Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday morning at approximately a quarter to nine my pink alarm clock starts to sound. Several snooze-button-slaps later I am up and the clock is off. Warm sunlight and cold air rush through my open window, waking me up and making me shiver. I groggily make breakfast, tiredly brush my teeth and pull on my boots painstakingly. As I leave my apartment, hot tea in hand, the normally bustling Bloor Street is suspiciously quiet. Gone are the stumbling drunk co-eds in their short skirts and high heels slurring to high heaven about “what a bastard he is” and the frat boys, still sober, but giddy with the promise of getting some “tail tonight” from the night before. In the crisp morning air there is only the ambient murmur of cars and the dignified click- clack of a business person with somewhere to be. This is the most quiet you could ever hope for. Cold air tickles the back of my throat with each breath and my body shakes to keep warm as I tramp through my parking-lot-short-cut. I am slightly sleepy and slightly miserable though one foot continues to follow the other, leaving a clean trail through the snow. Left on Sussex. Right on Huron. Through Robarts. Across the street and then again. Left through the archway and straight to and through the glass doors on the south side of University college.
I am warm.
Off come the woolen gloves, thick hat and soft scarf none of which really match. I make my way through the halls, each footstep filled with determination as I grab a newspaper, shove it into the back of my tired book bag and hustle down the concrete steps into the cold basement and through the open crimson door of UC 85 and my Women Writers class. Bliss sets in.