Reflections on Ice

On my way out of the grocery store the other day, I passed the ice freezer (you know the one with the big letters I-C-E and the picture of icicles hanging off it). The decal on the freezer door said, "Are you sure one bag is enough?" It didn't occur to me to buy any ice (I wasn't doing any entertaining), but if I had been (as I've been known to do from time to time), this sign would have stopped me cold, so to speak. I never know how much ice to buy for an occasion. Buy too much (without a deep freeze to store it in) and you'll be left with a puddle reminding you you've wasted money. Buy too little and your guests will have to endure lukewarm drinks. It is wise to err on the side of too much. The ice sellers know this, and they have no shame about flaunting it.

In the 30+ degree heat today (without humidex) I met a colleague for coffee. On the hot walk over to the coffee shop, I imagined how my iced latte would taste - mmmm.....cool and refreshing. I put in my order, making sure I remembered to specify "decaf" and "skim" (I sometimes forget such important details). It was only as I was handed a steaming mug that I realized I'd forgotten one important word - "iced." And so, in the sweltering heat of almost midday, I sipped my piping hot beverage as I watched my co-worker enjoy an iced coffee.

As I sit at home this evening in the heat, I imagine how nice a cool, refreshing beverage would taste. If only I had some ice. I own ice cube trays, but rarely fill them. Instead they sit empty in my cupboard, taking up space, denied their worldly purpose. On nights like tonight, I am tempted to fill them, but rarely do, knowing the rewards will not come quickly enough to meet my immediate need for cold. I think not of tomorrow (although am seriously considering filling at least one tray).

Who knew that frozen water could hold such wonder, such appeal? In winter, I despise it as it sticks to my windshield and coats the roads and sidewalks. Yet in summer, I treasure it - the way it clinks in the glass, the cool, refreshing feel of it. You are a paradox, ice. Or I am. I shall reflect on that - perhaps over a glass of lukewarm water.

Legacy of Laziness

Having forgotten to blog last Monday, I'm morally bound to resume today. The way I figure it, people can forgive one slip, but two puts you into "unreliable slacker" territory. And that's not a land I want to inhabit. So here goes, with some thoughts on our progressive laziness as humans (perhaps inspired by my overwhelming desire to go to bed instead of folding laundry, washing the floor or doing any one of the other myriad items on my to-do list):

It occurs to me that with each passing generation, we humans become increasingly lazy. Imagine waaaaaaaaaaaaay back in time before the broom was invented. There’s dirt on your floor (did they even have floors before brooms were invented? Not sure, but work with me). What do you do? You kneel down and you pick up the dirt, speck by tiny speck. It's tedious, bad for the back and generally inefficient. Then someone creates this brilliant technology called the "broom" where you just have to sweep the dirt across the floor and – like magic, you have a clean floor. Life is good.

Pretty soon, though, people start complaining about having to sweep the floor. “Ugh. I have to sweep the floor. I ate sweeping the floor. I can’t believe I have to sweep the floor!”

Eventually, someone invents the vacuum – ta da! Clean floor, very little effort. Life is good. But give it a generation and it’s “Ugh. I have to vacuum. I hate vacuuming. I can’t believe I have to vacuum.”

So now someone’s invented the robot vacuum, which essentially cleans the floor for you, maneuvering around your furniture and even returning itself to its docking station. All you have to do is push a button. Just you wait - I give it a generation as a novelty before we hear: “Ugh. I have to press the button. I hate pressing the button. I can’t believe I have to press the button!”

Height is a state of mind

For all of my adult life, I have believed I was 5 feet, 6 and 1/2 inches tall. This week, I found out I've been living a lie.

I signed up for the Atlantic Path cancer research study, donating my body measurements and toenails to science. I'd forgotten to measure my height at home - besides, what was the need? Surely it hadn't changed in the past 15-ish years. I was asked to take off my shoes and socks and stand against the wall. "Breathe in and then let it out," I was instructed. I did as I was told, and remarkably, felt taller. I was convinced she was going to pronounce me 5 foot 7. "5 feet, 5-and-1/2 inches," she said without hesitation, and wrote the numbers down, immortalizing my reduced height forever.

I said nothing, but remained convinced it was a mistake. After all, my identity was that of a 5 foot, 6.5 inch person. With that one inch, I had gone from tall-ish to average. My BMI, having teetered on the edge of overweight at 5 feet, 6.5 inches (OK, so I may even have entered 5'7" in those online calculators) tipped decidedly in that unfavourable direction (and while I might claim it's all muscle, the printout Atlantic Path provided me with my body composition tells me otherwise). "Their measurements must be off," I said, and several Facebook friends confirmed they'd had the same experience. There was only one way to settle this. I asked my mom to measure me. Three times. On the third try, I hit 5 feet, 5-and-3/4 inches. I may have been stretching. Still, even 5 foot 6 remained beyond my grasp. How could I have been so wrong?

One can only lie to oneself about one's weight for so long before the snugness of our clothing calls our bluff. But our height - there's a delusion we can hold onto for a while (at least if we're only deluded by an inch or two). Alas, it would appear all delusions must come to an end. Thanks for setting me straight, Atlantic Path.

I have spent the past several days adjusting to my new height. The top shelf of the cupboard seems harder to reach. The ceiling seems higher. High-heeled shoes hold more appeal. On the bright side, I'm standing up straighter. I can't afford to get any shorter.

The night the light came on

For the past few years, I've had a recurring dream that I go into a room in my house and flip a light switch but the light doesn't come on. I go to another room, and the same thing happens. I try to turn on a lamp, and again, nothing. And there I am in complete darkness, totally freaked out, wondering how ALL of the lights have stopped working at once and sure some evil force is behind it. Tonight, with the help of a friend, I uncovered the dream's meaning. We were standing in my dimly lit kitchen and looked up to see three of the four bulbs on my ceiling fixture burnt out (they've been giving out one by one over the past few years, as lightbulbs are wont to do). "That's it!" I shouted, the proverbial light coming on. "The dream is telling me to get new lightbulbs!"