My Most Memorable First Date

In the spirit of being newly single, I have been going on dates. As is the nature of the dating world, some encounters are more memorable than others.

It was a picturesque spring day, the sun was shining, the breeze was fresh, and everyone was enjoying the soft warmth of the air, good weather being a novelty to our city after a winter of endless grey rain. The plan was that I would first summit Seymour with my friends, Andrew and Dustin, during the first part of the day and then meet my date for yoga in the park and dinner on Commercial Drive.

The trek up Seymour was merry; we greeted everyone on the trail we came across with smiles and easy-going, friendly conversation. When eventually we reached the first summit, that sense of soul-quenching satisfaction arrived, and the brightness of the sun wasn't just a blessing and a gift, it was spiritual. Dustin sat on the first summit dharma-bum style while Andrew and I took off gleefully for the second summit, flinging ourselves down the mountainside, wading through the snow with great leaps, hoots and hollers.

At the second summit we roamed around like awkward, happy animals, chattering about our love for the outdoors and whispering a little about that feeling of loneliness we both have in the busy city down below. Wandering towards the outer rim of the peak, we saw an enormous golden eagle gliding in the wind. It is, I've been told, a very special omen to see a bird of prey in the mountains as they are said to be old souls. Other friends of mine who take to the mountains have spoken about sighting these large, majestic creatures who fly above the world, watching over us. After years of never seeing one, I too could finally meditate on the bird's silent flight and consider what it means to me.

On the way down we found untouched snow into which we could throw our legs and hearts, as though we could come out of it better people for revisiting what it is to be playful, carefree children. As always for me, it was with a little sadness that we arrived at the car and it was time to go back home. Despite this small regret, the joy of the day found us back at the house hours later where we sat on the deck with beer in hand, sunburns and sunglasses worn by all, still very pleased and cheerful about our hike up the north shore.

And so began the makings of my most memorable date.

Three beers down in my little body readily metabolizing the alcohol for all the exercise I'd had, and the degree to which I was already and unknowingly dehydrated. Three beers, buzzed, to be frank on the verge of drunkenness, and off I went traipsing through the city with a wild grin on my face to meet my date.

We met, and after a somewhat slurred apology on my part for being so prematurely intoxicated we had dinner (my meal: a salty vegetable pot pie) and two more beers, then went to a sunny park for a few hours of yoga. It was with the idea of watching a movie that we went back to Commercial Drive to rent a film. But first we stopped at a notorious Italian coffee bar where we drank large, rich, creamy Americanos and watched the old, creepy Italian men leer at the women walking the Drive and talk soccer amongst themselves. It was excellent. Nothing could kill my fervor for the day, nothing could slow the thrill I was riding from the beauty of the mountain, the eagle and the happy companionship shared by my friends, fellow hikers and first date.

It was during the walk back to his place when I began to feel it, at first a slam of fatigue, and then wave after wave of nausea. We arrived at his apartment and I saved face for about an hour, chatting and the like, but ever worsening -- becoming more exhausted and desperately sick to my stomach. You're dehydrated, you fool, I realized, and so began drinking warm water, hoping it wasn't too late to make a swift recovery as we still had a three hour film ahead of us. 

We started the movie, not long after which I had to hold myself in the fetal position, unbeknown to him that I was not relaxing, but trying to talk my body out of all the panicked lurching taking place in my gut. I tried to take slow, steady breaths. I tried to think my way out of being sick, imagined that I could have a balanced, functioning body if I could focus hard enough on what well-being used to feel like. But it was futile. I became light-headed, the room began spinning, and my stomach started making sharp, short motions to eject its contents, all of which finally forced me to start thinking less on how to feel better, and more on how to go about vomiting on a first date.

"I know this is going to sound strange," I said to him. "But I really need some fresh air. So you just keep watching the movie, don't come out with me, and I'll be right back."

"Ok..." he said slowly and confusedly, as I got up from the couch taking my corduroy jacket from my chilled, shaky, sunburned shoulders.

And then I felt it. I was going to be sick, right then and there. In keeping with the theme of being a fool, I did not make a dash for the bathroom. I instead ran out the front door of his apartment into the second floor hallway where I proceeded to vomit all over myself. All over my hands, my feet, and jacket. I remember standing in the hallway with a large pool of puke in my jacket, held like an offering in my hands should any resident come out of their front doors to see my shocked, sad, and sorry state.

And then I was running downstairs, because there was more to come. I exploded out of the building to puke in the bushes outside the main entrance. When that bout was over, for fear anyone should be coming or leaving their home, I crawled my way to the side of the building to dry heave, and then vomit some more. On all fours in the grass, like an exhausted, pathetic animal, I finally knew that it was over. I felt so much better. The vile poisons that are beer and coffee and salt had all successfully vacated my body with relish, and had you seen me I would have been wiping my face off with a wonderful sense of relief. Pushing the puke off my feet and dragging my hands and jacket on the lawn, I stood there afterward for a minute as it dawned on me that it wasn't exactly over -- I had to go back to my date.

After being buzzed back into the building, I stood in front of the lobby mirror searching for any missed spots of vomit on my clothing. Luckily most had been projected into my jacket, but one clump I found just below my collar bone which I flecked off outside before climbing the stairs. Back on the second level I kicked the little bit of sickness that had made its way onto the floor to the side of the wall. I peered at it a while wondering if, should he see it, would he put two and two together? There was nothing more I could do I decided, as confessing was out of the question given my careful construction of appearing to be calm, composed and feminine. 

When I opened his front door, he was standing in the kitchen staring at me.
"Are you ok?" he asked skeptically.
"Oh yeah!" I said a little too eagerly. "I feel great now. That was exactly what I needed to do."
"Wow," he replied. "I'm really impressed by how in touch you are with your body."

And so we began the movie again, as if nothing had happened. I sat for the rest of the night with a smile on my face for having successfully and secretly vomited all over my date's apartment building. To this day I'm still pretty sure he has no idea any of this took place during our first date.

ps - My apologies for not having any photos of our trek up Seymour, as I realized sadly that my camera battery was dead on the first summit. Here are some of my most recent photos of a jaunt south of the border with my mother. Tomorrow I'll be doing a summit in the valley, so photos of that and a post to come soon!

 

Mountain Gal's First Video Blog ~ Mt. Harvey!

Something wonderful is moving in my desk, making a tik tik creak sound and I have no idea what it could possibly be. Maybe a cricket, or a springy little rocking horse. Whatever it is, I love it.

I'm going to leave it at that for today. After all this is my first ever VIDEO blog!!

Who loves, raves. - Lord Byron

The last little while I have been wearing my long hair down and letting all sorts of beautiful strangers run their fingers through it. Though somehow I'm not feeling their touch or caress while being grinned at with all those teeth. In the city they’re hungry for something more than they know and while I remain unwilling to feed them, I likely don’t have anything to offer either except to bring forth my own longings.

Last night at a party in the industrial district of the city my girlfriend absconded to a dark corner with one of the two most beautiful men in Vancouver, or so I’ve been told. The theme of the night was circus carnival, so those in attendance wore outrageous and glittered costumes or exposed themselves under the paint of bright colors and outlandish designs. The top floor of the building held the dungeon where those who wished could take off what little clothing they wore, if any, to be hog-tied and swung in the air, pleasured with a feather, spanked with a paddle or jolted with an electric prong. I had never been to anything like this before, nor had I ever dressed the part. With every color of feather weaved in my hair, wearing a leopard print dress, black stilettos and mermaid blue glitter all over my eyes, I watched along with the others and swayed atop a table, soaking in the slow luxurious Indian beats of the room. The energy was that of the spectator: carnal, thick, and starving for more.

Throughout the night men and women would call out to me, and I thought to rush over to them, put my lips close to their ears and with an urgency I’ve never known tell them to call me by any other name but my own. For fear I should vanish into nothingness, should Kendra, the idea of my identity show itself in that place, I’d just stand there watching it float beyond my grasp and soon find myself without a body, without the desire to clamber up rocks and trees, to sink toes and fingers into the dirt, to drop little seeds into the earth and watch my own growth. They would be the authors of my disappearance, these strangers who will never know me, never know the depth of my love for lakes, rivers, streams, the vast space of mountains. They parade brightly for all to see, but shroud their hearts and disguise their movements, and I'm afraid when they devour me, I won't just cease to exist, but that I'll become this way.

After the carnival party, I wound down in a hot tub under the cover of night with my best friend and the two most beautiful men in Vancouver. I found myself turning my glistening back to them, thinking more about the sound of rain and the coolness of it, the breeze in the mild air, how I loved its touch against my face and the way it teased the branches and leaves of the overhanging trees.
“How erotic,” one of the men said, “that you two have never been nude in a hot tub before.”
I might have looked at him next to my best friend for a moment and considered his words, how they held no truth for me, how thrilled the two of them looked to have found each other. I went back to gazing at the night because I am the irritable cat who has been petted too much, and it would be uncouth to bite the hand stroking her.

I may live in the city, but it is not my home. My wild self is my best self, and I have yet to meet someone who brings this out in me. So far I am the only one who can, which pleases me in a way. For all the times I withdraw to drive long distances, venture into the cold and snow, climb up valleys of trees, river and rock, I just need to be lost for a while, playing and free. I'll be found some day walking through the woods, swimming in hot springs, perching myself on the top of great heights to watch over the world, humbly and in awe of all there is to see.

In a city of chaos, boiling over with absurdity, it is the only way for me -- to remain unseen. But I know the truth of my nature. I am simple. I long for what is real. All else remains a small matter of curiosity.

oh man oh man oh man, let's talk cellar doors and beautiful beards and let's talk big sky forever and ever amen

Jesus, this is a strange time in my life. I’m at this yoga teacher training and it’s insane. I don’t even know what’s insane about it, but it’s pretty out there. Here we are, adults, trying to get all bendy and spiritual. Man, the people here are just nuts. They’re lovely and and they’re dear and they’re trying ever so hard to find something delicious and benevolent and elevating. And that’s all good. But they’re fucking crazy. We’re all crazy. Every single one of us. And not just the ones who signed up for this crazy shit. The ones who run the show, the ones that cook for us, the ones that work at the Safeway, the ones I’ll meet down the road. Man, we’re all fucking nuts. We’re all off our rockers. And none of anything we say makes any sense at all and I just don’t know if I can handle uttering another word for as long as I live. Maybe what I ought to do is live in the woods. With a canoe or something and some solar energy of some sort. Probably the solar sort.

I just don’t know what’s what anymore and that’s a fact. No big answers over here. Don’t even ask me, not a goddamn thing because I just don’t know and I don’t want to pretend that it’s the case that I do because I absolutely do not and I refuse to and that’s all you’ll be getting out of me forevermore.

We keep waking up fucking early in the morning and walking in silence for oh, about an hour. We pass sheep and stuff and found a hill to walk up and down. We meditated in the grass for a while and my teacher, he looked so grounded to the earth and I got all jealous on him for it. Well, all I could think was that my bum felt wet with the grass and I was wondering what that noise in the bushes was or what it could possibly be. It was a cougar. I kid you not. A fucking cougar, man. There we were, all sitting around all docile like and trying to be one with our higher selves and each other I suppose and the grass and mother earth and there was some big cat looking at us, probably hungry, maybe just curious. I wonder who saw the cat. I would have liked to have seen that cat.

I thought I’d come back all yogic from this, but I don’t think that will be the case. I think what will probably be more likely is that I’ll drive back home a thousand kilometers with a very sore neck. Sore everything is what’s more likely than the sore neck. God, my body feels full of pain. And I’m just dying for a lay. That’s not very yogic, is it? I was feeling more yogic and hopeful and spacey before I got to this crazy yogi gathering. Maybe I am not a yogi. Maybe I am a big faker. Sore neck because I keep trying all day to get into this one pose for a few breaths, it’s the one where you plant your forearms firmly to the earth and you look straight ahead and your neck is screaming for you to just fuck off and what the hell it’s saying, and then you kick your leg into the air and the other follows if all is going well and then you’re just up there sort of rocking out for a bit like yo, this is a different thing to do than the every day. Well, that’s the pose and that’s what I try to get into every chance I get. I don’t know, once you can get this shit into your flow, you sort of do go off and you sort of spiral into this bendy, emotional, spacey plain and when you come back down that experience sort of kicks you on your ass and tells you to smarten up. That’s why I do it. That’s why I came to this crazy place with the sheep and the cougars stalking us in the grass as we sit in a circle trying to be children.

I can’t believe I paid for this shit. It’s not that it’s not great. I don’t really know what it is. Maybe it’s great. Maybe it’s my quarter life crisis. After our morning walk around the hilly part and the animals out there, and our breakfast in silence still, I laid down on this couch where I am now in this strange old room. This whole building is just absolutely bizarre. Feral cats that piss all over and create a mess in a stairway next to the room we get all vertical and weepy and crazy in for the whole goddamn day. Man, I must be exhausted to be writing like this. It’s all the inversions. The inversions! The crazy backbending. This girl was sobbing next to me on her mat today. Why are we doing this?! Why did I travel so far to be doing this with these absolutely perfect strangers? Anyways, I laid on this couch and I listened to this song Val Jester. And I took off again. Dreams and gooseflesh swooping over my skin and I was just the fuck out of here, out of this bizarre room with cacti and big gold framed corny prints and empty bookcases and several uncomfortable chairs and odd coffee tables and two tiny televisions side by side.

What’s more, I’m pretty sure my teacher thinks he’s a lion. And I got so caught up in this whole yoga salvation thing, I started thinking I’d like to be a lion too. Well, I still sort of think I’m a lion and I think my teacher thinks I’m one too and he sure behaves like one. I’ll be talking to him and he’ll just stare at me intently and not really respond to anything I’m saying and I think this is part of being a lion. He makes his eyes really big and stares. And once I saw him yawn and his neck went round in a circle and it appeared to be more of a breathy roar and less like a man’s yawn. Next thing you know I’ll be stalking mice on all fours with the feral cats that piss everywhere. The management of this crazy building lets the cats in for fear that the cougar outside will find them and eat them. To that I say, Circle of Life. I know all about the circle of life. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. I’ve heard it in the wind. Does that sound yogic? Can you hear the circle of life in the wind or do you have to get eaten by something that is hierarchically superior to you to really grasp the concept ‘circle of life’ instead of just sounding like an arrogant fuckin know-it-all asshole all the time? Not that I want to get eaten by anything. I guess I’m saying I don’t get this whole circle of life idea, I’m going a little nuts over here in this mountainless wilderness and I’m really not terribly impressed that wild cats are just pissing everywhere and no-one’s too concerned we’re sweating down our asses and junk onto the carpet that’s already rank with the worst smell ever which would be cat piss.

So, it’s going really well.

Listen here: Val Jester by the National