Photography is a way of feeling, of touching, of loving. What you have caught on film is captured forever… It remembers little things, long after you have forgotten everything.
— Aaron Siskind
I’m one of those people who take photos of everything. If I want to remember a person, a place, a street sign, or the feeling of a particular cup of coffee, I’ll take a picture of it. I take pictures of flowers to capture their ephemeral beauty; I take pictures of delicious meals that I’m proud of; I take pictures of the people I love doing the things they love.
I collect pictures like I collect memories. I don’t do much with them once they’re taken, I just keep them tucked away for some later, undetermined use. Sometimes I’ll look at an old picture and wonder why I took it, but more often I’ll see it and instantly recall a place, a moment, or a feeling. Perhaps I’m trying to preserve a sensation, or maybe I’m afraid of losing something; the more likenesses I create, the longer that object, instant, or person exists in the world.
Someone asked me a question this week that made me consider why I take so many photos. “Are you afraid of having children because you’re afraid of leaving them, like your mother left you when she died?” Without missing a beat I said “No, I’m not afraid, because I already know what I can leave for my children that I didn’t have; I can give them thousands of pictures of their parents when they were young, and I can make sure they have people to talk to and stories to hear about who their parents were as people.”
This is why I try to preserve the beauty that surrounds me and this is why I take pictures of my husband when he’s not looking. I cherish the pictures I have of my Mum and there are many, but she lived and died in a time before the Cloud and cellphone camera rolls with thousands of pictures. I have more pictures of our family dog than I have of her. My Mum also died suddenly, giving no one who knew her time to prepare or time to collect the pieces of her that my sister and I will spend the rest of our lives looking for. Maybe I’ll never look at the photos I collect and maybe they won’t mean much to me. But maybe someday, the curiosity, the peace, the joy, and the beauty will mean something to someone else.
Me, in my natural habitat, taking close-up pictures of flowers.
Interestingly, I shared this conversation with my husband who then proceeded to tell me that for nearly a decade, he has been taking candid photos of me without me knowing.
Each day this week I set out to take a picture of something beautiful. Sometimes I captured pure, undeniable beauty. Sometimes I captured beauty in fear, beauty in decay, or beauty in struggle. Sometimes I preserved a feeling or a memory. Sometimes I just took pictures of flowers. This week I found happiness not only by intentionally seeking out beauty every day, but by looking for beauty in everything I saw. Instead of continuing to overthink it, I’ll just leave the photos here, to share the beauty and the Happiness.
The ruins of the historic Knifeworks Site in St. Catharines.
A rather large snake we found while out for a walk.
A tree we planted when we moved in, blooming for the first time.
The grass after I cut our neighbour’s lawn
Some inspiration in the neighbourhood.
A Plover’s nest we found on a walk. We check on it every day to make sure Mama and Babies are alright.
A beautiful plant is like having a friend around the house.
— John F. Kennedy
Before I get into this week, there are a few things you should know about me:
#1. I love plants, inside and outside.
In my heart of hearts, I am a 90 year old woman who dotes absentmindedly on the beautiful flowers in her garden; flowers over whose origin I had absolutely no control (thank you previous homeowners). I can be frequently found bent over or squatting down in strange parts of our property taking very close-up pictures of flowers. Of late, I have taken to doing this on other people’s property. That, I suppose, is the particular form that my pandemic neurosis has taken.
I also have a baffling array of plant life inside the house. The most impressive of these come from my husband’s grandmother who, despite claiming very little knowledge of domestic horticulture, has become known in our house as the “Plant Whisperer”. In addition to the more traditional houseplants, we have also amassed a considerable quantity of what I’ve dubbed “Lettuce Babies”. You see a while back, following some advice on the Internet, I stuck the end of a Romaine lettuce heart into a shallow dish of water. And then another one. And then another one. Fast forward to today, where we have a total of 19 of these creatures adorning our windowsills. Do I talk to them? Yes. Have I named the biggest one? Yes. For those keeping score, Big Papa Lettuce is doing very well, thank you.
#2. I have been known to talk to animals, inanimate objects, houseplants, and myself on a regular basis.
This doesn’t need much in the way of explanation. I will, however, provide a short list of things I have “conversed” with.
Two family dogs
Every rabbit I’ve encountered
Neighbourhood birds
Ants on the kitchen counter-top
My computer(s)
My bike
A bit of road where I once punctured my bike tube on a staple
My shoes
The Lettuce Babies
Flowers in the garden
Bugs on the flowers in the garden
All other house plants
Myself
It’s worth noting that with the exception of the ants, flower-destroying bugs, and that nasty bit of pavement, most of these conversations have been rather pleasant.
#3. I arbitrarily assign pronouns and terms of endearment to these aforementioned entities, switching between them at random.
While one can fairly easily determine gender in birds (with males exhibiting the most colourful plumage) the rest is essentially guesswork. Mr. Robin, Mr. Finch, and Mr. Cardinal are regular visitors, along with a vast array of birds, bugs, and plants all “answering” to Little One, Little Buddy, Pretty Lady, Sir, Goober, or some combination thereof. Even beings with assigned names, as in the case of the dogs, can’t escape my absentminded whimsy. L.C. and Lou-Lou, two small white dogs, have been regularly called Bear, Beethoven, and Van Buren (at one point in time, I’m sure I had a reason for this).
#4. I eventually kill every plant that crosses the threshold of our home through an unpredictable combination of neglect and over-attention.
I am sad to say that despite having a number of plant experts in the family, I have a fairly abysmal track record with houseplants. I imagine that this could be remedied by researching each new arrival and actually scheduling their care but somehow, like the weeds between our cobblestones, they just slip through the cracks. If I notice a plant, I’ll water it. But more often than not I’ll be whispering “oh shit” to myself – or the plant – long after it is much too late.
A Plant by Any Other Name…
You can see, then, why I was delighted and a little apprehensive at the start of this week. Unlike the more obvious ones, this particular happiness tip only appeared in one of the articles I found and I added it to my master list because it sounded weird and whimsical.
There is certainly a case to be made for indoor plant life leading to happiness. At the most fundamental level, plants “correct” for our physical presence in a given space by behaving in the exact opposite manner to humans: plants release oxygen and absorb carbon dioxide. According to NASA, they can also remove up to 87% of air toxins in 24 hours.
On a psychological level, plants have been shown to improve concentration and productivity; reduce stress, anxiety, and blood pressure; boost mood, immune system, and cognitive function; and even improve sleep. Touching and smelling your indoor plants on a regular basis greatly contributes to these positive effects. Soil evidently contains microbes delightfully dubbed “outdoorphins” (M. vaccae) which work as natural antidepressants.
No study or article that I found, however, spoke to the benefits of naming your houseplants.
Alan the Coleus Plant
Without getting into it, this particular plant found its way into my care somewhat fraudulently as part of a Mother’s Day “buy this, get that” scheme. I had only intended to “buy” but when I was given the option of selecting a small plant, my husband said to me “hey, you can get a plant!” and I sheepishly picked this one.
I had no idea what kind of plant this was but I loved the colours and I was a little less afraid of killing it than I was of killing its more flowery companions. I carefully brought him home and set him up near a window. “He” remained nameless and genderless for a couple of days before my sister offered up the name “Alan”. He did strike me as a boy-plant (for some reason) and the name Alan seemed just the right amount of absurd. So, this little Coleus plant (thank you husband + internet) was henceforth called Alan.
I wasn’t entirely sure what to do with Alan once I had named him, so as I moved him around the house, I started taking pictures of him thriving in his environs. He visited the Lettuce Babies, he enjoyed the sunshine both inside and outside, and he participated in family trivia. I mean, what else can you really do with a houseplant? Nevertheless, I faithfully chronicled his adventures.
This is Alan the Coleus Plant
Alan enjoying some sunlight
Alan meeting the neighbours
Alan observing the Lettuce Babies
Alan participating in family Zoom trivia
Alan meeting the tiny herb garden
Alan with mood lighting
Alan enjoying a cocktail in the backyard
Alan enjoying a cocktail
Alan is a lush
Alan reading a book
The Adventures of Alan the Coleus Plant
Alan + Laura = 🙂
Over the course of this week, I thought of all the ways that houseplants (or plant life in general) make me happy and realized that they fit into two categories: Active Happiness and Passive Happiness. The Active increase in my happiness comes from clear observable behaviours and changes like acquiring a plant, closely photographing a plant, naming a plant, talking about plants, etc. The more Passive increase comes from things that happen behind the scenes or beneath consciousness like the increase in air quality and all the other things I’ve mentioned. Thinking closely about this, I can reasonably assume that my happiness has been elevated due to Alan’s presence in my home. I suppose I could test this by evicting him, but I’ve become rather attached so I’ll trust the science on this one. If we actually buy into this undeniably silly ritual of anthropomorphizing our house plants, we can unlock that bonus layer of Active Happiness. Alan, the Lettuce Babies, and the whole leafy gang have brought me great joy, particularly now that I’m home all day to enjoy them. And who knows, maybe naming Alan is actually better for him than it is for me, if it in any way increases his chances of survival.
Nothing compares to the simple pleasure of riding a bike.
— John F. Kennedy
This week I experienced the purest expression, to date, of “How to Be Happy”.
I’ve talked a lot about cycling in the past several weeks. In fact, my bike has made an appearance in three separate happiness tasks prior to this one. It came in at number 15 on my list of blessings from Week Two; I used cycling as a form of meditation in my “Zen Habits” of Week Nine; and most recently it was the first thing I did to raise my activity level in Week Seventeen.
This unadulterated passion may have something to do with the fact that I have only recently re-discovered the joy of cycling and, as of this writing, I have yet to be hit by a car (a bit of a spirit dampener, I gather). Everything about my bike makes me happy: the handle grip, the placement of the hand breaks, the little bell, the narrow tires, even the story of how I acquired it. To make a long story short, I purchased the bike, virtually unridden, from a cousin who brought it to me at another cousin’s wedding. So, the first time I rode my bike I was slightly inebriated, in a floor length dress and heels, in the parking lot of the reception hall. We’ve been through a lot in the past nine months, my bike and I.
A very blurry photo of my first ride, with my floor-length dress hiked up to my knees.
Proof of inebriation
One of the reasons I included “Go for a Bike Ride” on my list of 52 ways to be happy is that I already had three months of anecdotal evidence that riding my bike does, indeed,make me happy (is that cheating?). I timed it for the second week of May because I thought that by this time I would be riding my bike to and from work regularly, so lots to work with there. I hadn’t counted on a global pandemic forcing everyone to work from home, but I made the best of it and started going for morning rides anyway.
Up until recently the purpose of my bike was purely utilitarian. I rode the 7 kilometers to work and the 7 kilometers back, only diverging from this pattern to get my tires filled once every two weeks. Despite this, I experienced more joy than I ever felt driving my car to work. The morning ride up hill was hard. It was exhilarating, it was rewarding, it flooded my brain with endorphins which, it turns out, is an excellent way to start the day. My afternoon ride down hill was physically and emotionally freeing. It took all the desk-sitting tension out of my body with about half the effort. No matter what else I did during the day, I felt like I had already accomplished something simply by getting myself to and from work.
Since my commute has gone from 7 kilometers to seven steps, I decided this week that I would take the opportunity to try something new; to give my bike a new purpose. I decided, in addition to my routine of pre-work bike rides, that I would add one longer ride just for me. I live in a region with lovely cycling trails and I had never once taken advantage of them. This week, that would be my happiness task.
And it worked. I experienced a direct correlation between my weekly task and actual, instantaneous happiness.
I had chosen Sunday for my bike ride, but from the moment I woke up all I wanted to do was go back to sleep. I did not anticipate that this Sunday, Mother’s Day, would be especially hard. I have lived through many since my Mum died and some are harder than others. If I had to guess, I would say that my mood this year likely had something to do with the emotional turmoil of a global pandemic, visiting but being unable to hug my Father the day before (due to pandemic-related physical distancing), and the number of pregnant female colleagues who are about to become mothers for the first time. Whatever it was, I started that day feeling very blue.
I knew, as I tried to talk myself out of bed, that I was running out of time. The afternoon forecast called for rain and in the evening we were bringing dinner to my in-laws. I was in such a deep fog that I barely acknowledged my husband as I put on my riding gear and walked out the door. I stood with my bike in the driveway and took a deep breath. I took my phone out, snapped a picture of my handle bars, and hit “Go” on my distance tracking app. I told myself to just get it over with as I set out in the direction of the canal.
Within minutes I was smiling.
Getting on my bike that day literally made me happy. I was sad, I got on my bike, then I was happy. I can’t put it more clearly than that. I felt the cold air on my face and smiled as I rode down the long streets lined with giant magnolia trees. When I got to the canal I took the path northward and within moments, I saw several families of Canada Geese digging for grubs with their gaggle of goslings. I slowed down and quietly stopped near one of the groups. I watched as the little ones waddled happily around inside the protective ring of the adult birds. I even got close enough to take a picture on my phone before I was hissed at by Papa Goose.
I laughed as I kept riding, seeing more and more fluffy baby birds as I went. A few kilometers down the path I noticed a large ship up ahead, preparing to go through the next lock. I don’t know why exactly, but I get childishly excited whenever I see one of those enormous vessels passing casually by, alongside ordinary road traffic. Perhaps it’s because I haven’t lived here long enough for the novelty to wear off, or because I’m not consistently late for work because “the bridge is up” – I believe that is called being “bridged” – and thus far I have been very fortunate.
Serious skill is required to navigate wide ships through the narrow locks; so much so, that someone called a “canal pilot” has to come aboard to safely guide the ship. As I was riding down the path, I watched the crew moving around the deck as they carefully made their way down the canal. I was even close enough to hear them calling out to each other, although the words were lost in the noise of the birds, the engine, and nearby traffic.
The passing ship decided how long my bike ride would be. Unless I wanted to wait for upwards of 20 minutes for the bridge to go down again, I had to turn around and bike back the way I came. I spent a few minutes on the side of the path, watching as the ship slowly progressed through the waterway. As I made my way back, I saw even more goslings and their vigilant parents. I had a not entirely one-sided conversation with a hissing goose, as I tried explaining to him that I wasn’t going to eat his babies and that I simply wanted a picture.
I don’t believe I actually rode at 92.9 km/h. I don’t exactly know how this happened.
Riding my bike has always made me happy but this was the best bike ride I’ve been on in ages, easily since childhood. I hadn’t planned on going anywhere in particular – other than somewhere near the canal – so I took my time and slowly meandered down the path, looking around at the water, the boats, the birds, and the passers-by.
I thought about all the ways that cycling makes me happy; boats and birds notwithstanding. In fact, I thought about it the whole way home, so I jotted down a list.
How Cycling Makes Me Happy
The old expression “it’s like riding a bike” turns out to be quite accurate and I am delighted every time I start pedalling that I haven’t forgotten how to do it
It makes me feel strong (and sore)
In my own tiny way, I feel like I am helping the environment
It’s also cheaper to ride a bike! No gas, no parking, less gridlock.
The feel of the wind on my face, under the power of my own ‘steam’ makes me smile every time
It’s somehow both energizing and calming at the same time
Endorphins, endorphins, endorphins
Slower than a car, I notice things I don’t ordinarily notice including smells (for better or for worse). Playing “Guess What the Neighbours are Cooking For Dinner” on my way home is a particular favourite
It feels good when people seem impressed: “you bike to work? Up that hill? Wow”
Seeing painted or protected bike lanes makes me feel like my city is committed (at least to a degree) to the environment – and my safety!
Honestly, it makes my pants fit better
Happiness = Me + Bike?
I was sad and cycling made me feel happy again. Does that mean I can quit while I’m ahead? Much like the endless causes of sadness, being happy or “Happy” is probably a bit more complicated than some good cardio. I will most definitely file this under “Will Do Again”, but I know that it’s only a small part of the picture. Cards on the table: within two hours of my bike ride my melancholy had begun to return, albeit a less intense version. Sometimes sadness is superficial, but sometimes it goes deeper than exercise-induced serotonin can fix. And that’s okay. Going for a bike ride that day made me little-h happy and I know that being able to ride my bike will keep contributing to my big-H Happiness. Biking this week didn’t open a well of repressed memories (which is a nice change of pace) and the task itself is fairly simple. Cycling probably won’t fix big emotional problems, but it is a big part of my regular mental maintenance.
However, road safety is a fickle mistress, so I’ll let you know how I feel about the bike-to-happiness correlation if I ever do get hit by a car!
We dream of having a clean house – but who dreams of actually doing the cleaning?
— Marcus Buckingham
It should come as a shock to no one that being happy your bathroom is clean is very different from being happy while cleaning your bathroom. It should be equally unsurprising that I didn’t get around to this “happiness task” until about a day after the last possible moment.
Origin Story
I first encountered our bathroom in the fall of 2017. I was a newlywed, fresh off the plane from our honeymoon in Portugal, and my new husband and I were (unbeknownst to us) nearing the end of our first foray into the housing market. We had been casually working with a real estate agent (Hi Brenda!) for almost a year, dipping our toes into an absolutely scalding housing market. We had just raised our maximum price for the third time because, while a “cute little starter home” sounds nice, we are the least handy people we know and the term “fixer-upper” gave me heart palpitations. One day around this time, Tyler sent me a listing along with the words “HA can you imagine? There’s no way it looks like this in real life.”
You see, like many other folks in our price range, we had been cleverly “catfished” by listing photos more times than I can count, so by month six we were well on our way to becoming hardened skeptics. This particular house was only slightly out of our price range and looked so good in the photos that we arranged a viewing, mostly as a joke (sorry Brenda). To tell a long and predictable story short, the house ended up being exactly like the pictures and, after shockingly little deliberation, we put an offer in.
What, you may ask, were the major selling points? In order:
Recently and beautifully renovated (read: we didn’t have to be handy)
The upstairs bathroom
The kitchen
The upstairs bathroom
Our beautifully staged bathroom
We loved the staging photos so much (clearly) that we downloaded them off the real estate website before the sale closed, partly to show people a clean version of our new house, and partly to remind us why we walked through the door in the first place.
Ode to Toilette
As strange as it sounds, the bathroom (this specific bathroom) is one of my favourite rooms in the house. Not only is it wonderfully functional – double sinks, updated fixtures, you can fit about six people in the shower (if that’s your thing) – it is also aesthetically pleasing. It is one of the first and last things I see every day (literally, it’s where I put on and remove my glasses). It also represents calm, clean, and the start of a new day. It is also full of hotel toiletries and expired products, but that’s another whole thing…
While the room was indeed beautiful the way we found it, my twice-daily rituels de toilette are made even better by the small elements we brought with us. I love the monogrammed hand towels (“F” for me, “M” for him) that we got as a wedding present; I love the little counter-top fern; I love the museum-mounted World War Two propaganda poster; I love the eucalyptus spray bottle in the shower; I love the hand-made soap dish by the sink.
It may sound strange, but I love my bathroom.
More Sinks More Problems
I’m not sure who I was kidding when I imagined myself spending hours every day this week cleaning different parts of my bathroom. Years ago I could picture myself as a hyper-vigilant cleaner (I even bought a book about it shortly after moving into my first apartment), but now, deep-cleaning the bathroom is one of those chores that I just seem to put off.
I thought about cleaning the bathroom every day this week but insteading of motivating me, it just bummed me out. On Saturday morning, after days of telling myself that today is the day, I looked at my husband and said “I know I’ll be happier when the bathroom is clean, but I really don’t want to clean it right now”. He then said something that really shouldn’t have surprised me as much as it did: “Don’t worry about it, I’ll help you clean the bathroom later”.
Maybe it’s because I’m the one doing this self-directed “How to be Happy” project or maybe it’s another reason entirely, but for some reason it had never occurred to me that I wouldn’t be the only one cleaning the bathroom this week. After all, I’m rarely the only one who cleans our bathroom (taking a bath doesn’t count as cleaning the tub, right?). As soon as I had help it became much easier. After dinner (and a couple of drinks) I put on the music at full volume and grabbed the cleaning supplies. It turns out that many hands and party tunes make light work.
Close Enough?
Have I found the key to Happiness? While the whole world was meditating, doing charity work, and hugging each other, it turns out you just have to put your hand in the toilet. * eye roll*. But seriously, my biggest takeaway this week? A clean bathroom makes me “little h” happy but it turns out I don’t have to be the one cleaning it. The happiness, in this particular room, does not come from the toil(et). Yes it’s a job well done, but honestly I’d rather spend the time doing almost anything else (you know, a dance party without the toilet brush). Maybe the secret to Happiness here is in keeping the bathroom clean, but knowing me I’m sure I’ll never find out! (But seriously I doubt it).
In the meantime I’ll look in my recently-cleaned mirror, take a deep breath, and keep trying!
If you are in a bad mood go for a walk. If you are still in a bad mood go for another walk.
— Hippocrates
This is a preamble I wish I didn’t have to write. In fact, the circumstances we currently find ourselves in – shelter in place, physical distancing, quarantine, whatever it looks like for you – are almost beyond belief to me. It is April 2020 and we are in the midst of a global pandemic. The internet tells us to mitigate boredom by cleaning our houses, learning a new skill, or forming new habits. This is easier said than done, and easier for some than for others. I am healthy, I remain employed (at home), I own a home with multiple rooms and work spaces, and I am still able to move safely around my community. Because of the privileged position I find myself in, I am able to continue my “How to be Happy” project virtually uninhibited. Yes, attempting to adjust to the new normal is mentally and emotionally taxing. I’ve also spent this time reflecting on how lucky I am to be able to focus not only on “getting by” but also how I can increase my own happiness, or Happiness.
While Week Seventeen takes place in the year 2020, the following story has nothing whatsoever to do with COVID-19. Here I acknowledge the privilege that allows me to take a momentary break from reality.
Gym Class Hero
When I was growing up I never thought of myself as “active” for one reason: I hated gym class.
One of my many years in house league soccer.
Okay, maybe “hate” is a little strong, but my fondest memories had less to do with team sports and the beep test and more to do with “parachute” days and those weird wheeled squares we sometimes scooted around on. I come from a British-ish family, so naturally I played house-league soccer (poorly) in the summers, followed the World Cup, and watched Tottenham move up and down (and up and down) the premiership table. I was completely hopeless with every other sport. I put this to the test in grad school when I joined an intramural volleyball team. My serve was so unreliable that half the time I would fail to clear the net, and the other half of the time the ball would just make it, resulting in a killer, un-returnable drop shot. I guess it was a good enough gamble because I wasn’t kicked off the team…
I don’t know specifically what was so awful about “physical education” in school (violent and competitive boys, sadistic gym teachers, ill-fitting uniforms, puberty, bitchy girls, and body shaming), but whatever it was inadvertently programmed me to run the other way (pun intended) at the first whiff of a “team sport”. Gym was something I told myself I didn’t like so I completed the minimum requirements and moved on.
Looking back on that time with a broader understanding of “physical activity” I discovered that I was actually pretty athletic, if not in a traditional sense. I was hopeless at basketball, volleyball, baseball, and most of track and field, but I went to an arts school where we had to take two different dance classes multiple times each week, in addition to PhysEd. I also spent about a decade in musical theatre. Singing and dancing at the same time is a surprisingly good workout! As an adult, I felt slightly vindicated when I learned that many NFL players use yoga and ballet as strength, flexibility, and coordination training.
Freshman Fifteen
I revisited exercise for the sake of exercise when I started university. In an effort to add variety into my steady schedule of class, studying, and two part-time jobs, I started going to the university gym. The last time I was in a gymnasium not during a school dance or assembly was in Grade 9. When I walked into the gym four years later, I realized that I had no idea what I was doing. Something, however, convinced me to stick with it and I ended up signing up for kick-boxing classes. I had never done anything remotely like it before; this was real kick-boxing with hand wraps, pads, and gloves. Within a couple of sessions I was actually sparring with an opponent and learning how to use my hands for the first time since the ill-fated summer when I played goalie for my soccer team.
That first semester of kick-boxing taught me something new, got me involved on campus, introduced me to new people, and made me feel amazing. I wasn’t objectively talented but I didn’t care. I felt strong, I felt powerful, and I felt like a bad-ass. From that moment on, I made activity a priority. I walked across campus instead of taking the shuttle, I took the stairs and not the elevator to the top floor of the library. I went to the gym and forced myself to learn how to run on a treadmill, and I tried group classes like Pilates and Yoga. For an entire semester I gave up my bus pass and walked everywhere. It felt amazing. Until one day it didn’t.
Chronic Pain
I’m not exactly sure when it started, but over the course of my undergraduate I began experiencing extended bouts of lower back pain, often accompanied by strange and painful nerve activity in my left leg. Following the advice of a friend, I visited the chiropractor on campus. Over time I ended up visiting two or three different chiropractors and eventually my GP to talk about the pain, but I never got a straight answer. The closest I came was, “book more appointments” and “pain is normal”, respectively. Then one day when I was sitting at the desk at my part-time job, I noticed that my leg was starting to go numb. I tried standing up and shaking it out but the bones in my lower spine all of a sudden felt like they were made of hot cement. I started to panic and, near the end of my shift, I called my father. I didn’t think I could manage the bus ride home and he thought I should go to the hospital.
That night was the first time I heard the term “chronic pain” used to describe what I was feeling. I sat on the edge of a bed in the ER and answered the doctor’s questions. I told her about the only relevant incident I could think of. In Grade 9 I had a skiing accident that, while not as bad as it could have been, resulted in a trip to the hospital, a battery of tests, some muscular damage, and special permission to use the school elevator for several weeks. The doctor looked at me and said “unfortunately that is chronic pain and you have two options: take pills or do yoga”. Then it hit me: I kept seeing doctors because I thought that one would find something that the others did not. If I found the right doctor and got the right diagnosis, they could fix me and the pain would go away. Sitting in the ER late that night next to my worried father I realized that this was something that I would live with for the rest of my life. The doctor had given me two choices: take painkillers in increasing dosages until they stopped working, or take back control over my body.
The decision from then on was easy. I would manage my pain by stretching and strengthening my body. That year I moved to a new town for graduate school and began incorporating daily activity into my life. I took yoga classes at lunch, I went to the gym at the end of the day, and I took long walks through the beautiful trails of Peterborough. I was in the best mental and physical shape of my life.
In 2015, I moved to Niagara after finishing my degree. After a few weeks I found myself a job at a call centre, then as a researcher at a non-for-profit. Out of necessity my routine changed. I had a gym membership but I was only going once or twice a week. I didn’t have the flexibility to take classes during the day and social pressure confined most of us to our desks for the better part of our eight hour days. This was my first post-university job and I focused more on navigating a challenging workplace than on staying active. I had let things slide for about a year when everything came to a head in late 2016. Six months before our wedding my now-husband and I were sitting in our car at a red light when all of a sudden we were hit from behind by a pick-up truck. In an instant, all the work I had put into managing my pain completely evaporated.
The car accident forced me to find time for things I had been ignoring. I visited every specialist imaginable; accident insurance covered physio and massage therapy and when that expired, I found myself a chiropractor and an osteopath. I was slowly starting to feel better with each visit, but I was growing tired of every new professional telling me that they would be the one to fix my pain. My consultation with Dr. Scott started much the same way. He told me that he didn’t want to establish a treatment plan until he knew more about what we were dealing with. He sent me for x-rays and told me to come back in a week. As I left his office that day I realized that in the decade since my skiing accident, no one had bothered to x-ray me.
When I went back to his office the next week, he pulled up my scan and started blithely talking about my scoliosis and spina bifida occulta. He must have seen the confusion in my eyes when he asked “you know you have mild scoliosis and spina bifida occulta, right?” I laughed casually and said no, that I didn’t know that, and he went on to explain that because it was twisted, the affected part of my lower (lumbar) spine made it difficult for my body to absorb and rebound from shock and injury. Things, for instance, like a skiing accident or being rear-ended. I honestly can’t recall too much of what he said after that, only that by the time I got back to my car and called my husband, I was in tears. I wasn’t upset by the diagnosis – if anything I was relieved. I was furious that in the past decade no one, not even my Family Doctor, ever thought to actually look at my back. I felt let down by a system that I had trusted implicitly. If they say that nothing is wrong, I must be making it up.
I’m Grateful for my Scoliosis
I now had two new labels to think about: chronic pain caused by scoliosis. Despite my historic wariness of team sports I am very competitive, especially with myself, so what I had here wasn’t a setback, it was a challenge. From that moment on, I renewed my commitment to physical activity. Being active made me happy; it reduced stress, it made me feel powerful, and it kept the pain at bay. I set out to make up for all the time I lost by being afraid of gym class. I joined a better gym with more equipment and a wider variety of classes and I started to run again for the first time in years. I tried new things, I pushed myself, and I loved it.
Week Seventeen
This week, my happiness task was to raise my activity level. While that may not be everyone’s cup of tea, I was excited to see how far I could push myself in seven days. I started by making a list of goals. This is how it went:
Goal One: Try an Online Workout Class
Since gyms have been closed for over a month, Instagram Live, among other platforms, has become a great place for mostly free fitness and workout videos. I discovered that the rec centre at the university I work at does several free classes each week, so I decided to give it a try. On Tuesday I did a HIIT workout (high intensity interval training) and at the end, panting and red in the face, I felt both victorious and completely out of shape. Later in the week I did a half-hour yoga class that, after 8 hours in my home office, felt amazing. I will definitely be doing those again!
Goal Two: Sign Up for a Free Trial
I have been an avid Fitbit user since 2013 and I was excited to learn that the company extended the typically 30-day free trial of their premium service to 90 days. I figured I could get a lot accomplished in three months, so my friend and I signed up right away. Without actively promoting the service (sadly I’m not being paid to say this) I will say that we are both excited by all the group challenges and “fitness paths” available. We started a Get Fit Bingo challenge and something called Push-Up Prep. We used the bingo board to motivate each other while watching videos to learn how to actually do some basic home workouts.
Goal Three: Run 50km
A running group called Happy Trails Racing started an online running challenge – Go the “Social” Distance – to help motivate runners who are understandably disappointed in the cancellation of all spring and summer races. I decided to start simple, so I set myself a goal of running 50 km by the end of April. This week I finished my goal! As an added bonus, for the last several runs I’ve had some company. My friend and I have started running together, over the phone, for three mornings each week. There’s nothing quite like an accountability buddy to get you out of bed at the crack of dawn!
Goal Four: Bike “To Work”
This year I was really looking forward to biking to work again. The ride, mostly uphill, is about 7km and the intensity of the exercise is a great way to start my day. Then the pandemic hit. My commute went from 7 kilometers to 7 steps. This week, I decided to start biking “to work” again. On the mornings I don’t run with my friend, I take my bike out for a quick 5km ride. There are fewer hills, but it definitely starts my day with a smile and a boat-load of endorphins.
Smiling uncomfortably, trying not to fall off my bike,
Endorphins Make You Happy
At the top of every “how to be happy” list you’ll almost certainly find something about activity, exercise, or fitness. When you work out, your body releases endorphins and, as Elle Woods says, endorphins make you happy. They also act as natural painkillers and are shown to reduce stress, depression, and anxiety. Whether it’s happiness in the short term, like doing ten jumping jacks or taking a walk to de-stress, or Happiness in the long term, like increasing self confidence, physical and mental health, and positive self-image, for me, getting my butt out of my chair works every time.
Instead of thinking I am losing something when I clear clutter, I dwell on what I might gain.
— Lisa J. Shultz, Lighter Living: Declutter. Organize. Simplify
Cards on the table here, this one almost didn’t get done.
As the week went on, this little “to do” sat in the back of my mind, popping up at least once a day to admonish me for procrastinating and to remind me that it would take literally ten minutes, so just do it already.
The problem was (as it usually is with cleaning) my heart wasn’t in it. Does the clutter in my house cause me stress? Yes. Does it bother me that we have several unopened boxes in our basement full of ???? from our respective childhoods? Yes. Do I always feel better when I spend an hour actually cleaning something? YES! Yet for some reason, being aware of this very predictable set of outcomes provides nothing in the way of motivation.
You might think that being more-or-less confined to my home during a global pandemic would result in a slightly tidier living space. I thought so at first, but no such luck. It is perplexing to me that the phenomenon that causes me the most day-to-day stress, the issue that has resulted in more fights with my husband than anything else, and the thing over which I have the most control is the one thing I can’t seem to get off my ass and actually do.
Expectations vs. Reality
I started out this week with big hopes. Something along the lines of: I know I said I’d only get rid of three things, but look, it’s turned into 100 and my problems have all been solved! Yeah, that didn’t happen. So far this season I haven’t convinced myself to do a full “Spring Clean”, despite having the extra time, but I thought that when it officially became this week’s “happy task”, I may actually get in the spirit. How did I spend my time instead? Doing exactly what I wanted, which was pretty much anything else, and not feeling the tiniest bit guilty about it.
Internet wisdom (and some actual research) suggests that people are happier with a tidier home and fewer possessions. None of the things we own actually bring or retain joy – it’s the emotional significance we attach to the objects in our lives that makes us happy. I know that I’m more at peace when the space around me is organized. I know that I feel a great sense of unburdening when I fill boxes or bags with items for donation. I know when it’s time to go through old boxes, when it’s time to deep-clean the kitchen, and when it’s time to tidy my desk. I also know that I give myself a very hard time when I put these things off. What actually feels worse, a messy house or days of negative self-talk?
At 8:00pm on the last day of the week, I completed my happy task. I thought about the three places in our house that are the most disorganized. I looked at the office, the kitchen, and the back room in our basement and I found one thing in each room that we never use.
My Old Hand Blender I got this little guy as a Christmas gift almost ten years ago. It lived with me in three cities, loyally blending my soups and smoothies until one day, in the middle of preparing for a dinner party, the motor died. I tried everything short of ritualistic sacrifice to get it going again, but nothing worked. This happened about two years ago, so why do I still have it in my house? It was a gift from my father (emotional significance) and it seemed strange to me to get rid of the whole kit when only one small bit wasn’t working (waste not/want not?). Since the tragic death of my hand blender I have acquired a conventional blender and another hand blender, yet my old friend still haunts the back of my kitchen cupboard. It’s hard to say goodbye (seriously, what could I possibly do with all the little attachments?) but it is most definitely time. The kitchen, my favourite room in the house, will be a little tidier and I’ll be a little calmer.
The “Cool Kid” Binder When I was in elementary school the coolest binder around was this bad boy: Five Star, fully zipped. In addition to holding all of your pens, pencils, and miscellaneous scraps of paper, it also served as a canvas for some sweet art. My Five Star binder (now long gone) was covered in swirls of pen and White Out. This particular one belonged to my husband who was very clearly not a doodler. In fact, it looks almost as good as new. We now exist in a world where we (usually) don’t have to lug everything we need around with us wherever we go so this three-ringed juggernaut hasn’t seen much action over the last decade and a half. This binder valiantly served its purpose and we both agree that some pre-teen somewhere is searching for it as we speak.
The Free Suitcase For all of high school and much of university, the most popular hairstyle for girls was pin straight. The objective, it seemed, was to remove any trace of natural volume, completely frying your hair in the process. I used my high school straightener so much that it died some time during university and, as the style hadn’t changed much, I went in search of a new one. Present-day Laura would probably look at some higher-end models, knowing that they would last longer. Poor-university-student Laura was looking for the biggest bang for her buck. I was at the mall one day and noticed a sign that said something along the lines of “Buy a [brand name] hair straightener, get a FREE rolling suitcase!” That is how this odd little thing came into my life. The straightener was decent (I still have it and now use it to curl my hair) but the bag was the real draw. I used the bag occasionally for some overnight trips, but the flaws in design quickly overshadowed the “free”. It is about the size of a carry-on with wheels and an extendable handle on one end. So far so good? Except the rigid structure of the handle track and its presence in such a small bag greatly reduces the available volume. Fine, but the wheels are convenient, right? Not quite. Because of its strange shape, when it’s full the bag becomes very top heavy, causing it to dramatically flop to one side while being wheeled. More than once I have had to literally drag the bag through traffic because it had lost equilibrium part way across the street. Not great if speed or efficiency are at all part of your plan. Okay Laura, just carry it by the handles. That would be okay if the bag had any sort of a shoulder strap, which it doesn’t. Instead, it has two very small handles that clip together, forcing you to either carry it at the end of your fully-extended arm, or to shove it just above your elbow allowing the full weight of the metal handle, wheels, and other paraphernalia to bang violently against your leg or hip.
Even empty, I had to hold it up for this picture.
As you can likely tell, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about this. I’m not sure what one should expect from free luggage, but it’s clear that I expected too much. In the years since, I have acquired many useful travel accessories – my favourite is a green duffle that I paid $5 for. On occasion I still use the hair straightener, but the bag just sits in my office, isolated from all other bags, waiting to be used. I’ve decided to finally let it go, to either amaze or disappoint another unwitting human.
Goodbye and Thank You
In her book The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up, Marie Kondo tells her readers that when we part with things, we should say goodbye and thank each object for its place in our life. The three things that I am parting with each served a purpose and deserve my thanks. Thank you to my blender for making my smoothies every day for years; thank you to Tyler’s binder for reminding me what middle-school cool looked like; thank you for the suitcase for teaching me what useful luggage is.
Letting Go of Tidiness
Sometimes I wonder whether I would be happier if my entire house was perfectly clean. The ten minutes I spent selecting my three things were much more fun than I expected, but I definitely didn’t look forward to the task. The role of these specific belongings has changed over time. The blender, binder, and bag started out useful, cool, and gratifying. Now, collectively, they make me feel grateful, they make me reminisce, and they make me laugh a little at myself. The things themselves didn’t make me happy, the purposes they served, the things they helped me create and accomplish, and the experience of saying goodbye made me happy.
There will be three fewer objects in my house that will soon, undoubtedly, be replaced by three more objects of questionable utility. As I slowly work to tidy my life it is the little things, the small steps, and the curious memories that will continue to make me happy.
Sometimes, reaching out and taking someone’s hand is the beginning of a journey. At other times, it is allowing another to take yours.
– Vera Nazarian
I thought that this week would be easy. I figured that reaching out to my loved ones would be a pleasant diversion from the emotional unpacking of previous weeks. I should probably start every page with the words “this will get deeper than you wanted” to warn myself that a large part of learning how to be happy is making a study out of your own unhappiness. This is not a post-mortem of past trauma, this is a vivisection. This is emotional, this is raw, this is irrational, this is painful. This is also hopeful.
It’s Been a While
I have never been good at keeping in touch with people. It isn’t because I don’t want to connect (I do) but something always stops me from reaching out, from popping up unannounced into someone’s phone or consciousness. Maybe I’m afraid that reminding a loved one of my existence is somehow an imposition. Why would someone want to hear from me when they have other, much more important people in their lives? Or maybe I’ve let too much time go by and they’ve moved on or given up.
I live with someone who does not seem to share my irrational fears and sometimes I forget that I am not the only one who feels anxious, guilty, or self-conscious when I type the words Hey, how are you doing? It’s been a while…
Why am I shining this awkward light on myself? I have wallowed in my failures of communication for a very long time without doing anything but feel sorry for myself. My infinitely practical husband has spent the better part of eight years kindly reminding me to talk regularly with my friends and family, but somehow the fear always wins. It is almost beyond logic. When I reach out, hear back, talk, and re-connect, I feel good. The flood of dopamine alone should be enough to keep me going, but somehow I convince myself that the lovely conversation I just had was a one-off and that whoever is on the other line has done their duty, spent their allotted time, and has no more they’re willing to give.
After years of dancing around the problem, I believe I’ve finally found the gnarled root of my fear of reaching out. The more I think about it, the more I internalize it. The more I share it, however, the more irrational it feels, so perhaps its grip over me will eventually be loosened. If you sense that I am beating around the bush, you are correct, because I am deeply ashamed of what I am about to admit. Here goes nothing.
Second String
I grew up with one mother, one father, and one sister. The four of us only overlapped for about eight years and after our mother died, it was just the three of us for a long time. I hesitate to speak for someone else but I think it’s fair to say that my sister and I have grown up with very little idea of what it’s like to have a mother, despite being surrounded by those belonging to other people. Yes, I have always had Aunts and close family friends, and recently (and within six months of each other), I acquired both a stepmother and a mother-in-law. I am surrounded by women, by mothers. But they’re not mine, they belong to someone else. All three of my Aunts, including my mother’s sister, have daughters of their own. My stepmother has a daughter, and my mother-in-law has a daughter. Every single one of these women has opened their arms and heart to me in different ways, and I believe I am a daughter, or at least “daughter-adjacent” to most of them. But the self-destructive part of my mind still dwells on one thing above all else: I will never be their first call. If given a choice, they would reach out to their own daughters before reaching out to me. I am a puzzle with a piece missing and they are not. They are mothers with daughters, and all I can hope for, at best, is to be an added bonus – a backup – for when their own daughters are not around.
It goes without saying that these are dangerous, destructive, and deeply irrational thoughts. I am also distilling complicated things like love and motherhood into simple binaries and clunky metaphors. I am also giving the women in my narrative very little credit or room for nuance. I know this, but sometimes it doesn’t matter. Sometimes I feel angry, I feel bitterly jealous, and I feel cheated. Both my sister and I have been robbed of the opportunity of growing older with the support, love, and companionship of our own mother. The most irrational part of it all is that I know that every single woman I mentioned would be there for me, immediately, if I needed. They would gladly offer advice, assurance, and time. I haven’t doubted that for a second. They don’t owe me anything but they’ve given me a lot. But the craziest thing is, every time I think I should reach out to them, a small voice in my head snears: They don’t want to hear from you. They want to talk to their own daughters. You make them feel bad and uncomfortable. Who do you think you are, calling them, asking them for anything?
I won’t dwell much more on this because I am, in fact, paying someone to untangle this particular knot, but I wanted to acknowledge that this flawed and broken thought process is part of why I am sometimes afraid of putting myself out there. I am afraid of being rejected by someone I need in my life. I am afraid of annoying people. I’m afraid of finding out that what they really think is that I am an irritating, self-righteous, neurotic mess. I am probably not the first call for many people – maybe only my husband. I know this and I am okay with this, but an irrational fear is just that: irrational.
What Now?
Over the past few months, I have uncovered fundamental truths about myself that I have been hiding for a long time. I didn’t want to acknowledge that a lot of the sadness in my life has come, directly or indirectly, from the death of my mother and the gaping hole that it left me with. It seemed too simple to me that my complicated emotions can all be attributed to one key moment in my life. It’s here that I say something clever about Occam’s Razor.
Moving forward, I think it’s important to acknowledge these truths when considering my own Happiness as a practice, a goal, or a mindset. I think of it like meditation. In a poorly-worded nutshell: you sit in stillness and try to clear your mind of all negative thoughts. When such a thought inevitably wanders through, don’t berate yourself for thinking it and don’t give up. Acknowledge that thought and let it float by, grateful for its role in your journey. (Excuse me while I get my essential oils and light my serenity candle).
I did it, and it was great
My task this week was to “reach out”. Is it easy in concept? Yes. Did I make it unbearably complicated after the fact? Of course I did. This week I managed to connect with several people that I care about. I had a long video call with three friends and four members of my family. We spoke about everything and nothing. We checked in with each other, we laughed, we marvelled at our global predicament, and we planned for a future where we could be in the same room together. This is a time when connection matters the most and we can no longer take it for granted. I can’t use fear and vulnerability as an excuse for not reaching out, because these connections are the most important things we have. Every one of the people I spoke with this week holds a big piece of my heart. They have given me things I cannot possibly articulate. I think there is a strange beauty in knowing that you can never really express how you feel, but the Happiness comes from spending your whole life trying.
A Selection of Video CallsMy favourite picture of the week: My Aunt describing something called a “Coon Gun”
When I was thirteen years old, I started a list. I carried that list around with me for more than a decade and just when I thought it had finally disappeared into the ether, I found it in a box labelled “MISC OFFICE” in the basement of our house. Inside a small decorative cardboard box, I found a piece of lined paper, folded three times, printed with the words:
The box containing my original “Life List”. Above, you’ll also see my Grade 9 student card.
“To Myself: Before I die, I mustdo all of these things”.
That list was written and rewritten countless times over the years; in notebooks, on long-dead web platforms, phone apps, and random scraps of paper. Somehow, in the course of five moves between three different cities, I had managed to preserve the original list.
I’m not sure what inspired me to write a “Bucket List” at the age of thirteen, but I do know that I took it very seriously for a long time. The careful ritual of folding and unfolding, writing and rewriting, reviewing, and planning was soothing; something, perhaps, that gave me the illusion of control. It has recently occurred to me that I created this small origami ‘anchor’ to my own mortality within weeks of my Mother’s death. Maybe I thought that if I put enough things on my “Life List” that I could somehow extend the amount of life I had to complete them.
When I read my old list this week it felt like I was reading a letter from my past self. It is truly astounding to consider what my priorities were (and were not, by omission). There are some big-picture things and some strangely insignificant things, but what struck me most about my list is that I wrote it completely and entirely for myself alone. I’ll explain.
Brief soapbox: With very few exceptions, pop culture places a lot of importance on a restrictive list of things that society deems acceptable for young women to want or aspire to become. For better or for worse, the list usually amounts to: find a partner, get married, buy a house, have a family, have grandchildren, and grow old and die in each other’s arms (I’m only partly kidding). Judging by this, the acceptable stages of identity are: girlfriend, fiancee, wife, mother, grandmother, and, likely, widow. I know I am over-simplifying here, and I will say that none of these ideas have ever been forced on me (or even strongly suggested), but I’ve noticed as I’ve gotten older that a lot of women around my age count these among their major life ambitions. There is absolutely nothing wrong with wanting any of this – I’ve happily made my way through at least half of that list – but the point is, these don’t have to be the only worthwhile achievements.
My point (finally): When I re-read my old teenage list, I was surprised that none of the aforementioned pop-culture milestones made an appearance. I included nothing about having a boyfriend, getting married, or having kids. The closest I got was “have sex” and “be kissed on New Year’s”. On paper (literally) I didn’t envision a life for myself that required other people. My happiness and success didn’t rely on anyone else and no matter who came into and out of my life, I could accomplish what I set out to.
For a long time after my Mother’s death (and still today), I struggled with the concept of “forever”. If there is one group of people who overuse the word “forever”, it is teenagers. After all, you’re going to remain BFFs and stay with your first boyfriend forever, right? I was not that teenager. Beyond academic achievement, I never thought about my future in finite terms. I wrote a “Bucket List” that gave me an entire lifetime to complete a set of random things with no deadline. I never imagined getting married or even saying the words “I’ll love you forever”. If I didn’t set specific expectations, especially ones that relied on another person, I couldn’t be disappointed. I believed very strongly that “forever” is not a human privilege.
Now, part way through the cultural milestones and my own list, I am reflecting on the pretty significant difference between a Life List you write at the beginning of high school, and a Life List you write when you’re married, own a home, and are staring thirty in the face. This week I wondered if I should re-write my old list one last time and paste it here, or if I should scrap everything and start fresh. The beauty of my now sixteen year old list is that there really are no deadlines. All I have to figure out is if these things are still important enough to me to try.
Top: the original list; Bottom: a later re-creation in a notebook
In the end, I decided that the best way to be realistic about my future is to carefully blend past with present, so I decided to keep my old list in its entirety. I wanted to track the progress I’ve made over the years while also poking fun at the thirteen year old version of myself. I want to acknowledge that the Life List 1.0 was created in a different time, under very specific circumstances. Unbeknownst to me, I created this list because I was struggling with the idea of planning a real future that didn’t include my Mother. I was struggling with “forever”because I didn’t believe in it, so I created a pretend future with no rules and no deadlines. A lot has changed since then, and I’ve done a pretty decent job on my list. It’s time to revisit and to slightly readjust my priorities.
So here’s my original list, annotated for clarity, to poke fun, and to acknowledge the pretty cool, fun, strange, and entirely random achievements.
To Do Before I Die, circa 2004
Fly a kite
Back when we were first dating I showed this list to my now-husband. He helped me check off a few things and this was, by far, the most memorable.
Got to a World Cup Match
Canada, the US, and Mexico will be hosting the tournament in 2026 so this has all of a sudden become much more realistic!
Sing on a piano
Go on a train
I’m sure I had been on one before this point, but I had absolutely no memory of it. I checked off this item after taking the train from London to Toronto and back for the Universities Fair.
Go on a hotel road trip
On our first drive up to Thunder Bay in 2015 we stayed in a number of hotels, the most memorable of which was at the Black Bear Casino. To this day, it is the most comfortable bed I’ve ever slept in.
Go camping with friends
Did this at some point in university. The highlights: buying an excellent flashlight that I still use, and reading the weather report on the way home that we had apparently narrowly avoided a massive storm.
Go bar hopping in Scotland
Own a pool/hot tub
Own a pool table
Go skinny dipping
I’m somewhat embarrassed to admit this, but during a “Cast Party” for one of the plays I did as a teenager, a group of us hopped over the neighbour’s fence and jumped in the pool, sans vetements.
Play the Fife in Fife (Scotland)
Backpack across Europe
Accomplished this in the summer of 2019 when my husband and I went with my sister-in-law to France, Switzerland, Germany, and Austria.
Count the number of doors on the Metropolitan United Church (there are 10)
This was a church down the street from my high school. It was big and there were a lot of doors. Real low-hanging fruit, this one.
Learn more about the “Fyfe” family
I acknowledge that this is an ongoing process, but I’ve read a book, talked to family, and dipped my toe into some genealogy.
Learn to make sushi
Get a professional massage
Don’t know what took me so long, but now I go at least once a month!
Go to a masquerade ball
Throw a huge party
I’ve done this a couple of times over the years, and I can bet that my thirteen year old self didn’t consider the cleanup required.
Learn to tap dance
Learn to play guitar
Go in a hot air balloon
Bring my own pillow camping
Again, another theatre thing. We would all go “camping” on someone’s rural property at the end of the summer. I didn’t remember a pillow one year and ended up having to share. Remarkably, I didn’t get head lice, and even more remarkably, this made it onto the list.
See Will’s new cat
This was exactly what it sounds like.
Buy a tent
Technically I didn’t do this, but I married someone who owns a tent, so that counts?
Sleep all night in a car
Actually finish a journal
Read all of Shakespeare’s works
Get my ears pierced
Done, and done again.
Visit Canada’s Wonderland
My first time was in high school with the other camp counsellors. I got very badly sunburnt.
Go on a road trip
I have no idea what my obsession was with road trips. Maybe I was trying to model my life after a “coming of age” movie mixed with a little bit of Eurotrip. Who knows.
Have my hair all done up in braids
Be in the live audience for the filming of something
Destroy a Nalgene water bottle
Watch a sunset
Somehow I didn’t get to this until I was almost done university. I’d seen sunsets, but I’d never watched one from beginning to end. I found a nice big window in the library and watched the sun go down during a study break.
Talk on the phone in the bathtub
This wasn’t as romantic as I had envisioned it. I was in university and had some illness-related aches and chills. I got into the tub, turned the water to scalding, and called my then-boyfriend. Check?
Play strip poker
Rent a cottage with friends
Adopt a Polar Bear
Very proud of this one. I donated to the World Wildlife Foundation and got a lovely adoption certificate in the mail. I believe I named him Nanook.
Learn sign language
Go on a double date
I don’t remember my first, but I have done this many times since.
Skate at Victoria Park during lunch
I went to high school in downtown London, nearby a big park. In the winter, they build a skating rink, and I always wanted to bring my skates to school one day and go at lunch. I ended up going early in the morning, before my first class, when the rink wasn’t technically open. I was the only person there and it was lovely.
Read the entire Bible
Ride in a convertible
Nothing special, although I was pretty hungover at the time.
Have sex
I’ll save everyone’s blushes here, and I’ll leave it as: complete.
Be kissed on New Year’s
Don’t remember the first, but have experienced this many times in the years since.
Go to a drive-in
Ride the “Polar Bear Express”
I decided to try and finish my original list, with the following additions:
Keep trying new things (rowing, horseback riding, rock climbing)
Have enough money to keep travelling
Own a second/rental property
In the years since writing my first Life List I’ve set goals for myself, and accomplished many of them, that never made it to the list. If I could, I’d go back and add: donate blood, get my Master’s, and join a Board of Directors. I’ve done these things and feel immensely proud of them. It’s easy to look at an old Life List and worry about the number of things you haven’t “accomplished” but it’s equally important to celebrate what you have already achieved, teenage-list-worthy or not. At thirteen, most of my major milestones were ahead of me. Now, I have some real achievements under my belt and a different and more realistic perspective. My Life List is still full of things that I can achieve on my own; I believe that independence is very important. But over the years, I have begun to relax and look at “forever” a little differently. The most important people in my life won’t be here forever, but their place in my life is precious, and my life (and Life List) is infinitely happier because of them.
Special Mention
For the last several years, I have been using a planner called Passion Planner, founded on KickStarter by Angela Trinidad in 2012. My husband and I had just started dating, and he quickly picked up on my love of lists. He donated to the original KickStarter campaign and I have been using a Passion Planner ever since!
A letter always seemed to me like immortality because it is the mind along without corporeal friend.
– Emily Dickinson
When I was a kid my Nana was my pen pal. I sent letters and cards to other family members, too, but most of my regular correspondence came from Nana. We talked about spring flowers, the leaves changing in autumn, and the snow falling in the winter. I wrote about things that happened in my day and she told me what “Inky” the cat was up to. When I started school I told her about my favourite subjects and the other kids in my class. When my sister was born, I told her all about the tiny new person in my house who made weird noises, got all the attention, and was quickly becoming my best friend. My little kid writing was fairly simple and Mum was always nearby with helpful writing prompts and spell-checks.
Decades later, when we had to move Nana into a care home, my Aunt started to regularly give my cousins, my sister, and I small packages. Every gift we had made for her and all of the letters we had ever written were being “repatriated” or “returned to sender”. At one time or other, there were five of us kids writing regular letters to our grandmother, not to mention the dozens of holiday and thank-you cards. Instead of being thrown in the trash, these mementos were giving us the opportunity to relive a precious part of our early lives.
Nana, my sister Julia, and our cousin Andrea.
These days, Nana has a lot of trouble remembering the details of her life. She remembers her childhood in Buffalo in photographic detail, but she can no longer reliably distinguish between her children, grandchildren, and siblings. My husband came into her life years after she had stopped forming new memories and she met him “for the first time” whenever we visited. There was somehow something beautiful about this. Every time I introduced her to Tyler, I would tell her that he was born in her hometown and grew up a thirty minute drive from her old family home. She would beam and begin sharing stories from her childhood; the trouble they got into, the day-trips to the beach, and the awful sounding English woolen bathing suits.
Visiting Nana in her care home.
When I sat down this week to plan my card and letter writing, I immediately thought of Nana. What could I write to someone who has trouble remembering my face? How much does she know about what’s happening in the world right now? Is she alone? Is she lonely? I thought of all the letters I wrote to her as a child and all the letters she wrote back. I thought about what I shared with her and the excitement I felt when I read her stories. What would make Nana happy now?
I wrote letters to a handful of people this week for a number of different reasons. Out of respect for their privacy, I have decided not to include them here. They were all brief and contained varied messages of love and hope for safety and happiness. None of them really expressed what I truly wanted to say – I’m not very good at writing letters these days – but I hope that the novelty of mail, at the very least, will bring some joy.
I worry about my Nana, especially during this time of social isolation and fear. I worry that she is afraid. I worry that she is alone. I worry that she will keep forgetting and that reality will keep slowly slipping further out of reach. When I wrote her letter I didn’t mention the global pandemic, working from home, or quarantine. I wrote about the flowers growing in our garden.
I wrote a second letter to my Nana, one that I didn’t send. Maybe this letter says something more, or better expresses my love, fear, gratitude, and joy. Maybe it doesn’t make sense to send it, or maybe it’s too late. I’ll leave it here, hoping that somehow she already knows.
Dear Nana,
My name is Laura and I am your second grandchild. Do you remember me? My Mum was your daughter, Elizabeth. She was very sick and she died a long time ago. I am so sorry, Nana. We all miss her, too. Maybe she is with Papa and Inky now.
Do you remember all the letters I used to send you? I saw some of them recently and I wrote about some pretty silly things. I used to tell you about the flowers, our cat Mog, and my sister Julia, back when she was a baby. (She is almost 24 years old!) All of those things are still very important to me, so maybe my letters weren’t so silly after all.
You and my Mum had the most beautiful gardens I have ever seen. I remember asking you both about each colourful flower and you would tell me what they were, over and over (thank you for being patient with me!) My favourites were the SnapDragons, because you could make them “talk” with your fingers. Do you remember when you had a plant in your front garden that grew taller than you? You sent us a picture of it, but I don’t remember what kind of flower it was. Remember when Papa climbed that tree and my Dad took a picture? I don’t remember because I think I was too little, but I always loved looking at the picture. It didn’t seem like something Papa would do.
It’s almost Easter time. Remember when we had Easter egg hunts at your house? We had inside hunts and outside hunts. You had a big backyard that was perfect for hiding eggs.
I am writing this letter to say “thank you” and “I love you”. Thank you for coming to our house for every “family” birthday party. Thank you for inviting us to stay at your house for a week during the summers. I used to think that Mum and Dad missed us terribly, but I think they probably needed the break. Thank you for telling me about your beautiful flowers and for letting me “help out” in the garden.
Most of all, thank you for my Mum. Thank you for raising her and for helping her become who she was when I knew her. Thank you for being there for her when things were difficult, and thank you for being there for us near the end. Thank you for writing letters to little Laura, and thank you for loving me.
I hope that you are okay and I hope that all of the problems in the world are far away from you now.
One good thing about music, when it hits you, you feel no pain.
– Bob Marley
No matter how “evolved” I may imagine my taste in music has become (coolness level: Single Malt Whisky) there is no escaping the flood of dopamine-induced nostalgia when I hear the first few notes of an old favourite from my motown/rock/soft-rock/alt/punk/pop roots. There is a special kind of euphoria that comes over me when I realize that somehow I still remember every single word to a song I haven’t heard in over a decade. How do I, being the cool person that I am, celebrate this feeling? By singing it out loud while inventing my own awkward choreography. Naturally.
Music does something special for everyone. For me, it brings long-dormant emotions to the surface and transports me back to a simpler time. Music is the one thing that temporarily lets me step outside of present-day Laura and to once again briefly inhabit a different version of myself; one before the trauma of loss, one whose biggest worry is who I’ll be sitting next to at lunch, one who is blissfully ignorant of inequality, poverty, and global pandemic.
My Awkward Selfie
This week my task was to listen to an old favourite song. I had an inkling that I would be creating a playlist, but I didn’t realize how big of a task I had set for myself. Somehow I ended up with almost 60 songs, so I decided to cut the list down to a thematically appropriate 52. As I was looking over my list, I began to think about why these songs meant something to me. I ended up creating and annotating a playlist of 52 songs that make me happy. Enjoy!
Oh, and if you want to skip over my ramblings (you’re forgiven) here is a link to my playlist on Spotify.
Week Twelve: Old Favourites
A Day in the Life – The Beatles Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band
When I was a kid, one of my favourite Saturday afternoon activities was dancing around the living room with my Dad (or was it dancing around Dad in my living room?), usually to some upbeat Motown, ABBA, or one of my favourite Beatles songs: “A Hard Day’s Night” or “Help!” As I got older and started exploring more of their extensive catalogue, I found myself listening to this album more and more. A decade or so later, I asked my father what Beatles song was his favourite. When he told me it was this one, something in my brain latched onto it and “A Day in the Life” has been my favourite ever since. Although “A Hard Day’s Night” and “Help!” still hold very special places in the heart of my inner child.
Stop! In The Name of Love – The Supremes More Hits By The Supremes
One of my Mum’s favourite bands was The Supremes. When we weren’t listening to the Beatles, ABBA, or Neil Diamond, a common soundtrack in our house was this one. Young children love songs with associated dance moves (probably why the Macarena, the YMCA, and the Chicken Dance stick around generation after generation). In one of my clearest memories from early childhood, my Mum and I are standing in the living room facing each other and, in sync, we put our hands out in a “stop” motion, followed by a heart drawn in the air and some more awkward dance moves choreographed by yours truly.
Twist and Shout – The Beatles Please Please Me
My grandma (Dad’s very English Mum) and I would often dance to this song, perhaps after a long day of playing “marching band” with tiny instruments and tea cozies on our heads. The dance would involve sticking one toe out to the side and twisting our bodies back and forth, seeing how “low” we could twist. Being a small child, already much closer to the ground, I usually won. The whole episode usually ended in giggles and a big hug.
Bitter Sweet Symphony – The Verve Urban Hymns
I was an “artsy” kid all through school. I went to a special elementary school for “the arts” and my transition to high school was no less dramatic. I played in every possible version of “band” that would have me, so most of my memories from that time are punctuated by musical instruments and band-camp-esque field trips. At one of our seemingly innumerable concerts, the strings band played an instrumental version of this song. It was probably the first time I had experienced cool and “current” music being played in an educational context and I loved it! (I also loved Beethoven, but he belonged in music class. The Verve was radical!) The band later went on to play music from Lord of the Rings when it was in theatres (specifically “Shadowfax” for all my fellow LOTR nerds).
Tupelo Honey – Van Morrison The Essential Van Morrison
When I was growing up my Dad had the best taste in music. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t “cool” back then (I was shamelessly teased for liking the Beatles) but now the “hipsters” like it so I was cool before cool was cool…right? (The rest of my playlist will very quickly put this to the test). This song was on heavy rotation. Whenever I heard it as an adult, it would stir up intense feelings of nostalgia. When tasked with picking a “father/daughter dance” song for my 2017 wedding, I told “father” that since “daughter” was picking everything else, he had to take this one. No surprise that my endearingly non-committal father weaseled out of the task when “Tupelo Honey” came on as we were listening to music. I may have picked it in the moment, but it was because of him from the beginning. I learned on the night of our wedding reception that despite him humouring many years of my crazy kid-dancing, my father is actually a great dancer. We didn’t practice and I’m pretty sure we looked incredible!
Such Great Heights – Iron & Wine Around the Well
My husband and I began our relationship living in two different cities – he finished university commuting between Fort Erie and St. Catharines (30 minutes on the highway) and I was finishing grad school in Peterborough. That meant that on alternating weekends, one of us would drive 3+ hours in rush hour traffic, and the other would take 5 hours worth of public transit. Early on in our relationship, he was sharing some of his favourite music and this song came up. It was oddly familiar, although I was sure I hadn’t heard it before. I loved it and instantly related to the lyrics. It felt very much “like us”. Years later, when we were picking music for our wedding, we both independently came up with this song for our “first dance”. This dance was choreographed and practiced beforehand (although I’m pretty sure no one was paying attention!)
Such Great Heights – The Postal Service Give Up
There was a reason why the last song was familiar. I had been listening to this one, the original, for years. I worked at a theatre camp (of course I did) and for the showcase one year we choreographed a modern dance to this song. It was the first time I had heard it and I added it to most of my subsequent mixed-CDs.
Come and Get Your Love – Redbone Wovoka
I don’t remember when I first heard this song, but as soon as I did (and every time after) a big smile broke out across my face. I can’t explain it, but for some reason this song makes me unnaturally happy and brings on fits of ridiculous and energetic “dancing”. If I had to pick a song to wake up to, this would probably be it because it is my music equivalent of a double-shot espresso. The only reason I haven’t made it (or any other song) my permanent alarm is out of fear that I’ll grow to resent the thing that reminds me that I have to get out of bed.
Mr. Blue Sky – Electric Light Orchestra Out of the Blue
I heard this song a fair bit around the house growing up. It was part of the phase in my music development called “Real Music Comes from the UK” (I still partly subscribe to this a tiny little bit). During this phase, I went from “is this the Beatles?” (words cannot describe how much that annoyed my father) to “what do you mean you don’t listen to The Clash?? It is a fun, upbeat song that reminds me ever so fondly of my impressionable youth.
Send Me On My Way – Rusted Root The Theory of Flight
This is one of the most delightful and whimsical songs that I have ever heard. For some strange reason it makes me want to link arms with someone and skip down an imaginary street. It was released the year I was born and the first place I heard it was likely in the movie “Matilda” which I adore to this day.
Mr.. Brightside – The Killers Hot Fuss
This song is on my list because, for a brief moment in the early 2000s, it was the epitome of “angst”. At the tender age of 13, I could relate to exactly none of the lyrics (taking a cab, smoking, sex), but for some reason an entire generation of pre-teens was drawn to the explicit-ish images of infidelity. I distinctly remember jumping up and down and “headbanging” at the Much Music Video Dances (yes, we were very cool). Every so often this song comes on the radio and I feel an instant combination of nostalgia, embarrassment, and faux-indignant rage.
Absolutely (Story of a Girl) – Nine Days The Madding Crowd
My favourite memories of this song are wrapped up in elementary school dances, trying to sing along and never really remembering the words beyond the first couple of lines. The memories are simple: I remember the school gym, the kids around me, the sounds, the smells, the fear of having no one to dance with during the next slow song. They’re pretty perfect memories.
Zombie – The Cranberries No Need to Argue
I’m not sure when I first became aware of The Cranberries, but there was something (the thick Irish accent) about Dolores O’Riordan’s voice that captivated me. I had been listening to this song on and off for years before it occurred to me to pay attention to the lyrics. As a kid I latched onto the word “Zombie” for obvious reasons, but as a slightly more discerning teenager I began to learn about the conflict in Northern Ireland that had peaked in my lifetime. Now, knowing much more about the history of the two countries, this song stirs me to my core. Whenever it comes on the radio (which it often does), I stop whatever I am doing and turn it up.
Build Me Up Buttercup – The Foundations Baby Now That I’ve Found You
Take a quick gander through this playlist and you might be able to tell that I have been very influenced by music from and inspired by the 1960s. This may have something to do with when my parents were born, but even if your parents aren’t certified Baby Boomers, you can’t deny the unique quality of this decade in music. My wonderful memory of my dad holding both my hands and swinging me back and forth across the living room isn’t specific to this song, but to the entire – very swingable – genre.
Brother Love’s Travelling Salvation Show – Neil Diamond Brother Love’s Travelling Salvation Show
Both Mum and Dad loved Neil Diamond so I have a long history with his music. When I was old enough to pay attention to the lyrics, I remember hearing Neil sing “pack up the babies and grab the old ladies” which made me burst out laughing. I was absolutely delighted by the image of someone packing an infant into a suitcase and grabbing an elderly woman and tossing her over their shoulder. I don’t think I actually knew the proper name of this song until many years later, because when I asked one of my parents to put it on the stereo, I requested the “Babies and Old Ladies” song.
Uptown Girl – Billy Joel An Innocent Man
I don’t remember when I first heard this song or when I began listening to Billy Joel, but I do know that this is one piece of joyful nostalgia that plays in my house whenever I am baking. It has a place in many of my “Throwback” playlists and I almost always sing along.
Drops of Jupiter – Train Drops of Jupiter
Honestly, until the very moment of writing this (I looked it up for the release date), I had no idea that Patrick Monahan wrote this song in memory of his late mother who died from cancer. My uncritical pre-teen brain just leaned into it hard because of its moody and sorrowful quality. No wonder! He was writing about deep personal loss; something I would experience three years after the song’s release. When I hear this song now I don’t feel aching pain; probably because when I first heard it I couldn’t relate to Monahan and I didn’t pay much attention beyond the first few lines. Now, when I hear this song I feel young, dramatic, and uncomplicated. I feel the way I felt back then; my only problem was that I didn’t have a problem. It was a beautiful, simple, sad, funny, crazy, normal time.
Go Your Own Way – Fleetwood Mac Rumours
Another British band from the 1960s? Yes please! It is very cool these days to listen to Fleetwood Mac, but I think I can claim some extra street cred for having listened to them since birth. Also, any halfway intelligent person can figure out my exact age by doing the “I was this old when” Easter Egg hunt I have inadvertently created throughout this list…
Semi-Charmed Life – Third Eye Blind Third Eye Blind
Some kids pretended to play the guitar. Some kids grabbed the nearest hairbrush or shampoo bottle and became lead singer. Me? Listening to this song I wanted to be the drummer (okay, also the singer). This is another one of those instant 1990s classics that hits people about my age right in the feelings. It still makes regular appearances on the radio and most of the lyrics still live somewhere, locked in the back of all Millennial brains.
Hey, Soul Sister – Train Save Me, San Francisco
My love for this song is thoroughly uncomplicated. I liked it because it’s upbeat and it’s a good song to dance to in the car. When I hear it now, I laugh at myself for loving it and for remembering all of the lyrics to this day.
You Can’t Hurry Love – The Supremes The Supremes A’ Go-Go
I contemplated including both the original 1966 Supremes recording and the version released by Phil Collins sixteen years later. I ultimately settled on this one because far too often it seems like an African American artist or group releases a song to moderate success, and then some white dude re-releases it and it blows up. No, Phil Collins isn’t “some white dude”, but I think the point still stands. Credit where credit is due, folks. To be clear, credit to Brian Holland, Lamont Dozier, and Eddie Holland for writing the song, and credit to The Supremes for making it fabulous. After all, I did grow up in a Supremes household.
Don’t Stop Believin’ – Journey The Essential Journey
This remains one of the best songs to shout/sing with a large group of teenagers/drunk people. My life can be divided into two different Journey Phases. Phase One (Younger Years): When I first heard this song I was in elementary school and Journey was a regular feature at school dances. When it started playing we would all gather in a circle (you all remember it) and start “singing” (screaming) in unison. We would all end up feeling weirdly empowered and very much out of breath. Phase Two (Alcohol): Now, in my old age, Journey is primarily employed in three ways: to get people at a bar to scream and make intense eye contact with literally anyone while gesticulating wildly to the lyrics; to say you “sang at karaoke” while really you just stood at the mic while the entire bar sang over you; weddings.
I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles) – The Proclaimers Sunshine on Leith
When I started drinking whisky I discovered that there was a tiny Scottish man living in the back corner of my brain, listening to this song on repeat. Long ago, I began to suspect he existed because this crazy blue and white, haggis eating, caber tossing, bagpipe playing part of me would emerge whenever I heard this song. It was also played over the loudspeaker on every cross country, track and field, and Terry Fox Run day at school. Sometimes the wee Scott drives me batty, but I’ve grown to love him and embrace him, particularly when the Scotch comes out. My family is pretty Scottish (Fyfe) and during certain times of the year (read: Burns night, when drinking, any time bagpipes play) it really shines.
Wannabe – Spice Girls Spice
Singing along to this song at the top of my lungs with all my girlfriends was the most empowering thing I had ever done in my entire life. It didn’t get better than this. This, and gal pal “Stop Right Now” were anthemic to us young girls and our first real introduction to “girl power”! Yes, I dressed up as Sporty Spice, yes I watched and re-watched Spice World up until adulthood, yes we had concerts at recess, in the backyard, and in the living room, and yes, I played this at my wedding. GIRL POWER!
You Get What You Give – New Radicals Maybe You’ve Been Brainwashed Too
If my life was a movie, that movie would start with a sunny day montage of me, the protagonist, heading somewhere, full of purpose, in slow motion. There would be a mix of me walking, driving (windows down), smiling, and waving at people passing by. The song swelling in the background of that montage? “You Get What You Give”, by the New Radicals. I have no idea why I feel this way, but I do. That is all.
Ain’t No Mountain High Enough – Marvin Gaye, Tammi Terrel United
All I have to say about this song is that it is absurdly inspirational and my heart grows three sizes every time I hear it. I find myself dancing (awkwardly, white) to it and manically gesturing towards the heavens. Do you want to be uplifted? Listen to this song. Go now. Do it. I’ll wait.
It Wasn’t Me – Shaggy, Rickardo “RikRok” Ducent The Boombastic Collection
I went back and forth on whether to include this masterpiece in my list. It was released before I had any idea what the lyrics meant, but I will (proudly?) say that I stuck by it even after I realized it was about some guy repeatedly cheating on his girlfriend and denying it (while also bragging about it?). I guess this is on here because it makes me laugh and roll my eyes while simultaneously setting off a bit of feminist rage. It also reminds me not to take this whole thing too seriously because, cards on the table, I kept listening to this song over the years because I absolutely marvelled at how low that guy’s voice is!
Jumper – Third Eye Blind Third Eye Blind
Is it just me, or does the guy in the music video look much too cheerful to be singing about suicide? When this song came out in the late 90s I had no real idea what suicide was or what drove people to it. All I knew was that Third Eye Blind was describing some emotions that most young kids feel at one time or another. Also, it was moderately upbeat and catchy with a neat marching band drumming bit. Don’t judge me for missing the nuance here, I was a dumb kid!
Every Morning – Sugar Ray 14:59
I love/hate this song. I angrily mock it every time it plays/every time I play it on purpose, because let’s be honest: it has been years since this turd of a song played on the radio. This song is on my list because just over a decade ago, deep into my obsession with standup comedy, I discovered a comedian called Rob Paravonian (where did you go, Rob??). He would stand on stage with his guitar and riff about music. My favourite is his “Pachelbel Rant” where he spends just over five minutes yelling about how the “chord progression” in Pachelbel’s “Canon in D” is in 90% of popular music. Even if you don’t know what I’m talking about, you actually know what I’m talking about. Another of his bits is about the Friends Theme and Sugar Ray’s “Every Morning”. I had heard the song prior to discovering Paravonian, but his hilarious tirade about how unbelievably creepy this song was really made an impression. I didn’t include this song because it’s good (it isn’t), but I included it because it reminds me of a younger me, sitting on the family computer and binge-watching comedy, long before “binge-watching” was a thing.
Back to Black – Amy Winehouse Back to Black
I bought this album shortly after it came out in 2006. I was in high school and a national CD store chain was having a “going out of business” sale. I heard “Rehab” on the radio and I was instantly drawn to her style and incredible vocal talent. She reminded me of the music I grew up with, but with a modern twist. I went to the store and bought this along with her first album “Frank” and listened to both, back to back, while standing in my room facing the speaker. I was so transfixed by her music that I couldn’t even relax. To this day, I know all the words to the album “Back to Black”, and the sound always brings me back to my teenage years, belting out her music, completely unable to do it justice, but having a very moody, existential ball. As I was listening to the album earlier this week, I realized that it was released two years after my Mum died. I think, based on Mum’s musical influence, that she would have liked Amy Winehouse, and we would have listened to her music together.
Rehab – Amy Winehouse Back to Black
Much like watching Don Draper in Mad Men makes we want to take up smoking, this song sort of made me wish I had a drinking problem. Just wait, 16-year-old Laura, your time will come.
Tears Dry on Their Own – Amy Winehouse Back to Black
I really needed to stack this playlist with Amy Winehouse because I can’t emphasize enough how much I love her.
S Club Party – S Club 7 S Club
My claim to fame is that I met Jon Lee (the little blonde one) at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival in 2016, a year after their second run as a band. I had been a part of the “Club” from their beginnings in 1999, all the way until a present-day evening of drunk nostalgia involving Spotify, wine, and my good friend Kevin. The capacity of this band to energize me as a pre-teen has somehow extended all throughout my life, and I anticipate forcing my unwitting children to listen to it, if only to show them that popular music doesn’t have to take itself too seriously all the time.
The Anthem – Good Charlotte The Young and the Hopeless
I bought this album when it came out and boy, did I ever feel cool. I loved (and somehow related to?) the Good Charlotte angst. It wasn’t too edgy but it had enough beat and noise to make me feel like I had truly joined the zeitgeist. I accept that being a fan of Good Charlotte now is to open oneself up to mockery. The personal lives of Joel and Benji Madden alone are fodder for comedy. Although one of them is married to Cameron Diaz, so I think they’re probably doing alright.
Lifestyles of the Rich & Famous – Good Charlotte The Young and The Hopeless
Here’s another favourite, just for good measure (one for each brother).
Tubthumping – Chumbawamba Tubthumper
This is the first non-Fred Penner album I remember owning. When this song came out (and we were all jumping up and down and throwing ourselves at the floor at “I get knocked down”) I immediately begged my father to buy it for me. If I recall correctly, I didn’t spend much time with the rest of the album (don’t judge me, I was 7) but I, and everyone I knew, absolutely loved Tubthumping. I had no idea the band was English (thus far my only knowledge of the UK was from the Beatles and my grandmother) and I had no idea what anarcho-punk was. It sounds cool now to say I listened to Chumbawamba when I was younger, but I had absolutely no idea what they were saying. Case in point: one day when I was singing along, my parents were standing outside my bedroom door talking about me (I don’t think they knew I was listening). My father said “Beth, she is swearing!” to which my mother replied “Bruce, she doesn’t know what she’s saying.” What was I saying? There is a lyric that goes “pissing the night away”, but at that point I had never heard the word “pissing”. My child-brain found the closest word, so what I was actually singing was “kissing the night away”. So it turns out that my father had nothing to worry about (although now I swear like a sailor…).
It’s Tricky – Run-D.M.C. Raising Hell
Even though this song was part of the global playlist for years before I was born, I didn’t really listen to Run-D.M.C. until my late teens, early twenties. I do have some earlier memories of this particular song – likely because it’s very catchy and appears in some teen movies from the early 2000s. All I know is that I love it. It makes me want to jump up and down to some specific choreography that I don’t know. It also makes me want to be cooler than I actually am.
All The Small Things – Blink-182 Enema of the State
Did anyone else mimic Tom DeLonge’s cloyingly whiny voice when singing along? (“all the small theeengs”). Just me? Okay. Well, I was a cool kid in elementary school when this gem came out and I can say that every single one of us sang along (whiny or not) while jumping up and down like crazy people. The great thing about songs released during my lifetime is that my husband couldn’t avoid being exposed to them, unlike my slightly alienating 60s Motown. This is definitely one we enjoy together today.
Save Tonight – Eagle-Eye Cherry Desireless
This is one of those songs that, for me, is instantly recognizable by title, but if you told me that someone called “Eagle-Eye Cherry” recorded it I would return a blank stare. It was a song that was always on the radio, at school dances, and at the top of the charts. Maybe I’ve heard some of their other stuff, maybe I haven’t. There is no way to know! This is yet another song that makes me want to learn how to play the guitar, a song for which I only remember the chorus, and an instantly recognizable car-radio classic from my youth.
Closing Time – Semisonic Feeling Strangely Fine
This song has had two lifespans in the popular imagination. The first was when it originally came out in 1998. The second was its role as a bit of pop culture humour in the form of “who wrote this song? Third Eye Blind?” and as the universal “get out, the bar is closing” song. For me, it lives somewhere in between. I will say, always ones for a joke, that my husband and I made it the last song played at our wedding. We expected laughter and eye rolls, but the last 20 of us ended up with arms over shoulders in a big circle, singing it while swaying back and forth.
Wonderwall – Oasis (What’s the Story) Morning Glory?
Everyone knows Wonderwall but can anyone tell me what a “Wonderwall” is? Asking for a friend.
Here With Me – Dido Angel
Yes, this is that song from Love Actually. It involves moody walking, angry coat-zipping, and general lovelorn theatrics from the guy from The Walking Dead. Does any of that make me love the movie or the song any less? Not at all. This song is like a big dramatic hug and I welcome it anytime.
With Arms Wide Open – Creed Human Clay
I needed to put some Creed on here to be completely upfront about my late 90s-early 2000s music rotation. You better believe I was drawn in by the emotional narrative spun by the slightly weird voice of Scott Stapp (another song that is very easily parodied). While I may have listened to it sincerely in my youth, I most definitely laugh out loud when I hear it come on the radio now, and I may or may not lip sync dramatically to it when the mood strikes.
When I Come Around – Green Day Dookie
Aww baby Green Day (and baby Laura). I was very young when this song came out, yet somehow it had the staying power to show up at every school dance until my high school graduation. They have been making music for longer than I have been alive and I bet you can guess the age of a Green Day fan with some accuracy by asking them their favourite song. Try it sometime.
Gettin’ Jiggy Wit It – Will Smith Big Willie Style
Everything about Will Smith is “cool without taking himself too seriously”. It’s what we all aspire to, right? He somehow effortlessly remains “on trend” despite coming onto the scene in the 1980s. It’s pretty hard to be unironically cool when you showed up to the party in the 80s. This rapper-turned-tv-turned-movie-turned-TikTok star was some good clean fun in the 90s and whose CD we can all be proud of owning to this day.
Living Dead Girl – Rob Zombie Hellbilly Deluxe
I know that this song may seem a bit off brand for me (it is) but I have some particular memories tied to it. From mid-elementary until the end of high school I was heavily involved in a local youth theatre group. My first show in the “Senior Cast” was called Teenage Night of Living Horror; a Halloween-inspired zombie story. Close your eyes and picture it. You’re right, that’s exactly what it looked like. One of the last things to happen before curtain call, just before the final hapless teenager was turned into a zombie, was an elaborate “chase scene” set to Rob Zombie’s “Living Dead Girl.” There was a lot of pancake make up, moaning, and slow shuffling, and it was awesome (to us, anyway). What makes this show stand out in particular is that through some kind of lonely-misfit magic, a small group of us gravitated towards each other and, even though we all went to different schools, we stayed friends all the way through high school. A lot has happened since. In my first year of university, the ringleader of our group died very young, at 20 years old. After that point, we all naturally drifted away from each other; moving away for school, getting into relationships, growing up. I am so grateful for this strange group of unlikely friends. I believe we found each other at a time in our lives when we really needed it, although we didn’t know it at the time. I lost my mother two weeks before rehearsals started; less than a week before my first day of high school. While most of us no longer speak, I reconnected with one of the other girls during university and we have been pretty close ever since. This song reminds me that you never know when someone will come into your life and how grateful you will be for them.
Breakfast In America – Supertramp Breakfast in America
One day I asked my father if him and my mother ever saw any bands in concert – years earlier I had asked if they’d been to see the Beatles, who played their last show when my parents were only ten years old. To my surprise, he said a word that was unknown to me at the time: Supertramp. Eager to experience my parents’ young lives second hand, I immediately downloaded all the Supertramp I could find. It turns out, they are a pretty incredible band and I have been listening to them on and off for years. Whenever I listen to this song I imagine my parents, who were younger than I am now, swaying to the tunes of Supertramp in a packed amphitheatre.
Dare You To Move – Switchfoot Learning to Breathe
I grew up with two competing moral influences: an atheist father and a religious mother. My mother’s philosophy often won because she had something my father did not: family backup. Her parents were very devout – her father and brother frequently delivered sermons in their quasi-Baptist church – and the rest of her siblings at least kept up the appearance. All the cultural content we got at Nana and Papa’s house was secretly (or not so secretly) about Jesus. When I was a pre-teen they would take my cousin and I to a book and CD store. We thought this was so cool – there were modern-looking pop and rock bands! I didn’t understand why my dad rolled his eyes about it until I was older and I realized that it was a Christian bookstore, with books about God and songs about loving Jesus. I think he may have thought his in-laws were brainwashing me. Flashforward to today, I sit somewhere between lapsed Presbyterian and skeptical agnostic. Despite some pretty concerted effort on the part of one half of my family, much of my religious upbringing has worn off. One bit of the culture I do remember very fondly, however, is this band (and Veggie Tales). It turns out that both my husband and I grew up listening to these guys and we both get a bit of the feels whenever we hear one of their songs.
Meant to Live – Switchfoot The Beautiful Letdown
While not overtly Bible-thumping, there is a very Christian thread woven through all of Switchfoot’s music. At the most, it’s gently inspiring soft rock. It definitely formed an interesting part of my musical upbringing (I own a tour DVD) and something I can laugh about with other former Christian music kids.
Sk8er Boi – Avril Lavigne Let Go
There have been two times in my life when I’ve wanted to wear a tie: the time Rachel wore one to work on Friends and the instant I became aware of Avril Lavigne. Both my husband and I independently loved her music growing up and she was very formative for both of us for different reasons. For me, it was her edgy cool-girl punk style and relatable lyrics. For him, I’m pretty sure he just had a crush on her. This particular album, however, holds another heavily eye-linered place in my heart. Let Go came out in 2002 when my cousins and I were exactly the right age to become absolutely obsessed with this “counterculture” icon. A year after the album dropped, we found out that she was playing a concert in my hometown and we absolutely begged our parents to let us go. I will say right off the bat that none of our mothers liked her music. Something about her being too loud and wearing too much makeup? Well, the whole family came into town for the show. There was one ticket for me, one for each of my cousins, and one for the unlucky mother who had to accompany us. I don’t know if actualstraws were drawn, but my mother ended up with the short one. My cousins and I still reminisce about the concert. My mother brought and wore earplugs throughout the entire performance. She actually covered her ears for the opening bands – a band called “Gob” was followed, I believe, by another called “Swollen Members”. Totally her scene. But you know what? She took it like a champ. My Mum, or Auntie Beth, was there to celebrate and support us. She didn’t make [too much] fun of our love for Avril, and she even helped us pick out and buy matching tour t-shirts.
Breakfast at Tiffany’s – Deep Blue Something Home
I don’t remember when I actually became aware of this song (it was released when I was 5, so probably a bit later) but I do remember it popping up in strange places throughout my teenage years and into university. When I attended and subsequently worked at a musical theatre summer camp, the song had resurfaced and had become a popular sing-along tune among the campers and staff. My group of friends in high school also had it on rotation. The last time I remember listening to it regularly was in first year university. Whenever I hear the song now I am oddly proud that I remember some of the words to a Deep Blue Something song (although I’m sure I couldn’t name a single one of their other songs). I feel like I want to learn guitar because hearing this particular song makes me instinctively start strumming the air. Maybe someday I’ll actually sit down and watch Breakfast at Tiffany’s to see the Something that Deep Blue has been talking about all these years.
We R Who We R – Kesha Cannibal
Two words: Party Anthem. This album was released halfway through my undergraduate and at the time, my best friend and I were sharing a house with one other girl who will remain nameless (draaama!). Not only did we live and work together, we also took many of the same classes and spent nearly all of our spare time sitting on the bed or floor in one another’s room, talking about everything and nothing. As if we weren’t already separated-at-birth weirdos, we also shared a birthday. This set us up for some excellent party shenanigans. We alternated between hitting the club and throwing a house party for the special day in October, but every year one key element remained the same: the epic pre-drink dance party. We would spend the hour and a half before leaving the house drinking, doing each other’s hair and makeup, and carefully selecting our club attire. During this ritual, the more inebriated we became, the more we started to dance. We would put on the “party tunes” and just get silly, using the alcohol as an excuse for what we called our “awkward white person dancing” (it is exactly how you are picturing it). This song was one of our regulars and I thought it was a good song to end on. During those years we were going hard (“hard hard hard hard hard”), we really felt like the world was ours, and you better believe we knew we were superstars. We were a perfect version of what we were. We have remained best friends to this day, even though our lives look very different from a decade ago (we’ve known each other for an astounding 16 years). From classrooms to staff meetings a lot has changed, but a lot has stayed the same. We have to work a bit harder to communicate now, and happiness doesn’t come as easily as it did when the most stressful thing we did was write exams. We still have our dance parties and sometimes we drink a little bit too much, but no matter what, We R Who We R.
How to Be Happy 