A Gallery of Faces

It was a fun Saturday. I ran 26 km in the morning, slower than I normally would, but very happy that I didn't need to shorten the run because of the pain. I could feel the right hamstring, but it wasn't too painful.

When I came back home from -12 C outside, Meg put me in the bath tub to thaw. Usually, I'm not a great fan of bubble bath (Meg insisted on bubbles), but today, soaking my sore legs in the hot water did miracles.

For the afternoon we had to go to the dentist for cleaning. Since the dentist's office is near Yorkdale Mall, we left earlier to stop at the mall and walk around. We browsed a little, then sat down and watched people. It's my favorite pastime. On winter Saturdays people tend to keep indoors, which meant the mall was crowded. It was amazing, watching the gallery of faces streaming by, the constant struggle to define one's personality by the way one walks, dresses, talks, moves...

First, a guy who looked like a cross between George Michael and Hugh Jackman—dark haired, dark eyed, 3-day stubble, denim shirt unbuttoned, revealing his broad chest and shoulders, denim jeans ending nonchalantly in the untied army boots. I presume he was handsome (judging men's handsomeness is not really my strength), but all about him—the way he dressed, the way he posed with his legs apart, leaning forward to reach for an article on the shelf without bending his knees to afford a good look at his sculpted body and legs, the way he talked to a sales person with head held so high he had to stare down his nose at her although they were the same height—it all reeked of such pretense, that I actually felt sorry for him. What kind of life is that, when you need to put this whole act only to buy a pillow for your sofa? His good looks and fit body appeared distorted, almost handicapped, shrouded in such obvious fakery. The man was raping his own nature, poor soul.

He was the reason why I actually paid more attention to other faces passing by: a fat 20-something wearing a black-and-white jester hat, for no other reason than to draw attention; a Japanese girl in the skirt so short that the upper seams of her stockings showed and heels so high she was in constant danger of toppling over on her face (she walked like a bear, which made me think that people who don't know how to use a tool, shouldn't buy it, and women who don't know how to walk in high heels shouldn't wear them); a tall young black guy who walked straight as a spear and who, at first sight, looked normal, until you saw how carefully arranged every piece of clothing, every wrinkle was, even the gloves hanging out of his trouser-pockets with fingers so deliberately spread it looked as if someone was waving from his pants with each step he made, while his eyes circled wildly, checking who is noticing him—a difficult task when you're trying not to move your head.

This whole duplicity, whole desperate attempt to show the face they want us to see, and not who they really are, this flagrant deceitfulness made me long for a place where everyone can be simply who they are without need to put up an act. I wonder if such a place even exist anywhere anymore?

When we were done with the dentist, our teeth clean, full of tiny sand-like particles and smelling of teeth-polish, we treated ourselves with a rare visit to the downtown Toronto, for a mediocre bbq-rib sandwiches and beer (Creemore) at Betty's on King Street. The food un-cleaned our teeth and made our breaths bearable again. Cruising slowly home from the downtown, we were shocked with the amount of change: many of the stores and places we knew and liked are gone, changed, or closed. There are many new buildings and a half of a block in midtown is missing, fenced off for a new building development. We felt like tourists, strangers in our own town.