There's a hole in our life which only poutine from a mall kiosk served on greased-soaked cardboard plates can fill. Or so I told myself as I chose to forget the all-ready prepared salad I had waiting for me at home in my fridge. It wasn't the first time I dined like this on a Monday in the sous-sol of a shopping centre on a twirly swivel chair which apparently requires a stronger core than I seemed to possess. (Insert moment to ponder the irony of the strong core needed to feed on hot dogs and poutine-those who some-what know me, know of my some-what weird obsession with pointing out true examples of irony and mentally shoving it in Alanis' face as apparently she didn't...like rain on your wedding day? Sorry Alanis, that's just bad luck).

The moment was a perfect clichéd stranger-at-bar-whisky-drowning-his-sorrows moment. It came complete with the aforementioned bar-stools and a compassionate ear behind the counter mopping the bar of it's ketchup and mustard left from previous clients. I love those moments when I'm perfectly alone. When it's just me. When my choices affect nobody else. There's a calm that settles and I relax. I was relaxed and open to what-ever came my way, and it lead to a most curious getting-to-know-the-Chinese-lady who served me my poutine and coffee. Even the coffee moment had a "Cheers-y-ness" in it (the "where everyone knows your name"), as I was delivered a perfect, "tired eh?" after accepting the coffee offered. I could have been in some sort of a Western movie, only my bartender was a 30-something Chinese woman specializing in fountain pop. We talked in glass-half-empty adages, covered the weather, the economy, and the difficulty for the Montraélais, with the forever growing high taxes and fees on everything and how even the poutine and hot dog industry's not recession-proof these days. I learned the fundamental differences between the Chinese in Vancouver and the Chinese in Montreal. I shared a bit of my life, she shared me hers with photos of her family. It was a pleasant moment.

I have so few of those moments as I care way the hell too much of what everyone wants and thinks of me. I can be sitting in the metro-train worried that I should have given my seat to someone else, or that I'm blocking someone on the sidewalk from getting around me. And these are just strangers, let alone my concern for the well-being of acquaintances, friends and family (in all actuality, my family gets pretty shafted on that level). My whole life has been an apology for taking the space perhaps better suited for somebody else. I apologize when stepped on, and for having to finish my thoughts in long-winded sentences. I think it's also why I talk so fricken fast, to avoid the person I'm speaking toos' discomfort of having to listen to me.

I'm forever trying to be one step ahead, gauging the ease and dis-ease of the person I'm with, that I'm never actually present in a situation. The amount of unseen and unnecessary pressure I put on myself is I'm sure equal to Wall Street trading and what makes me break down at the most awkward and odd moments-like unassuming french oral exams. I don't know why I'm like this, well, I have a few ideas, but by 33 I should really have put most of this behind me by now, but I am, and it's probably the reason strangers tell me to relax, or that I should try yoga. Yoga I have tried, relaxing and breathing deeply I have tried, but really nothing has on what dining alone, pressure free, in a food court has-msg, cholesterol and all. And on that note I think I'd better head for a run.