Icey Roads and Breaking Hearts

It looks like winter is finally hitting Montreal.

I managed to drag myself out of bed at 5:45 this morning to get myself to the early morning yoga class. The class is at 7:00, and doesn't really justify such an early wake up, but my yoga partner, Cristyn, lives further away and has to get up earlier, and so I feel like it's only fair that I wake up when she does.

Also, I have made the mistake of going to yoga after just having downed a bowl of Raisin Bran, and that is not an experience I would like to relive. The fear of vomiting partially digested bran onto my super absorbent yoga towel has never struck my heart quite as palpably as it does when one does floor bow. Dhanurasana actually sounds like the perfect onomatopoeia to accompany vomiting...

So yes, digesting time is key when one intends to wake up for early morning yoga.



So, in addition to the dangers implicit in waking up so early in the morning - ie. homicidal urges - I had the joy of discovering what it means for winter to finally strike one of Canada's supposedly most frigid cities. It means that freezing rain creates a slick and precarious coating over my entire street, turning the 1 minute walk to St. Laurent into a 5 minute midway funhouse reincarnation. Without the fun.

As if that were not an indication in and of itself of what this day was likely to turn into, it was my last conference as a T.A. for American History. While I am wildly impressed that I managed to pull off the semester teaching a subject for which I am not even remotely qualified with few slips, I am pretty sad to end my tenure with these kids. I actually pretty sincerely liked a bunch of them, and would have been very content to facebook friend them, but, alas, I was just their T.A.

Not to mention that I think I was in love with at least 4 boys in my Friday tutorial. Each has a special place in my heart. There was V., who was simply beautiful; wavy chestnut hair that he was always pushing out of his eyes, a crooked smile, and just an indy adorable. And N., who was just so earnest and goofy, enthusiastic, but often wrong; he reminded me of my brain dead golden retriever, and when he lamented that he "just wants to know how to improve from his mistakes, because he honestly does the readings and goes to every class" I confessed that he was breaking my heart. J. I could never make extended eye contact with, because I was certain I would blush. The looks he gave me every class made me feel like he and I had an inside joke that no one else had the privilege of being in on, and I always wanted to talk with him longer after class, but he was infallible, so there was no reason to. Sigh. And, of course, M., my favourite skinny asian homosexual, who loved feminist theory and Betty Friedan in particular, and would walk with my after class, going out of his way to keep chatting about anything on his mind.

I don't think I have the heart to actually be a teacher. I want to much to be loved. I am Woodrow Wilson.



ps- when choosing a "label" for this post, "Going to Die Alone" appeared, unbidden, as one of them. I don't know what I'm supposed to make of that cruel serendipity. Is Mary Kay Latourno alone?