Texts To Rachelle

These are the text messages that I sent to my wife Rachelle from the Dark Horse café on Queen East the other day:

Me: Feeling good today, very confident!

Me: You’re right, my Mindful Meditation session did go really well!

Me: Meditated the shit out of it! I was fucking Deerpark Chopra!

Me: No, I think it is Deerpark.

Me: Really?

Me: Deepak? That doesn’t sound like a name at all, more like a company that makes boxes or something.

Me: I don’t believe you.

Me: I’m going to look it up.

Me: Okay.

Me: Yes.

Me: I guess it is kind of amusing that I could get the last name right but still butcher the first name in such a “child-like” and “ challenged” way.

Me: I’m still going to call him Deerpark though.

Me: No, not stubborn, whimsical and playful. Like an otter.

Me: I also went to my first lymphatic massage session!

Me: Well, they tap your face.

Me: And yeah, that drains your lymph glands. Yes, by tapping.

Me: $200

Me: No, they didn’t wear diamond-encrusted gloves while doing the tapping.

Me: No, it wasn’t a topless lymphatic massage, either.

Me: Well, the happy ending is that my lymph glands are draining!

Me: I thought your insurance covered it!

Me: Fuck.

Me: Well, there are only 7 more sessions.

Me: Look, having drained lymph glands is important.

Me: At least as important as your “Power Skating” classes with Pierre. I mean, 3 times a week??

Me: I don’t trust Pierre, don’t believe he played in the NHL.

Me: Also don’t like the way you laugh around him.

Me: No, of course I trust you, my love.

Me: I’m at the Dark Horse Café now.

Me: Decaffeinated green tea, gangster style.

Me: Nowhere to sit in here.

Me: Woman says she’s holding last chair for a friend.

Me: Says she will be there in 5 minutes.

Me: Dazzling smile. Entirely distracting. Have forgotten why I was talking to her.

Me: I wish she did lymphatic massage.

Me: I’ll send you a picture.

Me: Really? Creepy and inappropriate?

Me:  On every level? Really?

Me: You’re really weird, you know that?

Me: Okay, 12 minutes have passed now and her friend still hasn’t shown up. I’m going to say something.

Me: I wonder if she’s a model?

Me: Okay, it’s been over 20 minutes! I’m going to give her a piece of my mind!

Me: Her beauty doesn’t entitle her to anything!

Me: You’re right, she is exactly like that Leprechaun guy on the TTC!!

Me: Only radiant and if the Leprechaun were made out of sunlight.

Me: Like Pierre, you said he’s made of light, and what did you say, “thigh muscles,” didn’t you?

Me: I WILL SAY SOMETHING!

Me: I AM NOT A SLAVE TO BEAUTY!

Me: (Except yours, my love)

Me: Ok, here I go.

Me: Losing my resolve. Think it’s melting. Standing with tea is fine.

Me: Hemingway wrote standing up.

Me: Her laptop bag deserves seat in crowded coffee shop.

Me: Laptop bag like a holy relic.

Me: Friend just floated in like a beautiful perfume.

Me: Think Pierre emerging from a spray of ice chips.

Me: Such beauty, should be a cover charge here.

Me: They are now talking together, as angels do.

Me: All is sunlight.