As expected on the first day back after vacation, I'm exhausted. I kind of want to study at home, but I'm holed up in the medical school library because at home, there is something called a bed. The bed is in close proximity to my desk and bad things may happen if I go home.
In the cafeteria tonight, I ran into a friend from last year who is now an intern (1st year resident). She had not known about the breakup with Rich, but she was unphased. She was also incredibly supportive about this academic situation I find myself in.
"Medical training is like a train," she said. "It doesn't matter how long it takes you on the train, you've just got to get on and make sure that you've got one hand still holding on."
And, indeed. I haven't heard a better description of what this journey feels like. We all have different destinations and our duration on "the train" will vary accordingly, but as long as we don't let go completely, everything is going to be fine.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Friday, November 26, 2010
Trying, and Failing
One of the few "Thanksgiving traditions" I had growing up with my mother was hitting up the early morning Black Friday sales. After Thanksgiving dinner, we would scour the sales papers, circling items of interest, and then planning a route of attack for the next morning.
When I moved to Maryland for college, I still maintained the tradition as much as I could. I usually went to my uncle's house in Long Island for Thanksgiving, but believe you me, I went and bought my newspaper after dinner and planned the route of attack on the living room floor. At first, my aunt and cousins just thought I was crazy, but when I'd come home at 10 a.m. showing off my spoils on Black Friday, they caught on. I infected the non-compliants with Black Friday family tradition and two years later, my cousins in Florida were camping out in a tent in front of Best Buy on Thanksgiving.
This year, I did most of the cooking for Thanksgiving and I am really grateful that I don't really need anything that would warrant an early morning Black Friday run. My electronics needs are met, as are my clothing needs. It is not at all like my first few years in the north, when Black Friday meant that I need to stockpile boots and sweaters! Now! I may freeze to death if I don't! I was pretty purposeful in my decision that I would sleep in, relax, and not go Black Friday shopping this year. Also, why are stores now opening at 3 a.m.? Marketing people, take note: you have gone too far.
Still, there were a few things I wanted. My everyday coat is five years old now, and I don't love it. I've also been slightly obsessed with over-the-knee boots after I saw Kim Kardashian wearing them last winter. (Yes, I watch Keeping Up With the Kardashians! Don't judge me! I do intellectual things all day long and I'll do what I please with my free time, thank you!)
Last night, I succumbed to some sort of weird heat-tiredness-collapse thing, in which I could not even look at the sales papers. Instead, I studied and read Stolen Lives. Seriously guys, what's wrong with me.
I righted myself in the morning, when I realized that JCPenney had peacoats on sale and Macy's had boots. My mother and I fought mall parking, then mall crowds, and obtained said purchases (although I had to buy the boots online) before 1 p.m.
And thus, the tradition continues. Now, back to studying: the new Thanksgiving tradition.
When I moved to Maryland for college, I still maintained the tradition as much as I could. I usually went to my uncle's house in Long Island for Thanksgiving, but believe you me, I went and bought my newspaper after dinner and planned the route of attack on the living room floor. At first, my aunt and cousins just thought I was crazy, but when I'd come home at 10 a.m. showing off my spoils on Black Friday, they caught on. I infected the non-compliants with Black Friday family tradition and two years later, my cousins in Florida were camping out in a tent in front of Best Buy on Thanksgiving.
This year, I did most of the cooking for Thanksgiving and I am really grateful that I don't really need anything that would warrant an early morning Black Friday run. My electronics needs are met, as are my clothing needs. It is not at all like my first few years in the north, when Black Friday meant that I need to stockpile boots and sweaters! Now! I may freeze to death if I don't! I was pretty purposeful in my decision that I would sleep in, relax, and not go Black Friday shopping this year. Also, why are stores now opening at 3 a.m.? Marketing people, take note: you have gone too far.
Still, there were a few things I wanted. My everyday coat is five years old now, and I don't love it. I've also been slightly obsessed with over-the-knee boots after I saw Kim Kardashian wearing them last winter. (Yes, I watch Keeping Up With the Kardashians! Don't judge me! I do intellectual things all day long and I'll do what I please with my free time, thank you!)
Last night, I succumbed to some sort of weird heat-tiredness-collapse thing, in which I could not even look at the sales papers. Instead, I studied and read Stolen Lives. Seriously guys, what's wrong with me.
I righted myself in the morning, when I realized that JCPenney had peacoats on sale and Macy's had boots. My mother and I fought mall parking, then mall crowds, and obtained said purchases (although I had to buy the boots online) before 1 p.m.
And thus, the tradition continues. Now, back to studying: the new Thanksgiving tradition.
Wherein All Attempts to Self-Soothe Have Failed
It is roughly 85 degrees in my mother's house right now.
Don't delude yourself with any false imagery about a nice, tropical Thanksgiving in Florida. It's hot in these parts. Of course the air conditioner also decided to break tonight, when there is no A/C man who is going to come fix it on Thanksgiving evening. Coincidentally, there is also a now cranky medical student with a limited number of days in her life to sleep-in guilt-free. (Hint: Tomorrow was supposed to be one of them.)
Said medical student will now get up in the middle of the night to study Histology because it is literally too hot to sleep. I'd be happy to give you the play by play of the past two hours, but it consisted of tossing and turning, pretending not to be hot, then getting up to get some more ice water and nearly fainting because man, it's not just hot, but it's humid up in here too.
I'm considering going to a hotel right now.* I just want to sleep, oh precious sleep.
Just think, I almost wrote a flowery post today about how even though things are really bad with my family (see how I avoid talking about anything serious here?), I still sort of love coming home, etc. In reality, there are some things I will always hate about Florida. When we start talking about no air conditioning, it brings me dangerously close to a tangent discussing these very things.
*If it were not for the hurtful misconceptions about my reasons for going to a hotel and ensuing internalization that my mother would experience if I actually did this, I would go. Right now. Hotels are cheap around here and my sanity/sleep are worth the money. On the upside, I am now awake and able to hit up those ridiculous 3 a.m. Black Friday sales.
Don't delude yourself with any false imagery about a nice, tropical Thanksgiving in Florida. It's hot in these parts. Of course the air conditioner also decided to break tonight, when there is no A/C man who is going to come fix it on Thanksgiving evening. Coincidentally, there is also a now cranky medical student with a limited number of days in her life to sleep-in guilt-free. (Hint: Tomorrow was supposed to be one of them.)
Said medical student will now get up in the middle of the night to study Histology because it is literally too hot to sleep. I'd be happy to give you the play by play of the past two hours, but it consisted of tossing and turning, pretending not to be hot, then getting up to get some more ice water and nearly fainting because man, it's not just hot, but it's humid up in here too.
I'm considering going to a hotel right now.* I just want to sleep, oh precious sleep.
Just think, I almost wrote a flowery post today about how even though things are really bad with my family (see how I avoid talking about anything serious here?), I still sort of love coming home, etc. In reality, there are some things I will always hate about Florida. When we start talking about no air conditioning, it brings me dangerously close to a tangent discussing these very things.
*If it were not for the hurtful misconceptions about my reasons for going to a hotel and ensuing internalization that my mother would experience if I actually did this, I would go. Right now. Hotels are cheap around here and my sanity/sleep are worth the money. On the upside, I am now awake and able to hit up those ridiculous 3 a.m. Black Friday sales.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Like Getting a Greeting Card From That One Traumatic Situation That You Had Just Forgotten About
Tell me why I just walked into my childhood bedroom and found my nearly wedding dress laid out on my bed, covered with a sheet. No really, tell me why.
If my mother is trying to make a clever spoof symbolizing the death of my engagement to Rich and thus, the imminent demise of what the wedding dress represented, could she at least not put it on my bed? It would be nice if it were not the first thing I saw when I walked in the house. (And, for the record, the last time I left said wedding dress here, it was nicely packaged in an out of the way closet.)
So, Thanksgiving indeed. I am thankful that I do not live at home anymore.
If my mother is trying to make a clever spoof symbolizing the death of my engagement to Rich and thus, the imminent demise of what the wedding dress represented, could she at least not put it on my bed? It would be nice if it were not the first thing I saw when I walked in the house. (And, for the record, the last time I left said wedding dress here, it was nicely packaged in an out of the way closet.)
So, Thanksgiving indeed. I am thankful that I do not live at home anymore.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
This Must Be What It Is Like to Grow Up in Small Town America, You Know, Minus the Small Town
I like to think that I inherited the best traits from my mother—independent, strong, and assertive! The reality is, though, that when I’m overwhelmed, I really have a lot of trouble making logical, timely decisions. Kind of like she does.
Anyway, while writing that blog post yesterday, I should have been getting ready for my afternoon classes. Since I was stressed, though, I had actually climbed back into bed and decided to email Charlie during my lunch break. This led to writing a blog post and eventually, I was thirty minutes late for my first afternoon class. Umm…yeah.
The tardiness was enough compulsion to make a decision already, so I called a doctor in my hometown in Florida. The receptionist kindly scheduled me for next Wednesday afternoon and after giving me directions and confirming that the office accepted my insurance, she asked,
“Have you ever met Dr. M (the doctor I will be seeing)?”
“No, but his wife was my high school English teacher,” I responded.
“Oh, mine too,” she quickly answered. “You went to The Magnet High School?”
“Yep.”
“Me too.”
It’s still amazing that ten years after leaving Florida, my city of 150,000 still operates like a small town. I ran into my 3rd grade teacher in Publix (the best supermarket in the world) a few years ago and he immediately recognized me and said he wasn’t shocked that I had become a writer, seeing as how I won some writing contest as an eight year old. How do these people remember these things, I ask? Later, I ran into a girl from my high school class who was buying clothes for her now kindergarten aged child at Wal-Mart.
So anyway, things will be their standard small town meet-and-greet status quo when I go home next week. It’ll be just like my 10 year high school reunion all over again! Except, you know, minus this:
There was an open bar with friendly bartenders serving the tourists and high school reunion attendees the largest drinks I have ever seen. So, I can't say the ensuing melee was unexpected. (I highly recommend clicking on the picture to enlarge and then looking at the faces of those who are seated. Good times!)
Anyway, while writing that blog post yesterday, I should have been getting ready for my afternoon classes. Since I was stressed, though, I had actually climbed back into bed and decided to email Charlie during my lunch break. This led to writing a blog post and eventually, I was thirty minutes late for my first afternoon class. Umm…yeah.
The tardiness was enough compulsion to make a decision already, so I called a doctor in my hometown in Florida. The receptionist kindly scheduled me for next Wednesday afternoon and after giving me directions and confirming that the office accepted my insurance, she asked,
“Have you ever met Dr. M (the doctor I will be seeing)?”
“No, but his wife was my high school English teacher,” I responded.
“Oh, mine too,” she quickly answered. “You went to The Magnet High School?”
“Yep.”
“Me too.”
It’s still amazing that ten years after leaving Florida, my city of 150,000 still operates like a small town. I ran into my 3rd grade teacher in Publix (the best supermarket in the world) a few years ago and he immediately recognized me and said he wasn’t shocked that I had become a writer, seeing as how I won some writing contest as an eight year old. How do these people remember these things, I ask? Later, I ran into a girl from my high school class who was buying clothes for her now kindergarten aged child at Wal-Mart.
So anyway, things will be their standard small town meet-and-greet status quo when I go home next week. It’ll be just like my 10 year high school reunion all over again! Except, you know, minus this:
There was an open bar with friendly bartenders serving the tourists and high school reunion attendees the largest drinks I have ever seen. So, I can't say the ensuing melee was unexpected. (I highly recommend clicking on the picture to enlarge and then looking at the faces of those who are seated. Good times!)
Friday, November 19, 2010
A Bitter Rant About Having To Be a Patient, Complete With Inappropriate Stereotypes About the Medical Community
I hate to turn all old and decrepit on you, with my last post about my visible signs of aging and all, but I have a health issue I need to vent about.
I’ve had this eye condition on and off for a few months now. It’s sort of like an annoying stabbing, then itching, thing (I’m am going to make such a fabulous, technical doctor!) in my left eye. Only the left eye. For no apparent reason.
Since any student knows that going to the Student Health Center is only a small step up from consulting an illegal alien with no medical training in a back alley in Chinatown, I’ve been going to my optometrist (Read: Not an M.D.) for a quick fix, and easy access to prescription eye drops.
I know, I’m a student at one of the best medical schools in the country. I should try and see someone at University Hospital. But, I know that what is happening isn't that serious and that I don't need to see a sub-subspecialist. Besides, let’s not forget that we’re dealing with a medical student here. Make no mistake that if I could see into my own eye, I wouldn’t even go to a doctor. That’s what medical textbooks and a university subscription to Medline are for. When I was dating Rich, I taught him how to use my otoscope with a quick online tutorial and pictures of a normal versus infected middle ear. He diagnosed a non-ear infection and life moved on, without a trip to Urgent Care. Seriously, don’t kid yourself about these things.
So, the eye thing is not going away and my lovely, non-M.D. doctor doesn’t really know what’s going on. She thinks that there’s something wrong with the fit of my contact lenses (but only the left, which she acknowledges is weird), which is causing something called sub-epithelial infiltrates, which are apparently bad and must be treated with steroids (also bad, I’m told). I have yet another follow-up appointment with her today, but I’m beginning to think that maybe I need to consult a real doctor (Yes, I just said that! I’m a medical student snob!) about this.
I have yet to try and see an ophthalmologist (with an M.D. and probably a few fellowships under his or her belt, because ophthalmologists are smart and fancy like that) because it usually takes months to get in to see one. Granted, I’m not going blind and I don’t have puss oozing out of my eye or anything, but now, I have to go through Student Health or Wellness to get a referral. This means, of course, that I have to let some STD-obsessed non-M.D. poke around at my eye before I can obtain a piece of paper referring me to an actual M.D., who went to medical school just like me (except, actually graduated and became legit!).
I could go see a doctor in Florida next week, when I’m home for Thanksgiving, except…aren’t doctors in Florida kind of…sub-par? I know this post is littered with stereotypes about the medical field, but seriously, what is worse? Waiting a month to see a D.C. ophthalmologist, by way of Student Health? Or, taking my chances in Florida and hoping that I don't end up getting Lasik and cataract surgery in the same outpatient visit? For fun! Because that’s the only thing ophthalmologists do down there!
Ugh.
How many more years until someone in my class becomes an ophthalmologist?
I’ve had this eye condition on and off for a few months now. It’s sort of like an annoying stabbing, then itching, thing (I’m am going to make such a fabulous, technical doctor!) in my left eye. Only the left eye. For no apparent reason.
Since any student knows that going to the Student Health Center is only a small step up from consulting an illegal alien with no medical training in a back alley in Chinatown, I’ve been going to my optometrist (Read: Not an M.D.) for a quick fix, and easy access to prescription eye drops.
I know, I’m a student at one of the best medical schools in the country. I should try and see someone at University Hospital. But, I know that what is happening isn't that serious and that I don't need to see a sub-subspecialist. Besides, let’s not forget that we’re dealing with a medical student here. Make no mistake that if I could see into my own eye, I wouldn’t even go to a doctor. That’s what medical textbooks and a university subscription to Medline are for. When I was dating Rich, I taught him how to use my otoscope with a quick online tutorial and pictures of a normal versus infected middle ear. He diagnosed a non-ear infection and life moved on, without a trip to Urgent Care. Seriously, don’t kid yourself about these things.
So, the eye thing is not going away and my lovely, non-M.D. doctor doesn’t really know what’s going on. She thinks that there’s something wrong with the fit of my contact lenses (but only the left, which she acknowledges is weird), which is causing something called sub-epithelial infiltrates, which are apparently bad and must be treated with steroids (also bad, I’m told). I have yet another follow-up appointment with her today, but I’m beginning to think that maybe I need to consult a real doctor (Yes, I just said that! I’m a medical student snob!) about this.
I have yet to try and see an ophthalmologist (with an M.D. and probably a few fellowships under his or her belt, because ophthalmologists are smart and fancy like that) because it usually takes months to get in to see one. Granted, I’m not going blind and I don’t have puss oozing out of my eye or anything, but now, I have to go through Student Health or Wellness to get a referral. This means, of course, that I have to let some STD-obsessed non-M.D. poke around at my eye before I can obtain a piece of paper referring me to an actual M.D., who went to medical school just like me (except, actually graduated and became legit!).
I could go see a doctor in Florida next week, when I’m home for Thanksgiving, except…aren’t doctors in Florida kind of…sub-par? I know this post is littered with stereotypes about the medical field, but seriously, what is worse? Waiting a month to see a D.C. ophthalmologist, by way of Student Health? Or, taking my chances in Florida and hoping that I don't end up getting Lasik and cataract surgery in the same outpatient visit? For fun! Because that’s the only thing ophthalmologists do down there!
Ugh.
How many more years until someone in my class becomes an ophthalmologist?
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Just a Little Something to Cast a Shadow On My Day
It was when I was washing my hands, in front of the mirror this afternoon, that I noticed them. Two subtle, shiny streaks positioned squarely in the part of my hair. They were gray, or more accurately, white hairs.
Now, mind you, I take great pains to deal with these kinds of things. I go searching them out and actively tweeze and maintain. So, imagine my surprise, when not one, but two, were staring back at me today. I think they were taunting me, in their own way. It was as if they wanted to say, "Yeah, your classmates think you're young and cool, but we know the truth! Now excuse us, while we reveal your true age!"
Actually, now that I think about it, I have a pair of tweezers in my purse right now. Who needs a study break!
Now, mind you, I take great pains to deal with these kinds of things. I go searching them out and actively tweeze and maintain. So, imagine my surprise, when not one, but two, were staring back at me today. I think they were taunting me, in their own way. It was as if they wanted to say, "Yeah, your classmates think you're young and cool, but we know the truth! Now excuse us, while we reveal your true age!"
Actually, now that I think about it, I have a pair of tweezers in my purse right now. Who needs a study break!
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
The Heart of God
Excerpt taken from a conversation between King David and a "wise woman," sent on behalf of Joab, in regards to King David's banished son. David's son, Absalom, had killed his brother Amnon, after Amnon raped their sister Tamar (Dysfunctional family, anyone?). As a result, Absalom had been banished.
1 Samuel 14:12-13:
12 Then the woman said, “Let your servant speak a word to my lord the king.”
“Speak,” he replied.
13 The woman said, “Why then have you devised a thing like this against the people of God? When the king says this, does he not convict himself, for the king has not brought back his banished son? 14 Like water spilled on the ground, which cannot be recovered, so we must die. But that is not what God desires; rather, he devises ways so that a banished person does not remain banished from him.
Sometimes, we forget that it's not God's will for us to be separated from him--either by punishment or voluntary asylum. God actively takes steps to bring us back to spiritual intimacy with Him, even after we have knowingly done wrong or failed to trust. I know there are tons of verses in the Bible that say this directly, but I sort of like how this woman just happened to be talking to King David and threw this statement in. It wasn't a quote from Jesus or an instruction from the disciples. It was just, "Hey, remember that's not who God is!" Love it!
1 Samuel 14:12-13:
12 Then the woman said, “Let your servant speak a word to my lord the king.”
“Speak,” he replied.
13 The woman said, “Why then have you devised a thing like this against the people of God? When the king says this, does he not convict himself, for the king has not brought back his banished son? 14 Like water spilled on the ground, which cannot be recovered, so we must die. But that is not what God desires; rather, he devises ways so that a banished person does not remain banished from him.
Sometimes, we forget that it's not God's will for us to be separated from him--either by punishment or voluntary asylum. God actively takes steps to bring us back to spiritual intimacy with Him, even after we have knowingly done wrong or failed to trust. I know there are tons of verses in the Bible that say this directly, but I sort of like how this woman just happened to be talking to King David and threw this statement in. It wasn't a quote from Jesus or an instruction from the disciples. It was just, "Hey, remember that's not who God is!" Love it!
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Part II: Just In Case a First Meeting With My Ex-Fiance's Third Cousin Wasn't Eventful Enough, The Fire Department Also Showed Up
When I saw him standing outside of the sanctuary, he looked very much like his Facebook profile picture. He was tall, stocky, and had a nice smile. I gave him a hug and apologized for running late (the reason he was standing outside waiting for me). He had texted me throughout the morning and seemed fearless about the frequency of such communication. I had a feeling we were going to get along.
We slid into the back pew and much to our dismay, discovered that our presence had not been unnoticed, due to the small size of the church. We smiled it off, and Mike teased me occasionally throughout the service, asking me if I would be willing to translate the children’s story for him (Right, me translate for you, the native speaker), then giving me a pop quiz on what the sermon’s message was. Towards the end of the service, an older gentlemen stopped to extend an invitation to us for potluck.
The logistics of how we were going to pull off this first meeting at a new church had been tenuous and although Mike had asked what we were going to do for lunch, I honestly didn't know. I think I had asked him if he was opposed to eating out on Sabbath (he wasn't), but I also threw out the option that he could come back to my apartment to eat, seeing as how I lived on the same street as the church we were attending. The appropriate Adventist action would have been to have lunch prepared ahead of time, but I'm a medical student. That sort of thing doesn't happen these days without extensive planning. Besides, I was incredibly tired and badly in need of a nap. I didn't want to prolong the "hanging out," part of the day. Instead, I was hoping that Mike would agree to a quick Chipotle burrito before I pointed him in the direction of I-495.
But, things are never this easy in dating.
Potluck was an innocuous solution to our lunch problem, except remember how it was Mike's birthday? Well, I had made brownies. I know that this wasn't necessary or maybe even prudent, but seeing as how our first meeting just happened to coincide with his birthday, I had to. I'm an overachiever who is obsessed with baking.
Much to his delight, I sent him this recipe for approval, which I had stumbled across and mentally bookmarked as a great autumn dessert. During our first phone conversation on Friday night, he talked to me for a good two hours as I made the brownies, insisting that I give him the play by play of what I was doing in the kitchen. I know it sounds clingy, but I found his swooning interest sort of endearing.
So, the pumpkin brownies. I had not thought of how these should be incorporated into the day.
After potluck, I stood with Mike next to our cars and explained the options. We could have our happy birthday brownie fest right there in the parking lot, or he could drop by my apartment and eat. I wasn’t entirely comfortable with either option, but I couldn't think of any better choices.
Mike said that hanging out at my apartment sounded better, and admitted that he was sort of hoping that he could hang out until about 7 p.m., when he had a wedding to attend in Virginia. He said he didn't know how to ask if I'd be interested in spending the afternoon with him, but rather than driving all the way back to the Maryland suburb where he lived, he kind of wanted to stay in Virginia with me.
So, in perhaps an exercise in extremely poor judgment and lack of assertiveness, I agreed, not really knowing how to say no to such a request. I tried not to harbor resentment about the nap I would clearly not be having.
--
Thankfully, it turns out that Mike is not a serial killer who might have harmed me in my own apartment. He is also a lot of fun. We had a good time eating and laughing in my living room, before I let him know that I had to make a dish for a friend's party that night. I excused myself to the kitchen, and continued to talk to him through the pass-through window that faces the living and dining rooms. Eventually though, he came to the kitchen, following me around, and hovering as I cooked.
“What can I do? I feel useless,” he complained.
Actually needing to get some milk, I asked him to run downstairs to the convenience store for me. He eagerly agreed. When he returned, he continued to follow me around (“foot and foot behind me” for you Caribbeanites), wanting to contribute and complete small tasks.
My roommate arrived home and knowing that this was the first time I had met him, she hung around the living room, keeping us both under a watchful gaze.
While I continued to cook, I was simultaneously cleaning up the kitchen. So, not unexpectantly, I asked my eager helper to please take out the trash, when I realized it was full. My roommate was on her way to her car, so she offered to show him where the trash chute was.
A few minutes before, I had heard what I thought was a fire alarm, but Mike had convinced me that it was coming from outside. Having been at home when the (actual) fire alarm went off in my very large building, I thought he might be right. The last time, the alarms had been blaring so loudly, it was unmistakeable.
Well…
Thirty seconds after Mike and my roommate left, they returned, telling me there was smoke coming out of the trash chute and that we needed to leave now, RIGHT NOW!, because there was a fire in the building. I was incredulous and cautious, suggesting that perhaps we call downstairs to the concierge first. My roommate disagreed and as I hastily pulled the dish I was baking out of the oven, she went to call the elevator. The elevator was out of service (because hi, there was a fire!), so the three of us grabbed our coats and bolted down the eleven flights of stairs to the lobby.
When we arrived, we found that several firefighters and at least 30-40 residents (not including Neighbor Guy, thankfully) were also there. Smoke was billowing out of a hallway and despite the concierge’s perky consolation that, “Everything’s fine! There’s no fire!,” we happened to overhear the firefighters say, “We need to break down a door, but we’ll do it from outside.” I hope that concierge gets fired.
Mike was relishing the excitement in the lobby, but sensing that death by smoke inhalation was perhaps not the best course, I asked if I could give him a tour of our rather large parking lot. Walking him past the two fire trucks now parked in front, I led him by the gazebo where the preteens go to be suspicious and the tennis courts. When the fire trucks eventually left, we returned inside and were told that the trash compactor had overheated and that the only damage was smoke-related, on the first floor.
Thankfully, it was about this time that Mike had to leave for his wedding and that I needed to change for my friend’s party.
We parted ways—having left with entirely larger stories than either one of us intended. Unlike Rich, Mike is completely down to earth and adorable. He’s attentive and sweet and not deterred by scary life events involving either exes or fire trucks. The fact that such occurrences would happen to coincide, during our first meeting, is just another cruel joke from the universe.
We slid into the back pew and much to our dismay, discovered that our presence had not been unnoticed, due to the small size of the church. We smiled it off, and Mike teased me occasionally throughout the service, asking me if I would be willing to translate the children’s story for him (Right, me translate for you, the native speaker), then giving me a pop quiz on what the sermon’s message was. Towards the end of the service, an older gentlemen stopped to extend an invitation to us for potluck.
The logistics of how we were going to pull off this first meeting at a new church had been tenuous and although Mike had asked what we were going to do for lunch, I honestly didn't know. I think I had asked him if he was opposed to eating out on Sabbath (he wasn't), but I also threw out the option that he could come back to my apartment to eat, seeing as how I lived on the same street as the church we were attending. The appropriate Adventist action would have been to have lunch prepared ahead of time, but I'm a medical student. That sort of thing doesn't happen these days without extensive planning. Besides, I was incredibly tired and badly in need of a nap. I didn't want to prolong the "hanging out," part of the day. Instead, I was hoping that Mike would agree to a quick Chipotle burrito before I pointed him in the direction of I-495.
But, things are never this easy in dating.
Potluck was an innocuous solution to our lunch problem, except remember how it was Mike's birthday? Well, I had made brownies. I know that this wasn't necessary or maybe even prudent, but seeing as how our first meeting just happened to coincide with his birthday, I had to. I'm an overachiever who is obsessed with baking.
Much to his delight, I sent him this recipe for approval, which I had stumbled across and mentally bookmarked as a great autumn dessert. During our first phone conversation on Friday night, he talked to me for a good two hours as I made the brownies, insisting that I give him the play by play of what I was doing in the kitchen. I know it sounds clingy, but I found his swooning interest sort of endearing.
So, the pumpkin brownies. I had not thought of how these should be incorporated into the day.
After potluck, I stood with Mike next to our cars and explained the options. We could have our happy birthday brownie fest right there in the parking lot, or he could drop by my apartment and eat. I wasn’t entirely comfortable with either option, but I couldn't think of any better choices.
Mike said that hanging out at my apartment sounded better, and admitted that he was sort of hoping that he could hang out until about 7 p.m., when he had a wedding to attend in Virginia. He said he didn't know how to ask if I'd be interested in spending the afternoon with him, but rather than driving all the way back to the Maryland suburb where he lived, he kind of wanted to stay in Virginia with me.
So, in perhaps an exercise in extremely poor judgment and lack of assertiveness, I agreed, not really knowing how to say no to such a request. I tried not to harbor resentment about the nap I would clearly not be having.
--
Thankfully, it turns out that Mike is not a serial killer who might have harmed me in my own apartment. He is also a lot of fun. We had a good time eating and laughing in my living room, before I let him know that I had to make a dish for a friend's party that night. I excused myself to the kitchen, and continued to talk to him through the pass-through window that faces the living and dining rooms. Eventually though, he came to the kitchen, following me around, and hovering as I cooked.
“What can I do? I feel useless,” he complained.
Actually needing to get some milk, I asked him to run downstairs to the convenience store for me. He eagerly agreed. When he returned, he continued to follow me around (“foot and foot behind me” for you Caribbeanites), wanting to contribute and complete small tasks.
My roommate arrived home and knowing that this was the first time I had met him, she hung around the living room, keeping us both under a watchful gaze.
While I continued to cook, I was simultaneously cleaning up the kitchen. So, not unexpectantly, I asked my eager helper to please take out the trash, when I realized it was full. My roommate was on her way to her car, so she offered to show him where the trash chute was.
A few minutes before, I had heard what I thought was a fire alarm, but Mike had convinced me that it was coming from outside. Having been at home when the (actual) fire alarm went off in my very large building, I thought he might be right. The last time, the alarms had been blaring so loudly, it was unmistakeable.
Well…
Thirty seconds after Mike and my roommate left, they returned, telling me there was smoke coming out of the trash chute and that we needed to leave now, RIGHT NOW!, because there was a fire in the building. I was incredulous and cautious, suggesting that perhaps we call downstairs to the concierge first. My roommate disagreed and as I hastily pulled the dish I was baking out of the oven, she went to call the elevator. The elevator was out of service (because hi, there was a fire!), so the three of us grabbed our coats and bolted down the eleven flights of stairs to the lobby.
When we arrived, we found that several firefighters and at least 30-40 residents (not including Neighbor Guy, thankfully) were also there. Smoke was billowing out of a hallway and despite the concierge’s perky consolation that, “Everything’s fine! There’s no fire!,” we happened to overhear the firefighters say, “We need to break down a door, but we’ll do it from outside.” I hope that concierge gets fired.
Mike was relishing the excitement in the lobby, but sensing that death by smoke inhalation was perhaps not the best course, I asked if I could give him a tour of our rather large parking lot. Walking him past the two fire trucks now parked in front, I led him by the gazebo where the preteens go to be suspicious and the tennis courts. When the fire trucks eventually left, we returned inside and were told that the trash compactor had overheated and that the only damage was smoke-related, on the first floor.
Thankfully, it was about this time that Mike had to leave for his wedding and that I needed to change for my friend’s party.
We parted ways—having left with entirely larger stories than either one of us intended. Unlike Rich, Mike is completely down to earth and adorable. He’s attentive and sweet and not deterred by scary life events involving either exes or fire trucks. The fact that such occurrences would happen to coincide, during our first meeting, is just another cruel joke from the universe.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Apparently, These Things Run in the Family
Last night, I wrote the following post, before pulling it down a few hours later when my childhood friend chided me about being too nice and caring too much about Rich's life. (Geez, sorry! I didn't know my bitter wrath for him would be replaced by compassion either, OK? I am still in the stages of grieving! Don't judge me!):
"According to my handy Facebook newsfeed, Rich's sister just got engaged. Tonight. The weekend of his possible 30th birthday party. While she is staying with him in Virginia for a month.
I am happy for her, but seriously, do these people have no souls? Not only did Rich's 30th birthday just get overshadowed by his sister's engagement, but he's going to have to contend with the raw emotions of his own failed engagement while his sister is staying with him for the next month. Is this why the everyone is in town? To celebrate the engagement?
If we were on better terms (understatement!), I'd go over there right now to give him a hug. Despite being a good Adventist girl, I'd probably try to liquor him up a little bit too, because from an outsider's perspective, it would seem that this weekend is going to be really hard for him. Someone needs to give that man some emotional support and not surprisingly, his family isn't going to be the one to do it."
Well...
Eventually, one of the many cousins present to witness the proposal posted a video of it on Facebook.(Note to self: Just de-friend all of these people already! You do not need a running commentary of their lives.)
The video was heart-wrenching and beautiful.
Then, it made me sad. I wasn't overcome because it was inappropriate or because I dislike either party. They just seemed genuinely in love. The emotion started welling up when I realized that what I saw on the video was exactly what I wanted to experience during my own proposal. It reaffirmed how badly I wanted the love and adoration of my significant other--something I never felt I had from Rich. I wish that, like his sister's fiance, Rich had known me well enough to surprise me with ease, and sweep me off my feet.
In retrospect, if I couldn't even get him to answer my phone calls, how did I expect him to know my likes or dislikes? I was so utterly lacking in self-awareness about our relationship, sometimes it scares me.
Anyway, my roommate has agreed with the childhood friend that my caring about Rich, his feelings, or his family is unnecessary. So, this is the last I will speak of it. I mean, maybe. The purpose of this blog is to spew my inner thoughts in a safe, non-reactionary way, so I'll say what I want, thank you very much. Congratulations, dear readers, on being subjected to my inner monologue.
"According to my handy Facebook newsfeed, Rich's sister just got engaged. Tonight. The weekend of his possible 30th birthday party. While she is staying with him in Virginia for a month.
I am happy for her, but seriously, do these people have no souls? Not only did Rich's 30th birthday just get overshadowed by his sister's engagement, but he's going to have to contend with the raw emotions of his own failed engagement while his sister is staying with him for the next month. Is this why the everyone is in town? To celebrate the engagement?
If we were on better terms (understatement!), I'd go over there right now to give him a hug. Despite being a good Adventist girl, I'd probably try to liquor him up a little bit too, because from an outsider's perspective, it would seem that this weekend is going to be really hard for him. Someone needs to give that man some emotional support and not surprisingly, his family isn't going to be the one to do it."
Well...
Eventually, one of the many cousins present to witness the proposal posted a video of it on Facebook.(Note to self: Just de-friend all of these people already! You do not need a running commentary of their lives.)
The video was heart-wrenching and beautiful.
Then, it made me sad. I wasn't overcome because it was inappropriate or because I dislike either party. They just seemed genuinely in love. The emotion started welling up when I realized that what I saw on the video was exactly what I wanted to experience during my own proposal. It reaffirmed how badly I wanted the love and adoration of my significant other--something I never felt I had from Rich. I wish that, like his sister's fiance, Rich had known me well enough to surprise me with ease, and sweep me off my feet.
In retrospect, if I couldn't even get him to answer my phone calls, how did I expect him to know my likes or dislikes? I was so utterly lacking in self-awareness about our relationship, sometimes it scares me.
Anyway, my roommate has agreed with the childhood friend that my caring about Rich, his feelings, or his family is unnecessary. So, this is the last I will speak of it. I mean, maybe. The purpose of this blog is to spew my inner thoughts in a safe, non-reactionary way, so I'll say what I want, thank you very much. Congratulations, dear readers, on being subjected to my inner monologue.
Friday, November 12, 2010
In Other News, I Have Discovered That I Do Not Have the Body of My Dreams (Thankfully)
I've been really tired lately and among the obvious causes (it's cold outside, I need to sleep more, I might not be eating enough protein, I'm a medical student), I was seriously wondering if I might be overdoing my workouts a little bit. The thought must have creeped into my subconscious because last night, I dreamt that I caught a view of my naked back in a mirror, only to discover--much to my horror--that I had developed the physique of a body builder.
Thankfully, I woke up and realized my fears are totally unfounded. Clearly.
I am now drinking some coffee, which seems to be solving both the tiredness and the irrational fear that I accidentally turned myself into a body builder in my sleep.
Thankfully, I woke up and realized my fears are totally unfounded. Clearly.
I am now drinking some coffee, which seems to be solving both the tiredness and the irrational fear that I accidentally turned myself into a body builder in my sleep.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Fair Weather Parents
The email exchange between Rich and I continued until yesterday, when the last message I received from him contained the following excerpt:
I am not doing anything for the birthday. My sister is visiting, so she took me to dinner on monday night. that was it.
Umm...really?
Thanks to Facebook and its continuous Newsfeed, I was expecting a different answer when I asked about his weekend plans. I know of at least two cousins making their way to DC this weekend to visit Rich and so, I presumed that his mother was throwing a huge 30th birthday party for him.
His answer to my question is interesting, but not surprising. If there was a such thing as fair weather parents, Rich's parents are them.
I noticed this tendency when we were dating. It seemed like whenever I had a free weekend, when Rich and I could spend some alone time together, they would announce their plans to visit. We were both extremely busy, and it was rare to have an open weekend. Yet, they were never sensitive to this issue. Instead, they would routinely fly into town when they wanted to, expecting to be shuttled around and entertained for the weekend.
But, what about when Rich was moving into the condo? We asked them if they could come one weekend and help us paint. They said no. We asked if they would consider coming to assist, even by watching the movers, during moving weekend. They said no. But, the first week that Rich is settled in, guess who's in town? I wish I was kidding.
They catered their visits to their own selfish tendencies and were ambivalent to Rich's and my needs as a couple. In fact, when Rich and I were on the verge of breaking up, he asked his parents not to visit because we were hashing out some serious issues. His mother threw a crying fit and guilted Rich about how she "didn't think this [him limiting her visits] would happen until he was married." Seeing how hurt he was, I (stupidly) conceded to let them come anyway. Two weeks later, we called off our wedding.
When it's convenient for them to take a vacation or be entertained, they are more than willing to interrupt his life. Now that it's his 30th birthday weekend, I truly hope that they are just planning a huge surprise party that he doesn't know about.
Why don't they understand that now is the time to harass their son and visit him whenever their hearts desire? Now is when he needs their emotional support the most! For his sake, I hope that he is wrong about the weekend. If he's not, my heart aches for him--both because of how much he gives to that family and also, because of how inconsiderate they are in return.
I am not doing anything for the birthday. My sister is visiting, so she took me to dinner on monday night. that was it.
Umm...really?
Thanks to Facebook and its continuous Newsfeed, I was expecting a different answer when I asked about his weekend plans. I know of at least two cousins making their way to DC this weekend to visit Rich and so, I presumed that his mother was throwing a huge 30th birthday party for him.
His answer to my question is interesting, but not surprising. If there was a such thing as fair weather parents, Rich's parents are them.
I noticed this tendency when we were dating. It seemed like whenever I had a free weekend, when Rich and I could spend some alone time together, they would announce their plans to visit. We were both extremely busy, and it was rare to have an open weekend. Yet, they were never sensitive to this issue. Instead, they would routinely fly into town when they wanted to, expecting to be shuttled around and entertained for the weekend.
But, what about when Rich was moving into the condo? We asked them if they could come one weekend and help us paint. They said no. We asked if they would consider coming to assist, even by watching the movers, during moving weekend. They said no. But, the first week that Rich is settled in, guess who's in town? I wish I was kidding.
They catered their visits to their own selfish tendencies and were ambivalent to Rich's and my needs as a couple. In fact, when Rich and I were on the verge of breaking up, he asked his parents not to visit because we were hashing out some serious issues. His mother threw a crying fit and guilted Rich about how she "didn't think this [him limiting her visits] would happen until he was married." Seeing how hurt he was, I (stupidly) conceded to let them come anyway. Two weeks later, we called off our wedding.
When it's convenient for them to take a vacation or be entertained, they are more than willing to interrupt his life. Now that it's his 30th birthday weekend, I truly hope that they are just planning a huge surprise party that he doesn't know about.
Why don't they understand that now is the time to harass their son and visit him whenever their hearts desire? Now is when he needs their emotional support the most! For his sake, I hope that he is wrong about the weekend. If he's not, my heart aches for him--both because of how much he gives to that family and also, because of how inconsiderate they are in return.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Either He Misses Me, Or We’re Making Further Progress Towards Civility
Yesterday was Rich’s 30th birthday.
For a “birthday present,” I had composed quite the salty and sarcastic blog post for him. Even though he would never read it, I knew you would. And so, it was replete with calling him out on his momma’s boy issues and dredging up past hurts to humiliate him. Nothing like public wrath and mocking to show you care!
I got close to posting the blog, but then realized, who does this? Am I that person who is so vindictive and spiteful, who would really shame the man I almost married to an audience full of strangers on the internet, just to make myself feel better? I have been writing about our relationship, yes, but I’ve used a great deal of restraint in talking about his personal issues. I’ve hemmed and hawed about behaviors that hurt me, but I’ve tried not to demolish his character just for the sake of good reading.
As I have to remind myself (often), Proverbs 18:21 says, “The tongue has the power of life and death, and those who love to talk will have to eat their own words.”
I deleted the post I wrote knowing that sometimes, it is better to brood privately than to open one’s mouth on one’s public, Google-accessible blog.
After deciding not to post the blog, I had mixed feelings about what the appropriate course of communication should be. Rich sent me flowers on my birthday and in the past, I've always made him a cake and an elaborate (five course) dinner. I ended up sending him a simple, two line email yesterday, wishing him a happy birthday, telling him I was praying for him, and expressing that I hoped the next year would be better for him (understatement of the year!).
He wrote back within minutes, thanking me and asking me how I was doing.
“So, we are…talking…now?,” was all I could think.
I delayed in responding and consulted with my roommate last night, who told me that I had no obligation to respond. Yet, I felt differently.
As mentioned, I don’t want to become best friends with Rich again, but let’s face it. For every bad situation I write about here, there was also a good one. Our relationship wouldn’t have survived for two years if every day was an exercise in misery. I want us to be able to get along and I want to feel that I’ve made things right with the person I shared two years, and all of my emotional intimacy, with. I don’t know how long it is going to take for us to get better, but the baby steps have to start somewhere.
So, I responded. I wrote a little more than, “I’m fine,” without elaborating too much on what's happening with school.
Again, a response was received from Rich within minutes.
More questions were proffered about my roommate, as well as whether or not I hang out with my old friends from school.
I wish I could say that he’s just trying to be gossipy, but now that the family news is revolving around lots of illnesses (on his family's side), it doesn’t include every move I make. I think he might be genuinely interested in having the latter information and hearing about how I'm doing. I’ve wondered more than once if he ever drives past my apartment building and looks up into my window (the way I sometimes do when I drive past his condo) because he’s thinking about me.
My mom told me that during the summer, he wanted to call me, but didn’t have the guts to. When he asked his dad what to do, his dad told him that he had to make his own decision. I hate to say this, but it was probably the mere presence of his parents that prevented him from doing the right thing. What Rich needs most in his life is separation from them. Only, neither party wants to acknowledge that. Perhaps the reason he’s able to communicate with me now is because his parents aren’t in town...yet. It really is unfortunate that they find themselves unable to stay away for longer than a few weeks at a time. Their son may very well have been married to the best thing that ever happened to him if they would.
For a “birthday present,” I had composed quite the salty and sarcastic blog post for him. Even though he would never read it, I knew you would. And so, it was replete with calling him out on his momma’s boy issues and dredging up past hurts to humiliate him. Nothing like public wrath and mocking to show you care!
I got close to posting the blog, but then realized, who does this? Am I that person who is so vindictive and spiteful, who would really shame the man I almost married to an audience full of strangers on the internet, just to make myself feel better? I have been writing about our relationship, yes, but I’ve used a great deal of restraint in talking about his personal issues. I’ve hemmed and hawed about behaviors that hurt me, but I’ve tried not to demolish his character just for the sake of good reading.
As I have to remind myself (often), Proverbs 18:21 says, “The tongue has the power of life and death, and those who love to talk will have to eat their own words.”
I deleted the post I wrote knowing that sometimes, it is better to brood privately than to open one’s mouth on one’s public, Google-accessible blog.
After deciding not to post the blog, I had mixed feelings about what the appropriate course of communication should be. Rich sent me flowers on my birthday and in the past, I've always made him a cake and an elaborate (five course) dinner. I ended up sending him a simple, two line email yesterday, wishing him a happy birthday, telling him I was praying for him, and expressing that I hoped the next year would be better for him (understatement of the year!).
He wrote back within minutes, thanking me and asking me how I was doing.
“So, we are…talking…now?,” was all I could think.
I delayed in responding and consulted with my roommate last night, who told me that I had no obligation to respond. Yet, I felt differently.
As mentioned, I don’t want to become best friends with Rich again, but let’s face it. For every bad situation I write about here, there was also a good one. Our relationship wouldn’t have survived for two years if every day was an exercise in misery. I want us to be able to get along and I want to feel that I’ve made things right with the person I shared two years, and all of my emotional intimacy, with. I don’t know how long it is going to take for us to get better, but the baby steps have to start somewhere.
So, I responded. I wrote a little more than, “I’m fine,” without elaborating too much on what's happening with school.
Again, a response was received from Rich within minutes.
More questions were proffered about my roommate, as well as whether or not I hang out with my old friends from school.
I wish I could say that he’s just trying to be gossipy, but now that the family news is revolving around lots of illnesses (on his family's side), it doesn’t include every move I make. I think he might be genuinely interested in having the latter information and hearing about how I'm doing. I’ve wondered more than once if he ever drives past my apartment building and looks up into my window (the way I sometimes do when I drive past his condo) because he’s thinking about me.
My mom told me that during the summer, he wanted to call me, but didn’t have the guts to. When he asked his dad what to do, his dad told him that he had to make his own decision. I hate to say this, but it was probably the mere presence of his parents that prevented him from doing the right thing. What Rich needs most in his life is separation from them. Only, neither party wants to acknowledge that. Perhaps the reason he’s able to communicate with me now is because his parents aren’t in town...yet. It really is unfortunate that they find themselves unable to stay away for longer than a few weeks at a time. Their son may very well have been married to the best thing that ever happened to him if they would.
Monday, November 8, 2010
The Mark of a True Friend
I promise I will finish writing about Mike soon. That last entry was taking a long time to write and I had this annoying project called studying for medical school hovering over me again. I will try to finish Part II tonight.
Unrelated, I've been studying the book of 1 Samuel for the past several months. I never paid much attention to it, since it reads a lot like, "David fighting someone! David almost getting killed! David fighting someone else! David almost getting killed again!" There are a lot of important details in the mix, though. Namely, how different people react to the stressful situations in 1 Samuel is very telling about their respective characters. I was reading about Jonathan, David's best friend, this morning.
--
1 Samuel 23:15-18:
While David was in Horesh in the Desert of Ziph, he leared that Saul had come out to take his life. And Saul’s son Jonathan went to David at Horesh and helped him to find strength in God.
“Do not be afraid,” he said. “My father Saul will not lay a hand on you. You will be king over Israel, and I will be second to you. Even my father Saul knows this.”
The two of them made a covenant before the Lord.
Matthew 18:20:
For where two or three gather in my name, there am I with them.
--
When I wrote about Neighbor Guy a few weeks ago, I wrote about seeing him on the train and how the pithy statement he made had turned my day around. Sometimes, all we need is the perspective of a friend to help us find our strength and stand with us when we are seeking the face of God. It sounds like Jonathan was one such friend.
(And no, this post has nothing to do with Neighbor Guy. I was just using him as an example of a friend having said something to me that helped me get through a stressful situation.)
Unrelated, I've been studying the book of 1 Samuel for the past several months. I never paid much attention to it, since it reads a lot like, "David fighting someone! David almost getting killed! David fighting someone else! David almost getting killed again!" There are a lot of important details in the mix, though. Namely, how different people react to the stressful situations in 1 Samuel is very telling about their respective characters. I was reading about Jonathan, David's best friend, this morning.
--
1 Samuel 23:15-18:
While David was in Horesh in the Desert of Ziph, he leared that Saul had come out to take his life. And Saul’s son Jonathan went to David at Horesh and helped him to find strength in God.
“Do not be afraid,” he said. “My father Saul will not lay a hand on you. You will be king over Israel, and I will be second to you. Even my father Saul knows this.”
The two of them made a covenant before the Lord.
Matthew 18:20:
For where two or three gather in my name, there am I with them.
--
When I wrote about Neighbor Guy a few weeks ago, I wrote about seeing him on the train and how the pithy statement he made had turned my day around. Sometimes, all we need is the perspective of a friend to help us find our strength and stand with us when we are seeking the face of God. It sounds like Jonathan was one such friend.
(And no, this post has nothing to do with Neighbor Guy. I was just using him as an example of a friend having said something to me that helped me get through a stressful situation.)
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Another Tale of Adventist Dating Incest, This Time Involving Rich's Third Cousin
When I saw his friend request on Facebook, I assumed the worst.
Not only did he look a little bit like Rich, but his last name was the same too. I presumed him to be some random cousin of Rich’s trying to be my “friend,” so that he could spy on my profile and report back. I left the unknown friend requester, named Mike, in Facebook purgatory while I decided what to do. On one hand, he’d know exactly what was going on with me (but doesn't Rich's family know already?). On the other hand, I’d also get to find out what was going on with Rich.
It was a difficult decision, so I consulted his mutual friends to see how close this relationship really was. When I did, I was more confused than anything. Most of our mutual friends were from the new church I've been attending--not from Rich's family. In fact, only two mutual friends were two of Rich’s cousins (both of whom I really like), who live in New York.
I feigned ignorance and sent Mike a message saying,
“Hey! Did we meet at the new church?”
His response back was something along the lines of, “We didn’t formally meet there, but I was there the weekend of your big event, so yes. I just friended a lot of people from the event, including you.”
The second round of messages began, as I began to prod further.
“Oh, OK. So, how do you know these two mutual friends of ours in New York?,” I asked.
“I think they might be my first cousins,” he wrote back.
He thought? As in, he was the first cousin of Rich’s first cousins?
“So I presume that you also know Rich, of the DC area too?,” I asked next.
“No, who’s Rich?,” he wrote back.
“Rich is your cousin, I’m guessing. Whom I almost married in August.”
If I could have seen Mike's face when he read this, I'm sure it was priceless. He finally meets a new, friendly girl at the church he has been attending for years, only to find out that she nearly married his third cousin? Only in the Adventist dating world could this legitimately happen.
“Just think of me as Mike, the guy with no last name!,” he quipped in his next message. “Am I really related to the man you almost married?”
After a consultation with my mother and a genetic pedigree that was drawn when I should have been studying, I discovered that yes, he is really related to Rich. How he failed to know this is actually not that surprising, considering that once upon a time, Rich’s great grandfather had 21 children. Each of those children had between 8 and 12 children, and each of those children had children again. Rich’s grandfather and Mike’s grandfather are brothers, but with so many people involved in the mix, Mike and Rich don’t even know the other exists. Mike’s interest in me came solely from my involvement at this new church. Poor Mike. He had no idea.
Despite the apparent relatedness to my ex, Mike was undeterred. He asked for my phone number, which I provided, and he proceeded to text message me on Sabbaths and Sundays asking about church and weekend plans, respectively.
As with Neighbor Guy, though, the introduction of Mike to my life came on the cusp of an exam block. He asked if I was interested in meeting him at church one weekend and I politely declined, citing existing plans with my childhood friend. For the following weekend, I mentioned that I’d be in the midst of an exam block—code for: unavailable. I asked him if he’d be willing to postpone for three weeks or so, until I would be free from social and medical school obligations. He agreed.
Yesterday was our scheduled Sabbath to meet each other.
He had suggested that we visit a new church that neither one of us had been to, and although I immediately recognized such a proposition as being the equivalent to a Christian date, I was curious. Besides, how badly could this go?
He first suggested we visit a church that most of the other medical students go to (and where many of my old church's members now go). After dancing around the issue, telling him that I might be talking to a lot of people and hence, be an annoying companion, I sent a very direct message. In it, I said that it would not serve me well to show up at a church, in which I knew most of the parishioners, with a man who is not the one I should have married in August, yet bears a resemblance to him and carries his last name. I used the word “awkward” in that email, but such a word was a gross understatement.
Baggage? Meet Mike.
I have started to practice my Spanish more these days and am also seriously considering spending this summer in the Dominican Republic doing mission work. So, when I discovered that Mike is half Columbian, I asked him if he had any interest in visiting the Spanish church in my town. He humbly downplayed his Spanish profiency and said he'd love to go on such an adventure. Giving him the name of the church, I told him I’d meet him there on Sabbath morning.
(To Be Continued...sorry, I need to study!)
Part II here.
Not only did he look a little bit like Rich, but his last name was the same too. I presumed him to be some random cousin of Rich’s trying to be my “friend,” so that he could spy on my profile and report back. I left the unknown friend requester, named Mike, in Facebook purgatory while I decided what to do. On one hand, he’d know exactly what was going on with me (but doesn't Rich's family know already?). On the other hand, I’d also get to find out what was going on with Rich.
It was a difficult decision, so I consulted his mutual friends to see how close this relationship really was. When I did, I was more confused than anything. Most of our mutual friends were from the new church I've been attending--not from Rich's family. In fact, only two mutual friends were two of Rich’s cousins (both of whom I really like), who live in New York.
I feigned ignorance and sent Mike a message saying,
“Hey! Did we meet at the new church?”
His response back was something along the lines of, “We didn’t formally meet there, but I was there the weekend of your big event, so yes. I just friended a lot of people from the event, including you.”
The second round of messages began, as I began to prod further.
“Oh, OK. So, how do you know these two mutual friends of ours in New York?,” I asked.
“I think they might be my first cousins,” he wrote back.
He thought? As in, he was the first cousin of Rich’s first cousins?
“So I presume that you also know Rich, of the DC area too?,” I asked next.
“No, who’s Rich?,” he wrote back.
“Rich is your cousin, I’m guessing. Whom I almost married in August.”
If I could have seen Mike's face when he read this, I'm sure it was priceless. He finally meets a new, friendly girl at the church he has been attending for years, only to find out that she nearly married his third cousin? Only in the Adventist dating world could this legitimately happen.
“Just think of me as Mike, the guy with no last name!,” he quipped in his next message. “Am I really related to the man you almost married?”
After a consultation with my mother and a genetic pedigree that was drawn when I should have been studying, I discovered that yes, he is really related to Rich. How he failed to know this is actually not that surprising, considering that once upon a time, Rich’s great grandfather had 21 children. Each of those children had between 8 and 12 children, and each of those children had children again. Rich’s grandfather and Mike’s grandfather are brothers, but with so many people involved in the mix, Mike and Rich don’t even know the other exists. Mike’s interest in me came solely from my involvement at this new church. Poor Mike. He had no idea.
Despite the apparent relatedness to my ex, Mike was undeterred. He asked for my phone number, which I provided, and he proceeded to text message me on Sabbaths and Sundays asking about church and weekend plans, respectively.
As with Neighbor Guy, though, the introduction of Mike to my life came on the cusp of an exam block. He asked if I was interested in meeting him at church one weekend and I politely declined, citing existing plans with my childhood friend. For the following weekend, I mentioned that I’d be in the midst of an exam block—code for: unavailable. I asked him if he’d be willing to postpone for three weeks or so, until I would be free from social and medical school obligations. He agreed.
Yesterday was our scheduled Sabbath to meet each other.
He had suggested that we visit a new church that neither one of us had been to, and although I immediately recognized such a proposition as being the equivalent to a Christian date, I was curious. Besides, how badly could this go?
He first suggested we visit a church that most of the other medical students go to (and where many of my old church's members now go). After dancing around the issue, telling him that I might be talking to a lot of people and hence, be an annoying companion, I sent a very direct message. In it, I said that it would not serve me well to show up at a church, in which I knew most of the parishioners, with a man who is not the one I should have married in August, yet bears a resemblance to him and carries his last name. I used the word “awkward” in that email, but such a word was a gross understatement.
Baggage? Meet Mike.
I have started to practice my Spanish more these days and am also seriously considering spending this summer in the Dominican Republic doing mission work. So, when I discovered that Mike is half Columbian, I asked him if he had any interest in visiting the Spanish church in my town. He humbly downplayed his Spanish profiency and said he'd love to go on such an adventure. Giving him the name of the church, I told him I’d meet him there on Sabbath morning.
(To Be Continued...sorry, I need to study!)
Part II here.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Merely An Idle Speculation
I was tired when I got home tonight, but slightly relieved that I made it to the Metro station in time to catch the last building shuttle of the evening. Not unexpectantly, Neighbor Guy was nowhere to be seen. He doesn't usually have to work as late as I stay at school, so I wasn't worried about our paths crossing. I figured he would have been home long before I left school.
As I walked into the mailroom tonight, I realized that I was wrong. There he was in the connected alcove, talking on his cell phone. He was wearing dress clothes and had his laptop bag--an indication that he had just returned home from work. Except...he hadn't been on the shuttle. He also hasn't been on the shuttle any morning this week. I've been more faithful with my class attendance and have actually been shocked that our paths have yet to cross.
Is it possible that he is not taking the shuttle anymore?
We live less than a mile from the Metro station and as long as the shuttle is running at a time when he's arriving or leaving home, why would he pay for a cab, the public bus, or daily parking at the Metro station? We share similar views about finances and I've never known him to frivilously throw money away, especially when we have a free, private shuttle running every 15 minutes to and from our building. It just doesn't make sense.
I did wonder about it the last time I saw Neighbor Guy, though. He had clearly arrived at the train station at the same time I did, but had not taken the building's shuttle to get there. Since the trains run approximately every 2-3 minutes on weekday mornings, the chances that he would have been standing on the platform, had he not arrived at the Metro at almost the instant I did, is very unlikely.
So, is he now driving to the Metro station? If so, why? To avoid running into me on the shuttle? Goodness, I hope not. I would hate to think he's actually putting out that much effort. Also, considering that we live in the same building and take the same Metro line into the District every day, it's inevitable that we will run into each other.
I suppose I will have to continue to live in ignorance, since I seized the opportunity to blend in with the crowd that had arrived home on the shuttle with me tonight. I checked my mail, started opening it (so as to have an excuse to look away), and walked past him without acknowledgment.
As I walked into the mailroom tonight, I realized that I was wrong. There he was in the connected alcove, talking on his cell phone. He was wearing dress clothes and had his laptop bag--an indication that he had just returned home from work. Except...he hadn't been on the shuttle. He also hasn't been on the shuttle any morning this week. I've been more faithful with my class attendance and have actually been shocked that our paths have yet to cross.
Is it possible that he is not taking the shuttle anymore?
We live less than a mile from the Metro station and as long as the shuttle is running at a time when he's arriving or leaving home, why would he pay for a cab, the public bus, or daily parking at the Metro station? We share similar views about finances and I've never known him to frivilously throw money away, especially when we have a free, private shuttle running every 15 minutes to and from our building. It just doesn't make sense.
I did wonder about it the last time I saw Neighbor Guy, though. He had clearly arrived at the train station at the same time I did, but had not taken the building's shuttle to get there. Since the trains run approximately every 2-3 minutes on weekday mornings, the chances that he would have been standing on the platform, had he not arrived at the Metro at almost the instant I did, is very unlikely.
So, is he now driving to the Metro station? If so, why? To avoid running into me on the shuttle? Goodness, I hope not. I would hate to think he's actually putting out that much effort. Also, considering that we live in the same building and take the same Metro line into the District every day, it's inevitable that we will run into each other.
I suppose I will have to continue to live in ignorance, since I seized the opportunity to blend in with the crowd that had arrived home on the shuttle with me tonight. I checked my mail, started opening it (so as to have an excuse to look away), and walked past him without acknowledgment.
A Relevant Addition to That Last Post
I was waiting to write about the pseudo-date I have with Rich's third cousin, Mike, this weekend (no, that is not a joke, although he apparently doesn't know Rich), but what interesting notification did I receive today on Facebook?
It is Mike's birthday today! In November.
Of course.
So, in answer to my own question last time about when I will find out the next date's birthday: I found out from Facebook, during my lunch break on a rainy Thursday afternoon, before we have even met in person. Apparently, my propensity to unconsciously seek out men (or rather, have them seek me out) born in November continues.
Now, back to your regularly scheduled programming.
It is Mike's birthday today! In November.
Of course.
So, in answer to my own question last time about when I will find out the next date's birthday: I found out from Facebook, during my lunch break on a rainy Thursday afternoon, before we have even met in person. Apparently, my propensity to unconsciously seek out men (or rather, have them seek me out) born in November continues.
Now, back to your regularly scheduled programming.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
An Interesting Fact About the Men I Date (Or Maybe, A Clue About Why None of My Relationships Have Worked Out)
A little known detail about my dating tendencies is that I have never dated a man whose birthday is not in the fall. By “fall,” I sort of mean “November.” It's not intentional, but it is a little bizarre.
Being an August baby myself, I’m sure there’s some astrologist somewhere waiting to read my charts and tell me what is hidden in the stars. I don't believe in astrology, but I will admit that this phenomenon probably does say something about my personality preferences in a significant other. In fact, given that four of the five men I have ever seriously dated were born in November, there might be pheromones involved too. (Or, probably not.)
The Birth Date Evidence:
First Boyfriend (18 years old*): November 23
Second Boyfriend (20 years old): October 9
Third Boyfriend (21 years old): November 18
Fourth Boyfriend (23 years old): November 20
Fifth Boyfriend (25 years old, Rich): November 8
Don’t ask me why I can remember these people’s birthdays either. Can I remember useful information, such as the histology of the juxtaglomerular apparatus? Sometimes. Can I remember the birthdays of crushes and casual dates as far back as the early 1990’s? Yes!
This tendency may serve me well as a doctor, but only if I'm able to somehow incorporate emotion into my memories (Thank you, amygdala. And, for the record, this phenomenon has yet to occur.) Hopefully, I'll luck out and all of my patients will be hot, available men that I want to date. Then, you know who's going to be chief resident? YES!
By the way, how come I know the birthdays of even men I have casually dated? Did discussion of birth date really come up on the second date? (It would be hilarious if it did, I just can't remember.)
Note to self: Record when birth date is brought into conversation on next dating venture.
*The ages listed next to the men are my ages when I started dating them, not their ages at the time.
Being an August baby myself, I’m sure there’s some astrologist somewhere waiting to read my charts and tell me what is hidden in the stars. I don't believe in astrology, but I will admit that this phenomenon probably does say something about my personality preferences in a significant other. In fact, given that four of the five men I have ever seriously dated were born in November, there might be pheromones involved too. (Or, probably not.)
The Birth Date Evidence:
First Boyfriend (18 years old*): November 23
Second Boyfriend (20 years old): October 9
Third Boyfriend (21 years old): November 18
Fourth Boyfriend (23 years old): November 20
Fifth Boyfriend (25 years old, Rich): November 8
Don’t ask me why I can remember these people’s birthdays either. Can I remember useful information, such as the histology of the juxtaglomerular apparatus? Sometimes. Can I remember the birthdays of crushes and casual dates as far back as the early 1990’s? Yes!
This tendency may serve me well as a doctor, but only if I'm able to somehow incorporate emotion into my memories (Thank you, amygdala. And, for the record, this phenomenon has yet to occur.) Hopefully, I'll luck out and all of my patients will be hot, available men that I want to date. Then, you know who's going to be chief resident? YES!
By the way, how come I know the birthdays of even men I have casually dated? Did discussion of birth date really come up on the second date? (It would be hilarious if it did, I just can't remember.)
Note to self: Record when birth date is brought into conversation on next dating venture.
*The ages listed next to the men are my ages when I started dating them, not their ages at the time.
Monday, November 1, 2010
NaBloPoMo
For as long as I can remember, writing has been easier when I’m emotionally devastated. I know, how strikingly stereotypical. Another writer full of churning angst, who sits down at her computer and gives life to her melancholy. Still, after a horrendous day at school, if I can type out words that I am unable to speak, I feel better instantaneously.
When everything’s just fine, it's a little bit different. There’s nothing to talk about. Instead of huddling over the dim glow of my laptop brooding about the injustices of life, there are friends to see and dinners to be had! There's no motivation to put up a good show on the blog.
Anyway, this month is NaBloPoMo, “National Blog Posting Month.” Participating bloggers (me!) are supposed to blog once a day for the month of November. This is my first time participating--incidentally, while I am not working as a writer by profession. The latter may make keeping up with this a challenge, so I apologize in advance if things start erring towards say, useless drivel, rather than riveting dating stories.
I will try to keep things interesting, though, and I did think about what to do if I run out of dating stories. There's always Neighbor Guy--my gay-straight love interest who lives in my building and who I can “accidentally” run into with minimal effort, at pretty much any time. Come to think of it, this is going to be completely fine.
When everything’s just fine, it's a little bit different. There’s nothing to talk about. Instead of huddling over the dim glow of my laptop brooding about the injustices of life, there are friends to see and dinners to be had! There's no motivation to put up a good show on the blog.
Anyway, this month is NaBloPoMo, “National Blog Posting Month.” Participating bloggers (me!) are supposed to blog once a day for the month of November. This is my first time participating--incidentally, while I am not working as a writer by profession. The latter may make keeping up with this a challenge, so I apologize in advance if things start erring towards say, useless drivel, rather than riveting dating stories.
I will try to keep things interesting, though, and I did think about what to do if I run out of dating stories. There's always Neighbor Guy--my gay-straight love interest who lives in my building and who I can “accidentally” run into with minimal effort, at pretty much any time. Come to think of it, this is going to be completely fine.
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