Fish out of water

Every once in a while a memory flashes into your mind out of nowhere; bringing you face to face with an embarrassing moment in your life that you’d rather forget.

I had one of those just the other day, a moment that in hindsight was somewhere between completely hilarious and totally mortifying. It was hilarious because 30 years have passed; mortifying because I can still feel the confusion and the embarrassment of being trapped in the Toronto Transit Commission.

“What goes around comes around,” my grandmother would have rightly stated. As is often the case, it took me awhile before I got the message.

Growing up on an island like Twillingate brings with it some special skills: I could moor a boat, cut out cod tongues and was nearly an expert at taking a sea cat off a hook. So, when the come-from-away teenagers came to visit as they did almost every summer, I took a little too much pleasure in watching them struggle with the things that I thought were part of everyday life.

If I had only known!

When the time came for me to head off to the big city in search of work; I had no idea I was about to live out the city/country mouse story of my childhood. Arriving in Toronto was both exciting and terrifying. Everything was new and much bigger.

After spending my first night in my new apartment I was ready to explore. My roommate called me to join her for coffee not far from where she worked. I can still remember the specific instructions she gave me: Make sure to put the chain lock on the door before you leave and at the Kipling Subway Station take the westbound train, then transfer to the No. 10 bus which I was assured stopped right in front of the Second Cup Coffee shop.

I remember repeating her instructions over and over so that when I was ready to leave the apartment and start my first real adventure into the streets of Toronto I’d get it right.

First; put the chain lock in place. Sounded simple enough, but after carefully inspecting the lock up and down I couldn’t for the life of me figure out how it worked. I stood outside the door for the longest time struggling to squirm my hand inside to put the latch in place. It was a total mystery to me. I finally did it, but darn near broke my wrist. The thought that I would have to do that every time I went out left me thinking that I’d be spending a lot of time apartment bound.

The next stop was the subway station. I carefully approached the ticket window and passed over my money in exchange for a funny looking coin. I was clever enough to know the coin was the key to get me aboard the train but before I could completely figure it out the person behind me impatiently told me what to do. I obediently dropped the coin in the slot and moved through the turnstile, which is when the fun began.

Finding the westbound train platform wasn’t so difficult and almost immediately there was a train. I felt total relief as I boarded and sat down. I watched carefully for my stop, and there indeed was Kipling Station. I immediately got off and went looking for the buses. I found them soon enough but couldn’t figure out where to buy a ticket. I looked and looked and watched people come from the subway and board the buses but I couldn’t see where they purchased their tickets. There was no wicket, no automatic coin dispenser, and no machine of any sort.

I was trapped in the TTC.

I eventually stopped someone and asked the brave question: “How do I get on the bus?”

“Don’t you have your transfer?” the person replied.

No, I didn’t. I didn’t even know what a transfer was, an important piece of information that my city-mouse roommate failed to mention.

Back I went to the eastbound platform, back to where I started my journey, got my transfer and started all over again. The moral of the story is that every once in a while when life gets downright confusing and the turns in the road leave you bewildered and frustrated, take comfort in the fact that there’s always a bus waiting.

Trick is to backtrack and start again. That’s the ticket.

How Not to Wear Panty Hose!

I almost died. From embarrassment, that is, and even today when I think about it I still get that’s sinking feeling. But then, within seconds, I laugh at the memory of it. Still, for a young aspiring marketing executive it was an hour or so of living hell.

I was living and working in downtown Toronto and had just found my way into the world of marketing and communications. We were working on a new fall promotion for a client and I was tasked with meeting their national marketing director to review the details. I was more than pleased at the opportunity, which was scheduled for 9 a.m. on a Monday morning.

Sleep was difficult Sunday night. I remember lying in bed going over and over the information in my mind, until finally drifting of into a deep sleep. When I awoke the next morning I immediately knew I was in trouble.

My alarm hadn’t gone off.

Damn. It was already 8 a.m. and it would take at least 30 to 40 minutes to drive to the meeting. I didn’t have much time or many choices. I grabbed the outfit I had worn the day before – navy pants, light-colored blouse and navy blazer. It would do just fine. I jumped in my car and flew through the morning traffic.

I pulled into the parking lot at precisely 8:50 a.m. Perfect. I wanted to make a good impression. The receptionist showed me to the marketing director’s office. It was impressive. There was a large mahogany desk and wonderful leather chairs. I made a mental note to have an office like it someday, but we were soon down to business.

I leaned over to collect files from my briefcase when something caught my eye.

“Oh my God,” I thought to myself. Hanging from my pants were the panty hose I had worn with the outfit the day before. Oh no. I started to sweat and feel a little sick.

“Coffee?”

“Yes, I’d love a cup.”

That might buy me some time, but no such luck. The national marketing director buzzed the receptionist and she brought in the coffee.

“Focus,” I told myself, but distracted I was. Then I had a brilliant idea. If I stepped on the end of the panty hose that was sticking out and gently pulled, maybe I could get them out that way. I could then tuck the panty hose into my briefcase and no one would be the wiser.

To summarize the situation: I was presenting to a major client, drinking coffee and trying to free panty hose from my pants.

It wasn’t my day.

The plan seemed simple enough, but the execution was less than flawless. As it happened, the panty hose were occupying both legs of my pants and freeing them was impossible, no matter how nonchalantly I pulled.

I was actually making things worse. I had only succeeded in dragging about six inches more of the panty hose from the pants, hardly the fashion statement I was trying to make.

The presentation continued. It went well and the marketing director didn’t seem to be aware of my personal struggle. That was good, because I was only catching every other word and feeling sicker as each moment went by.

Time for plan B: stuffing the panty hose further up my pant legs. Yes, that could work. I casually pushed my chair back a little from the desk, exchanging ideas and taking notes as I went. Then I crossed my legs so that I was closer to those damn panty hose. There, I could reach. At that point I was very grateful for the mahogany desk, which was shielding me from total embarrassment.

Stuffing the panty hose back into my pants worked better than trying to pull them out and finally there was nothing showing. What relief, and the meeting was almost over.

I slowly put all of my files back into my briefcase and thought about my options. Was there a washroom close by? No.

I had no choice but to take slow, deliberate steps towards the exit. The hallway seemed longer on the way out and I walked much slower than normal.

Concentrating, I remember feeling the panty hose slipping. I was at the reception desk when I felt them starting to escape.

Finally, I was out of the building. The panty hoses were slipping more by then. When I got to the car the panty hose were actually dragging on the ground. I quickly jumped into my car and tugged and tugged until those blasted panty hose were free.

Since then, I check the legs of my pants before every presentation.