Somewhere, deep down at a micro-cellular level, discrete portions of my double helices are slowly waking up, uncoiling, unzipping, and coded bits of never-expressed-before traits are suddenly being copied and pumped out as tiny behavior/body-altering protein machines.

Last Monday I cried as I held my best friend’s new baby for the first time.

Note the awakening of:

Maternally inherited, late-onset trait #1: crying from happiness gene
Maternally inherited, late-onset trait #2: not being scared of holding tiny people gene and maybe even liking them gene.

This week, at the gym, I sat on the gigantic hunk of steel known as the “Hammer Strength.” I examined the faceless, pumped-up Demo Man who appears on the side of every machine with his primary working muscle group coloured red, and his secondary working muscle group coloured blue.

Here, hammer strength Demo Man’s back muscles were red, and his shoulders were blue.

As I pulled down on the big levers, I suddenly felt a shooting pain up my lower back.

Note the awakening of:

Paternally inherited, late-onset trait #1: bad back gene

Today, I sat on the couch in the office of my co-workers. We were chatting. It was typical twenty-something banter.

Then, I had what can only be regarded as an out of body experience. Or was it a possession? I felt my voice box vibrate for just a few seconds. It took my brain a few more to process that horrifying sequence of words that had emanated from my mouth.

One part pun. One part wink-wink nudge-nudge. All knee slapper.

I welcome:

Paternally inherited, late-onset trait #2: dad humour gene

Finally, an end to the nature vs. nurture debate: It’s all nature folks. Cruel, cruel, nature.

Everything smells like vanilla.

This is not some optimistic statement about my current state of affairs. I mean that literally, there is something strange going on with my nose and everything really does smell like vanilla.

I first noticed this at an engagement party I attended yesterday.

My grandmother embraced me and the smell of vanilla beans wafted over me.

Me: Wow, granny, have you been baking?
Granny: [strange look] Well, I made a beef brisket today, why?

Then I noticed that my party sandwiches (tuna and egg) smelled like vanilla as well and that seemingly, every man, woman, and child at this event was wearing vanilla perfume.

Something was seriously wrong.

When I got home I did a quick PubMed search to see if anything like this had turned up in the medical literature. (PubMed is a medical database where abstracts to all major medical science journals are published.)

I found information on the benefits of vanilla in testing for certain brain lesions in rats. Also, using sugar as a reward, cockroaches can learn to distinguish between the smell of vanilla extract and peppermint.

While the smell of car fumes is infinitely more pleasant when scented vanilla, if this is a permanent state of affairs, there are many smells I would really miss. Like coffee beans. And chocolate cake. And pine needles.

I think that the source of my problem was prolonged exposure to an overly-cologned male who sat next to me on the subway yesterday morning. My olfactory receptors went into overdrive. At first my nose just stung and my eyes watered. But pretty soon I became desensitized and couldn’t smell anything.

As if the threat of bird flu wasn’t enough, here is one more reason why we should all go out and buy masks right away.

I am not generally a possessions kind of person.

But yesterday evening, as I walked in the rain down the beautiful lamp-lit and glistening street of Palmerston while listening to “The CN Tower Belongs to the Dead,” by Final Fantasy, I realized that my MP3/radio player has actually fundamentally changed my life for the better.

In the mornings I walk to work listening to CBC Metro Morning. I tune into the BBC World News on the Jazz FM station.

No matter what mood I am in when I walk home, I can add music and enhance that feeling. It is like MSG for the soul.

I have read a few articles lately that talk about the anti-social effects caused by widespread use of MP3 players. People using MP3 just “cut themselves off” from the world – so They say.

But I have two things to say to these people.

First, as someone who has now lived in downtown Toronto for five years, I can say that Torontonians often go to great lengths not to engage one another on the street. Rather than risk direct interaction we lower our eyes, turn our backs, examine at the peeling paint on the elevator door, and hum non-melodiously to ourselves. In this sense, the MP3 player is just the logical extension of our urban loneliness. Fine, if we are going to walk around in our bubbles, we may as well fill our little spaces so that we are surrounded by music that moves us.

Second, I am not so sure that MP3 players don’t actually have the reverse effect from that alleged. That is, they may actually bring us closer together. In my short time of MP3 player ownership, I have swapped and traded music with people and learned of more new bands in the past year than I have in the past five. Increased awareness of music means more potential points of commonality between people.

But on a less practical level, I have sometimes found myself emboldened by the music I listen to. While listening to a particularly upbeat song, I have caught myself smiling at people around me. Music is acknowledged to have the potential to stir deep visceral reactions in people. Maybe it is the case that our MP3 players sometimes actually help us to achieve a heightened sensitivity to others around us.

And even if this is just a cockamamie theory – who cares? MP3 listening is pure bliss and if you don't like it, mind yo' business and leave me alone.

Last weekend I caught a glimpse of things I had long forgotten existed - the stars, fresh air, and packing snow (suitable for the construction of big snow balls).

Tonight I walked home from work.

I sucked in car fumes and felt utterly oppressed by the tall buildings looming overhead and blocking any view of the sky.

Though I do, of course, realize that even if the buildings were not there, I wouldn’t see any stars. The light from the stars is drowned out by the bright lights of the:

Big! Exciting! City!

I read that Toronto actually sits on very fertile soil.

I fantasized about taking a huge spoon and cracking the pavement, like I would crack the shell of a soft-boiled egg. I would dig my hands into the freshly liberated dirt and I wouldn’t remove them until they were Properly Dirty.

But make no mistake - this dirt would not be Dirty Dirt. Not that subway pole, gym stairmaster button, waiting room magazine kind of dirt.

This is clean dirt that I crave.

Because sometimes things taste better when we eat with dirty hands. And because we need zinc. And because we’re just a little too unsoiled for our own good.

But we’re certainly not unpolluted.

Need. Air.