Trauma and the Body

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I am up early on a Sunday morning, enjoying the cool breeze that grazes my skin as I water the balcony plants. The air is scented with smoke, likely from a British Columbia forest fire. I go inside to mince fresh coconut and corriander, preparing a Kenyan chutney for dinner. While chopping the green chilis, I think about the book I read the day before, musing aloud: ‘I must have an extra large reptilian brain.’ According to neuroscientist Paul D. MacLean, the human brain is composed of three evolutionary layers: the earliest reptilian core is devoted to sensation as well as survival; the limbic or paleomammalian brain that developed next is concerned with ‘higher’ functions, allowing for emotion, memory, and learning; and the most advanced layer, the neocortex, is what distinguishes human beings and other select primates from ‘lower’ entities, enabling self-awareness and cognition. Although I like the psychedelic diagram of what is called the ‘Triune Brain’ pasted below—it is suitably 1960s, the era when MacLean first proposed his theories—I imagine that my sensory-overload mind looks more like the large-yolked scotch egg on the right, complete with its deep fried sausage casing. After all, I am a Scotch McEgghead.

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Disaster Back

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‘Wow this is amazing! I’ve never seen anything like it before!’ exclaims the fit man in khaki shorts as he holds my left foot in his hand. Should I feel pride or shame? I briefly consider changing my name to Madame Piedmonstrueux and charging a fee. The skilled athletic therapist is responding to my malformed appendages in a familiar way. When an orthopaedic surgeon first diagnosed my condition in 1999, he beamed ‘These CT scans are definitely going in my special teaching files! I have not encountered such a case in over 25 years of practice’ ‘Oh. But can anything be done to correct my problem?’ I asked. He laughed hollowly, back turned while walking out the door. And no, his name wasn’t Dr. House. The podiatrist was more helpful, fitting me with orthotics that (among other things) tipped me forward to relieve some pressure. All the same, he ‘played with’ my feet, bending and twisting them for over 20 minutes, a glint in his eye and small smile on his face. It was kind of creepy, but that’s what I get for being such a freak of nature.

What exactly is wrong with me? Here is the official medical description of my left foot based on the CT scans: ‘Seen best on the reconstructed views is bony ankylosis between the left sustentaculum tali and the undersurface of the talus medially. Just lateral to the area of the fused sustentaculum tali is an additional bony bar extending across the subtalar joint between the undersurface of the talus and calcaneus. … Certainly there are degenerative changes at the site of articulation at this time.’

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Entertaining Extremes

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I am writing this post at a Travelodge near the Calgary airport. ‘What on earth is she doing there?’ you may be wondering. ”Is it filthy?’ Well, yes and no. Last Sunday, my  partner returned from his company’s golf tournament and jubilantly announced: ‘Honey, have I got a great romantic getaway weekend for you!’ Okay, so anyone who actually knows me or my partner has realized that this is bullshit. The only time the word ‘romance’ is used at my house is in a despisingly sneering manner, while saying no to movies starring Jennifer Aniston and yes to films made by drug-addled Germans.  Continue reading →

Fantasy Revs Class

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This morning I awoke from anxious dreams to discover that in my bed I had been changed into a monstrous verminous spin instructor. Feeling constriction in my shaved buttocks and thighs, I glanced down to find them encased in tight spandex shorts. ‘God my package looks small,’ I murmured to myself. ‘And did my quads expand overnight?’ As Ogre raised her right hook, I sensed alarm: Wasn’t I supposed to be somewhere? Three digital clocks on the nightstand displayed different times, each suggesting that I would be late to teach my first spin (aka revs) class. Oh fucknuts! Luckily I was already—and somehow magically—wearing an attractive cycling outfit, complete with matching shoes, purchased during my last trip to bike-friendly Poland.

[I guess you know where I stand on the ongoing and ever-heated ‘proper penis position in underpants’ debate.]

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Health versus Fitness

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‘I’m back!’ I greet the lovely young woman at my gym as she swipes my card, for the second time that day. ‘You look more alive every time I see you,’ she sing-songs in response. ‘Do you mean that I look fatter every time you see me?’ I inquire, unplucked eyebrows raised. ‘Well … yes,’ she admits somewhat sheepishly, like that towel-wearing locker room guy on TV who makes fun of his teammate’s volumized hair. I’m not sure why, for I like long hair on a man. Let me specify that I mean scampish, carefree, tousled hair on the verge of needing to be cut, not greasy hair in a ponytail draped down the sloping spine of an otherwise bald man. So you will no longer be surprised to hear that in Quizzaz I chose Severus over Lucius: 

His menacingly alluring hair fills me with a desire to obey.

Even a  threatening cane can’t save Mr. Limp Locks.

[This one’s for you, G-Smash, even though your Lelo is named Ralph.]

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