All They Have In Common Is Me

[syncategorematic]

 Today was eventful.

I arrived at the school at nine o'clock to deliver the math office their annual Alice Kelley calendar (which had languished in my drawer for nearly six months.) None of the people I cared for or even knew the names of were there; just a student-teacher who had recruited me before in math help because she had no idea how to help students with differential calculus. However, despite this lacuna in a math teacher, she is a nice person, and was very impressed with the beauty of Alice Kelley's work. I hung the calendar up, took the old one down, and stole some of the chocolates the math office had assembled there. I promised to come back for the assembly (since for the first time in nine school Xmas assemblies, I am in it; no, Irene, I did not do student council, but the truth of what the Dark Lord said once continues to haunt me: "Tourmaline, you like volunteering for things, right?")

Smiling to myself, and quietly consuming those peppermint-white-chocolate Hershey's (Hugs? Kisses? Public Displays of Affection?) to the bus station to purchase a bus ticket to Toronto, where I shall be heading on Boxing Day. As I came to the Catherine Street intersection, I see on the other side a woman in a helmet, weighted down with bags, hoping to cross the street and wobbling, losing her balance, falling, getting up again and wobbling again. "Help!" she screamed.

I did the cliché Boy or Girl Scout deed: I sprinted through the crossing just as the light changed and supported her as she and I went back the other way. She was grateful; she thanked me and wished me a merry Christmas. From the helmet she wears and the way she walks, I strongly suspect she has vestibular disabilities. I hope she got home safely.

David Wong suggested, in the article I read yesterday "7 Reasons the 21st Century Is Making You Miserable" (read that, and The Monkeysphere and the suicide guide too) that "You can line up for yourself a spread of your favorite liquor, your favorite video game, your favorite movie and your favorite sex act, and the sum total of them won't give you the same kind of lasting happiness you'd get from helping the cranky old lady down the street drag her garbage to the curb. "


I misremembered it as "helping an old lady across the street" when I grinned to myself on the way to the bus station. I am not sure the happiness was lasting, but as possibly my favourite Emily Dickinson poem goes:
If I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain;
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin
Unto his nest again,
I shall not live in vain.

Arriving at the bus station, I got an unexpected surprise. It turned out that my student discount would not have worked December 20-24, and December 27-30 --- but does work on the one day I wanted to go, December 26. I "erected an altar and thanked buddha"  or at least got much joy from this unexpected luck, painlessly bought my ticket, and headed back to the university, to sit in my office for possibly the last time this year and  try to arrange a meeting with Irene and Athaira, which arrangement barely happened before the assembly was due to occur.

In between things, I also visited the Rideau Centre (everyone says the mall are crazy, but I am somehow immune to registering this), checked Just Curious for horseradish jelly (only horseradish-flavoured red pepper jelly, so no luck) and decided to invest in new insoles for my Ara boots.

I love my Ara boots dearly. In their guaranteed-waterproof Gore-Tex splendour, they have taken me from Harrods Luxury Hall to Bagelshop dance floor, and snow and rain and many many streets of England and Ottawa between. I had prudently put gel demi-insoles in them to cushion the balls of my feet before I left for England, and these things saved my sole and soul from misery on many a long walk (I never feel a need for heel cushions, strangely enough, although the abundance of them on the market proves that other people do.) However, gel does give the insensitive calloused foot an almost-illusion of wetness, while Mysteryperson#1 did warn me one thing about waterproof shoes: water can't get in, but if it does get in, it can't get out either.

Beneath my gel insoles, the footbed got wet. I even know when; it was when I got my socks wet while wearing loafers taking the Bagelshop garbage out, and then didn't get my socks fully dry, naturally, before changing into boots. And the footbeds were making every sock I wore in them wet, and my toes miserable. I assuaged the problem slightly by the tried, tested and true method of wrapping my feet in newspaper strips (age-old trick my parents taught me back when I was a little kid and would stick my sneaker-shod feet into every puddle to learn how deep it was; it has saved me in several rainstorms since, and is one of the reasons that anyone who knows me well wants to be on my team after a nuclear holocaust). However, this was only a stopgap solution, so I removed the gel demi-insoles and thanked them for their usefulness, and bought full Arctic Thermal insoles in felt and aluminum, to insulate my body heat.

On my list of things that can bring divine joy, dry feet are near the very top, vying with hot showers and warm beds (I know to be grateful for these things; I've lived a life that made me a tough woman in other ways that make people want to be on my side after Ragnarok shall come). My feet were not entirely dry, as I didn't manage to dry my socks, but my quality of life skyrocketed. I went to the assembly, met up with the Reach players and Lady Mollweide, and we sat together, along with Cuchulain come back from Waterloo and promptly conscripted. We had the buzzers and each of the nine Reach players had a trophy. Nelson carried the plaque for the city championship, and during lulls in the assembly action, we discussed the plates on it for winning years (the last two, at least, are our school's. So is 2000-2001 and 2003-2004. All they have in common is me.)

The AVA is bordering on incompetence, but some of the skits were funny, such as a small Asian girl and three tall guys doing a parody of the Dance Club's eternally long hip-hop routines, or a videotaped "commercial" of a student curled up behind a thick textbook and going mad, with the final message: "Study Ahead of Time: A Message From The OCDSB". There were a bunch of surprisingly good musical numbers, particularly a student who had appeared on Canadian Idol; however, her rendition of "White Christmas" threw me off. "White Christmas" is always supposed to be melancholy and nostalgic, to my mind, not foot-stomping and toe-tapping. Another student sang "All I Want For Christmas Is You", a song I've ignored on the canned Christmas carols in stores, but which now made me think. There was an eggnog-chugging contest, the less said about which the better, and between other things it was time for the skit we were in, the most highly anticipated skit of any school Xmas assembly, the teachers' skit:

On the nth day of (this school) my teacher gave to me:
One prancing principal (she tried to prance differently each time across the stage)
Two VPs (stalking across the stage, walkie-talkies to their ears)
Pi math teachers (four math teachers including Lady Cauchy and Lady Runfar, carrying "3" "1" "4" "..." Getting them in the right order was the fun part.)
Four French films (one of the French teachers carrying across those black-and-white clap-things you open filming with, whose name I do not know in English)
Five PD Days! (five teachers running across, jumping for joy)
Six Improv members (I love and admire the Improv team, they did something different each time on the stage)
Seven skippers skipping (teachers with a skipping rope; when I told Athaira later about this, she had forgotten about the relationship between skipping and school)
Eight bad excuses (teachers with posters "My dog ate it", "My printer ran out of fuchsia", "I had the 75-minute flu", "I thought it was a Day 3 [there are only Days 1 and 2 now]" and some others)
Nine Reach members (that was, counterintuitive I know, us: four junior players each carrying a buzzer, me with the control terminal for the buzzers, four senior --- incl. Cuchulain --- players each carrying a buzzer, trophies in the other hand of everyone.)
Ten Lords a-leaping (bunch of male teachers leaping across the stage)
I cannot remember what eleven was
Twelve StudCo [Student Council] members!

I must say, one thing eight and a half years of dance training gave me --- I know how to walk across a stage well. The others skipped, or ran, or bounced; I strode, torso three-quarters view, face full towards the audience, automatic smile you can see a mile, flourishing the Ottawa Quizbowl Tournament 2006 2nd Place trophy (still a remarkably big piece of hardware; Steinbeck doesn't skimp, the gods bless him). Then as we cross the stage, in the wings with the other participants I instruct the students to pirouette and switch buzzer hands, so that the juniors lead there, the seniors lead back, etc. "Be careful, we are all connected by a cord and we have big pointy things!"  At one point I did clip Cuchulain with Nike's wings, but he forgave.

Then when the skit was over, during another musical number, I gathered up the trophies to take them with Lady Mollweide back to the main office (I never knew that they were kept in the main office; the trophy cabinet in the main hall is full, from the school's illustrious history). Most of the trophies are from the Quizbowl Tournaments, and as such are the type with two pillars supporting a crossbar with Nike on top, thus making a hole in them that allowed me to string five trophies along my arm, and clutch the one from Nelson's tournament in my hand. I wish someone got a photo of me; I looked quite impressive.

The Dark Lord was patrolling the entry hall. I only grinned at him on my first trip, carrying the trophies in, but on my second trip to bring in the city plaque, on the way out I told him:

"You saw all those trophies we brought in?"

"Yes."

I smiled, "All they have in common --- is me." When I recited this to Irene and Athaira afterwards, imitating my voice and expression, they burst out laughing at how evilly delighted I looked.

I may lie; all they have in common also is Kilhuch, since he has been present throughout the school's entry into Quiz Bowl, which brought a lot more trophies than Reach does. But considering the names on the plaque, I have more of an influence on those than Kilhuch does. Anyhow, it makes for a great joking line, and the Dark Lord did smile.

My interaction with the Dark Lord this past semester has been minimal in comparison to past years. Little by little, I believe, he is fading out of my life, having taught me what life needed him to teach me ("Throw it out, get a new one"; "Might as well get the best you can afford"; "Under the most tightly controlled conditions of all variables, the robot will do as it damn well pleases"; "Blame everyone equally after a screw-up"; "Tourmaline, I trust you to have patience"; the aforementioned "Tourmaline, you like volunteering for things, right?"; "Never ask for anything, especially of those stronger than you; they themselves will offer, and they themselves will give everything"; and a deep and pure love for robotics, Keynote 3, the Lord of the Rings movies, and most importantly, math.) Last time I talked to him was before math help a couple of weeks ago; he was crouching down on the floor beside his classroom, waiting for the class using it to be done, and we conversed briefly as to why he was doing that. While speaking, I had a very strong urge to crouch down as well and be at eye level with him, but recognized it for what it was: mirror, mirror those whom you still want to acknowledge as stronger personalities than yourself. My consciousness refused to do so; I feel strong enough to not follow the Dark Lord's willpower now. As a friend's favourite quotation goes,
I am an endangered species
But I sing no victim's song:
I am a woman,
I am an artist,
And I know where my voice belongs.

I have been trained and taught to follow and defer, but in many situations, I now find, it can make me follow a follower, circling around like a Cepheid variable star, and although I love Cepheid variables, I don't think I ever said that I want to be one when I grow up. I cannot and should not deny my power as an authority (hate leading, but I am an authority, yes), as a strong woman who can command, demand and reprimand, who gives respect but expects the same. Athaira said in a comment a few posts ago, "Do you know, you've always been the strongest person in my life?" That left me speechless, and touched near to tears; I have always wanted to be that way to someone, always, all my life, and it touches me beyond what I can express what that statement meant to me.

The Dark Lord is strong, but so am I.

The assembly was finished by the time I returned. I chatted with Lady Cauchy, and then she and I went to the math office so that she could take a look at the new calendar (and I filched some more chocolate and cheesecake, since none of the dieting teachers were touching it; the thing that really motivated Mysteryperson#1 to say that line about being on my team after a nuclear holocaust, several weeks ago, was that I am marvellous at finding available edibles, whatever form they take). She and I talked about www.madewithmolecules.com, and she wanted me to show Lady Runfar that creativity necklace I have from them, with serotonin, dopamine, and acetylcholine. I had almost never taken it off since it arrived on December 5,  and I was glad to oblige. I was wearing that red sweater I got from mine hostess in England, the one with the  large foldover collar (red sweater, red coat, and burgundy t-shirt beneath it all; I was seriously feeling in need of red energy today,  methinks), and had the necklace beneath the collar so I could fiddle with the dopamine as needed. I unclasped the necklace and showed it to her, then  moved to clasp it again.

The clasp had snapped off and was lying on the floor.  The sterling-silver snake chain had parted; I have never seen this happen before with a snake chain.  I tucked the necklace and clasp into a zipped pocket of my bag, feeling almost not-dressed without it.

I sent a quick email to Athaira, then sent a longer one once I departed, wishing everyone there happy holidays, went to my office, and from there headed off on a walk to the Glebe Bridgehead. There I met with Athaira and Irene.

What we spoke of, Athaira's next Facebook note shall tell the funniest quotes of. They looked at the broken necklace in sadness (Athaira was continuing to wear the caffeine one I gave her, and it gave me joy again to look at it.)

"Okay," I said, "I am going to go to Magpie, and ask if they can solder sterling silver. I was considering soldering it myself [I've done so once, but I remember how], but what I have is tin solder, which will probably not work well with sterling. If that fails, I can loop the chain, secure it with a crimp bead or something, put a jump ring through the loop, and the clasp on that jump ring." My audience members preferred the consult-a-professional scenario best, but it made me smile that I could indeed repair my own jewelry if the need arose.

We first went to J.D. Adam, store of gifts and housewares. Irene and Athaira bought gingerbread-person cookie cutters; I scoured the condiment shelves. They did have mustard and red pepper jelly but no horseradish jelly.

At Magpie, the lovely ladies confirmed that they can indeed repair the necklace, but that the silversmith is going on vacation, so it would be repaired in January. To reserve my place in the repair queue, I turned the necklace over to them.

And missed it. I found myself looking at the things Magpie had on sale, longing and wondering and wanting for something to replace my neurotransmitter charms. I had so wanted to wear the cool necklace to Toronto, among other things. And here you go, a complete freak accident that should never ever happen, that I have never had happen before, an inherent unpredictable weakness in the metal choosing to give up at this very time! What in the world did life mean by this, temporarily taking away my use of my dopamine shapes when I wanted them? A sign that I should go make my own dopamine and serotonin?

I did not buy anything. Irene needed a hostess gift for a party, so we went afterwards to Il Negozio Nicastro, which I had resented for copying the bagelshop's ideas, but was unimpressed at their smaller selection. A notable lacuna in their smaller selection is, of course, horseradish jelly. My diligence astonishes me.

Irene waited for her ride and we waited with her in the Scotiabank foyer. We spoke of various things I had been thinking about. Then Athaira and I walked to the usual intersection of where we part.

"I didn't know who I wanted to be like," she told me concerning the strongest-person quotation. "I thought, "I don't want to be like them."  Or "I don't want to be like them. --- Oh, here's who I want to be like!" So I followed you around for like six months."

"In grade five? I don't remember."

"Intellectually, not physically. Not actually trailing after you like a puppy."

"I am sure I would have noticed that," I said, and smiled as I walked home on new warm insoles.

Comments

[indicolite.livejournal.com]

Eleven mental health days.

[athaira9.livejournal.com]

:)