“So, you’re going to let me take you out again, right? On a real date this time.”

“I can’t,” she said, getting all fidgetey and looking away.

“Why not?”

“I’ve got baggage.”

“Don’t we all.”

“I’ve got a boyfriend.”

“Ah.”

And that was it. As abruptly as it began, that’s how the non-date ended. And if all you cared was the ending, then there it is. There’s no punchline, here. No trickery involved. The curtain has fallen. The fat lady has sung. Exeunt omnes.

But for those who care about more than just the ending — well, I’m going to go back and tell you how it all started. After all, it’s never about the answer, is it? It’s about the journey.

“Another riveting day at the office?”

Those were my first words to the temporary receptionist — you know, the person who comes in out of nowhere to work for a week or whatever, while the usual employee is off sick or honeymooning.

Let me describe her. She had (1) Long — longer than shoulder-length — auburn hair that seemed to always be perfectly arranged in wavy tresses, and (2) Big blueish eyes that seemed to change colours depending on the lighting, and that projected a constant air of curiosity tinged with bemused delight. That’s all you need to know.

At that moment, however, those big blue eyes were rolling in a great circle, as she replied to my question with the obvious reply.

“This is a really important building,” I explain, sweeping my hands grandiosely around the room and sniffing proudly. “Lots of mathematicians to protect. Some of the greatest minds in the world, here.”

“Oh, I know“, she said, “I’ve been grilling everybody that comes through the gate. ‘Whatdaya want?’ I say, ‘What’s your business, here?’“

“Really? I’m impressed. Show me. What’s your snarl like?”

She showed me.

“Not bad”.

The next day, I asked her out to lunch. “I’ll come down here at noon and we’ll have lunch somewhere. Alright?”

And so later, as promised, I came down to reception. She wasn’t there.

“Where were you?” I asked, several hours later.

“Where was I? Where were you? I waited. And then I’m like, ‘Nah. He’s not coming’.”

“I came,” I say exasperatedly, “Like, five, no, ten minutes late. Barely!“

“I’m sorry, but I really had to go.”

I stare her down for a good few seconds, shaking my head disapprovingly. “Monday, then. Monday. Noon. No excuses.”

“I can do that.”

And so I stalk towards the door. “I did come down —,” I mutter.

“—late,” she calls after me.

“I did come down —,” I mutter again.

“—late,” she calls again.

People walking past look between the two of us, wondering what in the world we’re talking about. I decide against giving one last retort, and with one final theatrical sigh, I exit the building.

This morning, it snowed in Oxford for the first time this winter. Even for a Canadian, for whom snow is a concept about as foreign as rain is to the British, you tend to notice the electricity in the air after the first snowfall, partly because the first snowfall is likely the only snowfall; partly because everybody here — man, woman, child, grownup — acts like this form of crystallized precipitation is the greatest thing since sliced bread; and partly because Oxford looks beautiful with a dusting of snow.

As I entered the building that morning, I stopped by the receptionist.

“So noon, right?” I say to her, “We’re having lunch.”

“Sure,” she says casually.

I turn, and look at her seriously for a second. “You mean — you’re actually going to be here when I come down, right?”

Without missing a beat she fires back, “You mean — you’re actually going to be on time, right?”

I give her look of surrender, then turn and start walking back up the stairs. “Well played, madame,” I mutter.

Even from behind me, I can hear the snickering.

There’s this feeling that I rarely get anymore: It’s the feeling of genuinely wanting to know something — anything — about someone else. See, most of the time, we ask people a question like, “So where are you from?” or “So what do you do?”, but we couldn’t care less about the answer. It’s worse than small talk. It’s polite apathy.

But on those rare occasions, you meet someone whom you truly want to know about. Suddenly, every aspect of their life is a source of discussion. So slowly, as we walked side-by-side towards my college dining hall, we covered the various topics.

As we entered into the garden quad, we were presented with a truly magical scene; the stuff of movies. In our scene however, light snow peppered the trees around the garden, and kids (“damn undergraduates”, I muttered) were off to the side, building snowmen and having snowball (Remember: Balliol is one of the few Oxford colleges that allows that sort of chicanerie on the grass). The juxtaposition of the young and the old, and the serenity of it all was fascinating.

We climbed the steps towards the dining hall, and I gave the door a shove. It was locked. “Fifteen minutes ’till hall opens. Want to take another walk around the quad?”.

And so we did. As we walked, we talked more about families and parental pressure. We talked about how my parents wanted both my sister and I to go into medicine. We talked about traveling. We talked about the weather. We talked about everything and anything.

And then we had lunch. We walked back to the department afterwards. A bit late. “Just tell them you were with me on official math business”, I said.

“Is that what you call it?”, she asked.

“Whatever. I’ll come down sometime before you leave.”

You all know how it ends.

This was her last day temping for Oxford. In chagrin, she told me she was sorry for not letting me know the whole story beforehand. I, in turn, told her I was glad she hadn’t. There was no dramatic standoff. Just a simple handshake, and a bemused good-bye on both our parts.

Tuesday morning, she was gone.

Life, it seems, is not so easily divided into happy endings and sad endings.

But ultimately, what matters most is what we take with us. And for me, it was a chance to be proven wrong.

It seems that the older I get, the more disconnected I feel with people — and perhaps more worrisome, with women. There is no shortage of attractive women in this world; no shortage of women who can smile and laugh at a joke; no shortage of women with whom one can carry on an intelligent conversation or share a physical relationship with. There are hundreds. Thousands. I see attractive women with beautiful faces and yes, smokin’ bodies, everywhere I look.

But whenever I meet one of these women, it’s like my brain goes into auto-pilot. Boredom takes over. I joke, they laugh. I ask them where they’re from. How they’re doing. And when they ask me about my life, I list out the details — as if reading bullet points off my curriculum vitae. Mathematician. Canadian. Oui madame, je peux parler francais. Photographer. The list goes on. And then I’ll do the whole charmy, flirty thing (I do it very well, apparently), and that’ll be that.

But it’s all a performance. Maybe that’s why I consider social events to be awfully tiresome; the effort of performing for people I don’t really care about is exhausting.

And then, well — you meet a girl. And she shows that that there is still hope for making a connection in this world. And for that — despite the near certainty that we’ll never meet again — I’m forever grateful.

Seventh Grade Blues

the one

When I was in the seventh grade, one of the girls told me I looked like Keannu Reeves.

Was this some awfully cruel, sadistic joke little girls liked to play on unsuspecting boys?

When I was in the seventh grade, one of the girls told me I looked like Keannu Reeves. No, seriously.

I was hanging upside-down on the jungle gym, minding my own business, and she just walked over and blurted it out. Then she giggled like a moron and ran away. Girls can be so mean.

This became the highlight of my school year (my academic career, even), but you see, I was torn. On one hand, how could anyone confuse Keannu (black shades, gothic trench coat, infinite awesomeness) with me (pubescent, angst-ridden, gawky)? Was this all some awfully cruel, sadistic joke little girls liked to play on unsuspecting boys?

But on the other hand, maybe — maybe she was on to something. Maybe somewhere — somehow, behind all that bad acne and ruffled hair, I really did look like Neo. After all, who was I to disagree?

Today, however, I no longer have to wonder because, according to the latest advances in facial recognition, she was right.

Who in the Land is Fairest of All?

MyHeritage is an internet-based company that offers you the chance to see which celebrity you most resemble. Remember how in Snow White, the queen has a magical mirror which provides her with uninhibited flattery? This is the same, but like, tons better.

After a free signup, you upload a large-ish jpeg of your mug, then let the software crank away. Here were my results: Brad Pitt (71%), Keannu Reeves (63%), Luke Perry (63%), Matt Daemon (63%), and Jordana Brewster (60%).

Brad Pitt? Really? Matt Daemon? Really? Who wouldathunk? But y’know, as I gaze into the mirror…well…yes, I see it now. Definitely. We’re practically brothers!

How does it all work? Is this actual science or just deceptive flattery? To understand how facial recognition works, we’re going to have to delve into the mathematics behind the algorithm.

Recognizing Faces

Suppose we were given someone’s picture. How might we go about identifying that person from a large database of faces?

One way we can go about it is by identifying the characteristics of the subject – perhaps the person has small lips, or a pointed chin, or distinct eyes. From here, we then study the database, going from picture to picture, each time isolating the features of the faces and checking for a match.

But while this might work, it’s also a lot of work; algorithms would need to be defined to analyse each desired feature and a large number of faces to mix and match and could potentially take eons to compute.

A more efficient way to proceed would be to examine these faces as a statistical whole rather than as the sum of its parts. This is similar to the difference between identifying a city by its landmarks and identifying the same city by the density of its roads, the clusters and heights of its buildings, its downtown areas and rural areas, and so on.

A Picture is Worth a Thousand Digits

Snap! But what are pictures, really?

As stored in a computer, a picture is nothing more than a great big grid of dots (or pixels). If the picture is greyscale, each pixel is associated with a number from 0 to 255 representing its brightness, from pitch black (0) to pure white (255).

Now in the abstract theory of Linear Algebra, these grids of pixels are called ‘vectors’. You’ve probably encountered vectors before in Physics class and in fact, these ‘face vectors’ are quite similar.

Like vectors representing force or motion, these new ‘face vectors’ have a `magnitude’ (an overall brightness), as well as a ‘direction’ — the only difference is that they inhabit some higher-dimensional Face Space, rather than the two or three-dimensional physical world we live in.

Thus, faces found in the database are nothing more than vectors that, like other mathematical quantities, can be added, subtracted, multiplied, and generally manipulated as they roam about in the Face Space.

What’s Your Eigenface?

However, Face Spaces are complicated affairs — they’re high dimensional boxes stuffed with a large number of faces, each face containing thousands of pixels.

It would thus be foolish to try and compare each face pixel by pixel; instead we look to construct a small group of pictures representing the general facial patterns of the database. This small but crucial group is called the Eigenface Basis.

Think of how, when we analyse the motion of a ball flying through the air, we break the motion into its horizontal and vertical components. These horizontal and vertical components provide a fundamental basis for which all motion can be broken down into.

Similarly, once the eigenface basis is found using Linear Algebra, each face in the database can then be expressed using certain percentages of each eigenface. For example, we may say that a picture is composed of 10% of the first eigenface, 25% of the second, 4% of the third, and so on.

The beauty of this treatment is that even in a large database, each unique face can be expressed very simply using its eigenface decomposition. We no longer have to express each face using thousands of pixels; now, like a simple recipe in which the eigenfaces are the key ingredients, the entire database can be reconstructed as it was before.

A Problem of Distance

Now imagine each face in the database, represented in terms of its eigenface percentages, akin to coordinates lying in some higher-dimensional plane. Our test subject (which may or may not lie in the database) is then projected onto this plane by expressing it in terms of the eigenface components.

But now, the problem of recognising the subject becomes as simple as finding the shortest distance (or closest match) between our subject and each face in the database, a problem which is aided enormously by the fact each face is represented by only a handful of eigenface components.

The Future and You

But really, just how accurate are these eigenface algorithms?

In optimal conditions (with good lighting, a representative database, front-facing pictures, etc.), a simple eigenface routine might produce accurate readings of up to 90%.

Unfortunately, real life is never that simple, and in reality, one must contend with other ‘noisy’ factors. Factors like variance in pose (person facing at an angle), obstructions (sunglasses or other people), resolution and lighting, and so on. Despite this, however, the science of facial recognition has steadily improved to the point where today, it is becoming a standard for many military, security, and commercial applications.

Yeah, yeah. But now that you know how facial recognition works, go and try it on yourself.

What celebrity do you look like?

A Review

abel’s hell

“Divergent series are the invention of the devil and it is shameful to base on them any demonstration whatsoever.”

niels abel

Last time, we left off talking about Pi.

We talked about how one can imagine Mother Nature using Pi to all its infinite glory, but for mere mortals like you and I, we have to truncate the number — to its tenth decimal place, hundredth decimal place, or even millionth decimal place.

But however we do it, we still miss infinitely many digits (infinity minus a finite number is still infinity, don’t-cha-know).

This is simply an example of our inability to describe the Universe to its fullest.

For the most part, that’s perfectly fine. But in what circumstance does our inability to capture the true nature of a phenomenon become a problem?

A Hopeless Challenge

Let’s talk oceans.

There are few things more majestic than a ship in water. Captain Ahab knew it. Jack and Rose knew it (well, at least until the end). So should you.

Just imagine it. The sparkling blue waters. The expanse of never-ending ocean. The beautiful wedge-shaped pattern that flows behind every ship, like a streaming cape.

And near the ship: turbulent white-water splashes, jets, and ripples, forming in a million different places with a million different patterns, often too quick and too elaborate for the eye to capture.

The mathematical equations which govern the flow of water in an ocean were known as early back as the 18th century. But for the next century and a bit, scientists were absolutely confounded by the equations.

“What in the world,” they asked together, “Can we do with that?”

The equations, as they stand, are much too complex for a direct analysis. Even today, there is a million dollar prize for anyone who can answer even the most basic questions about these equations.

So with no possibility of exact solutions in sight, the mathematicians and physicists turned to developing methods for approximating solutions.

Asymptotic Approximations

One method, in particular, traces its roots back to the time of Henri Poincare (1854-1912) who developed it in order to solve a rather terrifying problem in celestial mechanics.

The idea is to break up our solution into more manageable chunks. The first chunk describes the system — the ocean, in this case — in some idealized state. To this, we add the second chunk, which includes some kind of perturbation to this initial state. To this, we add a third and even smaller perturbation. And on to infinity.

For example, suppose we were to express the height of the water waves in this fashion,

Here, the greek epsilon, ε represents a small perturbation. It can represent, for example, the Froude number, or the surface tension, or some other small effect.

These sums or series are called asymptotic approximations because they get better and better in the asymptotic limit that ε tends to zero. That’s the idealized state.

The amazing thing with these approximations is that they tend to be very good. So good, in fact, that calculating only one or two chunks provides an excellent approximation to reality in most cases.

This was great. People were happy. We’d at least established some kind of systematic way of approaching these intractable formulae and, with a moderate amount of sweat and tears, they seemed to give excellent results.

The Physicists were happy.

So were the Applied Mathematicians.

The Pure Maths chaps, on the other hand, were incensed.

The Puries and their Partypooper Tendencies

The problem, the Puries were quick to point out, is that these asymptotic approximations are usually divergent.

What that means is that the approximations get better and better as we include more and more terms…but only up to a point. After that point, all hell breaks loose, and the whole thing blows up (to infinity).

Thus in effect, we have taken a system of water waves, perfectly well behaved and all very pretty, and approximated it using an infinite series of terms which, when added up, gives us completely nonsense.

The Pure Mathematicians, in all their need for rules and regulations, just weren’t comfortable toying with a concept that was so ill-defined.

But everybody else was all, “Fuggetaboutit. Take a look at all these purty graphs, yo.”

Should We Worry?

By now you’ve hopefully grappled with issue.

Nature in all its magnificence is woefully complicated.

In many cases, it’s so horrendously complicated that its mathematical description needs to be approximated. One such method of approximation involves using a divergent series.

Why do we use them? We use them because they work so nicely.

So the question becomes, in using these divergent approximations, are we ignoring anything useful? In particular, what is the nature of this divergence? Why does our approximation work so well initially, but behave so badly later on?

What’s the price we pay for dancing with the devil?

Let’s face it. Some things in life are certainties. This is one of them:

Or so I thought.

“I don’t wanna die.”

See, when your plane is plummeting towards the Atlantic and dozens of oxygen masks are simultaneously popped from their compartments, that’s precisely what you’re supposed to be thinking.

That’s what most sane passengers on board Flight 888 were thinking, anyways, but not me; personally, I was content to stare at the gorgeous woman sitting by my side and wonder — amidst all the screaming — whether, she’d be the type to favour wit and humour over a Calvin-Klein physique.

Mind you, this was just the setup (it turned out to be a false alarm, anyways — “Due to horrendous weather conditions,” said the pilot), but I still wanted to give you an idea of the truly epic life-or-death scope of the story to come.

The real story, however, begins with her.

Even in the limited illumination of the cabin, her hair shone a rich, copper red. This framed not only a perfect curving face, but also two of the bluest eyes I’d ever seen. But this wasn’t all. The earlier theatrics had scared her and despite clear skies and smooth sailing, I could tell she was still on edge. But this was perfect, you see, because it gave me a chance to swoop in and sooth her poor, tortured soul (that’s how it’s supposed to work, anyways).

“Just a little turbulence,” I offered helpfully, “Nothing to be scared of — uh…” I trailed off, motioning expectantly towards her.

“Rhea.”

“Right. Rhea. It’s Jeff, by the way. There’s nothing to be scared of, Rhea,” I assured her again.

She was silent for a moment; then leaning over me, pointed a slender finger out the window. “Nothing?” she said, raising an eyebrow, “Yeah, nothing is what’s stopping us from plummeting, oh I dunno, twenty-thousand feet to the ground in a blazing tomb of shattering metal and death, right? …Jeff?”

So it was going to be harder than I thought.

Ten minutes had passed since my disastrous attempt to heroically intervene, and by now, she was already nervously fingering her way through a Cosmo magazine.

I needed to do something — something drastic — or I was going lose her to another one of those ghastly how-does-your-love-life-stack-up quizzes.

“You’re wrong,” I blurted out, loudly.

She turned and looked at me, bemused.

“About what?”

“What you said earlier. About how nothing is holding us up.”

I ran my fingers through my hair and backtracked. “Look, flying wasn’t invented overnight, right? Da Vinci, Cayley, Lanchester, Joukowski, …” I rattled off a few more impressive-sounding names, “Thousands of the greatest minds conspiring over hundreds of years with the sole purpose of reaching one of man’s greatest dreams…”

“So?”

“So…today — today, aerodynamics, all this –,” I gestured out the window, “All this — is grounded in solid, rigorous mathematics. It’s not nothingness that’s holding us up. It’s math.”

“Math,” she repeated disinterestedly, “I’m not very good at math.”

“You don’t have to be,” I replied softly.

She picked up the Cosmo magazine from her lap and froze for what seemed like ages. Then, seeming to have made a decision, she placed it in the pouch before her and leaned back in her seat, sighing.

“Okay,” she said, nodding, “Let’s talk.”

By now, we’d both finished our creations: three crisp paper airplanes assembled with the enthused precision only a 10-year-old could muster.

She threw hers and laughed as it flopped straight to the ground. Mine careened suicidally into a bulkhead and the stewardess, having witnessed all our shenanigans, scowled in our direction.

As I held up the last plane, I explained. “There are four aerodynamic forces we need to talk about: thrust, drag, lift, and gravity.” I said, gesturing in each of the four directions.

“As air flows over the plane, pressure is exerted on the surface of the plane. If there’s more pressure on the bottom than the top, lift is produced, and the plane stays aloft so long as the force is greater than gravity.”

“But this,” she said, waving at our surroundings, “is not made of paper.”

“Ah ha! Obtaining lift is easy — heck, even a barn door raised at an angle produces lift. The second problem is drag, and so flight is actually the problem of maximizing lift, while minimizing drag.”

“But how?” I asked excitedly, “What kind of aerofoil design do we need, Rhea?”

“Beats me,” she said, amused by my enthusiasm, “But I bet you’ll tell me all about it over dinner.”

It was like a date, really.

But with only two meal choices and really crappy wine.

“So…” Rhea said, prodding her chicken suspiciously, “When the Wright Brothers managed the first ever flight in nineteen-hundred-whatever, they didn’t actually know how the math worked?”

With a fork, I poked my own in-flight meal timidly. Half-expecting the chicken to wake up and start clucking hysterically, I wisely opted for the fruit cup instead.

“The Wright Brothers were at the forefront of experimental aerodynamics,” I corrected, “Using their own wind tunnel tests, they produced different aerofoils until they found one that worked. Most importantly, it had to be curved (or cambered) so air flows faster over the top; this reduces the pressure on the top and so produces more lift.”

“But surprisingly, there were almost no meaningful aerodynamic theories at the time. We had the right equations — but nobody knew what to do with them.”

“But this changed?”

I pushed my meal back with a grimace. “Oh, sure. Theoretical aerodynamics was rampant only a handful of years later. But, uh…I dunno,” I said, teasing her, “You sure you’re ready for this stuff?”

I leaned back and pretended to peer at her dubiously.

“I mean, it’s pretty wild.”

She just rolled her eyes and went back to eating.

The crew had turned off the lights and so most passengers were dozing quietly. Not us, though. We insisted on whispering softly, and with the lone reading light providing the only illumination, it had the eerie effect of making it seem like we were the only two passengers on board Flight 888.

“The three governing equations of fluid motion are known as the Navier Stokes Equations,” I explained while scribbling on napkins, “And together, they simply express three fundamental laws of nature in a mathematical form.”

“This one here,” I said pointing to the first equation, “Says that the total amount of fluid — or, in our case, air particles – has to remain constant. This is just conservation of mass. Stuff can’t disappear.”

“The second one here is Newton’s Second Law: Mass times acceleration, is equal to the total applied force. That’s just conservation of momentum.”

“And the last one here is conservation of energy — the total energy in the system must remain constant.”

She looked disdainfully at the row of napkins strewn before her and pointed a single, perfectly manicured finger at one of them. “What can we do with that?” she asked.

“It’s tough,” I conceded, “These equations are too hard to solve directly. And even for the two-dimensional problem (flow around a cross section of the aerofoil), it’s still too complicated because of the geometry.”

“So what we do is we consider a simpler geometry, say, the airflow around a flat plate; we solve the governing equations for this problem, then we construct a mathematical map that brings us back to the original, more difficult geometry.”

“It’s tough, I know. But the point is, the math is all there. It’s not a mystery anymore, like it was for da Vinci and the Wright Brothers.

And that — believe it or not — was the last time we’d talk about math.

She was relaxed now, and her head was gently propped against a pillow resting on my shoulder. But whether or not this Zen-like state of relaxation was because of newfound understanding (as opposed to sheer mental boredom)…well, I’ll let you decide.

In any case, it worked, and hell, she hadn’t touched that damn Cosmo since we both started talking.

“Are you asleep?” I asked.

She took her time answering. “Not yet”.

“Sooooo…”, I said, stretching out the vowel and grinning sheepishly, “Tell me, what do you do?”

At that suggestion, she whipped her head off the pillow and gave me such a look of pure, seething outrage that…well, I tell ya’, it would have immediately sent lesser mortals fleeing.

“Oooooh, I get it,” she squealed, “Good looking stranger corners you on an airplane for a three hour balls-to-wall math lecture, and then asks what you do. Typical,” she sniffed.

“Wha–?”, I said, feigning mock hurt, “But I got you dinner and everything.”

She gave me a mischievous grin, punched her pillow, and put her head back.

“Admit it Jeff,” she said, “You’ve been using me.”

I pushed the button on my armrest turning off the overhead lights and plunging the two of us into blissful darkness.

“Babe,” I said, “You’ve no idea.”

I am told that beautiful women are everywhere.

No. Really.

They’re literally everywhere. They’re in every nook and every cranny, every street and every corner. They have big blue eyes and small brown ones, long blonde hair and short raven hair. Legs that reach the skies. Soft, velvety skin. And they love to tease us with their skirty skirts.

You — you could very well be one of these beautiful women.

You probably are. Don’t lie.

But it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because I can’t see them. I know it sounds crazy, but it’s true. I can’t see any of them.

It started a few years ago. That’s when the numbness started. But it’s worse, now. It’s so bad, I can’t feel anything.

Imagine this: I’m walking down the street with a friend, and a girls passes in the distance. So my friend’s all, “She’s pretty cute”, right?

“Hrmm…” I’d mumble, looking up for a second. “Yeah, she’s alright…”

That’s it. “She’s alright”. Not, “she’s spectacular,” or “she’s gorgeous”, and never ever is she “wow”. I can’t remember how long it’s been since I’ve had a ‘Wow’ moment. They just stopped happening.

These women — these women I pass on the streets or see at the University — they could be Venus and it wouldn’t matter. They could be Jennifer Connelly or Jessica Alba in the flesh. Even Audrey Hepburn, back from the dead. I wouldn’t have even raised an eyebrow.

Because I’m numb, you see.

The thing is, I do see them; I see that they’re pretty, I see that they’re slim and have a nice figure, and I see that they have great hair. But I don’t really see them, you know? It’s more like I’m a judge, rather than a spectator.

I’m impartial. Neutral and unaffected.

But this numbness, it doesn’t take the Crane brothers to figure out what brings it on. I actually know the cause.

My days are roughly the same, day in day out. I wake up in the morning and haul my ass to work. If I decide beforehand to bring a lunch and dinner to work, I’ll stay there until eight or nine in the evening. If I don’t bring a dinner, I’ll head home at six to cook myself one or, if I’m feeling particularly adventurous, I’ll head to dining hall for dinner. At ten, it’s gym-time, and by 11:30 PM, I’m back home.

Occasionally, I’ll play rugby with the college in the evenings, and that helps break up the monotony. But for the most part, it’s an easy cut-and-paste affair.

Do I mind that my life is structured like this? Maybe. But it’s what I do. That’s the best answer I can give to friends and family who criticize me about my lifestyle. It’s what I do. At least for now.

Besides, that’s not the real problem.

At night, I prepare for my slumber with an episode from a favoured television series or an interesting piece of cinema.

The choices are endless. And the women, well, the women are simply delightful.

Maybe I’ll watch an episode of House and wonder whether all doctors come with the looks of Allison Cameron (Jennifer Morrison) or the wit of “Thirteen” (Olivia Wilde). Reliving high school is as easy as popping in The O.C., where I can follow Melissa, Summer, and Taylor (Barton, Bilson, and Reeser) through their four years. And if I’m in the mood for sand and beaches, I can always spend some time with Kate (Evangeline Lilly) and Claire (Emilie de Ravin) on Lost island.

And then there are the movies.

I can spend time listening to the poetic ramblings of Juno (Ellen Page). I can fight despair and temptation alongside Jennifer Connelly in Requiem for a Dream. I can laugh at the deadpan humour of Zooey Deschanel in Almost Famous.

The list goes on.

The beauty of it is, not only are these women beautiful and gorgeous, but they’re funny, smart, and sassy. They wake up looking great, and they say and do things no real woman would.

Because, duh, they’re exactly that: not real.

But it doesn’t matter.

Because these women, they get me.

When the gorgeous Charlotte (Scarlett Johansson) in Lost in Translation lies next to Bob (Bill Murray) and asks, “Does it get any easier?” — that’s the kind of connection I want. That’s the kind of relationship I need. But of course, I can’t have it.

There isn’t really a 24 year old, lost and confused, beautiful Yalie philosophy graduate named Charlotte. And even if there was, it’s doubtful I’ll ever meet her on a trip to Tokyo.

But that doesn’t stop me from hoping.

Real women are hard. Even if they have the looks of Number Six (Tricia Helfer), the intellect of Temperance Brennan (Emily Deschanel), and the sardonic wit of Lorelei Gilmore (Lauren Graham), they won’t know you. They won’t really know you.

It’s just not the same.

And so I go to work, I come home, and I escape in the company of these lovely — albeit fictitious — women. It’s escapism at its best.

I realize it’s sad. It’s humiliating. Wrong, even.

But there’s nothing I can do.

I’m numb, you see.

Kenyan Volunteers

June 15, 2007
I flew to Kenya to begin my placement as a math teacher at an orphanage.

This is about the volunteers I met.

When you volunteer in a foreign country, you put yourself in a position to meet some truly wonderful people — many of whom are fellow volunteers.

Everybody’s there for a different reason. Some are there because they want a summer to travel and figured, hey, why not help others in the process. Some are there because they have optimistic aspirations to change the world. And some, well, some aren’t really sure why they’re there — only that it feels right to be there.

These volunteers come in all shapes and sizes. Many are third-year undergraduates, looking for a summer off before hitting the books one last time. Some are fresh out of high school. Some are in their 30s, 40s, and 50s. Doctors and businessmen, scientists and construction workers. Spiritual or faithfully religious. Studious, quiet, or shy. White collar, blue collar, and collars of all different colours.

But there’s usually one common link between these people. One common aspect that makes it so, for the most part, everybody manages to get along.

You see, deep down, these people, they’re all good people.

People with good hearts.

And that’s what makes them wonderful.

As foreigners in a strange land — we stuck together. Walked together, worked together, and ate together.

But most of all, we talked together.

It was fun. Frivolous and inane, but — like when we were young and spent our summer nights at camp — everybody enjoyed themselves silly. We talked about our favourite movies and our favourite music. Embarassing encounters. Politics. Celebrities.

You know, stuff that reminded us of home and the fact that the rest of the world doesn’t actually stop when we’re in Kenya.

Of course, the truly magical thing was that Kenya had brought us all together: half a dozen young adults of different temperaments, different backgrounds, and different beliefs. It’s hard to imagine another situation that would have united us.

There was Daniel from the University of Missouri: spiritual, religious, and contemplative. The two wonderful and inseparable ladies Heather and Amanda from Widener University, both of them sassy and quick to smile.

There was Brett — manic and slightly deranged Brett — a construction worker from Oregon who nevertheless got along famously with the others. Jenny, the Johns Hopkins undergraduate with the easy going charm. Ari, Vanen, and Brianna, the trio of 30-something friends who still managed to fit in with the rest of us.

And then there was Matt.

Matt was likable, curious and kind.

You’d think I’d say more about Matt — but surprisingly, no more need be said.

Matt was like that. Uncomplicated.

So one day, Matt brings home a pair of plain white shoes, vigorously haggled from the local market.

Along with a black permanent marker and a roll of masking tape, he shakes the shoes emphatically in my direction.

“I’m thinking about checkering these shoes black,” he said.

“Huh?”, I said.

“Yeah. It’s gonna be awesome”.

That evening we had dinner with the host family: A creamy ragou, with potatoes and a garnish of beef, drowned in a spicy sauce. Eaten with a mound of ugali and chapati on the side — it was the true staples of any Kenyan diet.

Afterwards, we sat around and chatted amongst ourselves. Matt however, sat there and silently worked on his shoes. First, he meticulously taped the shoes with the masking tape. Then, he coloured each cell with the black marker.

When he finished and held up his creation for all to see, we oohed and ahhed appropriately.

“What a brilliant idea!”, we said.

“I should market these,” he said.

“They’re one of a kind!”, we agreed.

Months Later…

By now, we’d all separated.

I hadn’t been in contact with any of the others — too wrapped up in my own affairs to bother, but I was meaning to write about them. When? I dunno. Later. When I had time.

One afternoon however, I found myself shopping at Primark, a well known clothing retailer in the UK. Think Walmart, but with lower prices and criminally cheap goods.

I stumbled into the footwear section and, as my eyes swept across the endless rows of trainers, loafers, and slippers — I did a double take. There, at the end of the rack were — you guessed it — Matt’s shoes.

No, they weren’t like Matt’s shoes. They were his shoes.

So what did I do? What could I do? Matt was a gazillion miles away, doing — well, doing whatever he did — and he’d never know. But I tell ya, it’d break his heart to see this, it really would.

So I took a picture and returned home to write this article.

But none of this is really about Matt and his spotted shoes. You know that, don’t you? It never was.

This is about the people we meet. Or rather, the people we don’t.

Think about it. How many people pass through our lives without a second glance? Without a second word? Maybe hundreds in a day. Thousands in a week. Millions in your lifetime.

The girl at the supermarket who distractingly bags your groceries. The boy at the bus stop who listens to his iPod. The people at the office. The people at the gym. The list goes on.

We see them, of course. But we don’t really see them. Not in the same way.

Not like in a foreign country, where you find yourself connecting with a handful of volunteers. From Australia and Canada, to New Zealand, America, and Sweden. Doctors, businessmen, construction workers, and writers. People you normally would have never befriended and people you would have never related to.

You take these random people, hailing from different parts of the globe and leading different lives and suddenly — when the collection of people passing through your life has been reduced from the thousands to half a dozen — you begin to see what makes them so special.

And although it’s taken a transcontinental trip and a barrel of vaccinations, you finally figure out why these people are so wonderful.

And why you’ll never look at a pair of checkered shoes the same way again.

I was there buying coat hangers.

The total was £1.59, so I gave the cashier £2.09

She fiddled with the change and pushed back a penny, frowning.

“Did I give you too little?”

“No…it’s not that,” she said, “I just can’t take this penny. It’s…Canadian.”

Her emphasis on the word, ‘Canadian’ gave the impression that she was neither impressed by our easy-going charms, nor our prowess for winter sports.

I didn’t have another penny.

“But it looks the same!” I pleaded.

She shrugged indifferently.

“And you know,” I continued, undaunted, “the Canadian dollar is unusually strong these days.”

She shrugged again.

“Think of it as an investment,” I cajoled.

“Sorry,” she said, her tone indicating that she was anything but sorry. “Don’t you have a penny?”

The next customer in line rummaged helpfully in her pockets. “I have a penny for you.”

“Thanks,” I said, taking it, “And in return for your generous donation, you get this shiny, one-of-a-kind, Canadian penn–”

“–No thanks,” she said quickly.

I shrugged casually. Trying to hide my chagrin and disappointment.

I handed the penny to the cashier. Smirking.

“I’m really trying to infiltrate the British economy,” I whispered conspiratorially. “With Canadian pennies.”

She ignored me.

“Yep. One penny at a time.”

Nope. Nothing. Not even a smile.

She handed me 50 pence and my receipt.

“Thanks,” was all she said.

Tough crowd, these Brits. Really. Tough crowd.

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.

thighs

…the typical difference between a man’s waist and thigh is about 6-7 inches. For me, the difference is more like 11-12 inches. Almost double.

I’m one chunky bastard.

I think I’d look good in women’s clothing.

Does that sound odd to you?

Probably. Oh, who am I kidding, you probably have your hand hovering over the phone at this very moment, ready to hand me over to the loony bin.

But bear with me. Can you do that? Maybe by the end of this, it won’t sound so odd.

But here’s a (somehow fitting) song by Barbara Streisand that’ll keep you company as we tread on.

A few posts ago, I mentioned having visited a tailor. His name was Mario and he charged me close to two thousand dollars to make a tux and two, rather ordinary collared shirts.

For a handmade outfit, it’s not extraordinarily expensive. But for a not-even-out-of-school punk like me, who doesn’t have a six digit salary, a rich power-hungry wife, and a Beverly Hills mansion, it’s still a bit of money. A helluva lot.

So why bother?

The problem — like all problems in life — starts at the waist.

It’s a nasty problem and goes both ways — up to my chin and down to my itty-bitty toes.

The thing is, I’m an extraordinarily short guy — only about five feet seven inches. 5′7, assuming I’m standing up straight. 5′7 assuming it’s sunny outside and the weather’s just perfect. 5′7 on a tall day.

I’m also an extraordinarily heavy guy — weighing anywhere from 190 lbs to 195 lbs. In fact, on a heavy day — like Wednesday — I may even be over 195 lbs. Hold the applause, please.

But all these two characteristics aren’t problems by themselves, no. It’s the waist, you see.

And my waist, along with my extraordinarily short stature and extraordinarily heavy weight, is an extraordinarily small waist.

Okay, I’m pulling your leg. It’s not that small.

The problem is that at one end, my waist flares out to a wide back. And at the other, it flares out to even chunkier thighs. Take a look at the following silhouette. I should warn you though, the full chunkiness of my thighs is poorly depicted in this silhouette.

Since I know I’m going to have to answer some silly questions about this (mainly from Dave): No I wasn’t entirely naked for this picture, and yes, I had my boxers on.

Stop laughing.

According to my newfound tailor, Mario, the typical difference between a man’s waist and thighs is about 6-7 inches. For me, the difference is more like 11-12 inches. Almost double. I’m one chunky bastard.

So let me take you through the process of how someone like me would find an ordinary button-down shirt.

First: I’d have to find a shirt that was meant for someone with my relatively short stature — not an unsurmountable task, sure, but the majority of clothes out there are meant for men at least a few inches taller.

Second: Most dress shirts meant for men 5′7-5′9 can’t accommodate my wide upper back and shoulders. This is a pretty big problem.

Third: Chances are, any shirt that can fit my upper back was meant for someone with a much, much larger gut. So I tuck the shirt in? Sure, but the end result is that it tends to bunch up near the waist and it simply looks wrong. So you keep the shirt out? Now I just look like a twat, thanks.

Starting to get the picture? We’re not done yet. Let’s find a pair of trousers.

First: Let’s find a pair that’ll fit those beefy thighs of mine. Got em’? Okay.

Second: Oops, sorry. Those pants were meant for someone with, again, a much bigger gut. Great. So you use a belt to hold it up. But now the fabric around the waist and butt pops out. You end up looking like a dolt, holding up clown pants with a belt.

Fine, so let’s try it in the reverse order.

First: The waist. Easily done. Now put your legs through and what do you find?

Second: Oops, sorry. Those pants were meant for someone with Gluteus Maximus that’s not quite so maximal. Good luck jamming your chunky thighs through that sucker.

So I know what you’re thinking. A problem with no solution?

Hardly.

Let me explain my brilliant idea.

See, the secret (like all secrets in life, mind you) lies with the feminine sex. Quite a few women have slim waists. In fact, their waists expand up to a larger upper back and down to larger hips. This accounts for the large taper you might see in a woman’s shirt and pants.

And so the solution is simple.

Simple, yet genial.

I could — could — spend $1900 to have some hoity-toity Italian tailor make me clothes that fit.

Or I could just wear women’s clothing.

Tada.

Now, you may applaud.

I know what you’re thinking.

You’re thinking, “Who is that unbeareably handsome guy off to the right?”

Look at those eyes!

Those brown, mellowy eyes that just ooze intelligence and…what is that? A kind of gentle weariness and humorous melancholy?

Maybe. But either way, I bet you were so enamored by those eyes, you didn’t even question my use of the word ‘mellowy’.

And that slump!

Oooh baby. That casual slump that somehow manages to tread the fine line between downright coolness and hopeless slack. It’s a slump that says, “Baby, James Dean s’got nothin’ on me”.

What about that smirk?

A subtle smirk that’s probably maddening to most people if it weren’t so suave. That’s the kind of smirk that’ll get you the ladies, I bet. Or get you beaten up in the 8th grade.

But surely that smirk reminds you of someone?

It’s me, duh!

I love it!

Is this what models feel like when a photographer takes their picture and, through a combination of makeup and photoshop produces a product worthy of a magazine cover?

It sorta looks like me, but not really.

Because for one thing, I hardly look that good in real life.

In any case, the reason I look so good is due to my friend and acquaintance, the talented artist, Captain Slug, who grudgingly put his artistic skills to the test on my behalf.

I was sorta hoping for tights and a cape, but I suppose that suit doesn’t look half bad.