It hurts my feelings when people say I look 18, even though it doesn't actually matter

Last week 4 different people on 4 different occasions thought that I was 18 years old and/or in highschool. For reasons unbeknownst to each subsequent age-evaluator, my responses grew increasingly hostile. To their credit, they had no way of knowing that the issue had become a sore spot for me over the course of last week.
I feared the worst: that moving back home had not only led to a learned helplessness surrounding grocery shopping and other domestic tasks, but to a physical regression as well.
In a gametime decision at Eglinton West station, and largely out of opportunistic bitterness, I asked for 10 student tickets instead of 10 adult tokens- half price and at least four extremely formative years younger- the man gave them to me! And even worse, he called me sweetie. How goddam patronizing. My ego was furious that he imagined my university experience out of existence. Please don't judge. Actually, do whatever you want- just don't tell the TTC. And please, don't tell me I'll appreciate it when I'm 50- it only sends me tangentially reeling because I'm not even sure if I relate to that 50-year-old version as still me.

This issue has featured most prominently amongst parents at a hospital where I volunteer, who assume I am completing my required high school hours. I can't even bring myself to tell them I'm actually completing my required hours to be an eligible candidate for graduate studies, it's simply too embarassing for us both.
Speaking of volunteering, my all-too-predictable ego has struggled in that domain as well- Yesterday, my presence was simly not needed. There was no lonely child calling out for a playmate, no parent that desperately needed a lunch break, not even any toys to disinfect! How annoying. Not even screening a Toy Story parody in my head, inspired by the hilariously labeled "Dirty Toy Bin" in the playroom, could give me the sense of fulfillment I so desperately craved.
And that's when it hit me- I felt entiteled to heart-wrenching hugs from sick children, to crayon images spelling my name with innocently backwards letters, and maybe even to a bouquet of exotic roses from an especially appreciative parent. I felt entitled to being needed and valued by these families. Even more so, I felt entitled to a "rewarding and meaningful experience" that might provide some peace of mind, inspiration, or professional direction, AKA might make me feel good.

I felt I deserved these things, because I was setting aside THREE HOURS A WEEK that were not just about me- but yesterday I think I realized that they still were about me, that this endevor was more so self-serving than devoted to the serving of patients. Uch, dammit. What a funny little game we play, "my" ego and "me." And what a funny little game I play, imagining that I am somehow separate from it...

And, of course, what a funny little game we are all playing who have our basic human needs meant and are afforded the luxury of abstract pondering... imagining things into existence and mistaking them for absolutes, accessing stimuli with our senses and mistaking them for reality, rationalizing and intellectualizing and conceptualizing and mistaking our conclusions for objective
Note my noncommittal, fearful tiptoeing around the gaping vat of nihilism lurking behind my every existential corner.

Maybe that TTC employee got it after all. Maybe he knew I was over 18, but that by "believing" I was in highschool he created a universe in which I was, and therefore could ride the TTC at half price. Maybe he just thought, "what the hell, this is all a big joke anyways- I might as well"

Or maybe, likely, I just look young and need to get over myself and enjoy the ride- at half price!
Budum bum CHING

?

I recently returned home (?) from a visit to Montreal- AKA, to my past life.

Before I delve into the existential whirlwind so obviously churned up by said visit, I'd like to note that again I am reminded of the striking contrast between Bodhi ("our" new puppy) and myself. She is barking at her bone right now. She has the time of her life digging holes. She would be happy licking her own poo. She could easily travel to an awesome city, hang out with loved ones, and not feel compelled to deconstruct the vast majority of her visit. Or maybe I'm forcing her to be my imaginary foil or even, GASP, to be my opposite. See!? She would never force me to be her imaginary foil! (and there it is again)

Anyways, I guess I found it a somewhat _____ experience to come face to face with the reality that things just carry on about their merry way, sans you (or me, in this case). I used a French word there, as indicated by the switch to italics, because I was speaking about Montreal and people sometimes get mad there if you don't know French. I mean, on the one hand obviously the entire city can't screech to a halt simply because I completed my undergraduate degree, sans any actual marketable skills. But on the other.... you know? Like...I dunno it's weird.

Of course, I shouldn't complain. I find the ever looming possibility that this entire existence might be nothing more than a fabrication of my own mind-in which case Mtl would, for all intents and purposes, vanish upon my departure- to be quite alarming. I suppose that renders me difficult to please. Which I'm sure is exhausting for everyone involved. Thank you, if you are still reading.

I was fortunate to have a great discussion last night, with someone far smarter and more experienced than myself, about. . . DECISIONS. To sum up several hours, sans the tangents (too much?), it would just be the coolest if we could learn to be comfortable with uncertainty and embrace absurdity, instead of incessantly fooling ourselves into believing that we must surely have insight into absolutes and formulas to isolate the variables of life.  

There is such a strong tendency, it seems, to desperately rationalize and justify our past decisions; to force them into frames of illusory certainty and hang them in perfect rows along the corridors of our past. By the way, that's slightly different than what I do to Bodhi because the impositions on her involve tin foil not picture frames. ellipses. 

We make choices and then convince ourselves, whether consciously or not, that they were Right or Wrong, ad infinitum. I just typed "ad infinitum" into  Google to be certain I had spelled it correctly (loosely relevant). 

The point is- (ish)- that collapsing the wave function in that singular moment of time at which we make a decision does not negate the probability cloud. In other words (I took one physics class in University and fell in love with probability clouds) there does not seem to be anyway to be absolutely, 100% certain, whether a decision is the Right one or the Wrong one. That fact does not change, even if ultimately a choice is made. Even more so, once something is decided Right and Wrong in a sense must fall away- in that everything that unfolds following that choice becomes simply "what 'is.'" There is great value, I think, in remaining conscious of the uncertainty of all decisions, decision makers, and the process decision making itself. Rather than obliterating all awareness of that uncertainty through rationalization and justification after-the-fact, an acknowledgment that all things still exist as a probability cloud no matter which way they happen to be channeled, facilitates the cultivation of both honesty and humility. Honesty, and humility.

That's not to say that we should therefore just leave our life up to chance, because nothing makes sense anyways. Only that we can't Know (like knowknow, not just superficially know) that we did the right thing. And from my young, likely naive perspective in which I'm responsible for no one but myself, I can say with resounding enthusiasm that all we can do is our best and THAT'S FINE LET'S JUST GO WITH IT WOO HOO.  Of course it's more comfortable to pretend that things are clearer than that, more predictable, easier to reduce and make sense of it. But whatevz!

We are always making decisions, and we should continue to try our best in doing so because otherwise we stagnate. And there is nothing worse that a stagnated human. The final lines of the book, Why I Became a Buddhist Monk, What I Learned, and Why I Quit, reads: "If I have a mission, it is to help [my students] to question the things they believe most earnestly. After all, if I've learned one things it's that the pursuit of truth has more to do with letting go of certainty than finding it." I freaking love that last line. What I'm saying is, at this point in my life, however fleeting these sentiments may be, I am striving to become more comfortable with the uncertainty of all things. I am striving to make space for that uncertainty instead of stabbing at it with the pointed corners of those stupid frames hanging in the corridors of my past or whatever it was I said. In that way, I can make space for the vastness of life/truth/god/reality/squirrel/spaghetti itself.

I loved my time at McGill. I think it was a wonderful fit for me. I think I learned tremendously, and I think I made a difference in the lives of others. But I cannot impose the knowledge of hindsight on my grade 12 self, the young gal in sweatpants who made that decision and cried to friends at lunch time about which school she should attend. She had no clue. And even now, I cannot claim to know that choosing McGill was absolutely the best decision I could have made, in large part because I don't think such an option even exists. The reality (?) simply is that it was. And that it was wonderful often, sucky sometimes. And that even though my time there is over, I will always live with and within the decisions that led me in and out of that space because all that has unfolded since is the natural progressions of those very decisions, beautiful and terrifying (unfortunately) in their uncertainty. 

On that note, I'm going to seguay (sp?) into a love letter I wrote to my internal source of certainty thus far. Just to mix things up. (OK the truth is I wanted to post this because I like it, but didn't want to put it up on it's own, so I'm basically just tacking it on to the end here and trying to make it all fit together. Which everything does on its own anyways.)

Dear Heartbeat,

Thank you for your quiet patience, your subtle way of reminding me that I am alive and that it is wonderful- that I am full with wonder. That if I still my racing mind and give myself a hug, I can feel you in my arms.

Thank you for your unwavering devotion, for your commitment to breathing life into the blood coursing through my veins. For working forever behind the scenes to fuel my exploration.

Thank you for giving me space to find my own way back to you, pulsating with the quiet conviction that I am grateful and in tune, even if I do not yet realize it. That our relationship internally grounds me. That my life, though always changing, eternally orbits about your faithful beat.

Thank you for the way you connect me to humanity, and to many animals as well. Our lives are governed by the eternal thumping of your place in our chests, and in this way we are all together dancing to your music.

Whatever. 

My Mother is in Better Shape Than I Am

After the longest hiatus of my conscious decision-making life, I have officially decided to reincorporate exercise back into the orbit my universe. **Can someone please get back to me on whether universes actually do orbit, how one could go about measuring such a thing, the implications for my daily life (always a concern) and also what exactly a universe is?**

...After formally retiring from competitive athleticism in March of 2010, I immediately resigned to letting myself go. In fact, I welcomed the opportunity.
"Amy, don't you think you should keep in shape?"
"Wanna come to the gym?"
"It's not just about looks, it's about your overall health and quality of life!"
"Did you eat the whole box of Halloween chocolates we bought to hand out to the neighborhood kids?"

To each of these comments, and to many more like them, I have responded with the utmost of confidence and certainty. "I am letting myself go."
And yes, I did eat all of those chocolates. Do you have anymore?

Don't get me wrong, I bike to work, walk the dog, dance about and do still play sports occasionally, although now it's "just for fun." Whereas before it was about overcoming gender stereotypes, diversifying my portfolio, and achieving the riches and glory of a female varsity athlete amongst a largely indifferent student body, administration and staff. **sarcasm**

I just needed space from the evaluative, competitive, comparative, and X-ive nature of fitness testings, elite group workouts and summer training programs. I just needed space, such an undervalued luxury, so that I could return to exercise in my own way and at my own pace.
During the summer I went for a run. One run.
My running partner was faster and had far greater endurance, and before long I felt myself entering that all too familiar zone I like to call Pushing Myself Through Blatant Discomfort. And then it hit me: I do not have to do this. There is nobody clocking my time, nothing I am training for, and no need to compete with anyone but myself and the goals of my choosing. For the first time, I just stopped running. And we walked together. And we actually did smell the flowers. And it was nice.
I had pushed my body hard for years and years, and was now more than happy to facilitate the natural development of some cushiony flab for it to lay down and rest upon.

But now it is time. I miss the endorphins, I feel pale and out of touch with my body, and I crave an awesome sweat. Finally, I made the grandiose announcement to my mother that I was ready to join her for a yoga class. Let's just say that eight months of minimal physical activity can really take a toll on a gal (me). She was balancing on only her hands with a leg twisted impossibly over her shoulder, and I was struggling to even touch my toes. I was the drill-breaker, lagging forever a step or two behind the class of fit practitioners, and entirely out of tune with my breath. Who would have thought there would be consequences to my actions? The experience was extremely discouraging, and after reassuring my ego that I was just recovering from a cold, I resolved never to exercise again.

A couple of days later, I joined my mother for her daily work out. This time we went to a weights/ball class, in which I hoped, if nothing else, that my youth could provide me with an upper hand. The hip-hop-turned-techno beats started blasting, and before long an entire room of middle aged women in excellent workout apparel were out-dipping me. And that's when I felt the old flame of competition I had come to increasingly dissociate from my identity begin to spark.

I have printed off a calender of November 2010 that I downloaded from the internet. On that calender, I have  strictly alloted slots for exercise. And I have filled those slots in with pen.
And I will start after this weekend, either next week or maybe the following one depending on how busy I am.
By the way, I had the best cheesecake of my life yesterday.