The Romantic Elliptical: Part 1

"I want the concentration and the romance, and the worlds all glued together, fused, glowing: have no time to waste any more on prose." Virginia Wolfe

Whitman, Austen, Wolfe, Gibran, Eliot, Shakespeare: Oh, the trickery!

As a young girl, my notion of romance was based on the media and literature I was exposed to; movies, fairytales and teenage dreams. And like every girl, I wanted in on it. I grew up falling in love with eighteenth and nineteenth century literature: the Victorian age of chivalry, sensibility, and romanticism. And it shaped my perceptions in the most traditional way. But when I married, at the ripe old age of twenty, it was far from your expected, traditional and romanticized societal union.

My marriage was arranged and the sentiment of romance was non-existent from the get go. So when I got an elliptical as a birthday present to commemorate by 40th, I didn't bat an eye. Or the Nike runners on my wedding anniversary. Or the breadmaker on Mothers Day.

Squeeze me? What the hell does an elliptical have to do with romance?

It will take a series of blog posts to explain but I aim to shed light on the fallacy that is romance, via my non-traditional wedlock...

Chamomiled Shankar

I slept for a few hours last night. Thanks to Chamomile and Ravi Shankar.

Squeeze me?

Norah Jones HATES being asked about her father while being interviewed. She claims the interview is about HER and not her father, Ravi Shankar. Yes, she is his real daughter. So is Anoushka, her half sister. I always thought it was a shame every time she huffed and puffed about her genealogy. Facts are facts but she is a private person, protecting her life and an absentee father. But I digress.

I stumbled on a combination of chamomile tea and more importantly, a song -- a collaboration of Norah and Anoushka. You see, Norah's half sister has fallen in her father's footsteps and also become a famous sitar player, just like Daddy. I never listened to Ravi growing up but knew he was world reknown and taught The Beatles for a three month stint in India.

So talent breeds talent and I was sent their song by a friend who assured me that this song would send me into a world of relaxation. Norah's soft bluesy voice coupled with Anoushka's beautiful rendition on the sitar. As I finished off my tea and inserted the headphones of my MP3 player and programmed the song to repeat, I fell asleep to this beautiful song named "Easy". She is saying that when your young, love is more real, because you have never been hurt or had your heart broken, and after you grow older, it becomes just another facet of life that loses that first feeling you had when you experienced it in its pure form.

And it was that easy...to unite two sisters, East and West and for me to meet them somewhere in the middle.

The Finding Me Factor

Ok, so one of the benefits of not sleeping is staring up at the ceiling and counting non-existent sheep. In the midst of losing myself in this age-old practice, I started analyzing my life--every minute and gory detail.

I was awake like any other night, lamenting on entering my 40s, when a jolt went through my body at 3am this morning upon the realization that I did not know whether I had IT in life. By the term, IT, I meant what I want in life.

Happiness. Health. Wealth. Success. A great relationship. Fame. A Legacy.

At the end, what is it we are all aiming for? Subjective, isn't it?

And while we pursue whatever it is we are looking for, I don't think I have met ONE person who has EVERYTHING they want in life. There are always skeletons in the closet, ghosts in the corner of our eyes, and monsters arising from the ground. I am not talking about your average horror flick. I am talking about...insecurities.

We all have them. I don't care how confident you appear on the exterior. Of course, some ARE more confident than others. But the only ones I know who are completely fearless are the innocent babes who have not experienced life. Been burned, betrayed, screwed, hurt, fallen, and experienced failure. Most certainly, we learn from our mistakes, although many won't or don't.

But for me, all of these experiences have shaped who I am today. I have written many times that hindsight is 20/20. We all wish at some point to go back in time to right all the wrongs. But this isn't 13 going on 30 or Freaky Friday where you can rewrite history. The reality of the matter is the NOW. Forget the past, bury the skeletons, exorcise the ghosts and face the monsters. To find me entailed all these actions.

What do I want in life? If I am looking for certain things, I have a feeling I wouldn't recognize it unless it slapped me in the face.

And then it hit me, like a ton of bricks, at 4am this morning.

It has slapped me in the face... many times.
And I realized just then, adversity was key to understanding my life.

Squeeze me?

Health= a nephew with cancer
Wealth= a trip to a third world country
Happiness= access to the amenities required in life
A relationship= riding the rollercoaster of emotional highs and lows without puking
A legacy= allowing my progeny to make mistakes and learn from them
Fame= phonecalls and face to face meetings with those who having meaning to me
Success= to find the inherent good in everyone despite evils in the world

It lasted two weeks, my certainty of a "midlife crisis". And as I sat on my window ledge and looked out at the sky, I nodded in acknowledgement. The only certainty is death and not to take anything I have today for granted.

And then I slept...like there was no tomorrow.

Naturally Me

Sleep has eluded me.

It happened around the time I turned 40.

Squeeze me?

I have been laying awake almost every night, confused by my inability to sleep. It was as if my biological clock woke up and alerted every hour to prevent me from enjoying blissful slumber.

Now I live as a nocturnal being--and my mind wanders at night pondering my existence as I lay staring at the ceiling. Hubby snoring, leaves rustling outside in the wind, and my own heart thumping in my brain.

I think its too early to label it insomnia as I drift off at various times of the night--not quite REM sleep but a strange light, 'pretend' sleep where my mind tricks my body that its sleeping when in fact I am aware of all my surroundings. I have the strangest dreams, or 'pretend' sleep episodes that range from work, family and friends, all in the weirdest situations. I won't go into detail in fear of either exciting or alienating some of the people that read this blog. Let's just say these seem to be caffeine-induced dreams.

I must have a stimulant (namely caffeine in the form of coffee or my fav drink, RED BULL) to stay awake--however this chemical reaction propels me throughout the day and there is no slowing down by the evening. Soft music, warm milk, hot baths, reading laborious manuals, watching scientific documentaries, intense needlepoint...nothing brings me to sleep. I drink an ample amount of water to flush it out of my system but to no avail. You may wonder if I take drugs to keep awake, why don't I experiment with them to fall asleep?

Ironically, somehow I cannot bring myself to do the opposite. Call me crazy (and at many times of the day, I do have the wild-eyed look about me) but I need to fall asleep naturally.

But what is truly natural these days?

The things I miss the most -- cont'd

Checklist


-drive 150km on the 407: DONE (I clocked 160 yesterday and still had other drivers whizzing past me--yeah, that sucks)

-rake the leaves and jump in it: DONE (last weekend, I handed the rake over to one of the girls who couldn't understand why the lawn was still a mess)

-watch a sunrise and sunset in the same day: DONE (Sleepless in Markham)

-ballroom dancing (forgot to add to the original list): PENDING (with no partner in sight)

My midlife crisis has officially begun...

The Eternal Smile

When I was a baby, I slept the entire day and kept my parents up all night. The term "colic" was unheard of in the 70s. The doctor claimed I was in the process of 'developing'. My parents came home and took turns watching me--groggy, irritable and sleep-deprived. As they rocked me, they would check to see if I was asleep.
But I just looked back, smiling.

When I was two years old, I had no teeth, could not speak or barely walk. After the tenth visit to the pediatrician, the same doctor yelled at my parents and claimed I was still 'developing' and quite notably, speaking some strange alien language only understood by neigborhood pets.
But I just smiled my toothless smile.

When I was four years old, I constantly disobeyed my father. Leaving the house in the morning, only to be returned by neighbours after sunset. I could not sit still. A new doctor told my parents that I was not hyperactive and suggested to change my diet. When my father would say NO, I would unabashedly question WHY? My defiance silenced him.
But I just smiled, removed my clothes and ran naked down the street.

When I was ten years old, I had a uni-brow, moustache, crooked teeth, and a complexion so dark that you could see the whites of my eyes and teeth at night.
I was the only minority in a vastly caucasian neighborhood where the kids picked on me based my physical appearance. When they shoved me off my bike, pelted me with snowballs, ostracized me from social circles and threw out racial remarks, I often wondered why God made me so different.
But I just smiled and beared it.

When I was thirteen years old, mouth full of metal, decorated with goggles and equipped with a fast wit, I exasperated my enemies by challenging them with intelligence. "Go back to your country!" they would demand. I would laugh and tell them that brown people were here before they were (of course, I was talking about the natives) but this would perplex them and out of embarresment, they still beat me up.
But I just smiled, and as the fists flew, I wore my physical scars like a badge of honour while hiding my emotional ones.

When I was fifteen, and told of what I could not do or be, I retreated into my cocoon. I relied heavily on my imagination of what I could be. Defeated, I gave up pieces of myself to make others whole. Only mothers can think of the future because they give birth to it in their children. And she tenderly picked up my pieces, purposely mixed them up and put me back together. I emerged from the cocoon and allowed them to see my true colours. Colours of sadness, anger, hope, hurt, pride, inner beauty and acceptance.
And I smiled as I opened and displayed my transparent wings.

When I was eighteen, I was a boat, lost in an angry sea -- without an anchor.
And I smiled back, when she waved down to me and smiled her eternal smile.

This smile has stayed with me all my life, through thick and thin, in ups and downs. Its an eternal smile of wisdom and patience. And I have learned that to receive all that is good in life, we must endure all that is bad. The smile may grow weary at times but its contagious and infectious.

And when you wake up tomorrow morning and come across a stranger (who may be enduring the bad) never think twice about sharing your smile. It may just help them be whole again...

Mama's Tribute

On a birthday, most people are caught up in all the hoopla - their age, parties, gifts, dinners, cake, etc.

Instead, I remember my mother.

She was beautiful, intelligent, quiet and demure. I never heard her raise her voice and she protected me unconditionally. She never asked for much, accepted her lot in life, and only remained here for the sake of her children.

My mom passed when I was 18. The world as I knew it would never be the same. She was taken away too early, too fast and I wasn't able to share my many milestones. But I know, without doubt, she has been with me every step of the way.

She continues to come to me in my dreams, fleetingly, leaving me empty when I awake, as I grasp to remember her as she left me.

When I held my first born, my heart ache was two-fold: partly in joy for the new life I brought into this world and for the lifeline that left this world 20 years ago.

No one can replace MY mother. Squeeze me? Oh yes, many have tried but I do not allow that proximity. To me, that's sacrilege.

My birthday is not about me -- it is a tribute to my mama.

Heaven is at the foot of your mother.

The Things I Miss the Most

I was feeling nostalgic this weekend after turning the big 4-0. Starting a new decade in my life made me reflect about what I missed the most in the past. And I realized some of things I need to do now before its too late.

I miss:

-smelling magic markers (I realize I can do this now but where and for how long?!)
-playing soccer in the backyard from sunrise to sunset
-posing for pictures for our high school Grade 10 science book (I can strike a mean pose with a beaker!)
-bike rides to the local variety store and paying 25 cents for a chocolate bar
-driving 9 hours to Sault Ste Marie Ont in the fall when the leaves changed colour
-being in the only Muslim girl singing Christmas carols up in the boonies with my Christian friends
-watching scary movies at night and waking up in the morning with a fever
-in high school, having more guy friends than girl friends (men were uncomplicated back then!)
-working the Midnight Madness shift in Sears as a teen and chatting up the shoppers
-singing and playing the guitar for our garage band in a carport
-camping in a tent with junkfood, magazines, flashlights -- in my own backyard
-Duran Duran--Simon LeBon (my imaginary boyfriend)
-going to McDonalds with my dad, just him and I
-counselling all the boys about their girlfriends
-boys calling my house just to hear my dad's accent and getting drilled why they were calling me
-breaking curfew and my friends laughing to see my dad's bald head and angry expression in the living room window (no matter what time I came home)
-taking my American Motors Hornet car (no shocks, faulty brakes, wired-shut trunk, vinyl seats and gasoline-smelling) with 10 people down the Upper Middle Road bypass (reknown for crazy hills) at lunchtime for a joyride...note: many would forego going in the Jag/Benz/Beamer to go for lunch in my crazy ride
-my mom :(

What I need to do now:

-go 150km/h on the 407
-just buy the CX-9 and live in the moment..of being eternally broke
-get over my fear and learn to swim (contingent on a hot swim instructor)
-chase a tornado (its my destiny)
-tie my tubes (cannot imagine formula and diapers right now)
-rake up the leaves, jump in them, make a mess and rake them again (take order and make it chaotic)
-call my family and tell them I love them (even the ones who annoy me)
-watch a sunrise and a sunset in the same day
-pick up a stranger

I have to stop missing and just go and live. Tomorrow, I may not be here.

Thanks Steely Dan.

I don't get it

The other twin, my dreaming daughter, has always been a little of a struggle for me. From the day she was born, I knew I would be tested with her. When my vet twin, at 6 months, would sit still and listen to my directions, the dreamer twin would stick out her tongue, tuck her hands under her armpits and cry. Whatever I would tell her, she would do the complete opposite.

I call her the dreamer twin because she wants to grow up, go to Eygpt and dig up bones. I bought her a book about Eygpt when she was eight and since then, the stories of the Pharoahs and pyramids enchanted her and accelerated her imagination to envision a world of her and archeology. Funny thing is, her math and science marks...well for better terminology, SUCK.

I have a friend whose wife went into the anthropology field. He told me she didn't finish her degree. It was a highly competitive field and very gruelling. Day in and day out of painstaking measurements and research while fighting in what seemed to be predominately a man's world. I listened attentively and pondered his comments and then thought about my daughter. She is a dreamer and I wondered, do I break her well-manufactured bubble now or let her learn for herself?

She would often come to me with her homework, be it math, science, history, English (ok, pretty much the entire curriculum) and say, "Mamma, I don't get it." I would scold her and say, "Did you even try?" The minute the going got tough, she would give up and seek help. "You give up too easy. Read the examples and go from there," I would say, but she came back, like a boomerang. She would not relent. "I still don't get it," as she curled up beside me. While I held her imaginary hand, we would conquer and complete the question together, without seeing the light in her eyes.

This phrase infuriated me from the time she could speak her first words. I swear, when she was born, she must have heard me say, "I don't get it" when the doctor said I delivered twin girls (whereas the ultrasound showed a girl and a boy). Since then, she had adopted this phrase--and for me, it was one royal COP-OUT.

I sat her down last night and had a heart to heart with her. I chose my words carefully. Growing up with a father who told me that I would not amount to anything unless I studied around the clock was not the motivating, "I have a dream" speech I wished to impart on my daughter. Instead, I sat down with her and smiled. She stared at me, speechless, as I sat smiling at her. "What do you want to be when you grow up," I asked. She thought it was a trick question. "I don't get it," she replied and I was about to bang my head against the wall. But I kept my composure.

"You know I want to become an archeologist." Instead of telling her everything my friend told me about the path to archeology and the years spent trying to attain this goal, I turned to her and said, "Yes. You can be anything you see yourself being. But you have to WANT it. Really bad." She nodded her head profusely. "Then you have to stop saying, I don't get it. You have to think out of the box and stare at what confuses you until you see something you understand."

I said this to her as kindly as possible despite our history of angry door slamming and room departures, hair-pulling attempts towards clarity and ridiculous arguments stemming from allegations that her teachers were wrong and she was always right. Again, she nodded and I could see she was internally debating whether I was naturally calm or drugged out of my mind. "Do you really think I can do it? Do you believe in me?" I almost fell out of my chair. How could she think this way? Why would she think otherwise? And then I realized... I had never said it, never said it out loud--that I believed in her abilities and potential.

I looked her square in the eyes and responded with a firm YES. She got up and I thought it was to come over for a hug but instead, she walked past me, with determination in her eyes. That evening, she worked for two hours straight and not once asked me for any help--although I lingered in the hallway, just outside her door.

I call her my dreamer twin in contrast to my vet twin which connotes the idea that one has her future decided while the other is still finding her way. I realized to dream is better than not dreaming at all.

And today, as she approached me with wide, shining eyes, and handed over her math test that she studied for the night before, with a huge 92% marking on the first page, I knew I needed to keep her bubble intact.


"The finest gift you can give anyone is encouragement. Yet, almost no one gets the encouragement they need to grow to their full potential. If everyone received the encouragement they need to grow, the genius in most everyone would blossom and the world would produce abundance beyond the wildest dreams. We would have more than one Einstein, Edison, Schweitzer, Mother Theresa, Dr. Salk and other great minds in a century." Sidney Madwed

Epiphanies in the stove

Friday night, I kicked everyone out of the house. I opened the windows and breathed in the fresh air. As soon as I heard the car door slam, I knew I was free. Even with the onslaught of Fall, it felt like an Indian summer with the warm breeze hugging every corner of my lovely abode.

I could have grabbed my purse and ran out to shop. Or ran out to have coffee with a friend. Or ran out to take a walk. A million things to do and only two hours to do them in. I stood out in my backyard, on my deck, and looked at the trees. Listened to the birds, and pondered life as I knew it. And then I put on my rubber gloves.

Squeeze me?

Yes, I went indoors, slapped on the rubbers and got to work. Removed one burner at a time and sprayed the inside of the oven with the most repelling oven cleaner known to mankind. I hid my nose under my t-shirt and turned on the exhaust fan. Inhaling the toxic fumes only made my existing cough even worse. And I scrubbed. Yes, I do not have a self-cleaning oven. You are looking at her. And for years, I have refused to bow down to peer pressure to get one. And the other pressure of hiring a cleaning lady. You see, I LIKE to clean. And for me, its therapy. I don't need a psychiatrist to tell me how I am feeling, what I am feeling and why I am feeling this way. My stove has all the answers. The harder it is to clean an item, the more I get out of it and walk away content and relieved.

If you want to really know me, talk to me when I am cleaning. Especially when I am mad. I have been known to stop, in the middle of an argument, grab a Windex bottle, some paper towels and start wiping down a counter, much to the surprise of the other person.

When I am happy, I clean. When I am pissed off, I clean. When I am sad, I clean. When I want to reflect and be myself, I clean. And if the world is a mess around me, I cannot sit down until its clean.

Wash away my sins, impurities, negativity and the wrongs in my life. Order to the chaos. And it is the only thing I can control.