Tag Archives: Humor

My Surprising Wife

Aren’t human beings supposed to be predictable, regular and measured?  Well … not the one called Jody Kerr.  In this lifetime, my dearest Jodiette hatched a few plans and smiled her biggest smile when they came together beautifully.  Let me give you a few examples:

***

It was after Christmas and the world was cold.  Jody announced that we were going on a trip over the long weekend.  Actually a winter camping trip.  (Huh?)  “That’s right, Bruce, get out your woolies and your long underwear.  We’re heading to a park near Sarnia” (an hour west of London).  As I scrounged through my underwear drawer, bewildered, I heard Jody in the kitchen, pulling out pots and pans.

“But it’s too cold!”

“Nonsense.  Get packed.”

The next morning, we drove north from Union, through St. Thomas, and angled towards the 402, a westward freeway that would deposit us in Sarnia.  Before the 402, however, was the 401, another east-west road (east to Toronto, west to Windsor).  At the last second, Jody points to the right and yells “I want to go there,” that is the eastbound ramp leading to TO.  I obligingly jerked the wheel and a-curving we did go.

“What about winter camping?”

“Still on.  Just elsewhere.”

Gracefully dodging the bulks of semi-trailers, I took us east … past Ingersoll, Woodstock and Kitchener.  As I approached the exit ramp to Guelph – Guess what? – “I want to go there!”  Okay, winter camping in Guelph, I guess.

As we’re motoring north towards the city, we come to a traffic light.  I’m waiting in the left lane on the red when Jody says “I don’t want to go here.  Turn around.”  A silent “What?” in response.  But I’m a dutiful husband, so I turned left, turned around, and back to the 401 we went.

“Go here.”  As in back onto the easterly lanes of the freeway.  And on to the suburbs of Toronto, whose skyscrapers had me thinking about the unlikely likelihood of sleeping in the snow.

Grinning continually, Jody directed me downtown, where we eventually pulled up in front of the Delta Chelsea Hotel.  Oh my God.  Something’s a-brewin’ in my lovely wife’s head.

In the hotel room, I had eyes for only the fancy bottle of red wine sitting on the coffee table.  I poured Jody a glass, totally oblivious to the bottle’s label, and to a few small signs that were posted about the room.  What a silly boy am I.  Good wine, though.

After breakie the next day, Jody and I decided to walk the eight blocks or so to the St. Lawrence Market, an old Toronto tradition of food and craft vendors in a cozy brick building.  But the wind.  And the cold!  We were boogieing down Yonge St, hunkering down inside our clothes, when we came upon the Pantages Theatre.  I had to stop and look through the glass door to see the opulence inside.  “Oh, I want to go in there some day!”  But I was too cold to notice Jody’s reaction.

After munchies here and munchies there at the market, Jody announced that we needed to go back to the hotel room.  A silent “Why?” in return.  So off we went, risking fingers and toes in the holy pursuit of warmth and wine.  No sooner were we well established on the love seat when Jody shared that we had an appointment at 2:00 pm, and it was important to dress for the occasion.  She reached into her suitcase and pulled out … my suit!  “Put this on.”

Visions of a fancy meal flooded me, and I protested – out loud this time – “I’m not hungry, you know.  There’s no way I’m going to some hoity-toity restaurant!”  Jody smiled and held out my dress shirt.  In a half hour, we were both dolled up and ready for the wilds of Yonge St. again.  So cold.  Head down, I really wasn’t noticing my environment.

And then …

“Stop, Bruce!  We’re here.”

I looked to my left, and there it was – the Pantages Theatre.  The doorman in his long red coat was grinning at us both.  Shock and incomprehensibility from yours truly.  The gentleman held the door open and Jody and I entered a world of golds and reds, arm-in-arm.  After depositing coats, we strolled Titanic-like down the double staircase.  Jody so happy.  Me so dumbfounded.  We kissed.

Jody gave our tickets to the usher, and we followed her into the theatre … down and down and down the aisle till we ended up six rows from the front, in the middle.  I love my wife.

At intermission, Jody leaned over and asked “Well, what do you think?”  As our eyes met, there was only one answer … “It’s wonderful!”  So was holding my darling’s hand.

***

Another year, another Christmas.  Or leading up to one.  Jody told me in November that she was taking me on a surprise trip.  On a Saturday morning, we were having breakfast at the Lakeview Restaurant in Port Stanley, and I was plying her with clever questions.  At one point, I got it.  I knew where we were going.

“You’re taking me to Disney World, aren’t you?”

(Wifely face sinking)

“Well, that’s good.  I really want to see Mickey.”

And so I prepared myself, emotionally and physically, for the big Florida show.  Did I have enough t-shirts?  Of course, I love t-shirts.  But Mickey ears … now there was a deficit.

On December 23, it was another trip to Toronto, this time to stay at the Holiday Inn Airport, before catching the early morning shuttle.  As we zoomed down the 401, I reminded Jody of the importance of me getting Mickey ears before we took off.

“We’ve got to go to the Disney store in Yorkdale.”

“Oh, Bruce.  It’ll be a madhouse in there today.  Why don’t you wait until Florida and buy them there?”

“No, no, no.  I need them now.”

Magically, I found a parking space and later returned to it with a new type of hat for my head.  I was so enamoured with my ears that I wore them in the hotel lounge that evening.  The next morning, I was bringing my suitcase down to the lobby (with appropriate Mickeyness), when I saw Jody and the desk clerk standing at the checkout counter, laughing.  Clearly, he was caught up in the joy of approaching Disney.

In the shuttle, my ears sat proudly on my head, much to the amusement of several passengers.  And then the arrival.  I wheeled my suitcase through the opening doors and started looking for the airline counter.  Jody, however, had other plans.

“Let’s sit down.”

“Sit down?  You don’t sit down at the airport.  You line up.”

“C’mon, Bruce.  Humour me.”

So I sat … light yellow coat, big ears, and furrowed brow.  Jody stood in front of me, with her right hand behind her back.

“Where are we going, Bruce?”

“Disney World!”

“No, Bruce, we’re going to Playa del Carmen, Mexico.”

˅
˅
˅
˅

“No Mickey?”

And there was my semi-lovely wife, whipping out the camera and immortalizing my pain on film.  Oh, the sorrow.  Minutes later, however, I was gobbling up the brochure description of the Riu Tequila Hotel in Mexico.  Gosh, it looked sort of nice.

The vacation was stunning.  Pristine white sand beach.  Awesome evening entertainment.  All sorts of yummables.  And my Jodiette by my side all the time, loving me.  I was a happy man.  Still am.

***

Way back when, in the days before marriage, Jody and I had the thought that we might just be able to afford a down payment for a small home.  There was a new subdivision in Lethbridge, Alberta, and we decided to wander over to a Sunday open house.

We walked in.  I checked out the living room, cram-packed with weekend browsers.  Looked good.  Unknown to me, Jody had gone upstairs to see the master bedroom.  It was a strange design up there.  In the middle of one wall was a large rectangular hole, which looked down on the living room.

My musings came to a screeching halt when I heard …

“Brucio, Brucio.  Wherefore are thou, Brucio?”

Gazing upwards, there was my precious pre-wife, arms wide.

Naturally, I followed suit.  Down on one knee and hands to the sky of Jody.

“Jodiette, Jodiette.  Sweet, sweet Jodiette.”

So we became Jodiette and Brucio
And evermore shall be

I love you, my dear girl

Just For Fun

I went to Costco today to pick up some meds for Jody, grab some groceries, and have my traditional hot dog and Diet Coke.  Only $1.60!  At the snack bar, I’m used to lining up on the left, telling one employee what I want, and then receiving the goods at the right end of the counter.  Well, that’s okay, but how about shaking things up a bit?  For a second, there was no lineup.  I entered on the right and gave my order to the staff person at the till, and then proceeded leftward.  I handed my ten dollar bill over a high display case to a woman who was preparing a baked prosciutto sandwich.  She vaguely reached out her hand to me before realizing that this was all wrong.  I moved to the far left end of the counter, waiting for someone to take my money. Meanwhile, two women wanted to start a line but were blocked by my stationariness.  Big smiles from them – they knew what was happening.  I scanned the employees’ faces and there was no shortage of smiles there either.  Boy, that was fun.

I’d like to say it was the first time I’d done something weird like this, but that would be an untruth.  In 1986, I was a waiter at Fiddler’s, a high end restaurant in Lethbridge, Alberta.  One Sunday afternoon, at a staff party, we decided to have a slow pitch game in a local park.  My turn at bat.  Just for fun, I hit the ball to the outfield and ran like hell to third base.  Seeing the left fielder still chasing the ball, I turned the corner and sprinted for second. Now the fielder was up and throwing.  Faster than a speeding bullet, I motored to first base and slid under the tag of my astonished opponent.  I stood up, brushed myself off, and grinned.  Some of my teammates were laughing.  The more competitive types were glaring.  But heck, it’s called a “game”, isn’t it?

Eleven years later, I got a part-time teaching job at an elementary school.  As well as my main duties, I had to cover a Grade 1 class for one period a week. Usually I read the kids a story.  They’d fan out in front of me on the carpet, and I’d rock contentedly in the teacher’s chair.  One day, I picked a book whose story I knew well.  I turned the book upside down and started “reading”, flipping the pages with authority.  Most kids looked pretty blank. But a young boy named Paul in the front row started pointing at the book. “No, no, Mr. Kerr.  The book is upside down!”  “That’s okay,” I replied, and kept on with the story.  Poor Paul.  Some week later, I branched out.  I opened the book to the last page, and read sentence by sentence from back to front.  Totally incomprehensible, but such a good time.  Even Paul, who stood up, pointed and protested, eventually enjoyed the show.

Is there some deep meaning in what I did?  Probably not.  But why are my memories of these three moments so rich and indelible?

Our Children

On one level of existence, we don’t have any young’uns.  But hey, why stick with just one version of life?  After we got married in 1988, Jody and I decided that we wouldn’t have any kids.  Instead we would do a lot of travelling.  But I can’t help imagining how it could have been …

Fifteen years ago, our reality snapped, and lo and behold, we were parents.  I don’t know how it happened.  Divine introspection perhaps.  Jody and I were blessed to welcome our son Dollop to the planet.  Such a fine lad, and he’s grown to be a quality dishwasher and lawn cutter.

Just before Dollop was born, I remember thinking that having one child was just the right amount.

Two years later, along came our darling Puce.  A brother needs a sister, right? She was so sweet, and still is.  From Barbies to boys, it’s been a long road, and such a pleasant one.  Someday, I’m going to walk her down the aisle.

Just before Puce was born, friends and neighbours told us they were green with envy that we were about to have a daughter.

In 2010, we were both super busy, but gosh – there’s always time for childbirth.  I was holding Jody’s hand in the delivery room as Inkling emerged into the world.  Soon red hair and a fiery personality joined us at the breakfast table.  One of a kind you are, my dear.

Just before Inkling was born, I had an idea that there was a princess on the way.

With the foundation of a really good housekeeping team in place, Jody and I were delighted that Squirm decided to join us … out of the blue.  Unexpected but not neglected, we loved her to bits.  A very active child, she’s always enjoyed life’s twists and turns.  Lovely.

Just before Squirm was born, I remember feeling really antsy.  How would we cope with four kids?  As it’s turned out, no problemo.

We both thought that was it.  For years the Kerrs were a scintillating sixsome.  And then just last week, Santa, the Easter Bunny or maybe David Letterman plopped a new being in our laps.  Imagine – Jody at 54 and me at 65!  Thank you, Somersault.  Seven of us.  Aren’t we a lucky family?  And who knows what this young boy will become?

Just before Somersault was born, I woke up in the middle of the night, absolutely flipping out.  I’ve calmed down since.

So there you have it, folks.  We’re very proud.  I’ll send you a photo sometime.

 

ta-pocketa

It was 1964 and I wasn’t liking much of Grade 10.  A notable exception to the muddy flow of life was Miss Bruce (no relation).  She was our easy-to-look-at young English teacher.  The source of many a fantasy for Bruce Archer Kerr. Plus we got to read a lot of cool stuff in her class.

These days I ask myself what I remember from high school studies.  Not very much of a pleasant nature, I’m afraid.  But there was a short story by James Thurber that has stayed with me all these years: “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty”. Now it’s a movie, and I read recently that it doesn’t keep to the story very well.  I don’t know … haven’t seen it.

From the very beginning, I’ve yearned to be a hero, and in Grade 10 Walter was my guy.  Henpecked by his semi-lovely wife, he sought solace in his mind.  As a navy pilot in the heart of a hurricane.  As a renowned surgeon inserting a fountain pen into a damaged anesthetizer.  As a World War II flying ace in a pitched battle with the Germans.

And in each desperate situation, there was the noise of a machine in the background, urging Mitty/Kerr on to victory.

“I’m not asking you, Lieutenant Berg,” said the Commander.  “Throw on the power lights!  Rev her up to 8,500!  We’re going through!”  The pounding of the cylinders increased: ta-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa.

I stood taller after selected English classes.  Never mind the acne.  Never mind the monosyllables with girls.  Never mind the nude swimming classes for a terrified non-swimmer.  Inside, Kerr of the Yukon forged his way through the great northern wilderness.

In 2000 or so, Jody and I bought titanium road bikes.  I had the choice of keeping the frame’s metallic sheen or having it painted.  I chose a blended red and yellow.  The bike shop owner also said that I could have a name printed in black on the top tube.  So yes to that too.  Not “Bruce”.  Not “Road Warrior”.  Certainly not “B Kerr”.  You know what bubbled to the surface of my latently heroic mind.

As senior citizenship has somehow snuck up on me, Walter is alive and well. A spiritual teacher speaking to hundreds in Boston’s Beacon Theater.  A humble Canadian author stepping onto the stage in Stockholm, Sweden to receive the Nobel Prize in Literature.  Roger “Bruce” Bannister circling the Iffley Road Track in Oxford, England four times on May 6, 1954, hitting the tape in a time of 3:59.4, the first human being to break the four-minute mile.  The crowd went nuts.  Bruce acknowledged them with a tiny wave.

I love being in the here and now.  There and then isn’t bad either.

 

 

Getting Out of My Head with Betty

My head is usually pretty full.  Thoughts just zoom in, and some of them end up in my blog posts.  Of course there are the empty times too, when silence falls down around me, but mostly the wheels are turning.  I think of this author or that – a spiritual master, a philosopher, Stephen King, and what they have to say.  Some awfully deep stuff.  Sometimes, as an alternative, you just have to consult undercover sages such as Dr. Seuss, or in this case, Mother Goose:

Betty Botter bought some butter
“But,” she said, “the butter’s bitter
If I put it in my batter
It will make my batter bitter
But a bit of better butter
That would make my batter better”

So she bought a bit of butter
Better than her bitter butter
And she put it in her batter
And the batter was not bitter
So twas better Betty Botter
Bought a bit of better butter

Really – who needs bitter butter in this lifetime?  Not me.  Except it just seems to spread over us when we least expect it.  As an antidote, and in the interest of better butter, why don’t you launch into this beloved poem (out loud of course)?  And then do it really fast, so your words start tumbling out faster than your brain can handle, and you come to a screeching halt.  It’s awful fun.  And a sure way to let go of metaphysical insights, at least for awhile.

I used to recite “Twas the Night Before Christmas” to classes of children.  When I started doing it super fast (in about a minute and a half), the kids ate it up – roaring laughter and just plain glee on the faces.  On mine too.

So … tongue twisters are now officially part of my repertoire.  At my next cocktail party, I’ll be sure to recite until my mouth foams up and my teeth fall out of my face.  Except I don’t go to any cocktail parties.  Oh well.  The folks in line at the supermarket will do just fine.

Foibles

I’ve lost a step over the years, in one respect or another.  May I gracefully accept these changes, rather than “rage, rage against the dying of the light”.

First thing – I struggle to remember the names of objects that hold other objects, and so in conversation I usually retreat to the most convenient term “container”.  In the moment, as I gaze at the thing, I search (most often in vain) for box, pot, can, jar, basket, bowl, or whatever the heck it is.  Last year, I got scared a lot by this, fretting over whether I had a case of early onset something-or-other.  In the freshness of 2014, I mostly laugh at myself.

Secondly, and more importantly, I can’t squat.  You know, bend at the knees and go down.  In this bod, it’s just not happening.  On golf course greens, I see folks demonstrate this intricate maneuver to line up their putts.  Why them?  Why not me?  And laughing again, who cares?

I used to enjoy driving at night.  Actually, I still do.  I remember passing cars with confidence as the stars twinkled.  Not now.  I just can’t figure out how far away that oncoming vehicle is.  Which happily slows me down.  So my supposed shortcoming allows me to keep to a gentle rhythm on the roads, and I laugh some more at my good fortune.

For decades, I’ve enjoyed remembering people’s names.  They feel good when I greet them personally.  These days, it’s a mite confusing, especially when I see the person in an unexpected environment.  I often guess wrong.  Maybe I should religiously avoid using any name as we talk, but that feels false.  I want to know and be known.  I wonder if my companion senses my caring for them even if I call Jessica “Martine”.  Hope so (he said, smiling).

I can’t handle big meals anymore.  Small portions please, and far less red meat, if you don’t mind.  Now, c’mon, that isn’t a foible, is it?  More like a wise choice.  Makes my tummy feel good and my mouth turn up at the corners.

Lastly, there’s the ticklish subject of extended nose hairs (right now infinitely longer than my non-existent head hair).  Yesterday, I was thumbing through a catalogue which offered sundry consumer ways to be a better person.  I was especially taken with “The Best Nose Hair Trimmer”, which, you’ll be happy to know, is “the only model with an integrated light that illuminates difficult-to-see areas in the nose”.  Well, heck, I don’t really want one.  I’ll just stand on guard for me with my trusty scissors, and the offending downward-seeking fellows will be eliminated from public view.  (Grin)

And there’s my summary of Brucive deficiencies.  I can live with them.  No problem, mon.

 

 

Cause or Effect?

Do I cause my experience of life or am I at the effect of circumstances?  Bad things happen, that’s true, but do I have control over how I react to them?  Why do some people collapse under the weight of unemployment, cancer, lost loves, lost hair or the home team’s losing streak, while others let it wash off their back?

What would my life be like if I just laughed at my travails, while still working to improve things?  I’d have all that extra energy available for love, kindness, compassion and other good works.

Here’s a story that stopped me in my tracks, since I’m the type who gets antsy about creepy crawly things.  Mr. Lama knows a thing or two, I’d say.

Today was particularly bad for me as the rain would not let up.  And the leeches were relentless.  At one point I counted twenty-two of them sucking on me at the same time  … Sloshing along the muddy trail in the pounding rain, I came upon a large, slimy log that had fallen chest high across our brush-choked path.  In my agitated state, I viewed the log as a menacing obstacle that was clearly separate, in my way and against me.  With no way under or around, I jumped, stomach first, and slid over the top.  Regaining my balance on the other side, I was infuriated at the mud and decaying mush that seemed to have covered the entire front of my body.  Rubbing off the crud, I cursed the log and the god-damned rain.  It was my brother Todd who suggested that we wait and see how the Lama would handle this formidable impediment.  Surely this test would break him.

Hiding off the trail, we peeked through the underbrush just in time to see him trudge up to the log.  Ever smiling, he took a couple of steps back and tried his jump with a running start.  With not enough momentum – coupled with a portly belly – he slid back down on the same side of the log and landed on his back in a large puddle.  Shaking his rain-drenched head, he burst into spasms of uproarious laughter.  Staggering to his feet, he repeated the same maneuver – with the same results – two more times.  With each collapse back into the puddle, his laughter grew stronger and louder.  On his fourth attempt, he made it over the top and slid headlong into the muddy puddle on the other side.  Again, the laughter was knee-slapping.  Continuing to chuckle, he wiped himself off as best he could, lovingly patted the log as though it were a dear friend, and proceeded up the trail – smiling.  Todd and I just stared at each other.

Time to pat a log or two

T-Shirts

I love t-shirts.  Thanks to my sister-in-law Nona and my brother-in-law Lance, I’ve been amply supplied with some wonky ones in a series of Christmas presents.  When I go on a summer retreat at the Insight Meditation Society, the appropriate clothing is t-shirt and shorts.  Before my first retreat, the question was whether I should wear funny slogans or whether, in anticipation of enlightenment, I should blend in with the other yogis, to the tune of muted colours, no words emblazoned on the chest – your basic egoless approach to life.  I’m happy to say that pizzaz won out … to heck with enlightenment.

Both in my chest of drawers at home and in a suitcase, I fold my shirts once, long ways from neck to waist, and pile them.  When I wake up, whatever shirt is on top of the pile is the one I wear.  I love that little tradition.  On retreat, a gong wakes us at 5:30.  I have time to shower and shave before getting to the meditation hall a minute or two before the 6:00 sitting.  I come in by the front entrance, bow to the statue of the Buddha (more on that in some future post) and then turn to walk back to find a seat.  Usually, there are nearly 100 retreatants in place by the time I make my appearance.

What I didn’t realize until we were able to talk to each other after the retreat ended was that many folks were waiting each morning to see what t-shirt I would wear that day.  A few of them told me that they had to suppress a smile sometimes, striving valiantly to maintain a serene pose.  One person said she laughed inside all day after seeing my “humerus” garment.

I’m happy that my shirts have contributed to many people.  I’ll take any way I can find to bring happiness to others.  Here are my favorites – some funny, some mellow.  Yay for summer!

***

Black background; white right-angled triangle, with the short sides labelled 4 cm and 3 cm, and the long one “x”, “Find x”; in red, a line circles the x and leads down to “Here it is”

I’d say that the x’s of life are not meant to be calculated and analyzed, just observed.  By the way, I’m wearing this one today.  Feels good.

Pea green background; picture of a tyrannosaurus rex with teeth on display; in white, huge “RAWR!”, smaller “RAWR means “I love you” in Dinosaur”

Those three words need to be seen, absorbed and expressed.  The cute context works for me.

Black background; in white, “LISTEN & SILENT have the same letters.  Coincidence?”

Perfect for a meditation retreat.  There’s a type of listening that’s beyond conversation and the sounds of the day.

Black background; in yellow, musical notes and “CAUTION: PRONE TO SUDDEN OUTBURSTS OF SONG”

Not likely to happen at IMS, at least not until the retreat is over.  Give me spontaneity or give me a flat and cautious life.  The first one please.

White background; in gray, bare deciduous trees in winter; in red, a cardinal perched on a branch

There is always life.  There is always vibrancy within the seemingly inert.

Light gray background; in brown, a vertical bone; beside the bone in black, “I found this humerus”

The grand prize winner among the yogis at IMS.  What could be better than making people laugh?

Black background; gorgeous painting of a little red bus in the mountains at sunset; in reddish brown, “GOING-TO-THE-SUN ROAD Glacier National Park”

Aren’t we all going to the sun?

Red background with a black strip around the neck and sleeves; in black,”EXPENDABLE”

A reference to the “red shirts” on Star Trek, the crew members who will likely die by the end of the episode.  What’s left after all that I’ve said is me disappears?

Black background; in orange, a wraparound logo with “HOLODECK PROGRAMMING”; in multicolours within the logo, “WHAT HAPPENS ON THE HOLODECK STAYS ON THE HOLODECK”

More Star Trek.  Number two on the IMS hit parade.  I love sexual fantasies.

Green background; in white, “IRONY: THE OPPOSITE OF WRINKLY”

I can get oh so serious about my knowledge of the English language, and the concepts within.  Silly is better.

Unknown background; unknown colour of the print, “Shine a Light Upon My Day”

A t-shirt yet to be created.  This is a lovely phrase from Nona’s poetry.  May I bask in the glow radiating from each of you.

***

And there you have it – the shirts off my back.  I’ll wear them well.

 

 

 

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Potpourri

Last night, Jody and took in the buffet at the Mandarin Restaurant in London.  It was an oriental, occidental and every other -ental feast you could imagine.  I’ve long been known as a culninary conservative and yesterday was no exception.  Discretion is my middle name.  Actually, it’s Archer.  Anyway, here’s the short list of items consumed by yours truly:

Smoked salmon sushi, California roll, avocado sushi, salmon egg sushi, tuna sashimi, potato salad, broccoli salad, fruit salad, mixed vegetables, chicken wings, mushroom chow mein, Shanghai noodles, hot pepper beef, teriyaki shrimp, garlic chicken, caramel mini-cupcake, cheesecake, cheesecake ice cream, chocolate cookie, and … a fortune cookie.  (The real meaning of enlightenment is to gaze with undimmed eyes on all undimmed).  I don’t know about enlightenment … the evening seemed to be about enheaviment.

Happily, I didn’t have to undo the button at the top of my fly after the meal.  Being discreet has its privileges.  Since I wasn’t being bothered by bodily pains, there was time to ruminate on the vast variety of foods that were now sitting inside of me.  So many flavours.  So many colours.  So many textures.  And I started to think about people, all seven billion of us: all shapes, sizes, ages, personalities, appearances and strengths.  How would I describe that buffet?  My friend Google came to the rescue, painting a multifaceted picture of us human beings:

Aable
abnormal
absent-minded
above average
adventurous
affectionate
agile
agreeable
alert
amazing
ambitious
amiable
amusing
analytical
angelic
apathetic
apprehensive
ardent
artificial
artistic
assertive
attentive
average
awesome
awful
Bbalanced
beautiful
below average
beneficent
blue
blunt
boisterous
brave
bright
brilliant
buff
Ccallous
candid
cantankerous
capable
careful
careless
caustic
cautious
charming
childish
childlike
cheerful
chic
churlish
circumspect
civil
clean
clever
clumsy
coherent
cold
competent
composed
conceited
condescending
confident
confused
conscientious
considerate
content
cool
cool-headed
cooperative
cordial
courageous
cowardly
crabby
crafty
cranky
crass
critical
cruel
curious
cynical		 Ddainty
decisive
deep
deferential
deft
delicate
demonic
dependent
delightful
demure
depressed
devoted
dextrous
diligent
direct
dirty
disagreeable
discerning
discreet
disruptive
distant
distraught
distrustful
dowdy
dramatic
dreary
drowsy
drugged
drunk
dull
dutiful
Eeager
earnest
easy-going
efficient
egotistical
elfin
emotional
energetic
enterprising
enthusiastic
evasive
even-tempered
exacting
excellent
excitable
experienced
Ffabulous
fastidious
ferocious
fervent
fiery
flabby
flaky
flashy
frank
friendly
funny
fussy
Ggenerous
gentle
gloomy
glutinous
good
grave
great
groggy
grouchy
guarded
Hhateful
hearty
helpful
hesitant
hot-headed
hypercritical
hysterical		 Iidiotic
idle
illogical
imaginative
immature
immodest
impatient
imperturbable
impetuous
impractical
impressionable
impressive
impulsive
inactive
incisive
incompetent
inconsiderate
inconsistent
independent
indiscreet
indolent
indefatigable
industrious
inexperienced
insensitive
inspiring
intelligent
interesting
intolerant
inventive
irascible
irritable
irritating
Jjocular
jovial
joyous
judgmental
Kkeen
kind
Llame
lazy
lean
leery
lethargic
level-headed
listless
lithe
lively
local
logical
long-winded
lovable
love-lorn
lovely
Mmaternal
mature
mean
meddlesome
mercurial
methodical
meticulous
mild
miserable
modest
moronic
morose
motivated
musical		 Nnaive
nasty
natural
naughty
negative
nervous
noisy
normal
nosy
numb
Oobliging
obnoxious
old-fashioned
one-sided
orderly
ostentatious
outgoing
outspoken
Ppassionate
passive
paternal
paternalistic
patient
peaceful
peevish
pensive
persevering
persnickety
petulant
picky
plain
plain-speaking
playful
pleasant
plucky
polite
popular
positive
powerful
practical
prejudiced
pretty
proficient
proud
provocative
prudent
punctual		 Qquarrelsome
querulous
quick
quick-tempered
quiet
Rrealistic
reassuring
reclusive
reliable
reluctant
resentful
reserved
resigned
resourceful
respected
respectful
responsible
restless
revered
ridiculous
Ssad
sassy
saucy
sedate
self-assured
selfish
sensible
sensitive
sentimental
serene
serious
sharp
short-tempered
shrewd
shy
silly
sincere
sleepy
slight
sloppy
slothful
slovenly
slow
smart
snazzy
sneering
snobby
somber
sober
sophisticated
soulful
soulless
sour
spirited
spiteful
stable
staid
steady
stern
stoic
striking
strong
stupid
sturdy
subtle
sullen
sulky
supercilious
superficial
surly
suspicious
sweet		 Ttactful
tactless
talented
testy
thinking
thoughtful
thoughtless
timid
tired
tolerant
touchy
tranquil
Uugly
unaffected
unbalanced
uncertain
uncooperative
undependable
unemotional
unfriendly
unguarded
unhelpful
unimaginative
unmotivated
unpleasant
unpopular
unreliable
unsophisticated
unstable
unsure
unthinking
unwilling
Vvenal
versatile
vigilant
Wwarm
warmhearted
wary
watchful
weak
well-behaved
well-developed
well-intentioned
well-respected
well-rounded
willing
wonderful
Yvolcanic
vulnerable
Zzealous

Quite the smorgasbord, wouldn’t you say?  Beyond good and bad, tasty and bland, filling and light.  Just us.

The Big Three

Once upon a time, I was a super thin teenager, with a face full of acne and a farmer’s tan.  Clearasil didn’t seem to help and the Instatan goop left me with little lines of brown on the top edges of my toes, bordered by lily whiteness.  Eventually, I started wearing longsleeved turtleneck shirts all summer, to the amusement (and no doubt disdain) of many.

My self-esteem was rock bottom, and I let my woes focus on three facts:  I couldn’t swim.  I couldn’t skate.  I couldn’t ride a bike.  My conclusion?  I couldn’t have a good life.

Let’s take swimming first.  When I was 6, my parents sent me to a hotel pool for lessons.  At one point, the instructor told us fledglings to line up on the edge of the deep end.  He yelled “Jump!” at us one by one, and if the person didn’t, the hairy-chested so-and-so pushed.  I remember flailing away … and then later waking up on the side of the pool after receiving artificial respiration.  “Yuck!” said my very young mind.

Then there was high school.  Happily for some, Lawrence Park Collegiate Institute in Toronto had a pool, and there were twice a week swimming periods from the beginning of Grade 9 to the end of Grade 12.  Quadruple yuck.  It seemed like I spent my entire high school career floundering around in the shallow end while the guys did laps.  And all of us were nude.

How did I ever recover from all this?

On to skating.  My parents meant well but my skates were ill-fitting and I guess there was no money for fancy new ones.  Flop went the ankles and down went the bod, again and again and again.  My friends were playing hockey.  I was going to skating parties, running on my skates in a hopeless effort to stay vertical and grabbing on to chain link fences.  Friends did loops around me and occasionally came to a professional stop, showering me with ice crystals.  “How’s it goin’, Bruce?”  The girls were more discreet.  They just stayed away.

How did I ever recover from all this?

For dessert, there was riding a bicycle.  Except I didn’t know how.  I was too terrified of falling and smooshing my muscles and bones to even ask Mom and Dad for a bike.  Once more, friends rolled away to destinations (and adventures) unknown.  At least unknown to me.

When I was 17, I got my first job – flipping hamburgers at a stand on Toronto Island, a lovely stretch of lawns and trees.  My spot was at Hanlon’s Point.  Refreshment was also available at Centre Island and Ward’s Island.  One day, my boss came up to me and said “Bruce, take this box of burgers over to Centre.  They need it right away.  There’s a bike at the back.”  Oh … gulp big time.  I took the frozen burgers, walked to the back of the building and spied the sinister two-wheeled job.  Arghh!  I tried to do what I’d seen so many people do – get on the bike.  Didn’t have a clue, and the result was predictable … splat! on the asphalt.  Picking myself up, I glanced around like a fugitive and saw that no one had witnessed this escapade.  Twenty yards away was a grove of bushes.  I ran the bike over there and shoved it in.  After making sure the beast was totally concealed, I ran like hell to Centre Island with my thawing patties.  Sigh.

How did I ever recover from all this?

Forty-eight years later, I’m a happy adult.  As for the big three, here is my score:

Swimming – still can’t
Skating – still can’t
Riding a bicycle – learned when I was 47 years old

Something good must have happened to me along the way