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.