had to get passport photos, my driver’s licence renewed and a pair of pants that had a zipper and a button. I was like a bear this past winter. I stayed in a lot. And ate. A lot. And growled and slept. A lot. And wore stretch waist pants. All winter. The death knell of weight control.
At the first smell of Spring, I walked into a store in my neighbourhood, shrouding my winter body in a baggy coat. I was after a pair of Levi’s. I don’t think I’ve had a pair since 1980. The sister/brother team in the store were lovely. Then she asked me to take my coat off. “Gasp!’ Really?” I said. She laughed. “How else will I know what size to get you?”
She came over with a size that I thought only men who spent the better part of their youth and adult life eating junk food and watching TV would wear. In my shock and awe, I tried them on. From the dressing room, she said, “Size doesn’t matter (we both laughed). It’s the fit that counts”. I came out of the dressing room ashen. “They’re too small’.
She gave me the next size up. Still in my horror daze from not being able to fit into the previous pair, I could do these ones up. Barely. I bought them and asked her, “So, when I lose all this weight how will these stay up?” She grinned. Well, that’s when you wash them. Then use a belt. I left, crushed. And that night made pasta for 8, and ate it all and put my stretchy waist sweatpants back on.
The next day I poured myself into the size __ jeans and decided I would wear them every day until they were too big. Well, that would turn out to be a lie. I made myself feel better by going to get my passport photos. There’s a possible international trip on the cards late summer, so that was uplifting. I went into De Arts, a little post office/health food store on Coxwell. I squeezed into the back room and away we went. The photographer/store owner showed me the first shot. I looked like one of the however many female prisoners are currently in jail for kidnapping and/or multiple murders. I made him take another. And another. He laughed. “They all look the same.” I took the last 2 and left. I sat in the car, threw the pics on the passenger seat and thought, “Who wants to go overseas anyway? The chances of being killed in a plane are too great.” The exact same thing happened 2 hours later at Service Ontario for my licence renewal. The line grew and grew as more photos were taken. Even the woman serving me was laughing. It was funny. Sort of.
On the upside, for the first time in 15 years I had done my taxes. They were ready to bring to my accountant. In fact, I was done three days early. On the day of my appointment, I asked his boyfriend, who is also the receptionist, to call me if my accountant (name withheld) was running late. I got the call. “He’s 90 minutes behind. I’ll keep you posted.” So, I did a variety of errands, one was picking up Sunshine’s (my dog) meds at No Frills. While I was waiting, they had one of those sit down wellness machines. I decided to take all the tests! Blood pressure, BMI, weight, the lot. I wasn’t surprised to see the weight as I knew I was ‘up there’, but it was the flashing red ‘At Risk’ that was disconcerting on the BMI readout. Uh oh. I picked up the meds, and was thankfully distracted by another call from the acct’s office. “He’s ready to see you now.” “Okay”, I replied. I mentioned the intersection I was at, and headed over: a 20 minute or so drive. I had to nick home to pick up my file (a 2 minutes stopover) and went straight there. On arrival I was told I was “45 minutes late. He took the person scheduled after you”. “What?” You just called me 20 minutes ago. Traffic was heavier than I thought”. “Too bad,” and “You’re not blaming me for this!” was the response I got. I thought I was having a bad nightmare. I’d been going to this guy for 15 years. “Ummm, didn’t you call me a while ago saying to come 90 minutes later?” “Doesn’t matter. Get out!” I could see him frothing at the mouth a bit, which unnerved me. I didn’t go and waited for my acct to surface from the basement looking rather pained from the screaming upstairs. Myself and boyfriend both stared at him. I got the long apology and the shake of the finger and was told, “You should always come on time. You never know what will happen. I’m booked now until June 15th.” I looked at him. Then boyfriend. Then they looked at each other. It was a piece of theatre of the absurd. In my ‘gobsmackedness’, I drew a breath, threw some expletives around and left. I sat in my car and thought, “What would make me feel better after that?” Ah…I’ll look at my passport photos.
Not downplaying the week, some good things happened. My clients finally found a place! I had suggested to my clients to “buy first”. It was a jungle out there (just weeks ago). We lost several properties in bidding wars so bullied the bid. And only paid $40K over asking. Seemed a bargain at the time. The plan of action was going smoothly. On Monday we would list their unit. But Premier Wynne’s new leglislation had put the fear of God into the general population and virtually stopped the real estate market in its tracks. Since then, we’ve had 2 showings in two days. And one cancelled. Oh, sorry, that was supposed to be the good news.