There comes a point in every woman’s life when she wakes up, looks at herself in the mirror, and thinks, “You know what? I’ve really got my shit together.”
I have not reached that point.
In fact, I’m beginning to suspect that particular milestone has been cancelled due to lack of interest, insufficient funding, and the fact that nobody involved in this operation has the slightest idea what they’re doing.
Another week has come and gone, and somehow, despite my best efforts to remain a functioning member of society, I have once again found myself starring in a low-budget comedy that nobody remembers auditioning for. There is no director, the script is questionable, the supporting cast is unpredictable, and I’m fairly certain the entire production is being held together with coffee, sarcasm, and the occasional profanity.
The cast includes me, an assortment of dogs, several pieces of clothing that have apparently developed personal grudges, unpredictable Canadian weather, and my stomach, which has the emotional stability of a raccoon trapped inside a vending machine.
There were moments of joy. There were moments of confusion. There were moments when I seriously considered abandoning civilization and moving somewhere that doesn’t require pants.
And then there were tacos.
Because apparently, tacos are the only thing holding this entire operation together.
The week began with Monday arriving like an unpaid bill, completely unwelcome and determined to ruin everybody’s good time. There is something deeply offensive about Mondays. They show up every seven days, completely uninvited, demanding that we be productive, cheerful, and appropriately dressed.
Three things I strongly object to before noon.
As a dog walker, my workday involves spending considerable time outdoors, which sounds absolutely delightful until you remember that the outdoors contains weather. And weather, particularly in Canada, is a vindictive little bastard that clearly has unresolved emotional issues.
One minute, you’re dressed for a crisp autumn morning, looking like a sensible adult who understands seasonal temperatures. The next minute, you’re sweating like you’ve been personally selected to test the surface conditions of the sun.
It’s October. OCTOBER.
I would like the weather to review its calendar, consult a professional, and start behaving accordingly.
Meanwhile, the dogs are having the time of their lives. They don’t care whether it’s hot, cold, raining, windy, or whether I’ve dressed like an idiot. They’re just thrilled that someone has arrived to escort them on their daily neighbourhood inspection.
Every tree must be sniffed. Every leaf must be investigated. Every suspicious patch of grass must undergo a forensic examination that would make the FBI look like a group of amateurs.
And naturally, every walk must include at least one dog stopping abruptly in front of me, apparently to contemplate the meaning of existence.
I’m just the chauffeur. A chauffeur who also picks up poop.
Living the dream, people. Living. The. Dream.
Somewhere along the way, my clothing decided to join a hostile organization and declare war on my self-esteem. I don’t know who is responsible for determining women’s clothing sizes, but I would like to speak to their supervisor. Preferably while holding a measuring tape, several questionable garments, and a strongly worded complaint.
How is it possible to wear one size in one store, another size in the next, and something resembling an industrial tarpaulin in a third?
Apparently, my body has no fixed dimensions. It changes depending on the manufacturer, the alignment of the planets, and whether somebody in the design department was having a particularly spiteful afternoon.
And don’t even get me started on trying things on.
You enter the fitting room full of optimism, carrying an adorable little outfit and imagining how fabulous you’re going to look. You leave questioning your ancestry, your life choices, and whether the mirrors were installed by someone who genuinely hates women.
Somewhere between pulling on a pair of pants and attempting to fasten the button, you begin wondering whether the garment was manufactured for an actual human being or a decorative garden flamingo.
Then you find something that fits perfectly. Naturally, you buy it.
Three washes later, it has transformed into a crop top suitable for a moderately sized hamster.
Wonderful.
At this stage of my life, I don’t want fashionable clothing. I want clothing that fits, stretches, doesn’t require an engineering degree to put on, and allows me to bend over without exposing myself to half the neighbourhood.
Is that too much to ask?
Apparently, yes.
And just when I thought my wardrobe had finished humiliating me, autumn decided to get involved.
Autumn is supposed to be magical. Beautiful leaves. Crisp mornings. Cozy sweaters. Warm drinks. Charming little walks through colourful neighbourhoods where everyone looks suspiciously happy and nobody has ever stepped in dog poop.
That’s what the internet promises.
What the internet conveniently forgets to mention is that Canadian autumn has the consistency of a toddler operating a thermostat.
You wake up freezing. You put on a sweater. You go outside. Ten minutes later, you’re sweating. You take off the sweater. The wind immediately changes direction and attempts to freeze your internal organs.
You put the sweater back on. The sun appears. Now you’re sweating again.
By noon, you’ve removed and replaced so many layers that you’ve essentially performed a full wardrobe change on a public sidewalk. At one point, I began to wonder whether I should simply attach all my clothing to a rolling suitcase and drag it behind me. This is what it’s like living in Ontario. All four seasons happen at least 3 times a day.
The dogs, of course, remained completely unbothered.
One was delighted by the cool breeze. Another was busy sniffing something that had absolutely no business being sniffed. And a third had discovered a leaf that was apparently the most fascinating object in recorded history.
Meanwhile, I’m standing there trying to decide whether I’m experiencing heat exhaustion or the beginning stages of hypothermia.
It’s sweater weather!
Except when it isn’t.
Which is constantly.
Naturally, all this walking, sweating, freezing, and negotiating with furry little dictators eventually leads to another major crisis.
Hunger.
Specifically, the kind of hunger that makes you question whether eating an entire loaf of bread while standing at the kitchen counter counts as a meal.
For the record, I believe it does. If you consume it while standing, the calories are too confused to register. That’s science. Probably.
There are days when I can go for hours without thinking about food. And then there are days when my stomach begins issuing demands like an angry landlord threatening eviction.
“HELLO? WE HAVE A SITUATION DOWN HERE.”
Yes, thank you. I’m aware.
“WE REQUIRE FOOD.”
I’m working on it.
“IMMEDIATELY.”
Would you like me to pull over and eat the steering wheel? Because we’re rapidly approaching that level of desperation.
Being hungry while working is especially inconvenient because you cannot simply abandon a group of dogs and announce that you’re leaving to find a sandwich.
Well, technically you could announce it, but the dogs would have questions…and the owners would probably have even more. So you carry on, trying to convince yourself that you’re a mature, disciplined adult capable of surviving another hour without a snack.
Then you pass somewhere selling food.
Suddenly, your entire personality becomes lunch. Every thought revolves around lunch. You start imagining food with the emotional intensity normally reserved for long-lost lovers in dramatic television reunions.
You could be standing in the middle of the most beautiful autumn scenery imaginable, surrounded by colourful trees and adorable dogs, and your brain will still be screaming, “I WONDER IF THERE’S CHEESE IN THE FRIDGE.”
And there will be hell to pay for anyone who tries to engage you in an unnecessary conversation before you’ve eaten.
I am a perfectly pleasant person…under appropriate feeding conditions.
Thankfully, somewhere in the middle of this spectacular display of adult incompetence, tacos entered the picture.
And frankly, thank goodness.
Because there are very few problems in life that cannot be temporarily improved by wrapping delicious things inside a tortilla.
I’m not saying tacos can fix everything. I’m saying nobody has presented me with convincing evidence that they can’t.
Bad day? Tacos.
Stressful week? Tacos.
Clothing doesn’t fit? Tacos, followed by stretchy pants and a refusal to discuss the matter further.
Someone irritating you? Tacos.
Preferably somewhere that person isn’t.
There’s something wonderfully therapeutic about sitting down to a good meal and temporarily forgetting that you have responsibilities.
Bills? Never heard of them.
Laundry? Sounds fictional.
The growing pile of things I keep promising myself I’ll get around to? Not my department.
For those precious moments, the only important decision is whether to have another taco.
Which is a ridiculous question.
Of course I’m having another taco.
What am I, a quitter?
Meanwhile, the dogs continued providing their usual brand of entertainment, proving once again that my occupation is essentially a combination of personal trainer, chauffeur, waste-management technician, and unpaid therapist for creatures who occasionally become emotionally overwhelmed by squirrels.
People sometimes imagine dog walking as a peaceful occupation involving fresh air, exercise, and adorable animals.
And yes, there is plenty of that.
But there is also the occasional realization that you’re essentially managing a group of furry toddlers with vastly different priorities and absolutely no interest in your schedule.
One wants to walk. One wants to sniff. One wants to stop. One wants to go in the opposite direction. And one has apparently discovered evidence of an ancient civilization underneath a bush and refuses to leave until the excavation is complete.
You try to maintain order. You issue cheerful encouragement. You negotiate. You plead. You occasionally find yourself having conversations that would be deeply concerning if anyone overheard them without context.
“Could you please stop licking that?”
“No, we are not eating whatever that is.”
“Why are you standing in the middle of the sidewalk?”
“That’s not yours.”
“PLEASE DON’T ROLL IN THAT!”
And my personal favourite: “For the love of everything, could we just WALK?”
Eventually, you stand there holding leashes, wondering how creatures who cannot operate a doorknob have managed to take complete control of your life.
And then one of them looks up at you with that ridiculously adorable face.
And you forgive everything.
Because dogs are manipulative little geniuses. They know exactly what they’re doing.
They’ve somehow convinced humanity to feed them, house them, entertain them, clean up their bodily functions, and celebrate when they successfully sit down.
Meanwhile, I managed to pay my bills on time and nobody gave me a biscuit.
Frankly, I think the system needs reviewing.
By the time the end of the week rolled around, my patience had reached the consistency of overcooked spaghetti.
I was tired. I was hungry. My wardrobe was unreliable. The weather was experiencing an identity crisis. And my brain had begun operating like an elderly computer with 47 browser tabs open.
One of those tabs was playing music.
I couldn’t find it.
At this point, even minor inconveniences felt like personal attacks.
Drop something on the floor? Of course.
Forget why I walked into a room? Naturally.
Put something somewhere safe and immediately lose it? An established family tradition.
Attempt to complete one simple task only to discover six additional tasks standing behind it? Welcome to adulthood.
It’s remarkable how much time we spend doing things that are supposed to make life easier, only to discover that those things have created additional work.
I bought organizers to organize my belongings. Now I can’t remember which organizer contains the thing I’m looking for.
Excellent.
I’ve organized myself directly into chaos.
At this point, my only remaining goal was to sit somewhere comfortable and avoid making eye contact with anything resembling a responsibility.
Unfortunately, responsibilities are persistent little bastards.
They don’t disappear simply because you ignore them. They multiply. Like rabbits. Except rabbits are cute, and responsibilities are more like unpaid parking tickets that have learned to reproduce.
There’s always something that needs cleaning, fixing, washing, folding, answering, paying, replacing, or remembering.
And apparently, nobody is coming to do it for me.
Which seems like a significant oversight in the design of adulthood.
By the time I finally had a chance to relax, I had reached an important conclusion.
I needed rest.
Not the kind of rest where you sit down for ten minutes and suddenly remember seventeen things that need doing.
Actual rest.
The kind where you become one with the furniture.
Where the most physically demanding activity of the afternoon involves reaching for the remote.
Where someone asks what your plans are and you respond, “Nothing,” with the pride of a person announcing they’ve just won an international sporting event.
Because doing nothing is an achievement.
Especially when you’ve spent the week working, walking, driving, sweating, freezing, feeding yourself, dressing yourself, and attempting to remain civil in a world apparently designed to test your tolerance for nonsense.
I don’t need an exciting day off. I don’t need an adventure. I don’t need someone telling me to make the most of my day.
I am making the most of my day.
By doing absolutely nothing with tremendous enthusiasm.
If I want to spend three hours watching television while wearing clothes that would horrify a fashion consultant, that’s my business.
If I want to eat something directly from the container because washing another dish feels like an unreasonable demand, that’s between me and the container.
If I decide that my biggest accomplishment of the afternoon is successfully relocating from one comfortable chair to another, I expect applause.
Or at least respectful silence.
And if anyone has a problem with that, they can take a number.
The complaint department is closed.
Permanently.
So what did we learn from another thrilling instalment of my ongoing battle with everyday life?
Well, for starters, Canadian autumn cannot be trusted. Women’s clothing sizes are a work of fiction. Hunger is a legitimate personality-altering event. Dogs are adorable dictators. Tacos deserve their own national holiday. And I am apparently capable of surviving an extraordinary amount of everyday nonsense provided I have comfortable shoes, a decent sense of humour, and something delicious to eat.
Was it a productive week?
Absolutely.
Did everything go according to plan?
Don’t be ridiculous.
Did I handle every situation with grace, dignity, and maturity?
I would prefer not to answer that question without legal representation.
But I survived.
The dogs got walked. The world continued spinning. The laundry continued plotting against me. My clothes continued their campaign of psychological warfare. And despite several opportunities to completely lose my shit, I remained a relatively respectable member of society.
Relatively.
There is something oddly comforting about realizing that life doesn’t have to be perfectly organized to be entertaining. Sometimes the funniest moments are the ones that happen when absolutely nothing goes according to plan.
Sometimes you have to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all, because the alternative is standing in your kitchen screaming at a pair of pants.
And while that might be emotionally satisfying, it would probably alarm the neighbours.
So here’s to another week of unexpected adventures, questionable wardrobe decisions, unpredictable weather, and the daily challenge of pretending I know what I’m doing.
Here’s to the dogs who make me laugh, the tacos that keep me motivated, the comfortable clothes that haven’t betrayed me yet, and the glorious moments when nobody needs anything from me.
Because apparently, being an adult means waking up every morning, putting on pants, and confidently marching into a day that has already decided to be an asshole.
And you know what?
I’ll probably do it all again next week.
Not because I’m particularly enthusiastic about it.
But because the dogs are expecting me.
And somebody has to earn the taco money.
Until next time, stay sarcastic, wear stretchy pants, and remember: if life gives you lemons, ask why the hell it couldn’t have given you tacos instead.
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