I’LL HAVE WHAT HE’S HAVING

Okay, I’ll say it. Envy is a very bad thing.

But sometimes it just happens. Like when a writer acquaintance I know gets his screenplay produced and directed by Tom Ford. Or when my neighbor’s sunflowers take on Jack and the Beanstalk qualities while mine whither and die in a matter of days. Or when my friend’s pup stops barking with just one look and my manic schnauzer barks on and on at an ominous lamp, all my Dog Whisperer viewing for naught.

Again, envy is bad. Especially for grass-is-always-greener Eeyores like me. I do best putting my head down and blocking out others’ successes, plugging away to achieve my own dreams, hoping that work and a little luck will create my next big break (and crossing my fingers that the new double-paned windows keep the dog’s barking at bay).

Still, there are times when the blinders don’t work and I am blindsided. It happened as I headed to Whistler this week for a work retreat.

There are people who grumble about work retreats. I used to. That changed as I came to view my annual August trip to Whistler as a chance to shop, jog new trails and connect with colleagues in a casual way, chatting for five-minute stretches before work topics creep in. And then there’s the eating. I have a favorite veggie burger stop in Whistler Village. When I lived in Vancouver, I occasionally drove up just for lunch, craving the burger and the sadly-no-longer-on-the-menu crunchy salad. (Guess I didn’t drive up enough.)

Last year I discovered Purebread, a bakery that hooked me with buckwheat sour cherry chocolate scones. I aspire to try everything on the menu and I have made good progress in this regard on return visits. Chitchats and scenic jogs are lovely, but the trek to Whistler is now all about baked goods. Being as I am obsessed about my weight, I prep for Purebread, extending my workouts in the weeks leading up to the trip and I accept the fact that I will have to fit in more intense cardio when the feasting frenzy ends.

It’s well worth it.

An hour away, my mouth began salivating uncontrollably. They say dog owners start to look like their dogs; it’s rather frightful when we start to act like them. I refrained from barking, instead playing a monosyllabic chant in my head: scone, scone, scone. I suppose I lapsed into some meditative state: absolutely nothing was on my mind but pastries and strong coffee. I’ll take scone silence over yoga or some other zen journey any day.

The line was out the door as I pulled up. Naturally. Since people blocked my view of the treats, I had no choice but to notice the people. Ten of them stood between me and sweet satisfaction. At the register, a couple of cyclists with their backs to me paid for an assortment of treats. From behind, one caught my eye. Very attractive as far as all things from a rear view go. The first cyclist—the one I didn’t pay much attention to—passed as I continued to enjoy the sights while stuck in the line.

Then, the second cyclist turned around. The front was better than the back, a Scottish/Irish complexion with piercing blue eyes. This summer, I have worked on establishing eye contact, maintaining cruise control instead of reflexively checking my shoelaces. I stared straight into his baby blues as he looked into my deep greens. He stopped right in front of me.

A rush a fear swept through me. Was he going to punch me in the gut? Spit on me? Call me a faggot? (Why do I always go to the negative?!)

“Hey!” he said.

And that’s when I realized I was cruising my family doctor.

I quickly snapped out of lust mode. We carried on an extended conversation. He pointed out his partner, the other cyclist, but didn’t introduce me. He’d clearly forgotten my name. Understandable. I have one doctor, he has hundreds of patients. Still, it was a wee bit heartbreaking.

It’s such a cliché, but I’ve had a crush on my doctor since my first visit eighteen years ago. I’d silently noticed each time he wore new glass frames and continued to feel tummy flutters even as his closely trimmed curls receded through the years. This is a man who makes freckles sexy.

Back in his office, I’d thrown imaginary darts at his partner in the prominently displayed photo of the happy couple in Prague. I felt a pang of remorse now, seeing the pleasant soul clear a little table for himself and my Doctor McDreamy.

The good doctor and his mate had biked to the bakery from their weekend haven seventeen kilometers outside of Whistler. This was a simple little excursion after which they would bike back.

How lovely.

For them anyway. I wanted to tell the partner that he had stolen my life. I was supposed to be the one with a socially conscious professional as a cycling partner and a world traveling companion. Yes, Good Doc is part of Physicians without Borders, volunteering time in Africa and Haiti. Yes, the pair holiday in Tuscany, Greece and other places as a couple and as part of a larger group of successful gay professionals. Lovely, lovely, lovely.

Here I’d harbored a long-term crush and he only knew me as Hey. Some of us keep living the humiliations of high school.

I returned to my car, scone and coffee cup in hand, patted my dear little dog and drove onward to the hotel. The urgency to devour my scone was gone. I took a bite while stopped at a light. Satisfactory, yet not sensational.

Envy leaves a bitter taste in one’s mouth.

STELLA? STEL-LLLAAA!

If my name were Stella, I’d have jetted to Jamaica.  But that might have been an expensive disaster, considering I don’t have a friend named Whoopi and I can’t be in the sun.  Still, I needed to find a place to get away for a few days in an attempt to get my groove back.

It wasn’t even that lofty a goal.  In truth, I just needed to go somewhere so I’d have an answer when I return to work and people ask, “Did you go anywhere?”  People look at me funny when I say, “Safeway.” 

I am one of the lucky ones with an extended summer vacation—about six weeks in total.  With my five-hour-a-day ferry commute, I had no desire to travel this summer.  I was gleeful every time I looked out my kitchen window and saw another ferry coming or going without me.  Besides, summer is the best time to be in my quiet community.  The jogs, the bike rides, the beach walks, the forest hikes...all with no mud!  (Oh, the rains will return soon enough.)

With work starting up again this week, I began surfing travel destinations when July had the nerve to make what felt like an early exit.  I considered many places.  Los Angeles.  San Francisco.  George Clooney’s Italian villa (Where did I put that invite?).  Portland.  Chicago.  Curacao.  Alas, I do not have the budget for excursions farther afield so I found a deal for three nights in Whistler and booked it.

I am not a fan of travel itineraries.  Instead, I believe vacations should pass without plans.  Wander and stumble into things.  It’s a lovely thought and wonderful things happen in movie versions.  Sing ABBA songs, meet someone on a train, decide to stay in a foreign land indefinitely...visa rules be damned. 

This is my roundabout way of saying I planned a few things.  I booked a tour and did some online research about library hours, rec center times and movie showings.  I also pulled out the current issue of Vancouver magazine which included recommended stops along Highway 99 from Horseshoe Bay to Pemberton (a stretch of road that includes Whistler).

First stop:  Galileo CoffeeCompany, a roadside establishment at blink-and-you-miss-it Britannia Beach.  They roast their own coffee and my latte was decent enough.  Truth:  my taste buds don’t pick up hints of rosemary, pine bark and Corn Flakes like some coffee connoisseurs.  I just like mine strong, not watery and mine was strong enough.  I glimpsed the lovely view of water and mountains, not unlike that which I see from home, and then hit the road again.

On my way into Whistler, I turned off at Function Junction on the outskirts of town for what became a trip highlight.  In a bland commercial business area, I stopped at Purebread, a bakery recommended by Vancouver magazine.  It is rare that I rave about food, but I knew upon stepping in the doorway that the place would be outstanding.  I ordered a fruit scone and a ciabatta loaf and moaned with pleasure as I devoured the scone on the final leg to the hotel. 

After checking in, I did what so many vacationers do:  I hit the library.  Yeah, I know how to have a good time.  I’d set a writing goal for the trip.  I tend to be a writer with ADHD, jumping back and forth from one thing to another.  Ooh, another book idea!  Hey!  That would make a great character!  I told myself no blogging, no internet distractions, no screenplay ideas.  I plopped myself in the library for a chunk of each day and fully outlined a novel idea that I’ve sat on for the past three years.  Mission accomplished!  I now have a clear vision of how I’ll be spending my looming ferry rides.  That alone made it a successful trip.

Of course, I am not at ease if I eat extra food AND forego workouts so fitness was another big part of the trip.  Whistler is better known for its physical activities than for its library.  I thought of canoeing or white water rafting, but opted instead for a tried and true workout.  Being in a place where I knew no one, I risked going to Meadow Park Sports Centre to swim laps at 6 a.m. two mornings.  Yes, I donned my Speedo—a boxer, not briefs style.  The lifeguard didn’t snicker or turn away to keep down her early breakfast croissant.  Despite eight months away from swimming, I managed to complete my basic three-kilometer workout both days.  On my other day in town, I went for an evening jog, zigzagging on a series of trails and somehow managing to find my way back without making the news as the focus of a Search and Rescue mission.  (Considering I have absolutely no sense of direction, my five minutes of unwanted fame will wait another day.)

My one tour was a 2 ½ -hour zipline adventure on my final evening.  There were two options:  the Bear course for beginners and the Eagle route, described as “[p]erfect if you’ve ziplined before or crave an adrenaline rush!”  In truth, I had no business flying with Eagles, but that’s what I signed up for.  A natural worrier, I fretted that I would fail an oral interview prior to the tour and be summarily dismissed from the pack of daredevils.  No middle-aged library goers allowed!  To my relief (?), they took my money, accepted my signed waiver and I was cleared for takeoff.  Having arrived early, I paced outside nearby shops, wondering what I’d gotten myself into and hoping that my four hours of fasting prior to departure would prevent an embarrassing hurl or underwear mishap.  Yeah, a little planning is sometimes essential.

Of course, I felt foolish when we officially convened and the group included a sixty-year-old woman with a bum knew and a woman my age who dressed for a safari and placed her helmet over the wide-brimmed hat that she refused to remove.  If we were eagles, we were the tame sort, raised in captivity, the kind that feasted on hand-fed kibble.  No danger that I’d start thinking about traversing Niagara Falls next summer.

I should tell you the course was insanely treacherous, I lost my voice for two days from screaming and I hurled three times (one less time than everyone else).  Adrenaline rush, indeed!  In truth, while fun and scenic, the adventure was only moderately scarier than my teacup ride at Disneyland.  But I did not know that when I signed up and showed up.  I am keeping those Adventurer bonus points. 

Still, the guides encouraged us to be “a little daring” on the final run.  In my head, I envisioned going upside down and letting go of the cord and dangling my arms over my head.  Usually, there is a huge discrepancy between what I imagine and what I actually do.  On this occasion, however, I followed my vision!  I have no one to back me up—we didn’t exchange email contacts at the end—but I have a clear memory of an exhilarating moment.  I celebrated by stocking up at Purebread—cranberry ginger raisin loaf, flourless chocolate gâteau, buckwheat sour cherry scone—on my way home.    

I didn’t go to Jamaica, I didn’t meet a hunky gay-in-disguise Taye Diggs, but I left Whistler having found a mini groove.  Good enough when you travel on a budget!