I haven’t been to The Ontario Science Centre since Pecan’s 9th birthday party. At the time, I had braces glues to my teeth, which was a step up from the headgear I wore the previous year, I was obsessed with a white T-shirt bearing the slogan:
Tennis
which I wore almost everyday, and I sported a boy’s haircut. It was not a good time for me. Of course, I didn’t realize it back then. In those days, I thought everything was cool: my orthodontics, my hole-riddled wardrobe and my ‘do. Thirteen-year-olds aren’t too bright.
In high school, when I looked back at the photos from my preteen years–somehow I am wearing that blasted Tennis Star T-shirt in every single photograph–I vowed never again to wear braces, bite plates, headgear, neckgear or any other tooth paraphernalia. And I promised myself to never again let a coiffure style my hair after Zack Morris.
Ha.
Ahahahhaha.
Ten years later, while recovering from mono, I wound up in NYC, sitting in a salon chair and looking at a skinny, pale-as-death brown-haired Zack Morris in the mirror. My hair didn’t even touch my ears. Not even a full year afterwards, I sat in my dentist’s mint green reclining chair while he fitted a pink gel mould around my teeth in order to fashion my new bite. “You cracked your tooth last year because you grind your teeth at night,” he informed me. “If you don’t want anymore root canals, I suggest we make you a nighttime bite plate,” he continued. Suddenly, I was flashing back to those horribly awkward preteen years and thanking my lucky stars that the old Tennis Star T was long gone in a pile of rubbish.
Today, I’m returning to The Ontario Science Centre. No bite plate (except at night while I sleep), no Zack Morris (although I still love Saved By the Bell), and no Tennis Star (I never really was a star but I do like to play tennis). The biggest difference this time around, is that I’ll be staying for ten years.
The museum is opening a new exhibit on athletes and the physical capabilities as well as limits of the human body. My good family friend, Ali, gave my name to the coordinator for the section on professional dancers. I underwent a phone interview and then, bam! You are looking at a museum subject. (Look a little further up on your computer screen, to my blog header…yup, that’s me, the new museum subject.)
It’s crazy how much has changed and how much stays the same. In the photograph from my little sister’s 9th birthday party, I’m sporting boy hair. Now, my husband is the one whose hair does not touch his ears. His style is not a fashion statement, but a necessity as a fireman. The rules and regulation are quite strict: military-esque, actually. That means brush cuts, uniforms, shoe shining, and “Sir, yes Sir!” Looking once again at that photograph, I realize that my wardrobe of worn out clothing has been replaced by a wardrobe of another kind: costumes. The photograph that will accompany my museum profile is from a show that The Rock and I performed in Trois Rivières this past summer. We are clad in different shades of brown and beige, displaying different grades of nudity: a nude-torso-ed Rock showing off his muscles and me, in a sheer-topped one-piece.
Finally, I notice the “Happy Birthday” cake in that old photograph.
Just last week I baked my father in law a birthday cake. It was vanilla with a layer of caramel and lemon royale icing on top. Pretty delicious, I must say. And never have I had better reception for my kitchen endeavors than here in Baie-Comeau, with The Rock’s father, P’pa. Well, except for The Rock, himself. He always appreciates my cooking. BUT he doesn’t like to share. I, on the other hand, love to bake cookies for his fireman colleagues, or bring treats to our friends’ birthday celebrations, or giving away leftover cookies and cake to our guests after hosting a big dinner.
Lately, The Rock has taken to forcing promises out of me:
This time, no giving away my cookie. We keep the leftover. All of it.
Seriously?
I want my cookie! They are my cookie.
Okay. Deal. They are your cookies.
It seems that P’pa feels the same way. A few days after his birthday, I made some thumbprint jam cookies. We had flour, eggs, sugar and my homemade strawberry jam, so why not? I separated 8 cookies from the batch with a note to P’pa to give them to the neighbour, who is always friendly and welcoming with me. Then I packed my bag and went to work. (I am teaching contemporary dance and choreography at The Academy until Christmas.) That night, while talking on FaceTime to my hubby, P’pa came up to my computer and mentioned the jam cookies, trying to make The Rock jealous. However, poor P’pa could not hold back his incredulity at having to give his cookies to the neighbour.
“Now you know my life, P’pa,” said The Rock, resigned to his future of sharing. “I always have to give my cookie.”
I thought I had come a long way since the old days of braces and boy cuts but it seems that as I move forward, I take as many steps back. Learning to share cookies was never difficult for me, but I did have trouble sharing my toys or allowing my play dates to be the princess during a game of Princess and Goblins. Furthermore, every night, as I heat my mouth guard under hot water so it can mould to my teeth and prevent grinding, I am taken back to that photograph at The Ontario Science Centre. Maybe I haven’t come that far, maybe we never really change, but let the world see my Princess side nicely polished and displayed in a glass case–I’ll keep my Goblin side hidden in the family albums, for now.
Dance Diary 