March 15th, 14:04 | Noone expects the Spanish Inquisition!

This weekend found me striding down the subway platform, on my way to dance class, in my boots. The heels on the boots make kind of lower-pitched, soft clicks, and it reminded me of my first ever piano recital.

I was about 12, and ranged somewhere in the middle of my piano teacher's annual show of talent, and it was the first time I'd performed onstage. I was all dolled up like a 12-year-old in a dorky dress, and was wobbling in the wings in my almost-never-worn mini-heels.

When it was my turn to play, I started walking out. My first two steps rang off the wooden stage and I was horrified by the loudness. This room, full of parents and cameras and the vague rustle of programs, they were all staring at me, and my shoes were so goddamn loud. I walked the rest of the way to the piano in the centre by putting my toes down first (a walking technique I'd perfected from years of practising moving around my house with ninja stealth), my heels just barely touching the stage at each step. I wasn't silent, but I was pretty close.

After the concert my mom told me I had played well, but what the hell was I doing nancing around onstage on my way to the piano? I couldn't explain that walking normally was just so loud in those shoes; it just sounded so stupid. It stayed with me though. I determined that the next recital, I would wear quiet shoes, so I could walk however I wanted. (And I did.)

So this weekend, striding boldly down the platform, my boots subtly announcing their presence to any and all, it seemed weird to me that the "noisiness" totally didn't bother me anymore. I'd like to attribute the new attitude to confidence, but the truth is that it's probably just that I have no issues making a scene on a subway platform or on the street. If I had to walk to centre stage in my heels now, I really have no idea if I'd still be doing my awkward-looking silent-in-heels walk, or if I'd sashay boldly in there, shoulders back. Something to keep in mind the next time I'm up in front of 100 students doing one of those campus recruiting events.

In other news, none of my plants have died since my jade plant, I can now officially say that I've kicked the hip-hop styles in heels, my sister is now also Officially Old, and I've seen Capote and let me tell you, it was way better than Crash, although I'm not sure I would have handed either the Oscar for Best Film.

(Since when, you might ask, do I consider myself enough of a movie -- no wait, a film -- snob to comment on the Oscar distribution? Well, I've always considered that my perhaps somewhat niche taste in movies can kick the snot out of the average person's, but lately I think I was just so outraged by the fact that Crash won, of all overdone, melodramatic, holy Let's Cram This Message Down The Throats Of The Masses, And Let's Cram It Good Batman films, that I was just goaded into ranting. I'm thankful I didn't have friends to tell me about these things back when Michael Moore won his Oscar, or I would have lost it.)

I got a little sidetracked there. Sorry. So, uh, how are we? I got to help a grade 11 tutorling measure the speed and trajectory of a canoe (battery-operated car) crossing a river (newspaper being pulled by yours truly) for a physics lab last night, and I am a little disheartened by the utter lack of scientific integrity.

Maybe I was dropped on my head at a young age, but I just can't fathom how people can just want to make shit up (especially when they don't even understand what the numbers they're making up represent!) rather than do the lab. I just... I can't get it. It's making me question my desire to teach higschool. (But hey, no biggie because these days, what doesn't make me rethink that?)

Anyhow. People on the other side of my cubicle wall are discussing American Idol way too loudly. I need to escape (or failing that, plot their demise). Stay classy.

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