lazy Thursday evening

I wonder sometimes if there’s an alter-ego of me out there doing all the things I should be doing, those things a/my projected Self accomplishes as I look on, cheering her on, feeling a slight sense of guilt. I settle on my sofa one hour before my bedtime under a cozy blanket. I think of the time I will pass reading, and I look to my watch to be sure of the time. It is the time I had planned to be drying myself off after my swim. The bus will pass in fifteen minutes and I must hurry if I want to save myself the 30-minute walk coldward to my little humble home. I hide my hair under my tuque to be sure not to catch cold. My eyes are red. My mascara running (should’ve washed that off before coming!). My brown two-piece is damp and rolled up in my beige towel. I might be blowing my hair just a bit more before exiting the women’s room, corn-colored strands flying up and about by the propelled heat of a bathroom hand-drier, it’s spout turned sideways toward my head. This projected Me feels good after her swim. “I should do this more often.” Her and I, sunk in my sofa, create a mental work-out schedule: Monday off, Tuesday spin, Wednesday run, Thursday swim, Friday yoga, Saturday swim and run (why not, it’s the week-end!), Sunday run, and muscle training any second day. A bit of myself at the back of my head tells me that this would leave me no time for early suppers, or after-work teas with my friends, or lessons, or writing, or reading. Indeed, everything gets into everything else’s way. Sometimes I feel that becoming an adult means settling for not being able to do everything, and learning to set priorities. Maybe it is these decisions that split one into a person and one’s alter-ego, which many seem to classify as their past: Young-Me versus Adult-Me.

I do wish to avoid that dichotomy.

after the storm

Waiting outside, the bunch of us, all strangers waiting and turned towards where the bus should appear, all of us like dogs outside a shop eagerly looking in and waiting for our master’s return. We are all facing one way and not the other, and it is not to protect ourselves from the swirling snow. Last night’s storm laid a powder of fine snow atop an under-layer of thick snow, and this morning it swirls any which way, hither thither. In any direction we cannot see three streets away, the view obstruct by the thick whiteness. The cars, huddled one after the other, crease as they advance, their tires crushing snow. It’s a sound I usually like under my boots, but there’s a sentinel feel to the clamour of the cars that disturbs me. I think, as I look at the red and uncovered ear of the girl standing next to me who has snow drift in her bun of hair, of the sound of her voice when she asked me, “Julie, are you _____’s daughter?” Something in the question scared me, whether her recognition or this odd location of identity, I cannot say; but, my heart skipped a beat. Three streets away I see the bus coming. The time it takes to remove my mit, open my bag, search for my wallet, unzip the compartment where my bus pass is stored, and close my bag, my hand is frozen. My stop is the second on the westward route and I am always assured a seated spot, so I sit down, bag on knees, as the bus creases into a long and slow ride to the metro station, and I write down these lines.