The Post-Dinner Dance

It was unplanned, but a great coincidence. The restaurant that I was meeting some high school friends at for dinner was exactly four blocks away from the club where Marcus wanted me to meet him.

Earlier this week, Marcus had asked me both if I would join him for dinner on Sunday, or meet him for dancing on Saturday night. I hesitated to respond, as per my earlier feelings on spending more time with Marcus, and told him that I’d let him know if I could do either after I figured out my weekend study plans.

After realizing that he had written the song lyrics to the music that was going to be played at a club four blocks from where I was having dinner, I texted him on Saturday.

I’ll be at [intersection] for dinner. Probably be done by 9:30. Could meet you after…?

I knew that I would probably be fairly unproductive after dinner and Sunday was looking too full with the necessary evils of studying, laundry, and group study at night.

So, at dinner, I gave my friends a brief rundown of the Marcus situation. They asked the usual questions about him, and I mentioned that the reason that we were going to this particular club was because Marcus spends his days (before opening the restaurant at night) writing song lyrics, among other things.

They asked what kind of music the club played, and I said that I thought that it was house music. Except, does house music have lyrics?  I have no idea.  Aside from my summer in the DR, I don’t frequent clubs nearly often enough to know anything worthwhile about them.  As it turns out, house music does have lyrics--lyrics that Marcus wrote and wanted to hear played by his DJ friend, in a club where he could see the crowd’s reaction.  And mine, of course.

I should have had him meet me at the restaurant, but honestly, I'm not ready to start introducing him to my friends.  Also, these are friends from way back when, not random medical school people who I'm superficially acquainted with. Instead, I told him that I would meet him at the club.

This presented a slight problem.

Knowing the kind of venue where this music display was happening, I had put on a form-fitting cocktail dress.  Since dinner was casual and with friends, I wore a large sweater over it, with flat sandals.  After a quick post-dinner shoe swap in my car, though, I had to find a way to walk the four blocks without feeling like a streetwalker.  A streetwalker carrying a huge bag with keys, a cell phone, ID, and cash.

When we sat down at the bar, I pulled off my sweater, folded it, and put it into my purse.

“Sorry I have so much stuff,” I apologized, anticipating this to be a problem when we would start dancing later.

Clearly, I don’t hit the club scene with the right people, because the usual barriers that exist—showing ID, paying a cover, checking your coat—don’t apply when you’re with a bar owner who has been frequenting the place since you met him six years ago. He knew the bouncer by name and without showing ID or having my bag searched, the bouncer lifted the velvet rope and ushered us in. I was a little stunned, lagging behind and mumbling, “So, no ID needed, then?” Apparently not. Also, before hitting the dance floor, we bypassed a second velvet rope—this one delineating the DJ area and sunken VIP tables.  Introducing me to the DJs, he handed them his cell phone and my purse, which were tucked away someplace out of sight in the DJ booth.

(Side note:  When you think about it, a velvet rope is such a tiny, insignificant demarcation.  Yet, in a club, it's such a big deal--separating the VIPs from the regular Joe Shmoes.  Also, I forgot how many sluttily dressed girls there are in clubs, trying to get VIP attention.  So silly.)

Then, it was down to the dancefloor, where colored lights blazed, and some sort of carbon dioxide pump filled the room with a fog/mist combination that I always hated in this club.

“One day they’re going to find out that that stuff kills you,” Marcus joked when he saw my expression, as the fog filled the room.

I chose not to comment on the fact that I was sure that my brain cells were dying at that very moment.

Instead, following his lead, we started dancing just beneath the DJ booth.

“You look like you’re having fun for someone who didn’t want to dance,” he teased me.

Earlier in the evening, as we sat at the bar waiting for the club to open, I mentioned that I wasn’t really in a dancing mood. The evening had been mellow up until that point, and I was enjoying nursing my mojito and just talking to Marcus.  There were the expected conversation starters about what we do for fun and reminiscing about the last time we hung out six years ago.  Then, there were more interesting revelations--like, who Marcus' last relationship was with, and for how long, and why it ended.  Oh yes, I did, internet.  You know I don't hold back.

Let’s be real, though. It takes a lot for me to not want to dance. And, Marcus was practically wiggling out of his bar stool when his DJ started spinning. I had to dance for at least a little while, but I also couldn’t relax completely, knowing that my day needed to start early on Sunday.

Around midnight, I told Marcus that, in true Cinderella style, it was time for this princess to head home. He said that he would walk me to his car and screaming above the music, I said,

“Promise me that you’ll take me dancing when exams are over.”

“You got it,” he said, grinning.

Walking to my car, Marcus took my hand in his. It was a little uncomfortable, just because I don’t know how I want this situation to end. I hate leading men on, and I didn’t want a four block hand-holding session to end with a goodnight kiss in front of my car.

I, probably ungracefully, pulled my hand out of his.

“Sorry,” I said. “I just don't want to start anything [physical],” I told him. “I never do anything that I don’t mean and right now…”

Before I could continue, he interrupted.

“No, I’m sorry!,” he said. “I just have trouble not saying and showing what’s on my mind. And, I’m affectionate.”

So, walking side by side, without holding hands, he led me to my car. I gave him a ride back to the club, as I drove out of the city (while avoiding the most drunk drivers I have ever seen. Good job being irresponsible, DC!) and received a text message from him at 3:30 a.m. when he left the club.

As it turns out, I never did hear his music played because I left too soon.  Marcus assures me that there will be plenty of time for that, however, since he's added himself to the October 3 lineup--right behind The Lawyer.

And, It Continues

Text Message Received From The Lawyer:  Hey!  Are you still in town?  I just finished my workout and am a mess, but was gonna grab a drink somewhere.

Response Sent By Me:  That sounds awesome, but I'm actually home in VA already and have an exam in the morning.  :(  Next week sometime?

The Lawyer's Response:  I figured as much, but thought it was worth a shot.  Break a leg on the test.

If last year was the Year of 50 First Dates, this year is rapidly turning into The Year I Decided to Try the Patience of Every Man Remotely Interested in Me.

*sigh*

Isn't medical school fun?  (Rhetorical.)

The After Effect

Despite running late, because my exam review ran over, I still beat Marcus to the restaurant.

I had suggested a hole in the wall Thai place, five minutes away from the medical school.  It was known for its spicy, undiluted flavors, and loved for its quick turnaround time, and willingness to deliver to the medical school library (not a joke).

When Marcus walked in a few minutes after me, I was already seated at a small table near the back of the restaurant.  I stood up to hug him, and he enveloped me in his large frame.

“Wow,” he said almost immediately.  “You’re going to make the prettiest doctor that I’ve ever seen!”

He slid into the chair across from me.

“So, this is how you look after two exams?,” he teased.

Little did he know that I had contemplated the possibility of meeting him for lunch before I left my apartment.  I had prudently thrown the contents of my makeup bag into my school bag and for the first time since starting medical school, I used a post-exam break to beautify myself in the ladies’ room.  So, no.  That’s not usually how I look after an exam.  But yes, I have very good planning skills.

Conversation was good, and Marcus willingly provided the answers to a number of questions that I was asking.  Most importantly, I wanted to know about his business and his background.  I also got the scoop on some unknown drama that exists between he and Rajiv.

After a pleasant hour long conversation, punctuated with intimations that he wanted to see me again, Marcus walked me back to the hospital.  When the medical school was in sight, he stopped on a corner.

“I’m going to hail a cab here,” he said.  “I don’t want you to feel like I’m stalking you all the way to the door.”

Then, we hugged again, and I power-walked away, without looking back to see if Marcus had actually gotten a cab.

Overall, it was a good meeting, full of good conversation and potential.  But, the date is never the complicated part.

Almost immediately, the self-doubt started.  Did I talk too much about myself?  Was the joke that I made about partying in the DR this summer inappropriate?  Maybe he didn’t like me.  Maybe I was boring.  Or, too intense.  What if the buildup to this meeting was actually a disappointment?  He probably didn’t even enjoy himself at all.  Was he going to stop text messaging me now?

You see, my friends, this is called the After Effect.

The After Effect is that feeling of wistful bliss, followed by uncertainty, and eventually expectation, that follows a date.  After a good date, it starts with the smell of his cologne on your neck.  It’s the feeling of his stubble that grazed your cheek during your first kiss.  It’s the sight of his beaming smile, emblazoned in your mind, every time you close your eyes.

Sometimes, the After Effect is wonderful.

Other times, you’re overcome with regret.  Or, disappointment.  Or, tiredness.  Sometimes, the After Effect leaves you feeling confused about his intentions, angry that he only talked about himself, or grateful that the date is finally over.  The After Effect is what leaves you waiting by the phone after the first date, wondering and hoping that he is going to call.  It is the relentless thought process about him, the date, and your interactions that plagues you until you go out again.  And then, heaven forbid you don't go out again.  The After Effect becomes The Self-Loathing Effect, complete with alcohol consumption, venting, and vows that you will never date again.

Whatever the After Effect is, it inevitably happens during dating.  And, it is distracting.

--

By the time I walked into the medical school lecture hall, five minutes after leaving Marcus, my mind was already reeling.  I knew that Marcus wanted to see me again, but what would happen now?  Was he going to stop texting me?  Would the texts now turn into calls?  Did I set up an unfair precedent by meeting him for lunch on a weekday, when this is something that I clearly can't maintain?

Before I could let the After Effect take well, effect, Marcus had already texted.

I enjoyed that.  Thank you!  I look forward to seeing you again sometime when you have a chance.  And I know that you’re busy, so I really appreciate the time that you squeezed in to see me.

It was sweet, exactly how I hoped that it would be.  But, it wasn’t the end of the After Effect.  I did think about Marcus again that day, even before he texted in the evening, and again, to ask if I was in bed yet.  The bar was raised, the first date was had, and now things were different.  They were different in a good way, but I was thinking about it.  And not studying.

So, at the end of an exhaustive (yet, extremely productive) six hour review session tonight, I resisted the urge to text Marcus.  My eyes were strained, and my muscles felt stiff.  I wanted to get off of the medical campus, and to get out of the city.

As I walked the two blocks to my car, I did realize that it was the perfect night to call him.  It wasn't that late yet, and he had left the restaurant around 7 p.m., saying simply that he wasn't feeling it. He was at home--two Metro stops away--doing nothing.   We could have grabbed a drink, taken a walk, or just sat in a coffeeshop to talk for 30 minutes.  You know, act like normal people do after a long day.

But, I knew that what would initially be a 30 minute investment would have a lasting After Effect.  Whatever we ended up doing would probably not take 30 minutes, and afterwards, I’d be wistful about the experience.  I’d drive home dreamily, have trouble refocusing on my study packets, and probably be awoken by a morning text from Marcus the way that I was today.

So, I kept walking, got into my car, and drove home.

It’s not that Marcus isn’t interesting and kind, because he is.  But, he’s already proved his interest to be very serious and very strong and that’s not something that I can take on right now.  It’s only one more year of intense, overwhelming book work, but it’s one year when I really have to focus.  It's not that don’t have time to go one dates.  It's that I can't afford to be distracted by the After Effect. 

Marcus is just going to have to wait.  We'll see if he's able, or willing, to handle this.

The Lunch Date

I’ll admit that it was the competitive streak in me that made me do it. 

My Facebook newsfeed had just announced, “Rajiv Patel is now friends with Marcus St. James and 4 other people.”  The photo for Marcus St. James was unmistakable and when I saw his name, I immediately remembered him as being one of Rajiv’s business associates.  I had met Marcus a number of times during my time dating Rajiv, and his business was located in DC, if I remembered correctly. 

Without a second thought, I hit “Add Friend” to Marcus’ profile. 

Just because Rajiv and I weren’t an item anymore didn’t mean that I couldn’t claim Marcus as my friend, right?  (Note:  This is something that I would never think of doing with one of Rich’s business contacts.  Not that I have a reason to reach out to douchebag banker types.)  Besides, Marcus was always bubbly and friendly to me when I was dating Rajiv.

Marcus confirmed the friendship and sent a message saying something along the lines of, “I hope that you and Rajiv are doing well.”

Hahahaha.  Clearly, he and Rajiv had been out of touch.

I wrote back with something superficial and jovial, not indicating that Rajiv and I have been broken up for five years now, and asked if he still owned the business that he did when I knew him.  It took a month for him to respond, by which time, Rajiv had officially changed his Facebook status to “in a relationship” with that Swedish model that he tried to bring to my birthday party. 

I guess Marcus realized that we were no longer an item when this happened.

(Sidenote:  I cannot even believe that I am a 29 year old medical student, writing about Facebook and the relationship status updates of my ex.  I am rolling my eyes at myself right now, you guys.)

Marcus replied that he had sold his business and bought a restaurant/bar in Baltimore.  When I wrote back, and said something like, “Sounds great!  I’ll have to stop by the next time I’m in Baltimore,” Marcus replied,

 “Actually, you don’t need to wait to do that.  I still live in DC.”

The next set of correspondence involved the exchange of cell phone numbers, and the expectation that someday in the distant future, I’d probably look Marcus up and see if he wanted to rescue me from the hospital cafeteria so that we could grab a real meal.

I underestimated Marcus.

Most likely in sync with his Facebook stalking of my profile, I started receiving text messages that same night.

I had no idea that you were a medical student.    

I’ve been hanging solo these days, so I’m always looking for company.

I can come and get you for dinner anytime you want.  I live 10 minutes away from your medical school.

I was studying hard, and aware of the fact that Marcus was just Google stalking me after six years, so I didn't feel the need to respond with any substantial replies, until I (ironically) received this:

OK, you don't need to reply to this, because I know that it's late and that you’re studying, but I didn’t know that you were in the Dominican Republic this summer!  Did you know that I’m half Dominican?  I was born in Santo Domingo and lived there until I was 6.

Oh snap, you guys.

Over the course of the next week, I started receiving text messages from Marcus every morning, throughout the day, and as late as 1:30 a.m., when he was closing the restaurant.  Given that he doesn’t know much about me—aside from the fact that I once dated his business associate and have photo documentation of a well-traveled summer up on Facebook—the messages were along the lines of, “How’s studying going?” or “Have a good day” or “How was the exam today?”

To intensify the nature of this communication, last weekend was Marcus’ birthday and he asked if I would take a study break to join him in celebrating.  Since my controlling boyfriend, MSII, vetoed that idea, I said no and stayed in the library studying until 1 a.m. on Saturday. 

I didn't know what Marcus would make of my rejection, but he was undeterred.  I learned more tidbits about him, courtesy of his daily text messages.  Then, a few days ago, he mentioned that he had been on his own since he was 11.

Until that point, I had been cool and relatively disinterested.  I knew that Marcus was dedicating a tremendous amount of time and effort to communicating with me, but I'm also not in a position to reciprocate his interest right now.

Something about his statement struck a cord with me, though.  So often in this journey, I feel like I'm surrounded by people who don't understand me.  I intentionally try not to talk about the amount of effort that it took to get to this point, but a lot of people don't know what it feels like to constantly fight against dire financial and emotional obstacles.  (And, that's the last I'm going to say about that, because this isn't some sort of pity party and you've already read the story here.)   

It was refreshing to learn that not only had Marcus also broken through the chains of (much more) difficult circumstances, but he understood why I push myself the way that I do. 

"I'm sorry," I had once written to him in a text message. "I know it must be really annoying that I keep putting you off."

"I'm not like other men," he had written back.  "Do what you need to do."

Suddenly, I shared the sentiment that Marcus had written in his last text message, "I can't wait to see you again in person."

So yesterday, fighting uncertainty about breaking my study groove, I sent Marcus a text message.  I accepted that if I don’t consciously make an effort to disengage occasionally, the overwhelming nature of medical school is going to cut me off from the outside world.  But, I tried to be realistic about it. 

I have a lunch break from 12:15-1:30 p.m. today. Do you want to meet me for lunch in [the neighborhood of the medical school]?, I wrote.

I rationalized that if I asked Marcus to meet me for lunch, we’d have a fixed window of time to work with.  I wouldn’t run the risk of ending up on a six hour dinner date, when I needed to be home studying.  And even better, Marcus wouldn’t have to wait a month for my exams to be over, and for me to go out with The Lawyer before seeing me.  (WHAT?  There are only a fixed number of free nights in my schedule and MSII is one jealous SOB!)

Not surprisingly, he responded in the affirmative.

Following the style of Desperate Sarah, I’m going to leave you hanging right there.  Since I have no life and this is the one spark of excitement that is going to happen for the next two weeks, you'll have to wait for Part II.  Dun dun DUN!

The Google Doc

The email was random, but if I’m learning anything about The Lawyer, it’s that he likes frequent communication.

I can’t deal with the men who have to be by my side at all times (I’m looking at you, Rich, with your wireless headset so that you can watch TV while literally sitting next to me, as I study), but multiple, casual emails?  Yes!  Please let me know that you are thinking about me. But yes, also keep it casual and non-committal, so that I can reply at any time and not say, have to answer your call while I’m studying (Whoops, looking at Rich again.)

“Are you a fan of live music?,” he had written, intimating that he had a plan in mind.

“Why yes, yes, I am,” I had playfully written back, choosing not to elaborate on which days I would be free.

You see, internet, there are no days when I will be free. Until October 3. Which we discussed, did we not?

Before school started, though, I made plans to meet up with another (female) high school friend living in DC this weekend. Because I become guilt-ridden at persistent men’s emails, I asked her if we should invite him along.

“Sure!,” she wrote back yesterday. “I’ll also ask Dan [another high school friend living in DC] if he’s available.”

And just like that, it was possible that our girls night, catch-up date was going to turn into a mini-high school reunion. Then again, I love mini-high school reunions.

This morning, The Lawyer wrote back about my invitation for Saturday night dinner. He has to be in Texas for a work event this weekend, but attached a little something in regards to his last email, about the live music.

You guys, the man has a Google Doc with all of the upcoming concerts that he is going to, as well as venue, cost, and which ones he has already purchased tickets to. Along with the Google Doc were instructions to call or text if any of the bands look like something I might like, or if I suddenly have a free night and want to join him (Aww, wishful thinking).

I started laughing when I opened the attachment, but only because it’s so awesome. This situation could be very promising indeed.

New Ways to Traumatize My Classmates

Tonight, medical school library, circa 10:00 p.m.:

Male classmate:  I'm just going to stay up all night.  I can never sleep for longer than 4 hours before an exam.  I always think that I can just study a little bit more.

Me:  You should try to sleep more.  I will not be staying up all night.  Old people need their sleep.

Classmate (rolling eyes):  Yeah, because you're so old, because you're like, 24.

Me:  Umm...I'm not 24.

Classmate:  How old are you?  25?

Me:  29.

Classmate (with look of horror):  Umm...really?  But...you...you don't look 29.  I thought that you were...24.  You're like, a quarter, older than I am.

Me:  Why?  How old are you?

Classmate (scurrying away, still horrified):  22.

On the upside, now I can go back to studying uninterrupted, because I scared him away.  (Win?)  I wish that I had a camera to capture his look of astonishment, though, internet.  Highlight of the night!

(And yes, I realize that my posts have gotten extremely boring since going back to school.  The only nearly-fun interaction I had was with some hot-looking PGY-1 (I presume) who was at the grill in the hospital cafeteria at the same time that I was tonight.  But, I looked like scrub and I can't bring myself to talk casually with my superiors when I'm at home.  So, I stood there playing with my student ID awkwardly, then took my veggie burger and left.  So exciting, my life.)

Family

This morning, when the phone rang at exactly 7 a.m., from a number I didn't recognize, I jumped for the phone on the night table.  My alarm had already gone off, but I've been burning the midnight oil these days, and I was in that blissful state of half-sleep and dreamfulness, while the alarm was snoozing.

I don't know if women are genetically programmed to fear disaster, but my first thought was, "Emergency!  Answer it!"  In reality, every early morning call that has ripped me from sleep has been for something that hardly warrants an emergency (Thank God).  Once, it was that guy from St. Vincent who just couldn't understand that it was just making out on the beach...stop calling!  Or, my mother calling to ask me if I called her.  (At 6:46 a.m. on a Sunday morning?  No.  Also, you have Caller ID.)

This morning, it was my Dominican aunt.

"Did I wake you up?," she asked perkily.

"Umm...no, I'm getting up," I answered, not knowing how to respond.

"So, how are you!"

"Fine.  Tired," I responded, I waiting for the purpose of such an early morning phone call.

"I'm in New York!  It's so cold here..."

Again, the point of this conversation was surely coming at any moment.

"You know what this weekend is, right?  It's Rich's sister's wedding!  Did you remember that it's this weekend?"

Cognitively internet, yes, I did remember that his sister was getting married in DC on Sept. 18.  Did I remember that Sept. 18 is this weekend?  No.  You know why?  Because I have three medical school exams next week, and studying takes precedence over stalking my ex or trying to remember the important events in his life.  Perhaps this is a sign of truly having moved on, because I honestly did not remember, because I do not care!

Not knowing how to respond, or what the point of calling me to remind me of this fact was, I responded groggily with,

"Oh, umm OK.  Yeah, I guess it is this weekend."

I don't know what my aunt wanted me to say.  I'm guessing that she thought that I would be emotional about it.  Or, maybe she was looking for some drama with, "Well, I'd better not run into them!"  I don't know.  But, she has no idea what my real life in medical school is like and probably can't believe that I'm really that distracted and unconcerned about Rich's sister's nuptials.

I almost texted my cousin to be all, "Dude, your mom just ripped me out of sleep for the dumbest reason ever!," but then I realized that I'd be waking him up and perpetuating the early-morning-wakeup-for-non-emergency-reasons.  Besides, my cousin and I are both offspring of crazy sisters, and someone needs to end the cycle.

Unbelievable

Dear Dr. [Principal Investigator] and [Red Stethoscope],


Regarding IRB #051136, please find attached the approval memo and approved study documents. Please be sure to maintain a copy of this document and all other IRB-related correspondence and documents in your study files.

No changes to the study may be implemented without prior IRB review and approval. Please be sure to submit your renewal information with sufficient time to review and approve this study prior to the new expiration date of August 17, 2012.

Should you have any questions or concerns, please do not hesitate to contact me.

Best,
IRB Coordinator

Date of Expedited IRB Document Submission:  May 20, 2011
Date of Study Duration:  June 1-August 3, 2011
Date of IRB Approval:  September 14, 2011

My PI is out of the country and I had actually forgotten about this dumb IRB approval, considering that I had requested expedited approval in May, since I was leaving the country to complete the study.  I dilly-dallied for the first couple of weeks in the DR, before deciding that ethically, I had already spoken to the hospital director and gotten his approval in writing.  Realistically, I was only there for a month (that turned into 7 weeks) and needed to start seeing patients.  Thank goodness I went ahead and started the study.

Is this how long IRB approval usually takes?  Even expedited IRB approval?

And no, I wasn't planning on submitting my small, one-woman research study to the NEJM, so don't freak out that I did my summer research without IRB approval.  Also, I would have lost my scholarship if I didn't abide by the school's research requirements, which stipulate that the study must be done for eight weeks in the summer. 

On Rapidly Diminishing Excitement

When I turned 29, I was super-psyched.  I might be the cougar of my medical school class, but let me tell you, being 29 is awesome. 

The end of your 20s is when you've finally reached a point of personal and professional maturity.  Usually, you have a pretty stable support network and you can sense the burgeoning self-confidence that is to come in your 30s.  But...you're still in your 20s!  Win!  It's the perfect combination! I mean, there's a reason that people lie about being 29 forever at successive birthday parties.

Unfortunately, bad things...very, very bad things also happen at age 29.

Like, when I found a gray hair yesterday.  In my eyebrow.

As you know, internet, I'm a big fan of the tweeze and maintain technique, but this is not OK.  Not OK.

The Ones With the Hookup

“Do I need to change before I come over?”

I was wearing a bright, blue sundress that whose above the knee hemline was dangerously close to “inappropriate for a woman of 20 and 9,” but it was only a Women’s Ministries potluck. I hadn’t gone to church in the morning, and having woken up at the crack of 11 a.m., it seemed fine for lunch at one of the church women’s houses on a warm day.

“Ooh, that’s up to you,” my friend, Elizabeth, replied. “If you want to meet an Indian Adventist guy, they’re definitely the ones who will have the hookup, so I’ll understand if you need to go home and primp.”

Up until that point, I had been mainly joking. But, Elizabeth was right.

She was having a birthday dinner for her daughter that night, and among those in attendance would be her in-laws. Her Indian, Adventist in-laws.

If the stories I tell here are any indication of either Indian or Adventist culture, you know that both groups of people love their matchmaking. Combine the two qualities in the Venn Diagram of Life and I should have gone home to bathe in rose water and incense to prepare myself.  Instead, I went straight to Elizabeth’s house, in my short blue dress with half-smudged makeup from the morning.  I also needed to tweeze my eyebrows. 

I know.  The Indian aunties of the internet just had to close their browsers in shame. 

When Elizabeth's in-laws walked in, I was wrist-deep in samosa dough in the kitchen, helping Elizabeth's husband, Tim, make the last of the food.  Ordinarily, looking half made-up with a loose ponytail and less than perfect posture would seem like a bad thing, but don’t kid yourself.  The in-laws met me when I was making samosas.  Not only is this not the worst thing that can happen, but it also suggests that I know how to cook Indian food, instead of what I actually know how to do:  follow instructions from Tim.

Conversation was superficial at first, as it must be, to falsely conceal intentions. Within five minutes, though, the inquiry that I had been anticipating came.

“So, all of the Indian Adventists in this area know each other,” one of cousins started. “But I’ve never met you before.”

It was not a subtle declaration, and Christine snickered at me, as she made eye contact from across the kitchen.

“Oh, yeah, I know,” I said. “I usually go to church on the Virginia side [of DC].”

“Have you ever visited The Indian Church?,” she asked.

I have attended The Indian Church, but I chose not to elaborate on the fact that when I had, I'd always shown up sari-clad, on the arm of a very Indian man, with an engagement ring on my left hand.  It also would have been poor form to get into the intricacies of why I can’t talk to one of the families that goes there anymore, because they were friends of Rich and took his side in the breakup.  So instead, I just answered a simple and casual, “Oh yeah, I’ve been there,” and named the two families that I know.

Surprisingly, I wasn’t interrogated at all, except for usual conversational questions about my profession and place of residence.  Thankfully, the in-laws that were present are Tim's cousins (my age) and not aunties looking for something to do with their spare time.  If the aunties had been in attendance, I would need to never repeat this story to my mother, lest she scold me for going to this party without "looking decent."

The initial introduction has been made, though, and should I reach a point of desperation, boredom, or curiosity, I know who to call.  Based on my past dating experiences, though, “Indian and Adventist” is probably a demographic that I should avoid.

Of Doctors and Lawyers

His name looked familiar on the LinkedIn request, but from his picture, I couldn't recognize anything about him.  He was handsome, with dark hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and a broad smile.  His profile indicated that he was a lawyer living in DC.

"I had no idea you were in DC. Doctor school... nice," he had written.

His message intimated that at one point in life, we must have at least been acquaintances, but from where?

After logging into LinkedIn, I realized that we did know each other.  Once upon a time, he was a fat (not chubby, FAT), socially awkward, but extremely smart kid who lived in my neighborhood.  We rode the same school bus for over an hour to get to the magnet high school in the next town, and I remember that once he got food poisoning.

Now, apparently, he's a lawyer.  Who is good-looking.  And lives in DC.

I sent a short reply back saying that we should meet up for dinner or happy hour, then immediately regretted it.  It was forward, and influenced by curiosity and said good-looking picture (Rahul is reading right now, and shaking his head because of his last post).

Surprisingly, he wrote back giving me his phone number, general place of residence, and the offer to text him anytime I'm free because he's always down for last minute concerts or drinks.  The place that he mentioned as being a mecca for said concerts is somewhere I've never heard of.  (Is that where the trendy lawyer people hang out after work?  Because I only hang out in the medical school library in the evenings.  Where yes, I am writing this right now.)

I suppose the right thing to do was to be casual and spontaneous and to say, "Yeah!  That sounds awesome!  Let's do that!"  Unfortunately, I'm in a committed relationship with something called the Second Year of Medical School. 

So, I replied with my phone number, a tentative date of October 3rd, and a brief explanation of why I can't meet up before then.  Welcome to medical training.

We'll see if he's got the patience to match his looks.

UPDATE:  He wrote back and said that his brother is a medical student, so he totally understands.  He said he has concert tickets for Theophilus London on the 3rd (yes, I just had to Google him) and invited me to go with him.  He said that although it wouldn't be a good place to catch up, he would highly recommend it.  Then, he asked about other places I would want to go that week (if I didn't go to the concert), gave me the name of his favorite bar, and said that if I'm not a drinker, we can go elsewhere. 

His emails talk to me as if we're old friends and not what we really are--nerdy people who grew up in the same area and used to ride a yellow school bus together over ten years ago.  This is so weird.

The Welcoming Crew

She was talking to someone in the lobby after church, so I stood patiently waiting to say hello. 
 

Since I spent most of the summer traveling, my attendance at church has been non-existent for the past three months.  Even though Catherine is in her 40's, she’s still adventurous and fun.  She and her family travel internationally regularly and even after she had a child, she and her husband didn’t stop.  This summer, they went SCUBA diving in the Dead Sea and when their daughter was seven, they hiked the Himalayas with a paid shirpa to carry their daughter when she got tired.

“Oh hey!,” she said, clearly excited.

“How are you?  How was your summer?”

We exchanged the usual pleasantries, before she cut to the chase.

“How old are you again?...,” she asked sweetly.

There was only one direction this conversation was heading in.

"...Because I met the perfect guy for you!"

This was my own fault, of course.

When I first joined this church, I didn’t know anyone, so I found myself going to a lot of get-to-know you functions.  At my first women’s ministries meeting, not only was I the youngest person present, I was very clearly the only one who was also single.  As we sat in a large circle of chairs, the women introduced themselves one by one with a proud, “I’m Elizabeth…happily married….two children,” etc., as they gave the basic demographics about themselves.  When it was my turn to address the group, I said,

“I’m Red.  I’m 28, single, and looking.   So, feel free to introduce me to your sons, brothers, or cousins.”

The group erupted with laughter, which was the anticipated response. 

Except…

You should not give married, Christian women the directive to find you a husband, because let me tell you, they do not take such invitations lightly. 

I wasn't sure if I should be excited about Catherine's declaration of having the "perfect guy" for me, especially since past fix-ups have included men who already have girlfriends (here and here). 

“He’s Egyptian!,” Catherine continued.

I was waiting to hear more.

“We met him when we were Egypt!  He was our tour guide.”

“Oh…umm...yeah.  That’s awesome,” I said, not pointing out the fact that she was excited about a 20 year old tour guide.  Who also lives in Egypt.

“So, if you ever want to go to Egypt…” she started. “…I have someone to introduce you to.”

She winked at me.  Before she could finish, another woman from the women's ministry walked by and said,

"Oh yeah, you should definitely trust her!  She has such good taste in men!"

There was more winking and suggestive nudging.

And so it begins again, internet.  If someone could give the church women some direction in their choice of men, this could possibly be awesome.  In the meantime, at least this one doesn't have a girlfriend.  That I know of.

Sentimental

It hit me, at 5:30 a.m., as I was sitting at my desk drinking coffee, in a bleary-eyed attempt to keep studying.

As much as I hate the book work portion of medical school, this is my last year doing it.  One hard, tough, miserable, stressful year, and then, it will be done.  (Thank you, Jesus!)  I’ll still have shelf exams, the other steps of my Boards, and recertification exams for as long as I'm practicing, but this daily, monotonous routine of class and studying will be over.

As someone who went from the working world to a post-baccalaureate program, then back to working, then back to (medical) school, this constant cycle between working and schoolwork seems like a sick tease.  I’ve never been one of those people who loves school.  I’ve always preferred working to taking classes, and I view the latter as just a means to an end.  The fact that I have to keep going back to the classroom makes it feel like the cycle is never going to end.

But, it is going to end!  In a year, in fact, my daily lectures will be done!  FOREVER.

There’s something a little sentimental about that.  Not sad or upsetting, mind you, just nostalgic.  For once, I sipped my coffee and reviewed my notes for my morning exam in peace, knowing that my days of having to deal with this crap type of studying are limited.

Feel free to remind me of this post next June when I’m taking Step 1 of the Boards and threatening to gouge my eyes out because I can’t look at my First Aid book any longer.