Disengage and Delete

I had been psyched about my 29th birthday until I read his message.

He was a 45 year old doctor, living in Jamaica.  The only reason that I was responding to his messages was because unlike most other men, he was entertaining and interesting.  Also, he was a doctor.  I figured that I should take one for the team and try to make the family happy.

I had no romantic interest in him, despite the fact that he had found me on a dating website.  I kind of thought that that was an obvious point, given his age.  But, you should never underestimate the social obtuseness of strangers on the internet--no matter how successful or intelligent they are.

The day before my birthday, he sent me a message that showed that he didn’t plan on this being a mentor-mentee or friendship sort of exchange.

“What’s your age limit for men?,” he had asked.  “My female friends tell me that they worry about men over age 45, because of plumbing problems...lol”

I was both appalled that he had so openly tied the idea of sex into my preferences for age, and that he was a cardiologist using words like “plumbing problems” and “lol.” I mean, is it too much to talk like a grown-up?  At least call it, "ED."  I'm a medical student!  I can handle the acronyms!

I did send a reply, not because I wanted to continue witty banter, but because it would be wrong not to.

“My upper limit for men is 38,” I had written.  “I’m sorry, but I really like talking to you and I would like to continue that.  But, only as friends."

The response that I got back—on my 29^th birthday—was a sugar-coated version of rude.  He told me that speaking "as a father figure," he wanted to warn me of the rigors of medical school and post-graduate training. (Yes, I noticed when I called off my wedding, douchebag.) He also wanted to point out, he said, that I wasn't going to meet very many people during medical training (Again, I'm on a dating website.  You think I didn't notice?) and that I wasn't getting any younger.  (No, he. did. not.)  

He told me that for the record, he had no intention of moving to another country anyway (Yeah, right.) and that he had a fabulous life in Jamaica and was looking for a woman to fit into his life there (Except, you're 45 and that plan hasn't worked out for you so far).   He ended with some version of, "If you're smart, you won't be so picky."

If “picky” is wanting to date someone who is not old enough to be my father, or who wants to sleep with me based on a single internet dating website photo, or who lives in the same country, then yes, I am so, so picky.  It is a miracle that men want to go out with me at all, with my aging ovaries and unreasonable demands that I find someone who at least understands my 80's references and actually wants to grow old, as opposed to just being old.  I mean, no wonder I'm 29 and not married!  

Although I enjoyed regaling you with stories of Derrick, Josh, and Shawn, the reality is that this site is horrible. It's full of inappropriate, immature, and overly sensitive men.  And, you know what?  I'm tired of it.  I may have needed distractions from my breakup with Rich last year and had fun with the delicious blog fodder that resulted from those awful dates.  But, now?  I have better things to do with my time than fielding messages from men who think that I'm "too white" or "too picky."  I also have precious little time for people who have issues with passive-aggressiveness.

So, I deleted my account tonight.


We all know that I wasn't going to find my future husband on that website.  Not that those men found their future spouses there either. Perhaps there’s a reason why a good-looking, 45 year old doctor is still unmarried.  Just saying.  

What Hurricane?

It's an open the windows and let the breeze blow through the apartment kind of day in Virginia.

There was some loud wind and rain last night, but as far as I know, no loss of power in my building.  (If you click on the image, you can see some very minor debris on the tennis courts.)  Thank God that nothing serious happened.  Even if it had, I assure you that the medical school would likely not be shutting down tomorrow.

I hope that you and yours were also safe!

The Drop-Off

When I saw him in the parking garage, the first thing that I noticed was his hair.

It was too long, and the ends at the base of his neck had started to curl upward, as they always did when he needed a haircut.  When we were together, I’d always remind him to schedule hair appointments.  The flip-up bothered me.

It had been over a year since I went to Rich’s building, much less let myself into the parking garage. 

When he took the keys to his condo on the night that we broke up, it included the garage door opener, which had been hanging on my keychain.

“Which space is it again?,” I asked, rolling down the window.

He was standing in the lane between his space and mine, wearing a pink button-down shirt and seersucker shorts.  It was his typical, weekend banker yuppy look.

“I don’t know. I think #230,” he replied.

“Does that feel familiar to you?,” he asked, as I opened the car door.

“I’m not sure,” I replied.  “You’re probably right.  My parking space had a pole [structural stabilization] in it.”

He walked towards me and reached out for a hug.  This surprised me.

Usually, he does the hug and cheek kiss thing for casual acquaintances.  But, this was a real hug with full body contact, and no cheek-kissing.  I hugged back.

He asked if I needed a ride home, and I said no—that my roommate and her boyfriend were waiting for me at the Panera Bread downstairs.  He said OK, and asked if I wanted to walk through the building with him.  So, I followed him to the indoor elevators, where he proceeded to get in.

“Are you going to go downstairs too?,” I asked, confused.

“I’ll go check my mail in the lobby,” he said.

In the lobby, he mentioned that he would be out tomorrow night and thus, unable to let me back in to the garage.  Except, we're in the middle of a hurricane and Rich knows that I don't drive into school.  Something about the statement made me think that it was meant to elicit curiosity on my part.  It didn't.

“Call me on Monday or Tuesday,” he said.  “I’ll be home in the evening.”

“OK,” I said. “I will.”

I Don't Have a Flashlight, But I Do Have This

Don't say that medical students aren't resourceful.

(And yes, obviously I am joking about not owning a flashlight.  You guys do know I'm from South Florida, yes?)

Ask, And You Shall Receive

So, I did it.  I kind of wanted to do it last winter, when I posted this, but I didn't think that it was appropriate until last night.

After staying up an hour later than usual to stare at the Weather Channel, which was projecting all sorts of scariness regarding Hurricane Irene, I decided that I should email Rich.

After all, when Rich purchased his condo, he did so with the expectation that I, his wife, would be living with him too.  He purchased a storage space in the building, and negotiated a second parking space into his offer.

A second indoor parking space.

So, with the knowledge of exactly what a Category 3 hurricane entails (thank you, Florida upbringing!), I emailed Rich and asked to use my his second parking space this weekend. 

He said yes.

I didn't think that he would risk the family gossip that would ensue if he said no, but I have to say that I am still a little bit surprised at how civil we are acting with each other.  It will be the first time that we've seen each other since I moved my clothes out of his condo over a year ago, and the first time that we've talked in person for the same amount of time.  Let's pray that the only storm this weekend is related to the hurricane. 

Now, if there was just some way for me to board up the windows on my 11th floor apartment...

On Medical School Paranoia

Me (with panic, to classmate in library):  What the hell does "currant jelly sputum" refer to?

Her (noticing that I have Facebook open):  Oh, he's probably just sick.

Me:  But, two different people in our class have it as their status!

Her:  (blank stare)

Me:  I went to class today!  There was no mention of sputum!

Her:  Maybe they're reading ahead in the notes.

So, yes, I did just spend five minutes Googling, "currant jelly sputum."  And no, I still have no idea what relevance it has to what we're learning.

In Case of Emergency, Break Silence

I wasn't living in New York on 9/11, but Rich was.  He was a student at NYU, but had skipped class that morning.  My aunt and uncle weren't that fortunate.  They were at work in separate buildings in midtown, and with cell phones basically unusable, they couldn't contact each other.  They were both safe, but when the NYC blackout happened a few months later, my aunt walked from her office in midtown all the way home to Long Island, without knowing where my uncle was or if he had made it home.  Shortly after she arrived home, he did too.

If you live in the northeast, you remember that after 9/11, everyone had a mental route mapped out of how they would evacuate if there was another act of terrorism.  At the time, I lived in Baltimore and had no family nearby, except the uncle and aunt in New York.  Since I was sandwiched between DC and New York, the plan was to hop in the car and drive west, hoping for the best.  I still have an outfit in the trunk of my car, along with a blanket, from this time.

Once I moved to DC, and started dating Rich, I'd occassionally think about what would happen if we needed to evacuate immediately.  I'd be the only one of us that was in DC proper (Rich's office is in Viginia), but with my sister living in Asheville, the plan would be, again, to drive west.  At least this time I had a destination in mind.

When the earthquake happened this afternoon, I was in a first floor lecture hall during a break.  My classmate noticed the projector image shaking, before we felt anything.  He commented about what might be going on upstairs to cause the vibration and then, before we could speculate further, the whole building was shaking.  The lecture hall, full of people chatting, fell silent.  When the shaking stopped, we were wondering aloud whether it had been an earthquake, explosion, or terrorist attack, when the first fire alarm started sounded and announcements were made to evacuate.  People started hustling towards the emergency exits, hastily grabbing notesets, backpacks, and open cups of coffee.  I didn't even know where the emergency exit was before today.

Standing on the street with 500 other people from evacuated buildings, as other alarms sounded around us, I wondered whether or not I should text Rich.  Of all of the people that I know living in the Greater DC area, it was he that I thought about first.

After all, it was he who was a part of my emergency evacuation plan.  It was his name that I'd list on my emergency contact form; his phone number that I'd want to call.

Instead, I texted my roommate, who was en route from New York to Virginia.  She offered to come and pick me up if the Metro stopped running and a classmate approached me about splitting cab fare to Virginia, if it came to that.  I tried to call my sister in North Carolina (who also felt the quake...emergency plan shot!), but the phone lines were too busy.

Thankfully, the Metro was running, so once the medical school was officially shut down to assess for structural damage, I got on the train and lost my thoughts in conversation with medical school friends.  I completely forgot about texting Rich, until I got home, and saw this:

From:  Rich
To:  redstethoscopeblog@gmail.com
Tuesday, August 23, 2011  3:10 p.m.


Subject:  quake


everything good with you?  hope you are ok.

Maybe his emergency evacuation plan is still very similar to mine.  Maybe he emailed everyone he knows in DC.  Maybe, if something truly dangerous did happen, we'd finally be OK with each other, if only for that moment.

The End of Summer

I almost didn't go home to Florida this time around.

The time was short and although I hadn't been home since last December, I didn't know if I should spend the money on another trip before school started.

If medical school has changed me in no other way, though, it's taught me that you have to make the most of every opportunity.  When you have vacation, you should take the trip.  Just book the flight, pack your clothes, and go.

After all, when you are on your 12th hour of studying two weeks later, you won't regret the decision.  Besides, when you're rapidly accumulating medical school debt, a single plane ticket home is pretty insignificant.

The desire to carpe diem is also the reason that yesterday morning, when I felt the heart palpitations starting, I asked my mother whether or not I should stay home and work on data analysis or go and visit my friend from high school.

"Do whatever you need to get your work done," my mom said.  Before medical school, she'd always be telling me to take breaks and have a life already.  Now?  I don't think she knows what to say.  I spazz out a lot, you guys.

Knowing that time is precious, especially when dealing with babies, I got up early, hustled to get my data analysis done, and made the time to meet these guys:

In addition to being cute, they were also cuddly, which means that I got lots of snuggles and kisses, and smelled the lingering scent of baby powder in my hair for the rest of the day.  (It's OK to be jealous.)

For the first time since I can remember, this trip was also unbelievably busy.  On my first day, I made a to-do list, and despite crossing off 3-4 items a day, I was still hustling yesterday.  There was schoolwork, dinners with high school friends, and personal projects that I had given myself to fill the boredom that anticipated.  At 9 p.m. last night, I was still dyeing a pair of (fabric) ballet flats for clinic, altering a sari top on my sewing machine (which lives at my mother's house in Florida), and making a tray of scalloped potatoes to take to my aunt's house for lunch today.

When church ran late this morning, I was concerned that lunch would run into my afternoon buffer, and that I wouldn't get to swim before I left.

As if reading my thoughts, though, my uncle turned on the Creepy Crawly and asked why I wasn't getting in the pool.  So, after a little happy birthday song singing, I cut the most delicious custom made birthday cake ever (and pretended to eat my cake face first, at the prompting of my uncle).

Then, I proceeded to spend my last hour in Florida doing this:

I had just enough time to swim, shower, and get to the airport.

Then, as if blowing a goodbye kiss back, the Florida sunset did not disappoint.

What a perfect end to summer.  I just might be able to do this (second year of medical school).

(Yes, I know that I put up real pictures of myself.  It's a little experiment.  Don't get used to it, internet.)

My Thoughts Exactly

I didn't forget about you, internet.  I've just been...distracted...these days. 

School is starting on Monday, and suddenly, the anxiety that I have to cope through during school is back!  Like, "Hello, did you miss me, Red?  What about the feelings of sleep deprivation and the inability to complete all of your daily tasks?  No?" 

No.

So anyway, in the past week, I have tried to write about my 29th birthday, about how lovely it is to see high school friends while at home in Florida, the summary of results from my research study (don't worry, not for you), and several marketing pieces for my friend's (not Rajiv's) company.  So far, the only writing task I've succeeded at is the marketing bit, and that's probably because I have to write those to get paid and keep up my end of a certain employment contract. 

Then, I usually go and watch The First 48 with my mother, because I'm told that what's you're supposed to do during your last few days of vacation.

Anyway, in the time that I should be writing, I've been compulsively reading your blogs instead.  You don't know this, though, because Blogger is being wonky and I can only comment on 20% of the things that I read.  Thank you, Blogger.

One of my favorite bloggers, Rebecca Woolf (Girls Gone Child) wrote this on her Babble blog today:

"That’s the thing about writing – it’s basically the act of petrifying one’s mundane history for the rest of one’s life. This is why it’s atrocious to give a writer shit for writing… it’s hard enough for us to live with our “early work” and by “work” I mean blog posts from 2005."

And, that, my friends, sums up my thoughts on blogging in a nutshell.  I want to jump through the internet, hug Rebecca, and go, "Yes, child.  YES!"  As much as I love you guys, we will not be revisiting the Summer of 2005--when I met Rajiv.  In a lounge.  And thought that I was cool.  (The part about being cool was valid, though.)  Then again, one day, I'll be looking back at this blog and feeling the same way.

The Resolution

Next Monday, classes resume at my medical school.  This is significant, of course, because the last time I wrote about medical school, I wasn't entirely sure that I'd be going back.

I still can't get into details, but when I was in the Dominican Republic, I received an email from one of the dean's secretaries telling me that I needed to come in to see her.  Since I minded my Ps and Qs like a champ this past year, I figured the meeting was of the annoying and ridiculous nature.

I'd probably be asked to answer exit interview type questions, about my "readiness" for the new year (Ready!) and whether or not I was "grateful" for the repeated year of medical school (Still, no, not grateful).  Instead, I'd arrived to find two deans sitting across from me, detailing accusations that were so serious, I both sought legal counsel and started exploring the possibility of returning to writing, since I was sure that I'd need to drop out.

That meeting ended with me leaving to return to the Dominican Republic and the deans telling me that they'd be in touch.  Not unexpectedly, I didn't hear anything in the Dominican Republic.  This is Washington, after all.  The administration knows better than to send emails.  They were going to wait until they could have a non-binding face-to-face conversation when I returned--their typical modus operandi.

After the second meeting, I had had serious conversations with most of my family about the fact that I'd be dropping out of medical school.  Despite all of the obstacles that have arisen, though, I know that none of them want to see me walk away.

"Have you considered praying for this dean?," my aunt asked me one day at breakfast in the Dominican Republic.

"Of course I've been praying for her!," I said.  "I pray for bad things to happen all the time."

I mean, wouldn't any other rational person pray for the same?  Specifically, I'd pray for The Dean I Hate to lose her job.  But, if her husband left her, her car broke down on 495, or she just tripped and broke a limb, I'd be fine with either of those options too.

I mean, vengeance is yours, God!  Punish appropriately!

"No," my aunt said.  "I mean have you prayed for good things to happen to her?  Clearly, she had some sort of vendetta against you and she probably has some sort of personal problem that she's transferring to you.  Have you prayed for whatever else might be going on in her life?"

I was quiet, because honestly, when it comes to, "Love your enemies and pray for those who spitefully use you (Matt. 5:44)" or "Do not take revenge, but leave room for God's wrath (Romans 12:19)," I'm a vengeance kind of girl.

I'll keep my mouth shut, not do the things that would bring immediate gratification, and behave myself.  But, there'd better be some hellfire and damnation on my behalf!

In the Dominican Republic, though, I started praying for The Dean I Hate.  I prayed that her life would be rich and full of blessings and that she would have a strong marriage.  I prayed that she would do well at her job.  I prayed for her happiness.

And then, I heard nothing.

I registered for classes as if nothing was happening, came home, and went to school yesterday to retrieve Pharmacology notes from my mailbox.  Even though I was completely prepared to walk away from medical school, I was also waiting for God to provide the answer. If the medical school pushed harder, I was hiring a lawyer and walking away.  If they didn't, I was staying.  It was that simple.

Much to my dismay yesterday, I discovered that my locker combination had been accidentally changed and that I needed to go upstairs to the Dean's Office to get the new code.

Dun dun dun...

The Dean's Office was full of classmates organizing orientation events and I didn't see the Dean I Hate immediately.  In my bright, kelly green maxi dress, I knew that my presence wouldn't go unnoticed, though.

Within a few minutes, The Dean I Hate walked over to me and said,

"Can I talk to you for a minute?"

I was prepared for this moment.

We were going to go into a conference room, she was going to tell me that they hadn't resolved the bogus issue that they accused me of, and I'd tell her that the next time she wanted to contact me, she should bring the school's lawyer with her.

Instead, right in front of the friend I was talking to, she said,

"There's a new transfer student who's coming in and I'd like you to mentor her.  She hasn't had any of our clinical courses and she has a lot of questions.  I told her that you might be able to take her under your wing."

I was speechless.

As part of the ridiculous accusations last month, I was told by the two deans that I had failed said clinical courses because I hadn't taken my final.  Not only was the suggestion that missing a medical school final would have gone unnoticed completely bizarre, but let me tell you, I don't fail clinical courses.  I might have had a rough first year because I was spending too much time playing trophy wife to Rich, but I am exceptional in the exam room.  It is the reason that the head of the clinical program asked me to come back as a student liason last year and waived off my academic difficulties with a, "Congratulations!  You're going to ace all your classes this year and graduate AOA."  I should have gotten up and walked out of the meeting when the deans make such a stupid accusation.

When I told Christine last night that I'm now being asked to mentor someone else for the very classes that I supposedly failed, she said,

"Excuse me?"

Exactly.  I wish that I could have said as much to The Dean I Hate, but instead, I just said that of course I would mentor a new student.  A few hours later, I received an email from said dean with the new student's information attached.  There was no mention of the previous issue.

I'm guessing that this is all that I'm going to get in lieu of an apology, or an official meeting to discuss the outcome of the Very Serious Accusations.  For those of you whom I emailed and who know the nitty gritty details of what happened, this doesn't surprise you.  What is surprising is how an organization that is so disorganized and unprofessional can still be ranked as high as it is within the medical community.  I've been told many times that I will look back on this situation and laugh.

I hope that is true.

I suppose that there is still a possibility that I can get called in once classes start to tell me that I can't continue or that I am going to forced to pay in triplicate for classes that I have already passed (since I have already paid in duplicate).  Until that happens, though, I'm just going to assume that the good prayer has something to do with the magical disappearance of this situation.  A certain lovely lawyer who reads this blog already advised me that the medical school has all of the power in this situation and they really have nothing to lose or no reason to back down.

I still wouldn't be opposed to seeing The Dean I Hate lose her job, but if I can get rid of at least the harassment and false accusations, I'll take what I can get.

Girl Parts

You know that if there was a really great show that you'd love and become addicted to, especially during quick lunch/internet/clinical breaks, I'd tell you, right?

(Right.)

Well, my friend from high school, Meagan Gordon, is this amazing actress whose face you might recognize from this Olive Garden commercial, or this episode of House, or a certain dancing scene in What Happens in Vegas, in which Meagan shows that booty shaking is indeed an inherent skill of the women from our hometown.  (Lol, kidding, Meagan!)

Anyway, Meagan and her friends have launched this awesome new series called Girl Parts.

It airs every Monday at 2 p.m. PST on BlipTV (www.blip.tv/girlparts) and the episodes are short (6 minutes!).  Incidentally, this is precisely the same amount of time that most nursing and medical students stop to take breaks and remind themselves of the real world (ahem).

And, because I love you and I know that you need a break right now (Yes, you do!  Stop arguing!), here you go!  Episode 1:

(Warning:  Some salty language!  Put in your earphones!)

Enjoy!  Replay!  Spread the word!  Watch!

(Meagan plays the character, "Sam," in Girl Parts.  She also follows this blog, and her personal blog is:  Shooting the Moon.)

Pretty Things

The view from my living room window this evening:

Nicely done, DC.

Precisely Why Exes Shouldn't "Cuddle"

Me:  Hey, can you give me some restaurant recommendations for a casual, fun place in DC?

Rajiv:  Oooh, for a hot date?

Me:  No, I’m planning my birthday dinner, but the two places I wanted to go to don't accept reservations.

Rajiv.  Hmm…I see.  So, am I invited to this “birthday dinner,” since I’m helping you to choose a restaurant?

Me:  Of course you are.

Rajiv:  Can I bring someone?

[brief awkward silence]

Me:  Umm…sure.

[more awkward silence]

Rajiv:  Are you sure?

Me [with feigned enthusiasm, so as to not appear as appalled as I truly was]:  Of course!

I'm as open-minded as they come, but isn't Rajiv the one who invited himself over to my apartment, cooked me dinner, and then asked to stay the night?  I'll give him dating advice all night long, but I don't have to personally witness his dating prowess.  At dinner.  On my birthday. 

I just sent the Evite.  It did not include him. 

Of Near, and Nearly, Misses

A year ago today, I should have married Rich.

Four months after getting engaged on a snowy February afternoon, the invitations had been sent.  The caterer was chosen and the venue reserved.  A week before we broke up, I had my final dress fitting in New York. 

When I would fly home to Florida, in a mess of emotions and indecision, I’d see my wedding dress laid out on my sister’s bed.  Unable to resist temptation, I’d put on my wedding shoes, stand in front of a full-length mirror, and discover that it was a perfect fit.

Unfortunately, Rich and I weren’t a perfect fit.

Things shouldn’t have gotten as far as they did in our relationship, but it is so much easier to say that now than it was to say it then.  During our relationship, I was distracted by the demands of medical school and the obligations of being Rich’s trophy girlfriend.  I coped through a situation that was breaking me, and when I finally spoke up about the fact that Rich was crushing me personally and professionally, he walked away.

He said that if I wasn’t going to marry him then, I was never going to marry him.  He told me that he knew that he had done nothing wrong and that all of the problems in the relationship were my fault.  Then, he took my engagement ring and the keys to his condo, and walked out of my life.

What happened next would be the greatest challenge I’ve faced in life so far.  After all, no one tells you how to call off a wedding. 

No one tells you that in addition to having to inform your guests to cancel their flights, you’ll have to decide how you’ll be spending your nearly wedding day.  Hopefully, you won’t have given up your own apartment yet, because you’ll have to find a place to live.  You’ll have to figure out how to get your things out of his condo.  And, his car.  And, his storage unit.  You’ll have to decide what to do about the ring insurance.  You’ll have to write thank you notes to people you don’t know, for wedding gifts that you can’t accept, and you’ll have to cancel the honeymoon.   You'll hope that your family had only put a deposit down, and not the full payment, at the country club.  You’ll have to be strong enough to tell people what happened when they congratulate you.  You’ll have to decide if you’re going to keep your perfectly tailored wedding dress.

Months after you’ve broken up, you’ll still find one of his undershirts or socks in your laundry and even after you’re positive that you’ve taken every last belonging out of his condo, he’ll still leave a package with the concierge of your building containing things like—a workout outfit that must have been in his laundry, church dresses that were at the dry cleaners, and pots that contained the plants on his balcony that died after you broke up.

You'll start seeing a therapist again, because you know that's what you need, and you will yourself to get out of bed in the morning.  You'll pray for the summer to end, and for the fall to usher in better days.  You'll never enjoy winter as much in your life.

--

But, the past year tested me, made me stronger, and gave me perspective.

I found the strength to unpack.  I returned wedding gifts and wrote thank you notes.  I pulled myself together and repeated a year of medical school.  I decided to keep my apartment.  I used my honeymoon credit to pay for part of my travel this summer.  I left the ring renewal policy at the front desk of Rich’s building, along with the spare key to his Volvo.  I kept my wedding dress. 

I made new friends.  I joined a new church.  I dated new people.  I started this blog.  And, when I came home to a rented apartment that didn’t have granite countertops, imported Portuguese hardwoord floors, or a banker who financed the whole thing, I was happy.  I knew that I had made the right decision.

Rich and I will never be friends, for many reasons.  When I started writing here, I decided that I would never disrespect his character by saying why we didn't work out, but I wonder if he remembered this day.  Right now, he is at home—in a condo that he purchased for both of us—on the same street as me, a mere mile away. 

We have not had a conversation in a year.  We have not seen each other—at the gas station, in the grocery store, or on the street that we drive on to get to work (him) and school (me).  We have not accidentally gone to the same church on the same weekend and we have not talked about what went wrong.  Despite being on the same tiny island, in the company of two very close families, our paths did not cross during vacation in St. Vincent this year.

But for me, this is OK.  Although I will always care about Rich and want resolution, I am thankful that I was spared from what I am certain was a near miss--a decision that would have devastated my life.

--

When family members called tonight, concerned about an ongoing fever since returning from the DR, they asked,

“Are you OK?,” not remembering the significance of the day.

I replied, calmly,

“Yes.  Everything is fine.”

Because now, it is.  (Thank God.)

The Graying of Lines

When we were together, and for the years afterwards, it was normal for Rajiv to send me his work documents to edit.  There would be letters or emails or other things that he wanted a professional eye to peruse.   I’d use my editorial skills to clean up his work, and the next time we went out, dinner was on him. 

Actually, it was always on him.  This was assumed.  It was more of a professional courtesy for both of us.  Business and finance are his things; medicine and writing are mine.  We've always had an ongoing exchange of services and goods, and it's always been all good.

So, today, after editing a document for him, he wrote an email back.

“I’m going to send you a text about something….don’t want to put it in an email.”

I didn’t understand what he meant by this, since he’s the company owner, so I don’t know who would read his emails.  Still, I received a text a few minutes later.

“I’m having major women issues and really don’t get it…maybe you can be my consultant sometime this weekend...."

The text continued.

"....Am I being stupid for talking to an ex-girlfriend about this?”

Ha!  It was a little late to be worried about something like that.

After all, a few months after Rich and I called off our wedding, Rajiv called me.  His then girlfriend—a 34 year old DC lawyer—was pressuring him into marriage because she wanted to get pregnant.  For three hours, he laid out the problems that they were having in their relationship and then said,

“You know me better than anyone outside of my family.  What do you think that I should do?”

“You just spent the last three hours telling me what you want to do,” I told him.  “You don’t love her and marrying her would be wrong for both of you.”

Two days later, he broke up with her.

As far as I know, Rajiv is dating a Swedish model and an Indian friend of a friend, among possible others.  After breaking up, we've remained good friends and we’ve always been open about our relationships.  So, why am I being reminded of my status as an "ex-girlfriend" now?

Well, let me tell you.

The night that Rajiv cooked me dinner, I may not have included all of the details of what happened that night here.  Rajiv finished cooking dinner around 11 p.m., and he lives an hour and a half away from me.  So, when he asked if he could stay the night, I said yes. 

Around 1 a.m., I started to pull the coffee table away from the couch, to make room for the pullout bed.  This was standard procedure.  As I started pulling couch cushions off, though, he said,

“Come on.  You’re really going to make me sleep on the couch?”

“Yes,” I said.  “You always sleep on the couch.”

“Nothing’s going to happen,” he assured me.  “I just want to cuddle with you.”

And, because I was anxious about many things that night, including my return trip to the DR and medical school issues, I let Rajiv climb into bed with me for the first time in five years.

He did stay the night, and we did more than cuddle.  Then, when he dropped me off at the airport to go the DR a week later, he kissed me on the lips.

The problem with Rajiv and I is that we’ve always had great physical chemistry.  When he took me out on my 25^th birthday—a year after we had broken up—he tried to kiss me at the end of the night.  Frequently, he will make flirtacious comments to me and every now and then, his arm will find its way around my waist when we walk to the car after dinner.  There is a tempting boundary that we usually don’t cross, but three weeks ago, we crossed it.

Which is probably why he’s now asking me if it’s weird to talk about other girls with me.

I know that Rajiv and I will never work out as a couple, so perhaps this is the reason why I don't find it uncomfortable for him to talk about other women with me.  I just feel bad that I was that girl, who lacked the self-control to say no, and who let her ex-boyfriend spend the night.  Someone tell me that this happens to everyone sometimes, because it’s the first time that it’s ever happened to me.

Going Home

My first trip to the DR ended on a high note.

The three weeks had been an exciting combination of work and play, with mornings spent at the beach, afternoons in the hospital, and lots of tourist destinations in between.  Towards the end of my trip, I went out with my cousin partying until the wee hours, and the night before my flight home, he saved me from the embarrassment of being stood up by Ricard by taking me out again. 

Driving along the water, with the windows open along the Malecon, was the perfect ending to what had been a packed trip.  When I tried to convince him to call it a night by 2 a.m., he made me stay out until 3:30 a.m., because “it’s your last night.”

This last trip wasn’t quite as exciting.

“I’m sorry that you didn’t get to do much of anything this time,” my aunt told me yesterday.

“It’s OK,” I reassured her.  “It was a different kind of trip.”

When I got home from my first Caribbean trip, I was overwhelmed.  Things felt too familiar at home.  I was in my apartment alone, with too much time to think about things—exactly as I was last summer, after breaking up with Rich.  When I got called into the administration’s office during the measly 10 days that I actually managed to be home, the dejavu was crippling.  It was time to leave again.

So, I booked a ticket, with five days notice, back to the DR the same night that Rajiv cooked me dinner in my apartment.  And, in much the same way that I barely managed to book a ticket and get to the airport the day after I moved out of Rich’s condo last summer, I left things status quo, with clothes strewn across my bed at home, and got on a plane.

(So yes, I do run away from my problems when the opportunity presents itself—thank you very much.)

This time, though, my trip was mainly business.  I went to the hospital everyday—for several hours a day--and for the most part, I felt satisfied with my study results.  As far as exploring and enjoying the island, my mind was elsewhere.  I spent my free time dealing with things like credit card statements and lease renewals and I let the practicalities of real life invade the tranquility of my alternate reality. 

This morning, after two weeks, I was ready to go.

I got frustrated early on, arguing with my uncle (whom I love, but is the cheapest man alive) about when I could take the car and the price of gasoline.  I did give him money in addition refilling the tank everyday, but eventually, I just stopped asking to go places outside of work, because it was easier to just sit at home and work on data analysis than to argue about whether or not I could take the car.  

In my past travels, I’ve either had an expense account or boyfriend to accompany me.  The former ensured that I had a rental car and the freedom to do whatever I wanted in my free time.  The latter prompted me to want to try new things and see as much as possible in new places.  As someone who’s lived on her own for 10 years now, the lack of independence was crippling and eventually, I just stopped trying.

Perhaps most noticeable difference between the first and second trips, though, was the amount of relationship drama.  Granted, the day that arrived, I was basically on the verge of tears about my medical school issues, so Lord knows, I appreciated the distractions.  Still, I left feeling frustrated and flawed by the experience.  I know that my Dominican friend Lucy has assured me that it’s really them and not me, but seriously, rejection and confusion are awful.     

This morning, I had an early flight and with Tropical Storm Emily looming, it felt like in many ways, I was running away again.   Sneaking out under the cover of early morning darkness, I was playing chicken--daring Emily to pull me back. 

She didn’t.

And, when I encountered a very American customs officer in Miami, I was thrilled to hear a non-accented hello.  When he asked if I was happy to be home, I said yes, truthfully, and when he said,

“Sometimes it’s good to be back,”

I wanted to say, “You have no idea.”

NO IDEA.

God bless the country where 28 year old women can live alone, switch careers, incur debt to follow their dreams, call off weddings to rich bankers, and be voluntarily single without being viewed as expired goods.

It’s very, very good to be home.

Editor’s Note:  I wrote this yesterday, on the plane, but subsequently developed a fever in Miami (where I had a six hour layover), so apologies for not posting earlier.  Also, my (older) cousin threatened to let Alvaro and Eduardo read this after I left.  If you two are reading, hello!  Sorry that I talked about you on the internet, but please get it together...at least for the American girls.

The Dominican Way

“I bet the Dominican men have been lining up for you,” she said.

It was my first time meeting her, and her statement seemed overly direct.  It was obviously meant to elicit further elaboration. 

“Well, kind of,” I responded.  “But, nothing ever goes anywhere with any of them,” I responded.

She didn’t mean her question in an intrusive way, though.  As the daughter of my uncle’s friend, she had come to visit me.  Being that we are the same age, (still) unmarried (THE HORROR!), and both living in the States, we had a lot in common.

I gave her a brief rundown of my experiences here, including the annoying tendency of Dominican men to say, “I’ll call you tonight,” and then to not call.  (Or show up.  Or apologize.)  As a Dominican woman living in the US, she had a different take on things.

“At least they’re not as heartless as Americans,” she responded, surprising me.

Heartless?  I’ve never been stood up in the US and I definitely get more respect from American men.  More importantly, time seems to be more valued in the US.  When men set a date with you, they give you more than 24 hours notice and in my experience, they show up.  According to her, though, Americans are capable of casually dating, then cutting each other off without looking back, which is “heartless.”

(Umm...I will not be sharing this blog address with her.)

Still, even this particular heartless dater can tire of the constant cycle of casual dating.

On Saturday night, I didn’t want man drama.  I just wanted to hang out with my older cousin and have some fun.  (Incidentally, said cousin is now reading this blog.  Hi, cousin!)

My cousin had come home on Saturday afternoon and left again, but I was taking a nap and I didn’t know that he was home.  Realizing that I had missed him, I called his cell phone later that night to see if he could come back and get me.

“Don’t you have a date with Eduardo or Alvaro?,” he asked, teasing me.

“No,” I said flatly.

“OK, well which one do you want to go out with tonight?,” he asked, pretending to be my pimp.

“Neither!,” I said. “I just want to go out with you!”

So, a half hour later, he pulled into the driveway and I went back to the restaurant with him.  After he closed up, we went to his friend’s bar, and then to a small club.  His friends (including Alvaro and Eduardo) were all busy, so we were on our own for the night.  As you know, though, I’m more than capable of making friends on the fly.  Eventually, I spotted a good-looking Dominican guy sipping Presidente at the bar.

If you’re wondering which guys you should approach to dance with you in foreign countries, this is who you should go for:

1.  Someone who is subtlely dancing to himself.  He's looking for a dance partner.
2.  Someone who is with his guy friends.  If you are dressed nicely and say hello with a smile, he's not going to say no, because you're going to make him look like a baller in front of his friends.
3.  Someone who has made eye contact with you once or twice.  That's your invitation.  Go for it.

So with a simple, “Quieres bailar?” (“Want to dance?”), I stole a guy named Miguel away from his Presidente and his two friends.  And, he loved it.  He asked me for my number, then followed my cousin and I to another club.  Around 4 a.m., though, he said that he had to go.  He asked me no less than three times if he could take me out the following night and I said yes.  (For clarification, my cousin knew Miguel's friend, so no, I didn't agree to go out with a total stranger!)

He kept saying, “You’re not just saying that, are you?” and I wanted to reply, “You’re not just saying that, are you?”

I mean, I might be a heartless American dater, but at least I keep my word.  As for his Dominican counterparts, the same is not necessarily true.

So, imagine my surprise when I returned from an afternoon run yesterday to see a text message from him. As per my cousin’s instructions, I pretended to be busier than I was.

I called a few hours later and when he asked what I was doing, I told him that I was on my way to check on patients in the hospital (which was the truth).

“Oh, OK.  Well, I’ll call you in a few hours then.”

Perhaps Dominican men are trained in this protocol, because Miguel is the fourth man to start with the text message, then the invitation to go out for the same night, then the promise to “call back later.”  It must be the Dominican way.

But, why internet?  Why!  First of all, why do these men assume that women aren’t doing anything else with their time?  Granted, my schedule is paltry and insignificant compared to in the US, but have some respect for a person’s time!  If we really were stateside, it's highly unlikely that I'd be available the same night.  Secondly, why are these guys so vague about choosing a time?  Be a man and pick the time and place like an adult (“So, tomorrow at 7 for dinner?”).   Finally, I wish they also had enough integrity to follow through.  Obviously, the guy is interested if he text messages and asks you out, but what’s up with giving the false hope about a date, then not even calling back?

Before I could voice an objection to him, though, Miguel had said goodbye. 

So, I went to the hospital to see my patients and then, to a church program with my aunt.  When I saw two missed calls around 10 p.m., I expected one of them to be from Miguel.

They weren’t.  He never called.  Both calls were from Eduardo.

When I called back, Eduardo was more terse than expected.

“What are you up to?,” he asked. 

I mentioned the church program with my aunt and the fact that we had just gotten home.

“Oh, well I wanted to go out,” he said.  “But it’s too late now.”

“Yeah, I know,” I replied. “Sorry about that.”

Then, in quite the unexpected reaction, Eduardo said,

“So, did you not have your cell phone with you earlier?”

No, he did not.  I didn’t bother to blog about this, but Eduardo and I never went out on Saturday afternoon.  He also ended that explanatory conversation with an, “I’ll call you later,” which he never did.  I let my cousin be the one to text message him on Saturday night, because I’m over playing these stupid games.  So, after not keeping his word about Saturday, Eduardo was pissed off because I was busy and didn’t answer my phone when he was calling?  The sense of entitlement that Dominican men have is appalling.

So, as our current stats stand, Eduardo annoyed me, and I have yet to hear back from Miguel, Alvaro, or Jacob.  (Although Jacob is a surgical resident and never promised to call back.  That's just me being hopeful.)  I have no idea what the Dominican way dictates should happen next, but let me tell you, I'm a master at the American way of dating and on Wednesday, I go home.

Editor's Note:  My (younger) cousin and I went out tonight and I was ranting about this situation to him.  He said to me, "Wait, is it bad to not call back?  Because I do that sometimes."  He is so lucky that he is my family and that I love him.  SO LUCKY.