Grade 1.
Reading. Writing. Addition. Subtraction.
Disney. Barbie. Easybake. Hockey.
You can play with the girls and keep up with the boys.
Neon. Cassette deck stereo.
Duran Duran playing on the radio.
This kid has no idea what lies ahead.
But she dreams big.
Over the weekend, I watched 'Tracks', a film about a woman's trek across the Australian desert with only a few camels and her beloved dog to keep her company. I hadn't heard of this movie before, but the premise instantly proved intriguing; it is based on the real story of Robyn Davidson, who completed the journey and had it documented by National Geographic in 1977. The cinematography was beautiful but it was the tale of existential dilemma that one faces after losing a loved one that truly resonated with me. I've wanted to see 'Wild' for the same reason but as I live in a satellite community of the middle of nowhere, it still isn't in theatres.
In the early 1970s, my father and two friends rode their 10-speed bicycles from Winnipeg to Vancouver. This was before cross-country cycling excursions (and the entire alternative travel industry) came into vogue. There are few photos of the trip remaining; in none of them is there any trace of safety gear visible. In fact, clothing seems to be entirely optional. They were simply slaves to the open highway and the dawn of the day.
My father was very proud of this adventure and spoke of it often.
Saturday night. The living room of my living space a makeshift entertainment venue and pagan confessional, where the candidness of subject matter at discussion is directly relative to levels of alcohol consumed. Currently, we were indulging in a 2011 riesling.
The conversation flowed from real estate to career ambitions to, lastly, and always most promising, dating.
The bottle was almost empty.
"Give me your laptop, I'll show you him."
I handed my Macbook to a friend who proceeded to show me the profile of a man she met online. His digital persona carefully curated to depict an individual hellbent on being viewed as a "badass"; through my eyes though, the motorcycle and excessive tattoos more acutely screamed "midlife crisis". Especially since his listed profession was dentist. The mental gymnastics she performed in regards to imagining her future with him were Olympian-level. I hated to be the Russian judge in this friendship.
"He's not your type. And besides, he lives in Winnipeg; you live in Saskatoon."
I steered the conversation to another topic as the wine was wearing off and I didn't want to address my own highly questionable tastes. Instead, I excitedly brought up an upcoming trip that I have been immersed in planning: a solo excursion around Korea. Hallyu and the art of k-pop. Bulgogi and the art of not getting ill from street food. I want to rent a bike and risk my neck on their infamously terrible roadways. I will visit the world's "most dangerous tourist trap", the DMZ – all in an effort to prove my own badassery to myself and fight off the sinking feeling that I'm (also) on the verge of a midlife crisis.
Perhaps I judged the dentist too harshly.
"Who is Kim Jon-Un?" inquired my friend.