This reminds me of being a kid.
I still know all the words.
Monday, January 30, 2012
Work walk
As often as I can, I walk to work. It's not far. A little over 3k. A bridge, a left turn, and 12 blocks North.
People often think it's ludicrous for me to walk to work. Not because of the distance. It's only a half hour. But because of the time commitment. The uncertain weather. The wind that pelts my face perilously (and predictably) every evening home.
"Im sorry you have to walk today," said tonight's client as he left the office at 6.
"Dark and ugly."
Funny, I though. Looked peaceful to me.
For a girl who often works 12 hour days, an extra half hour on both ends can be daunting. But there's therapy in those steps.
Tonight, after a long day of scrambling, phone calls, deadlines, mistakes, questions, and a to-do list that didn't get even one line shorter but grew exponentially, the walk was like an hour on a couch with a counsellor, an afternoon tea with a friend, a hike through the bold, bright rainforest, a run on the sea wall, and bootcamp at sunrise all rolled in to one.
With purse on shoulder, accounting paperwork in hand, tomorrow's presentation in my backpack, and my sweet yet psychotic dog on leash, I opened the doors at Homer and Pender and set foot home. It was 8 pm. The sky was black. The city was aglow. the breeze was cool and almost still. And a homeless man with a shopping cart full of possessions waved hello (which was sweet until a rickety wheel sent Harley into a tailspin of anxiety.)
I turned right on to Homer.
The Italian barber across the street was sitting in the window, customer-less, cutting an apple with a knife.
A beautiful woman in a tan shawl and stilettos ran up and hugged a man in nice shoes and an ugly coat in front of the Opus Hotel. Harley darted left then right. Then forward then left. Her ears perked. Her tail curled tightly under her belly.
I laughed. Out loud.
"Your nuts," I said. And gave her a pat.
She gave me a knowing look: "I'm nuts? You're the one talking to a dog!"
We carried forth.
The traffic hummed.
A mass of people exited the Chinatown SkyTrain station at once.
Harley and I morphed into the masses and crossed the Cambie parking lot in anonymity.
We passed the Terry Fox memorial that Douglas Coupland designed and installed this year.
I always pause there.
It's quite something.
Onto the bridge, the wind picked up in its signature style. Harley panicked as a bag rolled toward us like plastic tumbleweed.
To the left: East Vancouver all aglow. ScienceWorld like a disco ball. Rowers paddling in the bay. The ferry taking the last passengers across. To the right: UBC to the South and Downtown to the North. Lights everywhere. Black sky. Pretty.
I stopped to take a picture (night time pictures never turn out).
And, right then, a big fat rain drop splashed on my cheek.
Then another.
And another.
Mother nature loves to throw curve balls on the walk home.
And although my pants were soaked, my accounting papers damp and wilted, and Harley rank with Wet Dog smell, that walk was the best part of my day.
Probably will be tomorrow too.
People often think it's ludicrous for me to walk to work. Not because of the distance. It's only a half hour. But because of the time commitment. The uncertain weather. The wind that pelts my face perilously (and predictably) every evening home.
"Im sorry you have to walk today," said tonight's client as he left the office at 6.
"Dark and ugly."
Funny, I though. Looked peaceful to me.
For a girl who often works 12 hour days, an extra half hour on both ends can be daunting. But there's therapy in those steps.
Tonight, after a long day of scrambling, phone calls, deadlines, mistakes, questions, and a to-do list that didn't get even one line shorter but grew exponentially, the walk was like an hour on a couch with a counsellor, an afternoon tea with a friend, a hike through the bold, bright rainforest, a run on the sea wall, and bootcamp at sunrise all rolled in to one.
With purse on shoulder, accounting paperwork in hand, tomorrow's presentation in my backpack, and my sweet yet psychotic dog on leash, I opened the doors at Homer and Pender and set foot home. It was 8 pm. The sky was black. The city was aglow. the breeze was cool and almost still. And a homeless man with a shopping cart full of possessions waved hello (which was sweet until a rickety wheel sent Harley into a tailspin of anxiety.)
I turned right on to Homer.
The Italian barber across the street was sitting in the window, customer-less, cutting an apple with a knife.
A beautiful woman in a tan shawl and stilettos ran up and hugged a man in nice shoes and an ugly coat in front of the Opus Hotel. Harley darted left then right. Then forward then left. Her ears perked. Her tail curled tightly under her belly.
I laughed. Out loud.
"Your nuts," I said. And gave her a pat.
She gave me a knowing look: "I'm nuts? You're the one talking to a dog!"
We carried forth.
The traffic hummed.
A mass of people exited the Chinatown SkyTrain station at once.
Harley and I morphed into the masses and crossed the Cambie parking lot in anonymity.
We passed the Terry Fox memorial that Douglas Coupland designed and installed this year.
I always pause there.
It's quite something.
Onto the bridge, the wind picked up in its signature style. Harley panicked as a bag rolled toward us like plastic tumbleweed.
To the left: East Vancouver all aglow. ScienceWorld like a disco ball. Rowers paddling in the bay. The ferry taking the last passengers across. To the right: UBC to the South and Downtown to the North. Lights everywhere. Black sky. Pretty.
I stopped to take a picture (night time pictures never turn out).
And, right then, a big fat rain drop splashed on my cheek.
Then another.
And another.
Mother nature loves to throw curve balls on the walk home.
And although my pants were soaked, my accounting papers damp and wilted, and Harley rank with Wet Dog smell, that walk was the best part of my day.
Probably will be tomorrow too.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Falling down + brushing it off
I was out for a run this morning. 10 minutes into my stride, I hit a sidewalk rut, fell forward, and summersaulted quite accidentally, quickly, and painfully into the middle of a downhill street. In hindsight, it was probably fairly hilarious to see. The stuff that slapstick comedies are made of. But bystanders are few and far between at 5:30 on a dark, dank morning in Vancouver. And the humour was lost on me.
I was stunned.
I sat in the middle of the street for a moment.
Wondering what to do.
Go home?
Carry on?
Am I hurt?
How's my back?
I stood up.
Looked around.
My legs were a bit shaky.
My pants skinned in the knees.
My gloves ripped.
I was either a sorry sight, or one bad ass running chick.
I rubbed my legs. Walked around. Took a deep breath.
And carried on. Slowly. A little unsure. But I carried on.
As the pain dwindled and my natural stride came back, I realized that had anyone seen me fall and asked "are you ok?", I would have cried on the spot. In truth, I was terrified. And it hurt. And for a few moments I wanted a hug and a safe place.
But just like a little kid bonks his head on the coffee table and whose parents don't make a fuss, all those shaky little insecurities inside that told me I was hurt and needed help faded. And it turns out I was ok. Save for a skinned knee and a litlte road rash on my butt.
A small price to pay for being Bad Ass, I guess.
I was stunned.
I sat in the middle of the street for a moment.
Wondering what to do.
Go home?
Carry on?
Am I hurt?
How's my back?
I stood up.
Looked around.
My legs were a bit shaky.
My pants skinned in the knees.
My gloves ripped.
I was either a sorry sight, or one bad ass running chick.
I rubbed my legs. Walked around. Took a deep breath.
And carried on. Slowly. A little unsure. But I carried on.
As the pain dwindled and my natural stride came back, I realized that had anyone seen me fall and asked "are you ok?", I would have cried on the spot. In truth, I was terrified. And it hurt. And for a few moments I wanted a hug and a safe place.
But just like a little kid bonks his head on the coffee table and whose parents don't make a fuss, all those shaky little insecurities inside that told me I was hurt and needed help faded. And it turns out I was ok. Save for a skinned knee and a litlte road rash on my butt.
A small price to pay for being Bad Ass, I guess.
Monday, January 23, 2012
Oak Street Hill
I like to end my short evening jaunts with a dash up the Oak Street Hill. It's one of those hills that they close off on snowy days because it's too steep to drive. The sidewalks have been engineered with concrete treads a foot a part for two blocks. It burns - in a good way when I really want to give it and in a bad way when I'm feeling a bit sluggish. But no matter whether I love or loathe the trip to the top, the top is the best. Not because I made it, but because when I turn around, just before I head down, there is a beautiful view of the city. It sparkles. And I can't tell whether I'm short of breathe because of the run or the awe.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Balance is a dirty word
I've been working 7 days a week since June 2006 when I ventured out to start a dream.
Sometimes, like this weekend, I've slaved away for 14 hours each day and missed entirely the 12 hours of daylight between dawn and dusk. I've forgone the idea of having two days off and a little relaxation for a whiteboard, a creative brief, and a deadline more times than naught.
For the 9-to-5er looking in, it seems horrid. No benefits plan. No overtime pay. No sick days or vacation pay.
Friends joke casually but with undercurrents of concern: "You know, weekends? Those are two days that you don't work!" and then they venture off, without me, to drink beers, watch the game, get pedicures, lunge around, hit the climbing gym, run a trail, clean the house, do the laundry.
I haven't done laundry since Christmas (gasp!). I've worn these pants 7 times.
The crazy thing is, as much as I covet free time, my runs, my workouts, my plays with Harley, my tea dates with old friends, when I am here, slogging away, I kinda don't mind it. Sometimes I am bitter, sure. Sometimes I wish I was on a mountain trail. Sometimes I wish it was another way. But I built this little company from the ground up. It's rooted in my heart. And I love it to the very inside of my soul. And when I'm here, it's just a part of me. It's not work; it's instinct.
And it's odd when people say to me "Kim, you've got to find some balance."
I mean, I get it. It makes sense. I do work a lot.
Sundays aren't for building marketing plans they're for dishes and crossword puzzles and snowboarding on the North Shore.
I get that in its truest sense.
Then again, this marketing plan is killer, my client is going to be wowed, and my heart is a bit aflutter about the idea on page 8 that really zings.
What is balance any way?
My balance is nourishing my gut with the things that propel me to do better, be better, and make differences – however big or small. Sometimes that means 5 days of work and two days of mindless play and creative rejuvenation. Other times it means 18 hour days, Starbucks for dinner, and a brain on overdrive searching for the next great tagline, colour palette, pattern, medium to bring a smile to someone else's face on Monday.
"You're married to you work," my friend said like it was pathetic.
Maybe.
But the work ignites this little spark in my belly.
And I love it.
Even at 11 pm on Sunday when I haven't had the chance to see the light of day or put on a load of laundry.
I still love it.
Maybe balance is overrated.
or maybe I've had balance all along.
Sometimes, like this weekend, I've slaved away for 14 hours each day and missed entirely the 12 hours of daylight between dawn and dusk. I've forgone the idea of having two days off and a little relaxation for a whiteboard, a creative brief, and a deadline more times than naught.
For the 9-to-5er looking in, it seems horrid. No benefits plan. No overtime pay. No sick days or vacation pay.
Friends joke casually but with undercurrents of concern: "You know, weekends? Those are two days that you don't work!" and then they venture off, without me, to drink beers, watch the game, get pedicures, lunge around, hit the climbing gym, run a trail, clean the house, do the laundry.
I haven't done laundry since Christmas (gasp!). I've worn these pants 7 times.
The crazy thing is, as much as I covet free time, my runs, my workouts, my plays with Harley, my tea dates with old friends, when I am here, slogging away, I kinda don't mind it. Sometimes I am bitter, sure. Sometimes I wish I was on a mountain trail. Sometimes I wish it was another way. But I built this little company from the ground up. It's rooted in my heart. And I love it to the very inside of my soul. And when I'm here, it's just a part of me. It's not work; it's instinct.
And it's odd when people say to me "Kim, you've got to find some balance."
I mean, I get it. It makes sense. I do work a lot.
Sundays aren't for building marketing plans they're for dishes and crossword puzzles and snowboarding on the North Shore.
I get that in its truest sense.
Then again, this marketing plan is killer, my client is going to be wowed, and my heart is a bit aflutter about the idea on page 8 that really zings.
What is balance any way?
My balance is nourishing my gut with the things that propel me to do better, be better, and make differences – however big or small. Sometimes that means 5 days of work and two days of mindless play and creative rejuvenation. Other times it means 18 hour days, Starbucks for dinner, and a brain on overdrive searching for the next great tagline, colour palette, pattern, medium to bring a smile to someone else's face on Monday.
"You're married to you work," my friend said like it was pathetic.
Maybe.
But the work ignites this little spark in my belly.
And I love it.
Even at 11 pm on Sunday when I haven't had the chance to see the light of day or put on a load of laundry.
I still love it.
Maybe balance is overrated.
or maybe I've had balance all along.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
A step backward and a piece of humble pie
I woke up early on Sunday ready for my weekend workout with my trainer. But after 25 minutes of waiting in the park, cleats on, mat rolled out, warm-up completed, I realized he wasn't going to show. I had two options: Go back to bed (very appetizing) or expend energy.
I opted for option 2.
Came home.
Changed out of cleats and into runners.
Texted my running buddy.
She's in Hawaii (jerk.)
Texted my hiking buddy.
"It's Sunday morning and it snowed all night. You crazy?"
Pansy.
Called M.
No answer.
Left message explaining the urgency of needing a trail run.
BBMed to show persistence.
Texted twice.
Peer pressure worked (Victory!).
He texted back, and said: "ok. I'm in. Meet me on the North Shore. Bring coffee."
We laced up, bundled up – hats and gloves on, three layers on – then hit the Lynn Valley trail.
"can't wait to expend energy!" I said slightly weirdly.
"Let's go!" he said and took off down the trail.
Three minutes in, my initial plan had been thwarted.
The trail was covered in ice and snow. Slippery in some parts. Sticky in others. Vicarious all around.
And instantly, my body went into protection mode.
Immediately, on my first minor slip, my brain went into code red.
If you slip, you'll hurt your back, I thought.
And I started to get nervous.
M trudged on effortlessly ahead.
I slowed. Took cautious steps. Held tree branches. Even crawled on all fours at one point.
It was disastrous.
The more I went on, the more my fear escalated.
The more the fear escalated, the more debilitated I became.
And the more I realized what a pansy I was being, the more my self-confidence plummeted.
M waited. He encouraged. He said things like "Hey, if I broke my back two years ago I'd be scared too."
"stop waiting!" I said.
"Go on!" I nudged.
My pride was getting the best of me.
I felt low, incapable, and inactive.
"Let's just walk then. It's amazing in here," M said.
"WALK?!" I almost spit at him. I looked at him with venom in my eyes. "I didn't come to WALK. Hmph."
I treated him like he had just asked me to run naked through a field of barbed wire.
After months of feeling strong again, I felt right back where I was two years ago.
I was frozen in fear of hurting myself again.
And then it came to a head.
I cried.
Big fat wallowing tears.
Sobbed.
M laughed.
(In hindsight: totally laughable. I was being ridiculous.)
I blubbered.
I felt sorry for myself.
I called myself every unflattering thing I could think of -- slow, fat, boring, incapable, pansy -- and on and on.
It really was a show.
And then I pouted as we trudged slowly back to the car.
I was utterly, completely miserable.
I was so mad at myself.
Angry at my back.
Pissed off at the concept of fear.
Irate with the way of the world.
I was a black cloud of despair.
"Man, it was beautiful in there," M said with a smile.
"Mmmph" I replied and stares straight ahead.
But I started thinking "shit, he's totally right."
I live for days like this. For the opportunity to spend time outside, breathing in fresh mountain air, being in the company of birds, new snow, and mighty douglas firs. I mean, this is the stuff that makes my heart sing.
And I wasted it on fear, self-pity, and general self-destruction.
Man, I could kick myself.
Then M said "We'll come back next week with crampons and we'll kick this trail's ass."
I smirked.
Yeah, that sounds perfect.
And so I picked myself up, apologized to M, took a good long look in the mirror and realized how far I've come on this journey...
Onwards I go.
I opted for option 2.
Came home.
Changed out of cleats and into runners.
Texted my running buddy.
She's in Hawaii (jerk.)
Texted my hiking buddy.
"It's Sunday morning and it snowed all night. You crazy?"
Pansy.
Called M.
No answer.
Left message explaining the urgency of needing a trail run.
BBMed to show persistence.
Texted twice.
Peer pressure worked (Victory!).
He texted back, and said: "ok. I'm in. Meet me on the North Shore. Bring coffee."
We laced up, bundled up – hats and gloves on, three layers on – then hit the Lynn Valley trail.
"can't wait to expend energy!" I said slightly weirdly.
"Let's go!" he said and took off down the trail.
Three minutes in, my initial plan had been thwarted.
The trail was covered in ice and snow. Slippery in some parts. Sticky in others. Vicarious all around.
And instantly, my body went into protection mode.
Immediately, on my first minor slip, my brain went into code red.
If you slip, you'll hurt your back, I thought.
And I started to get nervous.
M trudged on effortlessly ahead.
I slowed. Took cautious steps. Held tree branches. Even crawled on all fours at one point.
It was disastrous.
The more I went on, the more my fear escalated.
The more the fear escalated, the more debilitated I became.
And the more I realized what a pansy I was being, the more my self-confidence plummeted.
M waited. He encouraged. He said things like "Hey, if I broke my back two years ago I'd be scared too."
"stop waiting!" I said.
"Go on!" I nudged.
My pride was getting the best of me.
I felt low, incapable, and inactive.
"Let's just walk then. It's amazing in here," M said.
"WALK?!" I almost spit at him. I looked at him with venom in my eyes. "I didn't come to WALK. Hmph."
I treated him like he had just asked me to run naked through a field of barbed wire.
After months of feeling strong again, I felt right back where I was two years ago.
I was frozen in fear of hurting myself again.
And then it came to a head.
I cried.
Big fat wallowing tears.
Sobbed.
M laughed.
(In hindsight: totally laughable. I was being ridiculous.)
I blubbered.
I felt sorry for myself.
I called myself every unflattering thing I could think of -- slow, fat, boring, incapable, pansy -- and on and on.
It really was a show.
And then I pouted as we trudged slowly back to the car.
I was utterly, completely miserable.
I was so mad at myself.
Angry at my back.
Pissed off at the concept of fear.
Irate with the way of the world.
I was a black cloud of despair.
"Man, it was beautiful in there," M said with a smile.
"Mmmph" I replied and stares straight ahead.
But I started thinking "shit, he's totally right."
I live for days like this. For the opportunity to spend time outside, breathing in fresh mountain air, being in the company of birds, new snow, and mighty douglas firs. I mean, this is the stuff that makes my heart sing.
And I wasted it on fear, self-pity, and general self-destruction.
Man, I could kick myself.
Then M said "We'll come back next week with crampons and we'll kick this trail's ass."
I smirked.
Yeah, that sounds perfect.
And so I picked myself up, apologized to M, took a good long look in the mirror and realized how far I've come on this journey...
Onwards I go.
Saturday, January 14, 2012
There's first time for everything
I did something Wednesday that I've never done before in my life: I went for a run with my dad.
4.2 glorious kilometers along the sea wall.
It was pretty cool.
4.2 glorious kilometers along the sea wall.
It was pretty cool.
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