Heavy reflection.

I have been unusually content for the past week. The past few months had been wild, and not in a fun way. Decompressing feels so nice. I’m not as easily rattled by small things anymore, except for silverfish.

My bike frame was supposed to arrive today, but UPS is being UPS, postponing it another week. I have accepted this as a minor setback as I haven’t been riding my bikes outside of my daily commute anyway. (Too wet and chilly for this delicate lady.) I have been riding more, though, now that I live more than twice as far from work. I used to be able to get to work from my old place in seven minutes. Now it takes me seventeen and has me riding up a steep–but short–hill both ways.

I live at the bottom of a hill, and the only way to avoid it is to take a detour. I like hills, but exerting that much energy at the start of a ride early in the morning is a bit much. It does make me feel heroic having my legs feel pumped within thirty seconds into the commute.

I’m still amazed that I live in a house, but making it feel like home is still a work in progress. I still haven’t figured out all the light switches, and the walls are still bare of art, except for a wall tapestry in the living room. I was about to remove it until I realized that it was hiding the circuit breaker box. So I guess the tapestry will have to grow on me until I find a long, narrow, and tasteful replacement, like a giraffe growth chart.

A wall tapestry featuring a painting of an old European seaside town being lifted out of the way to show the circuit breaker box.

I’ve been waiting for my landlords’ cars to both vanish from the driveway so that I can get busy with a hammer and hang the art. I feel better about the landlords now. Initially, I was worried that they’d be overbearing. So far, the biggest issue has been with the landlady not understanding that I’m deaf to the extent that she’s called me on my phone. Perhaps slipping her a copy of my audiogram is in order.

Other than a wall tapestry, the landlords have supplied the kitchen with a slightly mismatched dining set. The two chairs match, but not with the table. Still, this means the next time I throw a pizza party, at least one guest will get to sit and eat.

The landlords’ contribution to the living room was a sofa chair, reinforcing the idea that the place is meant for one person only. The seating options for my guests are limited to a camp chair or my lap. The living room is so small that the sofa chair is just over five feet from the tv. I don’t even need to wear my glasses to watch tv.

The bathroom has a splash of luxury with a stone countertop: my first out of many bathrooms. My previous bathroom did not have a countertop but a circular pedestal bathroom sink too small for even a soap dispenser, which would frequently fall into the sink. Though not the worst-looking bathroom I’ve had, it was the most poorly-designed.

Now, instead of keeping my toothbrush on a shelf right above the toilet, I store it in a large mirrored medicine cabinet. When I open up the cabinet doors, I still get to admire my (new!) dazzling smile as more mirrors line the inside. I can put my head inside, fold the doors behind me, and see myself into infinity.

I could hype myself up from multiple angles!

A WikiHow illustration featuring a brown haired white guy pointing at his reflection with a stern expression on his face.


A large mirrored medicine cabinet rests on the floor in front of the bathtub.

Yup. This giant thing fell on my face. More precisely, it hit my left temple. The bottom fixture stopped it from falling suddenly, so I was able to catch it–first with my forehead, then with my hands–and put it down gently, without breaking any of the many mirrors. All I have to show for it is a tiny welt, which I can’t admire because I don’t have a mirror on the wall anymore.

With the mirror on the floor instead of on the wall, I get to recreate the public restroom experience in private by staring at feet across from me as I pee. It could have been so much worse: it could have fallen on my mouth, shattering my expensive new teeth.

My least favorite thing about this place (and in general) are the silverfish. Most of the places I’ve lived in have had varying degrees of a silverfish infestation, most notably the place I shared with a partner in Fairview (Vancouver). The silverfish were so big that even after warning a friend who spent the week there to care for my (regular) fish, she still felt the need to comment on their enormity upon my return. Also, my then-partner got into the habit of describing the latest silverfish he spotted, like, “I just saw one with tiger stripes!” It was disturbing.

They’re not as mutated in my new place; however, the light fixture above my bed is a silverfish hotspot. They all crawl into there to mingle and die. The landlady claimed that the light fixtures were all cleaned soon after they completed the renovations. I’m not sure how long ago the renovations took place, but the fixture needs to be cleaned again. I’m scared to remove the cover and have some silverfish, dead or alive, spill onto my bed because then I’ll have to burn the bed.

The new neighbours are alright. Some of them refuse to let go of their holiday spirit. It’s February, and some houses are like:

A two-storey house is decked out in Christmas decorations. Two vehicles are parked in the driveway.


Two blocks down, someone else still has their Christmas decoration in full force. Across the street, there is a hill dotted with colourful lights from even more Christmas fanatics! No wonder three Christmas-themed stores remained in operation downtown for years (during my original Victoria days).

At least there’s one household showing some non-denominational cheer through the topiary arts.

A giant shrub with eyes and a smiling mouth carved out.

I want to make a giant tongue to stuff into its grin. Will I? Possibly.

All in all, I am as delighted as that shrub about my new place.

5 thoughts on “Heavy reflection.

  1. I don’t remember what I ate last night but I do remember the tiger striped silverfish and it wasn’t a house centipede… I know my exoskeletoned roommates


  2. Pingback: New bike day.

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