it's always a gamble

When I woke up I knew it was too early. I kept my eyes closed and waited. I got a faint urge to pee and I weighed my options. If I go to the bathroom I may wake up more but if I try to ignore it now it won't be long before the urge to pee wakes me up again, that is if I manage to fall back asleep at all. It's always a gamble.

I got out of bed and limped to the bathroom. I sat on the toilet with my eyes closed, chin in my hands, elbows pressing into my knees.

Walking back to bed I opened my eyes a crack to check the clock.

Six AM. It's Saturday.

I got back into bed. I must have fallen asleep right away because the next thing I knew the alarm was going off and the radio played, set to flow 93.5 fm. I got out of bed, took my pill with a mouthful of water from the glass left on the counter the day before and I flipped on the kettle.

On the news they were still talking about the Queen Street fire. I heard it was huge. Still haven't had a chance to see it. I probably won't until I'm back.

I got up from the couch to make my coffee and I put a piece of bread in the toaster. I sliced up an apple and waited at the counter.

What am I going to do tonight, I wonder? I feel like going out. Already, this early in the morning, I wish there was something to do. Somewhere to go to have some red wine, to watch people. It's always when I'm in the mood that nothing is going on. And really, nothing is going on this weekend. Next weekend however, everything is going on.

I wonder if Andy is back from LA. We grew up together on the coast. He lives in Toronto now and he is always up for something. Mostly, I get the impression, he's up for me, although he's dating this girl from NYC now. Part of me wishes I felt something for him, but it wouldn't work.

I think I'm past proximity. At this point in my life, being nearby, nice, Jewish, and single doesn't do enough for me. What I'm looking for does not necessarily exist in these places. I want to be stimulated and to stimulate in all the ways that that word could be construed.

I'll call him later and find out if he wants to meet for drinks.

My toast pops. I spread a tablespoon of peanut butter on it and I slice a half a banana. I take it into the living room and sit down in front of the television.

They're doing sports. The leafs lost again, and now it looks like no play-offs. I remember so many spring nights spent cheering on the leafs after work at bars with my friends. I stopped watching hockey when they went on strike. That was too much for me. I just couldn't find it in my heart to have sympathy for them.

I think if I went back to hockey now I would return to the habs. I should never have strayed. The Montreal Canadians were my team growing up; Chris Chelios was my dream guy. I had a life-sized poster of him on the back of my bedroom door, the only spot I was allowed to decorate my own way. The whole door went to him rather than a collection of all of the other things that I loved back then, like The Cure, the Sex Pistols, Pink Floyd. The rest of my room was done impeccibly by my mother. Things were always done well in my house.

As I cleaned my dishes up from breakfast, a friend of mine from the university came by to borrow a pair of ski pants for her weekend in Collingwood. She recounted her irritability with people in the neighborhood that morning while she tried to get her errands done.

"I mean I know that this area is dog friendly, but to bring two golden retreivers into an organizational store—you know how narrow the aisles are there—"

I nodded.

"And this women and her daughter were practically standing at my cash while I was paying. I kept nudging the mother with my elbow while I signed my credit card. I just wanted to scream."

I invited her to stay for coffee but she said she had to get on the road and thanked me for the pants.

I closed and double bolted the door, stripped off my nightgown and got in the shower. Even though I was only going to the gym, I couldn't go with my hair dirty. I hate the feeling. I also wanted to be clean shaven because I had a massage appt after the gym.

I got to the gym with enough time to do 45 minutes on the treadmill before my personal trainer. Normally what I do, at least since I hurt my foot in October, is alternate running and walking. I'm trying to take it slow. I've been doing 5 minutes walk, 5 minutes run. I am aiming for a 10k charity run in the spring.

At the three minute mark, I noticed out of the corner of my eye, my trainer Isabelle, who has a very feminine name but in fact looks like a boy with her mannerisms and her very short hair. She was stretching someone on a mat. Her client was a chunky middle age women with a bright red face.

I bumped up the pace to a run early, after only three minutes. When I'd been running for a bit I realized my motive. I think I was trying to impress Isabelle. It was in the same way I might push myself harder when there's a cute guy next to me, or when I practically ran double time all summer with Harry along the beltline [which I now blame for my foot issues]. It reminded me of gym class in grade seven, when we were doing time trials. I was pretty fast at step-ups on a bench and I wanted to show-off in front of the teacher who was timing me and counting. I broke my ankle.

My need to impress has caused problems for me in the past, yet there I was, trying to impress the boys...and girls.

Not only did I start running sooner, I didn't stop for my usual five minute intervals. I didn't stop until I hit 30 minutes. I guess I'm just human, and that part of me doesn't discriminate.

She is kind of cute, in a male sort of way, I thought a few minutes later when she came over to get me for my session. If only she had a penis...