February 23rd, 2002. O Canada.
Canadians are definitely different than other English-speakers. We have a certain personality (I hesitate to say wit, as I am reminded that Alanis Morrisette is Canadian too) that really sets us apart. Just today, I was commenting on the fact that hay fever season was upon us. Canadian Guy at work asked me what I was allergic to and I gave him my usual response, "Anything green." He immediately shot back with, "Better stay away from the Irish."
I think that being the younger, over-shadowed sibling of the US has made us bitter and cynical. No matter what we do, we can't out-achieve the frikkin' Americans. They are just too good at too many things. So, if you can't make yourself noticed with your brawn, you make yourself noticed with your brain. Barring that, you learn to be a smart-ass.
As a result, biting sarcasm is as natural to us as maple syrup, high taxes and shovelling that crusty, heavy snow at the end of the driveway. Case in point: the other night when I was out with Sam and Rory, we couldn't help but make ripping remarks on life in Japan. Every sentence was laced with malice, each syllable from our lips dripped with bitterness.
It was nice to have a Canadian conversation again.
I was sitting in my room, on my futon and staring at my wall. This is something I do every night, without fail. Sometimes I am empty handed, sometimes I am munching Shreddies out of the box. Sometimes there is music, but mostly it's silent. Sometimes I am tired, sometimes I am alert. As I was cramming a handful of Maple Crunch Shreddies into my mouth, it struck me: "What the hell am I doing?" I mean, this is one step away from insanity. I've said it once, I'll say it again: People can get used to anything.
Take me for example. I live in a messy veal pen and spend the better parts of my nights staring at a concrete wall, eating dry cereal with my hands. I'm used to stumbling around day after day, illiterate and mute. I'm used to not understanding anything. I'm used to communicating through charades. And I am content.
I've gotta get out of here.
I would be interested to see what would happen if you made someone live in a port-o-potty. He'd hate it for the first few months, but then, he'll start to rationalize and try to make the best of things. "Well, if I toss a few throw pillows there and buy some scented candles...it's not that bad."
Optimism and adapatbility are scary things. I suppose that's how we got people used to working out of cubicles in office buildings. When you think about it, the idea is absurd. Fifty years ago, workers would have incited the union if they were forced to work at little desks, imprisoned by olive-coloured dry wall. But now, we're happy if we can put a plastic plant on the desk beside our monitors.
After mulling this over in my head for a few minutes, I promptly put away my cereal and went for a walk.