50. Tattoo

My first glimpse of a tattoo occurred at the neighbourhood swimming pool. A spider on a strangers forearm both fascinated and compelled me. Following him around for a good part of the afternoon I rolled the idea of my own tattoo over in my mind. After taking the time and pondering deeply as every wise and worldly ten year old does, I shared with my parents that this was the form of self expression that I wanted for myself. When my mother regained consciousness I realised that perhaps breaking open my piggy bank was a bit premature.

The experience of seeing my hysterical mother beating her breast and cry "Where did I go wrong!" was enough to rid me of the tattoo notion until the teen years thrust themselves upon me. Safely strutting with my "gang" of pimply faced, hormonally charged, thirteen year old friends was discussed the creation of something that would set us apart from the crowd. Scars by branding or razor cuts and tattoos were discussed. The "gang" checked out the tattoo parlours after the reality of smoking flesh and flowing blood gelled in our minds. There was another sigh of relief when we discovered we would have another five years to think about it.... the law stated that they could not tattoo anyone under eighteen without parental consent.

The closest we ever got to displaying our personal statements on manhood was to scratch our initials into our skin with compass needles. Without exception these boldly crafted, manly, messages to the world were covered when we went home after school to do our chores and finish our social studies homework. When the cuts healed we all voiced our disappointment that there were no scars left but again sighed a breath of relief as we no longer had to wear long sleeved shirts in the thirty degree heat of summer.

Although I remained fascinated with body decoration I didn't pursue it until after I reached my early adult years. The conventions of the work I was doing didn't allow for something so far out of the mainstream. I told myself more than once that such an indulgence made about as much sense as a safety helmet on a Kamikaze pilot... besides I had still not been able to decide what my personal statement to the world about what myself was. The roses, spiders, knives and skulls that I continued to see were more suited to the bikers, side-show performers and ex-cons that I saw them on. The idea remained on back burner for a while longer.

A number of years later tattooing became much more acceptable and began to appear on people other than strippers and sailors. At work one day a rather buxom colleague leaned over to inadvertently reveal the butterfly she had put on her breast. After fighting the urge to become a butterfly collector I began looking at the variety of ways that people were expressing their personal statements. Roses and hearts reminded me only that seasons change as well as relationships. I could only imagine explaining to a new love the name of an old one emblazoned on my chest. Skulls, snakes and daggers dripping with blood didn't really speak to my pacifist nature at all. Mickey Mouse and the Road Runner were neither amusing nor cute enough to spend the rest of my life with. The barbed wire design was of interest until a friend told me it was reserved for those who had done time in prison. Once more the paradox arose. I was more than ready to make my personal statement to the world but not sure what it was that I wanted to say.

Life is always reliable in providing the answers to all our questions. Some months later I was pointed toward my life's statement when I realised that I was in the midst of my 'mid-life crisis'. Never one to let good judgement influence rash decisions, I pointed my vehicle in the direction the Smiling Buddha, tattoo emporium that I had driven past on more balanced days.

49. No Pain, No Gain

Looking at my self honestly in the mirror led me to wonder how the hard body of my youth had evolved into the pudgy reality of the present. How my body could have let me down to that extent was a great disappointment. My reflection was put the notion of 'personal growth' into an entirely new perspective. I knew I could no longer use continuously shrinking clothing as an excuse for gaining weight.

Pushing aside my rationalization for the second piece of cheesecake and tired of not being able to breathe or walk afterward I decided that exercise was the only solution.

Remembering the strain of exercise I poured through the net seeking information as to how I might do that by remote control. Finding nothing I trolled through Kijiji seeking someone who might exercise for me. In the end I had asceed that my poor me mode was of little practical value in my pudge war.

Anxiety marked the first night I headed for the gym. How might the 'pudgy one' be received by all the trim and tight bodies sure to be there? How would I react if someone laughed? Was my deodorant as effective as effective as the commercial claimed? How many of them knew CPR for when I keeled over?

The slow pedalling on the exercise bike was like Sunday ride on a warm day, only the wind was missing. Encouraged I picked up the pace. After ten minutes I was certain that I had reached Widow maker's Hill on a blistering hot day. I strained and wheezed on.

Another ten minutes down the road the burning sensation in my legs was replaced with the wonderful distraction of sweat flowing into my eyes. Rather than cause an accident I removed my chaffed buttocks from the bike and with no feeling in my legs promptly collapsed to the floor.

After resurrecting my corpse with some semblance of dignity I did my best jello-legged macho walk to the weight room. Not surprisingly I choose the first piece of equipment that offered exercise in a sitting position... no point in overworking my finely tuned legs. Chest presses, triceps pulls, crunches and bicep work followed. A quick favourite was a butterfly machine. Designed to increase the size of ones Pec's I winged the toy and increased the resistance testing the limits of my strength. Fatigue began to make itself aware and I headed for the change room.

Sliding into a swimsuit I wandered to the pool where I planned to do a half hour of laps to round out my program. I plunged in and soon realized that lying motionless on the bottom was helping me achieve my goal. As I kicked to the surface it became clear why the swim was at the beginning of a triathlon. When the cross training was done I tried to hoist myself out in a manly way at the edge of the pool. Then I went to where the ladder offered a less embarrassing way out.

I knew I was in trouble when lowering my body into the hot tub proved a painful chore. I quietly stretched and rubbed my sore muscles to avoid stiffness and ache the next day.Tired but satisfied I knew that I would soon reap the reward for my efforts a be able to reclaim the body of my youth.

The drive home was uneventful until my calf muscles began to cramp. A bit concerned it was a delightful distraction when my pectoral muscles began to spasm across my chest. Hobbling painfully into my house was beginning to accept the notion of 'No Pain No Gain'. As the charlie horse in my thigh called for attention and my biceps locked up into a ghastly position I knew that if I wasn't dead by morning I was going to be in great shape.

48. The Dog Ate My Homework

In the days when I walked 20 miles uphill both ways to school, excuses for unfinished homework were not tolerated. My truthful explanations for incomplete work included, My younger brother tore it up!” or ”The dog ate it!” or “It blew out of my hand as I was walking in a blizzard to take care of my sick old grandmother.”

Students today are blessed with the same honesty I displayed but are much more attuned to the times. I remember a student who explained the absence of an assignment with “a power surge surge in my laptop erased all the files for the paper that was due today”... an unmistakable high tech version of 'the dog ate my homework.

Such creative enthusiasm calls for detective work that would make Sherlock Holmes proud. One memorable investigation involved a student who explained his absence the day previous with as a trip to the local health clinic. Lacking a Doctor's note he was asked for the name of the Doctor so a quick confirmation call could be made. However, the medical man's name could not be remembered and the address of the clinic was not forthcoming. Even an offer to visit the clinic during the lunch hour was refused.

Under the blaze of fluorescent interrogation lights he cracked. A confession to cutting school was extracted and the lawbreaker was sentenced to detention hall for twice the time that was missed. A classic case of 'If you can't do the detention time, don't do the skipping crime.'

Excuses for late arrivals were no less inventive. A note tendered by a student more than ninety minutes late read: “Please excuse my daughter for being late as she was not in school”. Another contained the following insight, “Johnny complained he was not feeling well this morning. I couldn't decide whether to take him to a Doctor or a Drama Coach... so I sent him to school instead.”

Classic excuses such as “Joey was absent from school yesterday because he was sick. Signed Mom.” still show up from time to time however. It is frightening to think what forms this might take after some coaching from the masters. Joey could acquire the skills required to produce an undetectable forgery. Johnny might use a voice alteration system from his computer to call in excuses for days off.

Remembering my student's excuses and explanations is memorable for the challenge they offered and the entertainment they delivered. It serves as ample evidence of creative fertile minds. Rather than giving me more time to plot new methods of detecting transgressions retirement has given me great comfort. I smile broadly when I remember that these same original thinkers with have to deal with even more creative excuses from their own children.

47. New Years Resolutions

Resolution can be defined as the mental state or quality of being resolved or resolute; firmness of purpose. Through my life I have been described as being in a mental state but more often as lacking in firmness or more aptly... infirm.

I have always hated New Years. I make resolutions that I have every intention off keeping but never manage to accomplish. As the wisdom and insight of ageing begin to gel I have begun to search for a way to avoid my annually foible into failure.

Lack of success is disconcerting enough but when friends and family encourage me to return to my wicked ways it becomes down right discouraging. The year I resolved to lose weight because every piece of clothing I owned had inexplicably shrunk over the Christmas Holiday was typical. Four days after embarking on a high protein, low fat, chelated, roughage enhanced, yeast free micro biotic diet I turned around to find my partner offering me a rather large slice of chocolate cheesecake. "Not to discourage you , she explained, "but the growls from your stomach keep me awake at night and your growling throughout the day makes me want to leave home......eat." Never one to pass up good advice I left my resolution in the dust in order to make someone else's life more bearable. The nobility of my act could not alter the fact that my clothes still were to small to be comfortable in.

The New Years following I found myself in the same situation. Remembering my previous experience I determined that I would need to try a different strategy to reduce my weight. A new, one size larger wardrobe each year was something I just could not afford. I resolved at five minutes before midnight to try a vigorous exercise program that would enable me to fit back into my clothes. Two or three nights a week were spent at the gym. Exercise bikes, weight training, stretching, swimming and skipping were all employed to exorcise away the extra accumulation of good eating. When my partner hugged me I began to moan. It was, alas, not out of passion but rather because every part of my corpse was more tender than I thought possible. When I began to complain incessantly about all the sore muscles she was crushing, she hid my t-shirt and shorts and took me out to buy some new clothes.

Smoking following a similar pattern the new years after that. A week into withdrawal resulted in my friends chipping in and buying me a pack of the brand they knew I had smoked. As I deeply inhaled the room began to spin and a measure of sanity returned. I looked down at my nicotine stained fingers and was thankful for concerned friends but discouraged once more with my inability to maintain a resolution. For a variety of reasons all of my resolutions over the last decade have met a similar fate.

As mid-life works itself out I have come to understand that I must set goals that are attainable and realistic. A bevy of self help books and intense therapy have pointed toward the same thing...."Resolve yourself to aspirations that are both lofty and attainable". Meditation, speculation and obsessive journaling put me in touch with what I could attain but a quote from Oscar Wilde focused me on the resolutions that I am certain I will be able to maintain this year. Mr. Wilde stated," The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it". With that in mind I have resolved to eat as I please, smoke no more but no less as well, to exercise when I feel that rare urge and to resist everything except temptation. To date I have managed to keep my resolution quite easily and not drive anyone to distraction. I may not live as long as I hope but the time I am allotted will be spent more happily by me and by those who have suffered through all my past resolutions.

46. Christmas Office Parties

The Christmas season is open to celebration on a multitude of levels and at a variety of locations. The 'Office Party' a common one that can open up opportunities not obvious throughout the rest of the year. What follows are some suggestions that I religiously follow and that have opened up entirely new vistas.

I never consider skipping an office party... there would be little point to writing this piece if I did. Given that this is the season of good cheer I feel indirectly obligated to be part of this social mixing. Meeting my obligation as a reveller, I arrive on time or even early if possible. Such a strategy speaks volumes about my anal retentive nature or my excessively needy side. Honesty in the business setting has always been a principle I have adhered to.

Personal fashion statements can help open up new experiences... comfort and self confidence are the reward. I generally have difficulty choosing between my polyester leisure suit and my biker leathers. Lately I have found that alternating my outfits or mix matching them works best. Some find my choices a bit off putting to some but with copious amounts of 'shop talk' I can easily put people at ease. I have personally witnessed many a colleague go from wide eyed amazement to a vacant stare before quickly returning to the general throng of partiers.

I rarely eat before the event. Knowing that copious free quantities of sweet and salty food will be available reminds me that I can save money by turning them into a free meal. My doggy bag is a surprise to some but the 'take some home for the week' idea has simply not dawned on them yet. Normally such indulgence would generate a fierce thirst but again the free bar alleviates any worries about liquid refreshment.

The festive music, party atmosphere and free bar do wonders in lowering my inhibitions. I make an effort to wait for the slow songs so I can dance with my female colleagues. Watching them blush with the attention I am affording them I know I am adding to the revelry. There has often been mention of harassment claims in the days that follow but I know they are simply resentments expressed by husbands and boyfriends who afford them no such attention.

I firmly subscribe to the fact that Christmas is a christian celebration. Those I party with who are observing Hanukkah, participating in Kwanzaa or worshiping the Winter Solstice are tolerated but only with effort. I have been called on the carpet several times for my loud shouts of 'heathen!' but I will staunchly continue to stand by my beliefs.

I confess that overly imbibing has been an occasional problem. As I always make it a point to stay to the end of the party I am always able to find someone to drive me home. The distance has never been a problem for me but I do feel badly about regularly putting the contents of my earlier meal on their floor mats.

New worlds have indeed opened up for me as a direct result of these wondrous Christmas Office Parties. Each new year of the last two decades have been spent with the counselors at Employment Canada showing me new direction.

45. Traffic

No matter where I drive I find myself subject to the inconsiderate actions of other automobile owners. A single incident is not so bad but of late it seems that a performance enhanced photocopier has spewed an obscene number of these self centered individuals onto my roadways. The fact that I am willing to share my roads with them seems to have little or no effect on their willingness to accommodate me as I make my way to where ever.

The hyperactive snail is perhaps the most inconsiderate driver that inhabits the pavement. This individual generally pulls out so shortly in front of me, causing my foot to hit the brake and my heart to leap into my throat. Anger rises when I check my rear view mirror and note that the nearest traffic is at least a kilometre behind me. The snail then begins to drop to a steady speed at least twenty kilometres per hour under the posted limit. It is all I can manage not to give him a 'gentle' bump from behind...just to remind him that he is using my road.

A close relation is the 'mucker'. This species is most active after a heavy rain or when the slush of melting snow reaches the axle of my vehicle. Driving habits include pulling in front of me with such vigor as to ensure that an opaque layer of muck immediately covers my windshield. By the time I have slowed down, turned on the wipers, sprayed the washer fluid and moved three blocks down the road, the mucker has moved in front of someone else to repeat the process. These individuals are often found hanging around carwashs and have been known to stalk sparkling clean vehicles.

Rubbernecks and illiterate drivers are another sub-species that cause their own measure of tension and stress. The former seem to draw energy from ogling bent body panels and broken glass at a speed that is only a hair faster than reverse. Although I have offered to provide these individuals with the same opportunity in the privacy and safety of their own driveways I haven't, as yet, been taken up on my offer. Illiterates include those that drive at the posted playground speed whether it is an hour before the zone starts or midnight during a blizzard. I suppose that driving behind these reading challenged drivers in a playground zone is preferable to being in front of them as I pull up to a stop sign.

Another semi-human driver type is the 'Mario Andretti' Wanna Be. Often victims of excessive auto racing movies are under the delusion that they are participants in a real life "Fast and Furious". Screaming past me at an obscene speed they are often responsible a rapid rise in my heart rate and an occasional change of underwear. Weaving in and out of traffic I am certain that they have been placed on retainer by pharmaceutical companies manufacturing heart medicines.

The parking game is another pastime I could do without. I have come to believe that a parking spot is simply a figment of some twisted writer's imagination. I am convinced that the vehicles I see never leave their spot. If I finally find a parking spot I am tempted to join the general population and never move my vehicle again. I do possess irrefutable proof that parking spots ( like UFOs) actually exist... but my publisher's suspicion around doctored photos makes sharing it impossible. I swear that the truth is out there.

44. Morning Commute

As the dog and I growl morning greetings at one another vague images in my head remind me of the challenges yet come. Gagging down breakfast, choosing a suitable quarrel with my partner and chipping away at my children's self esteem are no more than distractions for what I truly fear....... the morning commute.

In this age of increasing spiritual awareness friends suggested that I embrace this daily nightmare rather than fight it. ... that I use it as a learning, growing, spiritual, Zen-like experience. Even though I am about as flexible as case hardened steel I did have to accept that this change of direction was preferable to suffering an aneurysm.

Not far into my journey I realized that starting my vehicle was an opportunity to engage in open-ended learning. Battery charging and boosting... tire repair and replacement... window scraping and snow brushing all contributed to my storehouse of knowledge. The changing seasons added variation to the learning at hand. 'Ditch Slide and Extraction' in the winter was as informative as the 'Choke and Sputter' during spring rains. I admit that the 'How many people can I splash?' in the spring is far more appealing than the 'How many toes will freeze off?' aspect of the winter sessions.

The Zen of the trip in allowed for a full exercising of all my senses. As my bladder quickly fills with the coffee I rented earlier in the morning, I use all my visual acuity to locate a washroom along my route. Other senses come into play as well. The sound of the broken fan belt slapping dents into my hood distract me from fully appreciating the delicate odour of diesel fumes coming from the eighteen-wheelers that have boxed me in.

The myriad of human behaviors also becomes more apparent as I become a more enlightened observer. The old philosophy of 'might makes right' is underscored in a loaded gravel truck changing lanes every thirty seconds while I have been trapped in the snail lane for at least thirty minutes. The higher aspects of humanity are observable as well however. Letting the little old lady move in front of me is a truly humanitarian gesture not diminished in the least when she lets three school buses and a cattle-liner move in front of her.

Tolerance, empathy and balance can be learned along the way as well. When I weigh the urge to scream expletives at the stalled car in front of me against the temptation to laugh at the ticketing of the jerk that cut me off, true balance is achieved. Resisting the compulsion to ram the slow Greyhound in front of me opens me up to be more tolerant. Understanding the grimace and yellowing eyes of the driver stuck beside me is an empathetic reaction based on my own experiences with an overfilled bladder.

The 'Commute' has opened my eyes to the learning that can be had in the other difficult areas of my life. I look forward to the discoveries and pleasures that will be gleaned from my next visit to the dentist.....the next tax audit.... and the next prostate exam I have to undergo.