Just for a moment, close your eyes and think about what you want in life.

Maybe you want money. Maybe an education. A husband or a wife. A family. A big, beautiful home in a nice neighbourhood. These are all good examples, sure. But the problem is, they’re all long-term commitments.

See, that’s why some people never make it through university. First year may be a blast. They may be on their game first year. But once third year hits, attrition’s taken its toll and everyone’s tired. Weary of exams, grouchy professors, and ramen noodles.

Grad school? Screw grad school.

But working out. Ah. Now see, that’s an activity that has the potential for short-term rewards.

There’s a spectacular feeling when you head to the gym three, four, five times a week. Every time, it’s a test. Can you stack on a little bit more weight this week? Or muster another repetition before you collapse in exhaustion?

You leave the gym and you feel good. You feel big. More confident. Hell, your legs may be on fire and you may have trouble walking down the stairs, but you feel like you’ve done something with your day.

Which was one of the reasons why I was so eager to haul my ass over here to Oxford.

“Just wait you guys,” I said to my friends before leaving, “once I get there, I’ll be all over the gym. I’m gonna get huuuuuuge”

Then I grunted like Tim Allen.

A new environment, I reasoned, coupled with a world class university was sure to motivate me like never before.

And besides, the university itself boasted that each of its 39 different colleges had its own weightlifting gym, along with the main sports center, which had a separate powerlifting gym.

They so lied.

You see, the main Oxford University gym — which, by the way, everybody brags as like, the one gym to end all gyms — well, it’s not quite as advertised.

It is, to put it succinctly, a shithole.

A little bit larger than my dormitory living quarters, it boasts three old, gently rusting racks (a power rack, a squat rack, and a bench rack), two benches, a smattering of Olympic plates, and two shelves of dumbbells that only go up to 80 lbs.

At first, you think, sure, I can work with this. Small, but functional.

But then you start running into problems.

There is, for example, no parallel dips bar. No Smith machine. No seated or bent over row machine. No pulldown station. The weighted belts are broken. And so on, and so forth.

This kind of gym would be acceptable in say, a high school. Hell, even a second-rate university or college.

But this is Oxford for crying out loud.

This is the famous, hoity-toity, prestigious Oxford.

Is this decrepit hole-in-the-wall not shown when the thousands of tourists and prospective students come to inspect the school?

And where the fuck is my tens of thousands of dollars in tuition going if not the gym?

One of the most painful aspects with moving away from home is the fact you have to ‘re-purchase’ things you may have always had stocked in the trusty cupboard back home.

Moreover, moving to a different continent altogether, complicates things a whole bunch.

Because now, when you head to your local supermarket, not only is the layout of the land sufficiently foreign to prevent you from zooming through the aisles (because, baby, when I shop, I zoom), but you find that all your trusted, well-acquainted brands of several years have been replaced by imposters.

And I know it sounds preposterous, but having been born and raised in Canada, I just find any British brands suspicious.

So yes. I will, in fact, stand in front of the laundry detergents section for hours.

Pawing. Sniffing. Prying. Crying if I have to.

Because damnit, if it ain’t got Tide or Cheers on the front, it ain’t to be trusted.

And there had better be a cheery North-American toddler with a perfect, Crest-white smile and grass-stained clothes on the front or I won’t use it. Won’t use it, I say.

How do I know British-made detergents weren’t designed to disintegrate North American clothing and produce awful rashes on the skin of poor trusting (yet gullible) Canadians?

But with the shops closing for the night, I’ll often be pushed and prodded to make a decision.

Of course, seeing the picture above, with my new box of laundry detergent proudly displayed on top of my (admittedly wimpy) pile of clothes, I bet you’re wondering how I decided upon this particular product.

Well, suffice it to say, products I purchase are forced to endure a rigorous selection process.

Here’s how it went down.

First, I looked at the price. Cheap, but not the cheapest. Products a few cents (I mean pence) more expensive than the cheapest are loads better.

Second, there’s a hot blonde on the cover. Obviously, if I wash my clothes with this detergent, hot blondes will find me irresistible.

Third, it smells like lavender. Lavender smells good. A bit girly, but I don’t think the people are quite ready for propane-and-lumberjack scented detergents.

Finally, it says “2 in 1: with fabric softener” on the carton. Clearly, that means you’re getting more bang for your buck. I mean, pound.

I know. Intense. Because that’s how I shop.

the three mugs

In which the author prepares to leave his home of twenty years and reminisces about his past with the help of three, rather unremarkable coffee mugs.

Having garnered a position as a student at a well-to-do university somewhere across the Atlantic, I found myself in the prickly dilemma of having to pack my entire life into two, under-50-lbs suitcases (thank you very much Air Canada) and leaving for England.

Unfortunately, for someone as ‘hobbity’ and fond of comforts as me, knowing what to pack and what not to pack is a monumental task.

Take, for example, my mug situation. Every avid coffee or tea drinker knows that the selection of the proper mug is key.

But actually, a mug means so much more than the delicious caffeinated goodness it may contain. Oh yes. A good mug symbolizes comfort. It represents a good home. And above all else, a good mug tells you a lot about the person holding it.

But with very limited room and weight for my possessions, I have to pick and choose.

Thus, it’s essential that I pick the right kind of mug. A mug that evokes poetic images of my hometown. A mug that subtly hints of my childish and rumbustious upbringing. That pains me with twangs of unrequited love and past heartbreak. And of promising futures.

I have four of them. Four mugs, each with truly revealing, utterly riveting stories. Each symbolizing a different aspect of what I’d like to bring to my new home.

Now one of these mugs — which, if you’re the attentive sort, has been a constant companion throughout this blog (look up), I’ve already decided to bring. And the story, though certainly of interest and certainly revealing, is one I’m not too eager to share. Let’s leave it at that.

And so without further ado, I present to you the three contestants.

The First Mug: Mickey and Pluto

This mug, which has a cartoon picture of Mickey Mouse and the lovable Pluto dozing off was a gift from my parents for one of my birthdays. Knowing them, it was probably bought at a second-hand store.

Of the four mugs, it’s the most unexciting, and uninteresting one.

But it’s a symbol of the warm comforts of home. It makes me remember all those times I spent sipping coffee at home, studying diligently, while constantly being peppered with intrusive interruptions by my mom.

Roz Doyle, from the TV show Frasier once asked, “Why is it so easy to love your family, but so hard to like them?” She hit the question right on the nose, and I’m not sure what the answer is, or even if there is one.

It’s not a mature mug, of course. It’s a childish and homely. But it does brings back comforts of Ottawa and of my suburban home. And that’s why I like it.

The Second Mug: Hillcrest High School

One day, when I’m lying on my death bed, I’m going to revisit the fondest, most memorable times of life. And high school, well, high school will most definitely be on that list.

To me, it’s not strange to admit that my final few years in high school are considered the high points of my existence.

I had everything. I had friends from all types and backgrounds — some of whom have continued to form the core members of my troupe. I was close to many of the teachers, and able to laugh and joke with them as I did with all my friends.

I was academically at the top of my game — in a time where you could be at the top of your game. Homework and school projects were always an output for my creative brand of humour and satire, with many presentations breaking out in song and other variations of silliness.

I was an avid athlete, competitively trained in track and field and at one point, National Capital champion in the triple jump. In gym class, I got to run around like an idiot, playing dodgeball, basketball, or whatever was offered on that particular day.

I was in love. Infatuated and silly. Hopelessly romantic.

But that’s what teenage love is all about, n’est-ce pas?

I was naive and still possessing boundless energy and that youthful outlook on life kids enjoy but never fully appreciate. Most of all, I was coming out of my shell. Sure, I was still awkward, but I was learning. Learning fast.

It’s all gone downhill since then. Not in the typical sense, of course. In many ways, I’m more successful than I ever was. I’m older, smarter, and have a pair of documents that proves to the world I have enough academic training to put the average girl to sleep on a date.

But I’ve lost a lot of the magic.

I’ve lost that balanced, jubilant lifestyle I once enjoyed.

That’s what this mug means to me.

The Third Mug: Overbrook Public School

Almost nobody can tell you anything about Overbrook Public School.

That’s because there is no Overbrook Public School. At least not anymore. It was shut down half-a-decade ago.

But even when there was an Overbrook Public School, it was hardly noticeable.

The school taught kindergarten through grade 6 — which was unusual since most primary schools that bother going up to grade 6 are capable of accommodating grade 7 and 8 students as well. Tiny was not the right word to describe Overbrook.

It was minuscule.

It had about 300 or 400 students and a handful of teachers. Everybody knew everybody and that was that. The gymnasium, I still remember vividly (but not all that fondly); the roof was perhaps 12 feet high, which meant the basketball nets where 7 or 8 feet off the ground. You literally had to lob the ball horizontally, otherwise it would bounce off the roof.

No wonder our school was always creamed in basketball.

Me? I was there from grade 4 to 6, but only because the school offered a unique French Immersion program. The thing is, nothing really happened when I was a student there. I was a pretty normal, run-of-the-mill kid. I was quiet, bright, athletic, but not unusually so. Girls thought I was awkward and a total nerd and geek (oh, how things have changed…), but at that age, they still had cooties and I had little interest in the fairer sex.

So in the end, that’s what this mug — a prize for my Grade 6 speech on Amelia Earhart — represents: my humble, quiet, and terribly unexciting past.

Your see, I have high hopes for some of my friends and acquaintances. I think some of them will go on to lead wonderfully successful lives. Make buckets of cash. Marry beautiful men and women. And then invite me to summer in their waterfront homes and lend me keys to their flashy sports cars.

But wherever we are, whatever we may do, it’s important to remember that most of us come from humble beginnings. Some of us attended tiny, unremarkable schools, and, at least initially, led wholly unremarkable lives.

Because, really, it’s all about the journey.

Not surprisingly, the internet in my room doesn’t work. I’ll take a day to fix.

In the meantime, I’m paying out of my nose at an internet cafe to write this. But you, baby, you’re worth it.

In any case, I just came home from the grocery store (psst: I don’t think they’re called ‘grocery stores’ over here). I can’t wait to lug all this shit back to my room. Woo. Hoo.

I’ve got quite a few pictures of my room and the harrowing journey (not) here, so you can expect them as soon as I get my internet working.

For my last night in Canada, I decided to have a very informal, very impromptu dessert with a pair of friends.

The night winds down, and the waitress — who I noticed was eyeing and smiling at me throughout the evening from the far reaches of the restaurant — approaches, hands the group our bill, and begins to walk away. She stops, however, giggles, and asks me,

“You know who you remind me of?”

We all shrug.

“Ever seen The Adventures of Lois and Clark?”

My friends — supportive as always — gape at her.

“WHAT?! Superman? You think he looks like Superman? He’s asian for god’s sake”.

“Dean Cain,” she says, laughing and nodding.

“Thanks a lot,” the other friend goes, “his ego’s already like,” she spreads her arms wide, “–this– big, already.”

Me? I just grin ear to ear.

Yeah. I know. I look nothing like him.

But it’s my last night in Ottawa.

Give a guy a break, okay?

If a girl wants to compare me to the Man of Steel, who am I to argue?