oh to the no
We’ve never been on a major vacation together, dan and I. I mean, we’ve been to california a few times but that’s not major. For a vacation to qualify as major it must be designed to escape the cold by way of going where there is only hot. The trips we’ve taken have never been the february escape variety.
Super Major: Europe.
So now, here we are, and we’re thinking we should take a trip. Florida? Mexico? Anywhere Not Winter? Yes, let’s, do.
But then you’re forced to consider the many elements to vacation taking. Even going to the US is now more complicated for Canadians because we the current climate requires us to have passports to cross the border. This because Canadians are scary and really tough. Like babies or kittens. And lo but we do not have passports, Dan, I and the children. We are sans passportification, if you will.
So today I finally went to the website about all things Canadian Passport and began familiarizing myself with the ins and outs of becoming international. There’s the passport photo which, it turns out, is damned serious business. Don’t you go mucking about with that bit or you’ll probably have to do pushups and they’ll never let you see the waterslides at DisneyWorld, not even on your birthday.
There’s also the proof of citizenship which used to be a matter of saying, I AM CANADIAN and then holding up a thirty proof can of beer. I’m from a part of Canada other than Toronto so I don’t even have saying aboot by way of proving myself so what? How? I don’t know? I’m nice? And more socially tolerant than people from most other countries, except Sweden? Does that convince you? No?
The thing I was least expecting in this application for international travel status was the bit where you are required to jot down the actual physical weight of your, you know, body. Yourself, pound-wise. Get on a scale, look at the lying asshole of a number and then write it down, forever documenting the demolition of a desperate delusion.
Alliterate that.
I am by no means a large person. I know that. I’m probably in the smaller than average but certainly not skinny category, as far as people of my gender and age classifications. Okay? I know that. But here’s the thing and the thing is: that’s got nothing to do with it. I just cannot know my weight. I cannot. I go from this perfectly normal person (using the term normal completely inaccurately) to a numbers obsessed lunatic. It doesn’t matter if the scale said you weigh 92 pounds. It’s not about the skinny or the small. It’s about making sure that whatever the number is, it never goes up.
EVER and not even for FIVE minutes or I will murder the scale in cold blood.
I’ve done it.
Now here I am with this admittedly silly highly neurotic but completely under control issue and wanting to go on a vacation which would require me to have ownership of a passport. And I tremble with fear! I tremble! With the fear!
Alright, I don’t tremble so much as I moan and I complain. Because what cruelty to ask a girl to weigh herself a few weeks before she gets on a plane with a suitcase full of nothing but bikinis? I mean, really. Are they really gonna weigh me if they think I’m a terrorist?
She looks shifty.
She does indeed. Get ‘er on the scale and we’ll find out for sure.
Probably better if we stay home. I’ll never fit into an airplane seat anyway.
I’m also sans passportification. And the older I get and the deeper into my professional field I get the sillier it is. But I probably won’t do it until there is a pending trip. Because of all of the associated annoyances that you delineate here.
I know – that scale bit is insanity! Just fill out the whole thing leaving scale business until last. Then get yourself blindfolded and have Dan read the numbers for you. Ta-Da!
I went as far as getting our passport applications then realized what a hassle what with the cost, and being there in person, and photos, and having someone fill out the part where they say we’re all on the up and straight.
You have to weigh yourself for a passport? Really? That’s…weird. I don’t know what the procedures are here, I don’t have one, either. Despite having taken a trip to Jamaica. I think they decided to NOT make the 7-months-pregnant woman mad.
I’m also a little surprised at needing one to come to the US. Hm.
The scale thing- I have one. I obsessively weigh myself. It’s a sickness. Kudos to you for not knowing your weight…I wish I didn’t know mine.
i gave up the weighing about 10 years ago when i seriously got so obsessed that i weighed myself 5 times in 2 hours hoping that a tiny three pounds had shifted. i stomped on the scale in a fit of anger until it was murdered forever. we’ve not owned a scale since and i think you can understand why.
if i don’t weigh myself, i’m fine.
I’m always tempted to ask the bureaucrat behind the little glassed-in counter to provide HIS weight, too, just to be fair. But that wouldn’t be Canadian-nice, so I simply return to the waiting room chairs, little lineup number ticket in hand.
I’m upset about a mysterious 2lb gain right now myself. I have a theory that the scale is different depending on how warm it is in the bathroom.
oh you know, i like that theory. if i’d applied it back then my scale would still be alive. not that it should be. i’m so far better off without it. seriously.