sticks and stones

Adoring and Wonderful Husband has the cutest pet name for me: Bulldozer. I have the grace of a bull in a china shop, and the patience of a gastrotrich that knows its life span is only three days (which is apparently the shortest life span of any animal in the world. Though the shortest life span of a vertebrate is the 59 days a tiny reef fish survives up to according to Australian researchers. Will the wonders of Google never cease?) You get the point: Bulldozer undoubtedly captures my aptitude for being, umm, rammy.

My razing ways are often verbal as well. Though I try to justify my brutal honesty to be exactly the kind of thing people want to hear – insightful, helpful, called for even– hindsight is wont to bring more clarity to past conversations than anything that could have spewed from my mouth at the time. The first time I was ever called on it – called on it and took it seriously – was sometime during university, when I was sitting at some nameless Regina bar with high school friends, likely studying for PSci 231: The Politics of Canadian Continentalism (or something like that.) K. and I were chatting, about what I have no idea, when the subject turned to art class in grade nine, where he and I sat beside each other. I didn’t remember it, and was a bit flattered that he did (he had since become a firefighter you see. The kind of firefighter that’s on calendars.)

“Wow, I can’t believe you remember that after all these years!” I likely purred, likely smiling smugly, likely thinking that he remembered the seating arrangement because he likely liked me back then.

“Yeah,” he said, matter of factly, and without a trace of hostility now that I look back on it, which surprises me. “I remember because you turned to me one day out of the blue and told me that I would be hot if only I got taller and gained a bit of weight.”

Ouch! I felt horrible about it, and apologized profusely, which he shrugged off, seemingly not too bothered by my words at the time he reminded me of them, eight or so years after the crime in question. And why would he be? Since that day we painted our favourite photographs using water colours (which is the only art project I remember doing that year), he had indeed gotten taller and put on a bit of weight, becoming probably the hottest guy to graduate Martin Collegiate in 1996. But that’s not the point. The point is that he remembered it, which tells me it was a significant enough comment to him at the time I said it. A comment pretty much on par as if he had told me, “You know Winter, you would be hot if only you lost 15 pounds of ass.” Motivational? Maybe. The kind of thing you say to someone if you want them to daydream about jerseying you so that they can knee you in the nose without fear of having their blue jeans stained by your blood? For sure. It’s an episode that reminds me to bite my tongue when I otherwise want to wag it. To consider how what I’m saying might make a person feel about themselves and about me as someone who is supposed to be a friend, supposed to be a nice person. Not everyone can get the last laugh like K. did, now can they?