It was very hard to see The Sweetie looking vulnerable in his hospital gown and paper slippers when he was getting prepped for surgery. He came out of the change area looking like a little boy with the hospital paper shower cap on his head.

“Hey hon?” one of the nurses called out to him,“You don’t need to wear the paper hat yet unless you really like that look.”

We had to wait a long time for the doctor and anesthesiologist to arrive.

“Want to do the crossword with me?” I asked. “Want to play dirty hangman? Want to read about dog facts? Want to plan a trip to Portugal?”

“Actually I just want to pace,” The Sweetie replied.

As he paced all I could think about is how few things there are that truly matter. Love, health, connection. That’s it. If that is gone there is nothing else. All the things that I get stressed out about, all the things that I think are a big deals mean absolutely nothing.

“I think you should go now,” The Sweetie said when he had finished pacing and was lying under a blanket the nurse had brought him.

“I’m not going before they wheel you away,” I answered.

“I think I need some time on my own just to zone out and stay mellow and if I have to say good bye to you and you get all emotional I won’t be in the right frame of mind.”

“I won’t get emotional,” I said, starting to cry.

“Really, you should go.You’re going to have to wait around forever while I’m in recovery anyway.”

The Sweetie closed his eyes and then opened them again.“You’re still here,” he said. “You should really go.”

I unwrapped a throat lozenge.

“God, you’re like an unmovable force.”

Eventually the anesthesiologist came, a quirky Nordic fellow with a cute accent and soft hands. I kept it together and watched as they wheeled The Sweetie away and then burst into tears on the elevator. I baked cookies and washed dishes in a daze and waited for the surgeon to call me after the surgery. It’s funny how you always watch the world from outside of yourself when things feel stressful. Things felt slightly removed from reality, like I was sleepwalking through a dream.

I came to the recovery room to find him enjoying a glass of apple juice and nibbling on a tea biscuit. His nurse Svetlana seemed to be a little overly attentive and looked disappointed to see me. “You’re girlfriend?” She asked The Sweetie. “His wife”, I said and tried to drape myself over the bed, the metal rails digging painfully into my side.

Everything is fine, The Sweetie is home and is enjoying painkillers and soup. The cat is keeping a faithful vigil by his side. We have been taking tentative walks around the block and have been outpaced by a toddler. There is nothing I would rather be doing.

I can rest easy knowing that I saw Charles Bradley: Soul of America. It’s the story of a down and out aspiring singer and James Brown impersonator who released his first album at the age of sixty-two. It is about dreams that won’t die and perseverance, but above all it is about a beautiful soul that couldn’t be crushed despite heartbreaking hardships. Somehow his spirit remained so pure and loving and hopeful. Naturally I cried like a maniac and of course I am going to get his debut album, stat.

When I was describing the movie to my fellow doc nerds one friend looked on in horror and asked, “He wasn’t at the screening was he?”

I knew right away that my friend was concerned for the safety of Charles Bradley because he had witnessed first hand what I can be like when I am overcome with emotion after a documentary. I am not particularly skilled when it comes to pulling myself together after a sobfest. I tend to gush and frighten people.

Enjoy the trailer below and to make it more like a Hot Docs experience imagine a sniveling woman clutching her Kleenex to her chest and doing everything in her power not to burst into spontaneous cheers and applause.

I was very sad to hear that Adam Yauch of the Beastie Boys died of cancer yesterday at the age of forty-seven. MCA was always my favourite Beastie. I loved his hangdog face and how he always seemed satisfied to hover in the background.

The Beastie Boys provided many a soundtrack to my hazy twenties. Initially they struck me as slobbering frat boys, screeching anthems for beer swilling neanderthals. Eventually, however, I fell hard for their exuberant, irreverent music. It wasn’t just for frat boys after all. Back in the nineties they played at the Concert Hall in Toronto and although I am uneasy in crowds with an overload of testosterone I gamely went with my boyfriend and his band of glassy-eyed cronies. Although I was a little anxious, feeling like a prim Holly Hobby out of her element, I was memorized. They were silly and uninhibited, something I wish my self conscious twenty-something self could have embraced more fully. I will always cheer for those who are unafraid to look like fools. Those who aren’t concerned with looking like cool guys are always the coolest. The unabashed goofs will always have my heart.

Luckily I found some solace when I discovered this Pinterest the other day (here).

Tax time is not a good time for me. I am disorganized, I am panic stricken and I always have a meltdown surrounded by crumpled up receipts dug up from various shoe boxes and cracker tins. Every year I vow that I will change but inevitably I find myself in the same situation again, lamenting my fate, my lack of funds and career choices. I need to get out of my line of work but do not have a plan B in place. Nor do I have any skills. Nor do I know wealthy strangers who want to hand me thick envelopes of money to sit around in my bathrobe eating snacks and watching television.

Eventually the combination of too much time with a calculator and too much dark chocolate had me feeling anxious. I concluded that The Sweetie and I needed sustenance to prevent my head from exploding. Greasy burgers and fries would do the trick.

“Don’t you want to split onion rings?” I muttered as we got closer to the counter.

“I’m not that crazy about onion rings.” The Sweetie demurred.

“How can you say that?” I cried, almost stomping on his foot.

“If you want onion rings go ahead and order them,” he responded, as if that was the proper answer.

“But then I’ll be jealous of your French fries,” I reasoned.

“So I’ll give you a few.”

I could feel myself getting stressed again.

A friend of mine believes that I was a starving chihuahua in a past life because of my food anxiety. I always worry that I won’t have enough. Often my concerns are justified as I can out-eat most people I know.

“Don’t you think after facing all those receipts we deserve to stuff ourselves? Once we have to start paying off our taxes we may not be able to afford to eat anymore.”

The Sweetie sighed and tried to ignore me as I tugged on his arm. Then I saw a family combo listed on the board. Two burgers, two mini burgers, large fries, large onion rings and four drinks. Now that is a worthy dinner.

“We should get the family combo!” I exclaimed. ”It’s almost cheaper than getting two regular combos!”

“That’s disgusting.” The Sweetie chided. ”That is pure gluttony.”

“Gluttony shmuttony! We can do it!” I said enthusiastically. ”I know we can. I believe in us!”

The Sweetie continued to ignore me.

I could hear my voice rising. ”It’s not a real family combo. You split that in four and you are barely getting a meal. There aren’t enough fries and onion rings to be divided in four. And who’s getting the mini burger? The kids? How old are they? Because if they are older than toddlers they are not going to be satisfied with a paltry sprinkling of fries and a mini burger I’ll tell you that right now.”

“Not everyone eats like you.” The Sweetie said.

“We can do it I tell you!” I was nearly shouting.”Why aren’t you listening to me?”

Not wanting a scene The Sweetie finally succumbed and I nearly skipped home clutching the bulging food sack to my chest.

As we spread our bounty before us, my tax receipts tucked away for another day, I realized I could take a deep breath again. Amazing how a food reward can instantly change my mood. I was a dog in a past life.

The unthinkable happened this week. I passed my road test. I am officially a driver. At age 42 it has taken me an extra 26 years to obtain what most teenagers get as soon as they turn 16. It is a miracle.

Driving was one of those things that didn’t interest me when I turned sixteen. I figured I would eventually get around to it but as I grew older I started to develop a fear of driving. It felt like a huge responsibility and I am suspicious of my own skills and abilities, especially with anything that involves technology and the ability to judge space, distance and speed. I also have a terrible sense of direction.

Although I didn’t feel the need to drive it continued to nag at me. Seven or eight years ago I decided to finally bite the bullet and get my driver’s license. I talked a friend into taking the Young Driver’s of Canada course with me. Being non-drivers we had a running joke of how we would enact our own version of Thelma and Louise and drive across the American southwest. I insisted on being Geena Davis and she graciously complied. Instead of driving a convertible we would have to hire a taxi while on the lam. We imagined the scene at the end when they drive off the edge of the Grand Canyon and wondered how much we’d have to tip our cab driver to take the plunge as we’d hold hands in the back seat.

The in-class driving lessons were tedious and humiliating because we felt like two old ladies surrounded by pimply teenagers. Things took a turn for the worse when I started my in-car lessons. My driving instructor had the unfortunate affliction of collecting spit balls in the corners of his mouth when he spoke. I couldn’t concentrate on the road because my eyes would be riveted to the little balls nestled on his lips. In addition, I was filled with a crushing fear every time I drove. I was suspicious of other drivers. I was terrified that I would swerve into oncoming traffic. Pedestrians seemed poised to lurch at the car. Practicing with The Sweetie wasn’t any better. His nervousness would exacerbate my nervousness which would increase his nervousness until I would be in tears and we would return home, tight lipped, traumatized and silent.

I started to think that I was a menace to myself and others and that I was destined to remain a passenger. I felt okay with that. I’m not so focused on accomplishments that I have to see something through no matter what. I’m okay with being a quitter.

Driving started to feel like a metaphor for my life because so many of my decisions are based on fear. I avoid anything that can increase my already nervous temperament. I am meek by nature. In the jungle I would definitely be one of those skittish gazelles that are a tasty lunch for predators. Regardless, I decided that I would give driving a final shot and if it still didn’t work I would hang up the car keys, knowing that for once I had faced my fear.

By the time I decided to give driving another try my temporary permit and driving school paperwork had expired. Apparently, they expect you to get your license in a measly five years. Once again I had to sit through eight weeks of in-class sessions with sixteen year olds. This time I planned it so that when I finished three hours of classes I would meet The Sweetie at a bar afterwards. My young classmates had fearlessness and taut skin on their side, but after class they had to go home to their schooolwork whereas I could go to a bar and drink alcohol.

Finally the day of my road test arrived. I had one final practice with my instructor on the way to the test. Immediately upon setting out I nearly hit an elderly woman crossing the street.

“I guess hitting the old lady would be an instant fail?” I asked.

“Yes but it’s good, get the evil out now! Get it out of your system before the test.”

“What I need is a cigarette and an Ativan. I know I’d be a lot better then,” I said.

By the time we arrived at the testing centre my hands were shaking so badly that I could barely sign the form the silent examiner handed to me. I felt nauseous. Things seemed to go relatively well until he asked me to back in and park next to a car just as the owners of said car were walking towards it. They looked alarmed as I backed in too close to their vehicle.

“Umm, I’m a little close, do you want me to correct that?”

“Just get out of this space,” the examiner said, sounding disgusted, ”Just move. Nose in to the next space.”

Sure that I had failed, I didn’t even bother trying to drive straight. I parked diagonally across two parking spaces and stopped the car, my shoulders slumped and defeated. He handed me my evaluation sheet and left the car in silence. I was utterly dejected.

My instructor approached the car.

“I think I failed,” I mumbled.

He grabbed my sheet. ”You passed!” He exclaimed, sounding shocked. ”Even with that shitty parking job. That was pathetic.”

I stood in stunned silence as my license was processed. My instructor gave me a hug. I was starting to feel elated as we walked back to his car.

“Now give me the car keys,” my instructor said. “I’m driving you home. You scare the hell out of me.”

On a recent trip to Mexico I noticed that a man kept staring at me on the beach. “I must be looking pretty hot,” I thought to myself. One day he approached me and said, “I’m sure you must have noticed that I keep staring at you.” “This is where he is going to pull a business card from his Speedo and tell me that he is a talent agent,” I thought to myself. I began to imagine the stories I’d tell of how I was discovered by a model scout for middle-aged, soft bodied women.

“It’s uncanny. You look exactly like my accountant in Australia,” the non-talent scout told me.

My dreams of photo shoots and easy money came to an abrupt end. I looked like someone else again. An accountant. Not exactly an image that conjures up exotic beauty and glamour.

“I get that all the time,” I sighed, “I have one of those faces.”

I’d like to think that if I have a double she would be doing something a little more exciting than me, that the other me would be doing all the things I am afraid of doing. I don’t imagine my parallel life as a bean counter. Now I can’t risk going to Australia for fear of running into my accountant doppelganger. I hear that if you meet your doppelganger one of you will spontaneously combust.

Today I was once again mistaken for someone else. Lately I have changed where I go for coffee because they kept calling me ma’am. Recently when I was feeling particularly grumpy with winter angst I stopped in for a coffee and was momentarily cheered when I saw they were serving my favourite blend. I ordered a large, thinking that the day could be salvageable after all.  “I’m sorry ma’am, we just ran out,” the barista said. That was it. Each of us has a defining moment when we realize that it is time to take a stand. This was mine. I stormed off, vowing never to return. At last I had something I could stand by, an unshakeable conviction and unwavering stance.

Since my ban of the coffee shop I have been frequenting a new place where no one calls me ma’am. Today one of the baristas lit up like a firefly when he saw me.

“Oh my God! It’s been so long! Where did you disappear to?” He exclaimed.

“I think you’re mistaking me for someone else,” I said. “I have that face.”

“No you don’t,” he assured me. “You have a very distinctive face. I totally remember you. It’s been ages.”

“I was here yesterday. I swear, it is my face.”

“Well I didn’t serve you yesterday I guess,” he answered, still convinced that I was his long-lost customer.

“Actually you did. You gave me a sample of your maple coffee.”

“You’re not the girl who used to come in every morning for a latte?” he asked wistfully.

“I just look like her. And I probably look like her high school geography teacher too,” I sighed.

“I’m so embarrassed,” he said.

“Well you have a great face,” he added as an afterthought and handed me my coffee.

My face is so great that apparently there are a million of them floating around. So much for being that special snowflake. We all want to think that we are all special in some way, that we aren’t a dime a dozen and that something sets us apart. Instead, I am reminded on a regular basis that as much as I want to think that I am unique, I’m pretty much like everyone else. As humbling as that can be, perhaps it is teaching me a valuable lesson. Maybe I am meant to recognize that we are all unified and connected somehow. Thanks to my it-is-so-interchangeable-it-is-remarkable face I might have more empathy and patience. Except for those who call me ma’am.

The real reason I am crabby is because I am going to an all day Reiki course today. It seemed like a good idea at the time when I signed up. My astrologer had recommended this particular course, mentioning that he practices Reiki on the neighbourhood cats. I was thrilled by the idea of being a Pied Piper, bestowing healing energy on dogs and cats I would encounter. I imagined myself in a pet parade, my adoring furry companions marching by my side.  Now that the day is here I am regretting my choice. I am resentful that The Sweetie and I can’t have our usual Sunday croissant walk. I am anxious that the course will run late and interfere with me being able to watch the red carpet before the Academy Awards. It also might cut into my crucial caramel corn preparation time. I am resentful about the notice I received informing me that we are not allowed to bring coffee to the course. What kind of course is this if I can’t be sipping a coffee while getting spiritual? I fear that I will be cornered by someone who will drone on about her environmental allergies and stare at me for too long. I suspect that I will be surrounded by new age people who will talk about their chakras and how they feel energy coming out of me. Meanwhile, I will be rolling my eyes, thinking of lunch and craving caffeine. Despite the fact that I have admitted that I have an astrologist and want to energetically heal cats, in general, my new agey-ness is limited to liking crystal necklaces because they look pretty. I don’t relish the idea of nodding meaningfully about feeling other people’s energy pouring from their fingertips. Not today. It looks cold outside. I would much rather be making soup than getting enlightened.

I was discussing this with a friend, another laid back sort who recently had a crisis when she realized that life was passing her by and she wasn’t where she thought she would be. She was afraid that she had lost her fire.

“What’s wrong with us?” she lamented. “Shouldn’t we be setting more goals and getting things done?”

We decided to set weekly tasks and check in with each other so that there would be a sense of accountability. We set a date for the following week. When the day came I had to fess up that I hadn’t folded my laundry mountain and she admitted that she hadn’t gone to the gym. We then spent the afternoon eating cheese crepes, drinking coffee and seeking out clothing with animal motifs.

“Maybe people who get a lot done just don’t like to relax,” I said darkly.

“They probably don’t know how,” my friend agreed.

We still have faith in each other. My friend still believes that I will one day fold all my laundry and make it to a 6:45 AM yoga class. I believe she will work on her resume. I would probably get more done if I actually remembered to grease the cooking tray before trying to bake cupcakes so that I wouldn’t have to spend an inordinate amount of time scraping my failed remains out of the pan. Baby steps. We can’t all get things done at breakneck speed. Overachievers need people like me to feel more accomplished and my friend and I need each other to spend afternoons strolling and bonding over coffee. Unfortunately no one needs crusty cupcake crumbs.