In Which Sense and Courtesy Are Not So Common

I went to see my doctor on Tuesday, and my visit confirmed two things. One, I don’t like my PCP. Two, I will never be one of those mothers who thinks my child is entitled to use a public waiting room like it’s her own personal playroom.

The whole reason I went to see my doctor is because I’ve been having a lot of stomach pain and discomfort. I’ve also been feeling really out of it when I’m hungry. My doctor wanted to know how many hours I wait between meals and snacks, and she asked me what I had eaten so far that day. When I answered her, she looked at me like I had six heads. She furrowed her brow and screwed up her face like I had just thrown up on her.

I guess she didn’t like my answers. A+ for bedside manner.

She proceeded to ask me some questions that I felt could have been answered by looking at my chart. In particular, one of her questions was about my weight and whether I’ve experienced any weight gain. She didn’t ask about a time frame or an amount. I wasn’t really sure what to say, although, “Look at my chart, dummy,” was on the tip of my tongue.

At the end of my appointment, she told me she was going to have the nurse come back to do a quick blood test. She specifically said she would come back and explain the results to me. The nurse took the sample, left the room, and came back a few minutes later telling me I was free to leave. I had to ask whether my doctor was coming back to talk to me (no) and if the test result was OK (apparently it wasn’t worth explaining to me). No wonder so many people leave their doctors’ offices feeling confused and ill-informed.

Before I left the office, I had to stop at the pharmacy to pick up a prescription. When I got there, a girl who looked like she was about 4 years old was spread out on the floor completely blocking the path to the “Pick Up” window. She was on her stomach, coloring in a coloring book, kicking her little Ugg-clad feet back and forth in the air behind her. Her mother was standing a few feet away, just watching and looking on as everyone awkwardly stepped over and around her daughter. I can only guess this woman’s lack of common sense and courtesy had something to do with her ability to ignore completely miss all the death stares people were giving her. She was precisely the type of person who would have had a hissy fit if someone had stepped on her daughter or tripped over her. I’m not saying I wanted that to happen, but it would have made for an interesting scene.

I Think There’s a John Mayer Song in Here Somewhere

I went to a baby shower for a friend on Saturday, and despite being grumpy about having to get up early, I actually had a good time. It’s a little weird, though, seeing more of my friends having babies and raising kids. It makes me that much more aware of the distinct lack of baby in my household. But it’s not exactly making my ovaries burst with a desire to change that.

I’ll be turning 30 this year. When I was 22 (and completely naive), I thought I’d have at least two kids by now. It seemed like a given, although I don’t know why. I guess 30 seemed really old to me back then. My mom was 29 when she had me, and I was my parents’ second child. Maybe I thought I had to follow suit.

It couldn’t be more obvious that I didn’t. I mean, here I am, 29 years-old and childless. I want to have kids, but I don’t know when I’ll be ready. People say you’ll never be ready, and I understand why that is, but there’s a difference between not being ready for the unpredictable nature of babies and children and not being ready to make that sort of personal commitment to another human being.

Had things gone differently with my job last year at Company B, it’s quite possible that I would have felt ready for the challenge. Husband and I were in a holding pattern of sorts. We had both been at our jobs for a few years, we were settled in our house, we had a routine with the dog. Not much was changing. Now, everything changes all the time, mostly with me. I feel like I’m just starting out again, like I’m that 22 year-old who’s stepping out into the real world for the first time trying to get her bearings.

But I’m not 22; I’m almost 30. I don’t want to wait until I’m 35 or 40 to have kids. It bothers me a little that I’m not ready to take that step—that I’m still working so hard to figure things out for myself. I wonder when things will click and my feelings will change. Maybe I won’t feel like everything has to be all figured out in order to take that step. Just because things do get figured out doesn’t mean they’re going to stay that way, as I’ve learned.

I just sort of thought I’d have fewer challenges in my life by now and that finding a steady source of income wouldn’t be such an ongoing challenge. Sometimes I really wish I could be 22 again.

This Calls for a Happy Dance

Finally—I have some good news. I got a summer job! Don’t I sound like I’m 16?

You guys, I’m beyond thrilled. The position lasts for four months because I’m filling in for someone who is having a baby, and it’s 99 percent certain that she’s going to come back when her maternity leave ends. However! This could open up some doors for me as far as a permanent position is concerned. The names this position allows me to add to my resume won’t look too shabby, either.

Perhaps one of the most exciting things about this job is that I’ll be working in a small office with a group of people who seem (so far) to be normal. My boss described the office culture when I interviewed, and it sounded a lot like the environment at Company B, which is to say it’s professional without being stuffy, everyone is respectful yet friendly, and they are dedicated to their work but they are not running a factory. It sounds like a place where the people enjoy what they do, care about doing a good job, and promote a healthy work environment for reaching their goals.

When I left the interview, I knew I wanted to work there. I told Husband I hoped they would offer me the job. Less than a week later, I had an offer. Obviously, I accepted.

After the drama I experienced with Company A, this process was absolutely refreshing. As of yesterday, I still hadn’t heard from Company A. It had been three and a half weeks. Considering no formal interview had been necessary and I’m a former employee, that was just baffling. I only heard back from them when I contacted them to say that my availability had changed. Do you know what they said? That they would have offered their position to me later that day. They are nothing if not fond of waiting to do important tasks. I laughed.

Anyway, I’m excited about my new job. I start next week!

Self-improvement Update

Last evening, I went for my third run in the past four days. It felt great to be outside, especially since my route takes me down to the beach. I never ran on sand before moving to this area, but it feels pretty good. I do it mostly because I like to run by the water. There’s a paved path where the beach ends that twists along the shore, so even when I’m not on the beach I’m still running by the water. That’s much more appealing than running through the city or on a treadmill, both of which I used to do regularly.

It feels awesome to be running again. It’s such an addictive activity, and I guess if I’m going to be addicted to something, it may as well be exercise. My goal is to run at least twice a week (serious runners, I hear you scoffing) and maybe four times max. I don’t want to overdo it, and that’s totally possible given my all-or-nothing tendencies. When I was religious about running, I would do five or six miles a day five times a week. For me, that was a lot. And truthfully, it was difficult to maintain that level of activity over a long period of time. I’d always scale back after two months or so and cut way back before slowly returning to that level. At this point, I’m running to feel good, not to feel pain. So getting outside and running a few times a week is really all I need to do.

I’m still doing lots of pilates on the days I’m not running, and I can tell I’m getting stronger as a result. I’ve lost a little bit of weight, although I think that has more to do with my diet (see: temporary hiatus from alcohol and ice cream). I started keeping a food journal, which is something I never really felt the need to do before, but I’m going to try it out and see if it has any effect on my eating habits. If anything, it will show me where I can make improvements. I know what I want to eat throughout the day (more nutrient-rich foods instead of bagels, for example), and it’s definitely within reach, but curbing my snacking is the primary and most difficult habit I need to break.

At least I’m making progress, and I’m feeling better inside and out.

Just Like That

Saturday started off as a good day. It was all blue sky and warm sun and light wind. I headed down to the beach with the dog where we walked along the water and stopped every so often so he could dig holes in the sand and run away from them when water bubbled up from the bottom. Later, I went for a run. I was gasping for air not even ten minutes in, but it felt so good, and I kept going, going, going. My face turned a bright tomato red, and my neck was drenched with sweat. Back home, I showered and dressed and collapsed on the couch feeling the very best kind of tired and a little bit proud.

Then a car blared its horn outside my house once, twice in quick succession. I jumped to my feet and rushed to the window—why, I don’t know. I was expecting no one, and car horns blaring from the street are nothing out of the ordinary. This one had grabbed my attention, and I wish I had ignored it.

When I looked out the window, I saw him. Double-parked and chatting with a food delivery runner in another car. His window was rolled down, he held a cell phone in one hand. The car was the same—the hulking, black SUV with the chrome grill that haunted my sleep for weeks after the accident. The license plate number matched the one on the police report. And he sat in the driver’s seat behind the steering wheel talking and laughing outside my house.

What is he doing here? Does he know whose house he’s parked in front of? How is he allowed to drive? Is his license still suspended? Is he still uninsured? Should I call the police? Can I call the police?

I looked around the living room, panicked, making sure my dog was inside the house. He lay sprawled on the rug, unaware that the very person who sent him to the emergency room at the animal hospital was right outside the house. I was blind with rage and sick with fright. Why did I look out the window?

It was the driver who had hit me and my dog with his car. We were on foot when the accident happened; the driver blew a stop sign, he had been speeding, his eyes were not on the road. His recklessness changed my life, and I’ve been trying to block him out of my memory for months. To see him driving that same car made me physically ill. I didn’t want to think about him being able to drive again; I didn’t want to see him outside my house going about his business as though nothing was wrong. I wanted to run outside and grab him by the neck and show him the pictures on my camera of my bruised body, my dog’s hideous wounds. I wanted to shove those pictures in his face and ask him if he wanted to say he was sorry for all the shit he put us through. I wanted to hurt him, and I wanted him to know that he had hurt me.

But I didn’t. I backed away from the window and returned to the couch. I wanted to cry, I wanted to vomit, I wanted to go to sleep. All of my energy was gone; the sky outside may as well have been black and pouring buckets of rain. My good, good day had just been destroyed.