Distracted Adventures and Tales
Niagra Falls was just a short detour on my way to Chicago. I did what I always do. I parked and ran over to the spectacle, oohed and ahhed with everyone else, took a few selfies (for proof I am actually interesting,) and got back on the road.
I don’t have all day to experience the wonders of the world.
I spent some time last night looking at pictures of you. I know you are rapidly becoming a man, yet I still see you as the little boy with the backpack bigger than he is.
I can’t believe you are turning 17. Where did all the time go? As you rush into adulthood I want you to remember one thing: I am always here for you.
If things get hard and you don’t know what to do.
When you have your first heartbreak.
When you get the news you have been waiting for.
Those times you find something so absurd you don’t believe it is real.
When you are so excited you want to call someone and ramble on about it.
When you see a movie that changes your perspective.
That song that makes you smile and feel young and free? I want to hear it too.
As you grow up and become a man, I want you to know I will always be the safe place for you to return. You will always have a free pass to be exactly who you are when you are with me. I will be your champion, cheerleader, defender, and biggest fan.
Most importantly, I want you to follow your dreams. I want you to work hard to achieve the life you want to live. I want you to love and be loved.
You are still my baby boy. I hate to break it to you but that will never change. I love you more than anything else.
Happy Birthday. Enjoy your last year of childhood. Being a grownup can wait one more year.
Ummmm. Okay. So, on what planet did calling me fat as your opening line occur to you? It does not matter if you like it or not. It’s just weird.
I don’t want people to point out my body as the reason they want to know me. I don’t want to be an object. I want to be wanted because of who I am as a person. I know, then why am I on Tinder? It doesn’t matter- you can look at the picture and think “damn! I want to hit that” all day long. Just don’t say it as your opening line.
Don’t talk about my tits, my ass, or any other part of my anatomy under my clothes. I don’t know you. It’s just skeevy. I promise it is not going to get you a date.
Don’t call me thick, asshole.
(Smiling sweetly and deleting you as a match now.) oh- and by the way- I accidentally swiped right on you. So there.
When you are far away from everyone you love, you find ways to be part of humanity. Sometimes it is just eavesdropping on conversations while you are sitting alone in a booth having your spinach and mushroom omelette.
The two men over my left shoulder are talking about baseball. Correction: they are discussing baseball with a fervor and passion I usually reserve for music, movies, and my beloved Texas Tech Red Raiders. I’m not going to lie, I have no idea where all these ideas are coming from. They sound like scholars who have spent an extraordinary amount of time dedicated to studying the diamond.
I have purposefully not turned to put a face to the voices. I am enjoying the mystery. I imagine them in jeans, baseball caps, and work boots of some sort. They both have booming, resonate voices which makes me feel like they are not small men. Graying goatees and hair that is just a touch too long to be fussy.
It’s early on a Saturday morning so they are not so young that they can’t control how much they drink on Friday night, so they are not hungover. One of them probably has a pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket. The other one is a non-smoker.
They speak with an intimacy and have many shared memories and reference points, perhaps they are brothers who meet up once a week for breakfast. That’s a nice thought.
Trades, pitchers, ball fields, Red Socks, Dodgers, Angels, and Rangers. Injuries and errors. The Draft. College. Batting stance and the eye. National League and the other one. Fourteen at bats. Cleveland’s outfielders.
Maybe I should start learning more about baseball. You can carry on quite a conversation about first base. I don’t even think they are using it as a euphemism.
I am nearly finished with my meal. Soon, I will need to stand up to leave. Do I avoid glancing to my left, or do I scope my entertainment out? The suspense is killing me. Maybe I will drop something so I can see if my mind’s eye is close. Maybe I should continue to build the mystery.
Should I give these men names? Tom and Steve. (Those sound like fairly unassuming names for strangers you will never meet.) Toronto… They are talking about Canada! I love Canada. Oh, there is a baseball team there. I wish they would talk about something else.
Ack! Now, they are talking more quietly! The conversation must be more interesting. Nope, it was the Yankees. Is there some conspiracy involving stolen bases and a World Series? What the hell are these dudes talking about? Now, back to the Red Socks. Math and numbers. Agents and contracts.
Manning??? Isn’t he a football dude? Both of them! What the hell? You can’t switch sports in the middle of the conversation. Right handed hitter. Must not have said Manning. Arm span and height. Gee. There are so many boring things to say about America’s favorite pastime.
These guys are baseball spies! Insider trading! Stolen bases and laundered uniforms. Who do you call to report these crimes?
Okay, I know. I’m not that funny. They sure talk about a lot of aspects about the game. They must watch SportsCenter.
Update: I looked. Very average older gentleman. No goatees. Baseball caps in place. Hair DOES look a smidge shaggy. They look nice.
Somewhere along the way I convinced myself to path to true happiness included falling in love with a man, settling down in a suburb, and living happily ever after. I could not understand why I would not successfully find my dream life.
I now know I was wrong all along.
I’m Not Defective.
It is perfectly acceptable for me to pursue anything I am interested in. I do not need the approval of other people. I can take a boxing class, do Tough Mudders with groups of strangers, and date strange men I meet on Tinder. I can leave my job and start working as a locum. I can write this blog. I can take stupid selfies and edit them however I want to. I don’t have to be cool. It does not matter who approves or disapproves.
I get to be me.
I am a TERRIBLE boxer. I have not even been to class in over a year. I still consider myself a boxer. I learned so much about overcoming the voice in my head and pushing past my own fears. I cannot wait to get back to Lubbock and to the gym. I know it will hurt and I have to work my way through the pain, but it is worth it. The satisfaction I get from making it through a class is worth every drop of sweat.
As far as obstacle course races, I don’t know if I will ever do another one. To tell the truth it is more an excuse to see friends than anything. I have realized I do not need an excuse to see friends. I can just go see them. I don’t have to suffer through a miserable experience in the name of bonding. We can find fun things to bond through. Like movies, music, and wine.
I have the option to make friends wherever I am. I can put forth some effort and continue to nurture the relationships I have as well. There is no rule that says you have to choose between your new friends and your old friends.
I do not know where I got the idea you could only date people you wanted to marry. I could never go out with anyone because I did not imagine myself married to them. For the first time in my life, dating is fun! Nope, I did not get all thin and beautiful. I just got over myself. I relaxed. I stopped looking for a hero. I stopped judging the people I am with because they have the audacity to want to be with me.
I am very happy in the situation I have now. There is a guy who I like a lot. I always enjoy the time we spend together. I even look forward to seeing him when our schedules don’t allow us to work it out for a bit. It is not entirely casual and there are also no expectations. I don’t feel like I should behave a certain way or say the right thing. I am myself. We date other people and yet I am happy when I get to be with him. There is no jealousy or resentment. I don’t feel smothered or annoyed because he is demanding more from me than I have to offer. It is the perfect relationship.
I have met some other people who I enjoy spending time with too. I don’t have to choose just one. I am not looking for a life partner. I am looking for shared experiences. I can get to know someone and even develop feelings for them without the need to tie them down and demand they pay attention to me for the rest of my life.
I can date! I can meet new people. I can even fall in love with someone if I want to. Removing all the pressure has made the whole experience better for me. My refusal to engage in what I considered “healthy” relationships in the past made me feel broken. I thought I was incapable of loving other people. I thought I was inherently flawed. I was doomed to be a spinster.
I require a lot of quiet time. Time to myself where I can think, daydream, or just be still. When I have too much interference in my personal space I become desperately unhappy. My relationship with Tinderbabe does not interfere with my time for me at all.
I am not a bad person because I may want to kiss more than one person in my lifetime. And by kiss I might mean… oh, well. You know where this is headed.
There may be a cute guy in Canada who I want to spend time with. I could meet someone at the grocery store next week. I have no need to settle down and raise a family. I can support myself. Why do I have to find someone to become bound to? Would it be the end of the world if I simply followed my heart from day to day?
Just a blurb about work. I did not let anyone down when I left my dream job. I did not waste everything they taught me. I simply moved on to another opportunity. I can still go home from time to time. They can still be my professional home base. They are still there for me. I don’t owe anyone anything except for gratitude and respect.
Just because my life is not turning out the way I always thought it would does not mean I am a loner, loser, or unhappy. I was wrong. My biggest mistake was believing I had to convince myself to want a dream that wasn’t mine. It’s okay to change your mind. It is okay to do what makes you happy. I don’t have to fit into any mold except mine. What a relief. I am glad I am not broken.
I really don’t understand why people can’t just be nice and stop judging others. Spreading hate. Perpetuating unrest.
When do we start caring about other people?
It’s not gay rights or religious freedom. It’s not about black vs white. Rich or poor. Liberal or conservative. Male or female.
It’s simply human rights.
Seriously, is it that fucking difficult to just be nice? Tolerant?
Have you never loved someone different from you before?
The world would be boring and not as beautiful if we all did things the same way.
Just stop already. You are making humanity look bad.
Why are we still having these conversations?
I’m embarrassed for you.
Tinderbabe and I have a bit of an inside joke. My dinner is always better than his. He is one for looking at the menu and deciding what preprinted meal suits his dining mood, while I ask the waiter about the specials. I have yet to be disappointed.
This policy was especially helpful while I was in Montreal. I had Beef Tartar, something I would never order. It was fantastic!
I also had a phenomenal salmon sandwich for lunch one day. I did not even know I liked lentil soup!
I realize I am now that annoying person taking pics of her food. I suppose I will blame it on vacationing solo. Next trip: Chicago!
It’s not like I actually get sleep when I’m at work, I am really just there wishing I could nap. I’m listening intently for my bat signal (pager) to alert me to Gotham’s (the floor’s) needs.
I don’t sleep well anytime I think there may be something going on. My ankle is sore from my tumble in the snow. Yes, it snowed in April! I try to nap. I need a nap. Life would be so much better if I could just close my eyes and rest. My pager has it’s place of honor right next to me on the pillow.
I toss and turn, decide I may have missed a page, furtively check the pager. I may as well get up. I obsessively check and recheck the list of things I am supposed to be following up on. I call the floor to make sure no one is looking for me. I pace around the room. Well, I limp around the room. My ankle is rather tender.
I worry about all the things I should be doing. I wonder what my next adventure should be. I daydream about a trip to the beach. The waves crashing, drinks with paper umbrellas, and plenty of time to read. I must plan a trip to the beach.
I worry I am missing something. I recheck the orders I have put in on my patients. I wish morning would hurry up and get here. It’s time to check outputs and vital signs. I have to print the lists for the day shift. Where has the night gone?
It’s time to drive home. I’m wide awake. I wonder if I missed something. I really need to sleep. I am expecting a package. I need to make some phone calls today. If I just lay my head down for a minute I know I will feel better. Don’t forget to set an alarm. Give yourself time to do laundry before work. Curl up and let the worry fade. Tonight is another day.
I am learning a new skill. Sutures. Stitching. Sewing up skin. I have “mastered” two lines of nice little square knots. One knot over the thumb, the next with the finger going under. Make a circle, grab the tail, and pull. Easy. I’ve been tying knots in string my whole life.
So, I really cannot back out and run away when a patient needs to have a laceration sewn up. I throw on my white coat and head down to the ER. Fidgeting the entire walk, wondering how I am going to get out of this one. I’m really not qualified to be sewing skin. I’m still learning knots on rubber!
First, gather our supplies. Oh, shit! What size gloves do I wear? I am being coached the whole time we are getting everything. I feel pretty prepared. It’s going to be a simple interrupted suture. No big deal. One knot over the thumb, make a circle, grab the tail, and pull it through. Finger under, make a circle, grab the tail, and pull it through. Repeat.
Okay. Why are my hands shaking so bad? Holy shit it got really hot in here. The bright light makes me feel like I am on display. Can everyone see how terrified I am?
I try to avoid appearing incompetent as I writhe my way into sterile gloves. My mouth goes dry. I try desperately to look like I know what I am doing as I draw up the lidocaine. I assure you, I’ve been drawing up medication with syringes for years. Why do my hands look so Parkinsonian? Relax. Breathe.
Injecting lidocaine into the site should not be this scary. My face is flushed and I am trying desperately to keep my cool and not let my voice and eyes give away my terror.
It takes me 30 minutes to place 4 stitches. You would think I am sewing up the patient’s entire body. After all is said and done, my sharps disposed of, and the patient back in the upright position, I walk into the hallway and finally get a deep breath of air.
The chief resident chuckles and says, “so, you’ll keep practicing.” I feel inept. Certainly not unusual for me.
I go back to the call room and practice tying knots for the rest of the evening. Next time it will be easier.
I was walking back to my Airbnb after a fantastic lunch when I saw a unicorn. My joy managed to take my mind off the cold rain soaking through my sweater. Obviously, I did not plan my wardrobe well.
Imagine my delight when I got closer to the unicorn and realized everything is not always as it initially appears. Good lesson for a simple lunchtime stroll.
Montreal is a fascinating city. I have seriously had some of the best food ever. My batteries feel completely recharged, which I suppose is the point of going away.
The more I experience new places the more I want to see. I must admit sometimes traveling solo is a little intimidating. I think Montreal was a good first experience. They may speak mostly French but as soon as I give a sheepish blush and say something random in English they automatically switch. The accents are charming and I have developed little crushes on more than one waiter. It’s phenomenal fun.
The Accidental Boxer 