I recently completed a 40 day yoga challenge. It was handily timed to end on the equinox – the first day of spring. Nice try Yoga Studio Owner Lady but spring equinox was almost two weeks ago and we’re still not basking in the sun. Even the dedicated daily efforts of over thirty Yogis weren’t enough to cause the karmic shift needed to please for crying out loud make this be over.
I’ve blogged before about Canadians and their hate for winter. But there is no escaping the fact that in winter there is snow: sticky snow that you can play in, fresh snow that you can ski in, packed snowbanks that you can jam your snow-panted butt into to create the comfiest chair around, clean snow that you can eat. In winter there is ice: ice that you can skate on, ice that forms into gorgeous icicles (also delicious), ice that you can fish through.
What do Canadians get in spring? Filthy snow. All kinds of old, melting dog poo including small bags of dog poo that have been encased in clumps of snow, shovelled, trampled on and run over by sidewalk clearers until they rip open. Apple cores. Three month old orange peels. Piles of gravel and salt that the City continues to strew about willy-nilly even though it is “spring”. Soggy papers. Potholes. No wonder Canadians fantasize about springtime in Paris.
Oh ya, and it’s still bloody cold. Let’s not leave that part out. The only way a Canadian can tell that it’s spring is by the strength of the sun and the length of the day. Both are dramatically different than they were in January.
This weekend is Easter. I had some picture books about Easter out from the library and it struck me that Canadians reading Easter books must be like Australians reading Christmas books. Imagine spending Christmas on the beach while reading stories about snow and pine forests and horse-drawn sleighs. Well imagine being Canadian and reading about outdoor Easter egg hunts. As if!! These books about brightly painted eggs dotted here and there in the garden are a real crock for us.
Please join me as I set out to mail a few letters. I need the company to face my interaction with the most highly passive aggressive postal master (MHPAPM) in the country and his magnificently near-sighted sidekick. You could be the only person in the post office but MHPAPM will keep you there for at least 20 minutes as he plays both good cop and bad cop. On the one hand, he really wants to save you time and money and make sure that your package reaches its destination successfully. On the other hand, he really, really, really doesn’t want any of that to happen. I sense a Netflix original series…
Case in point, today he wasn’t going to let me mail a letter to the government that had prepaid postage on it from said government. Why? Because it was bulky. I told him that the government had sent me the forms WITH that exact envelope in which to return them. Sometimes sparring with MHPAPM is fun but mostly it is not. When I had 17 hats to mail around the world, I chose to take a bus downtown just so I could mail them from another post office.
You’ll have to take my word for it but every word on this sign is a lie. I suggest MHPAPM strolls across the street and avails himself of the Bytown Psychological Services. On second thought, the psychologist that thought that sign was a good idea doesn’t inspire much confidence. I guess I’m stuck with MHPAPM as he is. Oh well, at least it’s spring…