My Extraordinary, Imperfect, Christian Life

Before I am anything, I am a Christian. Flawed, imperfect, sinful. Christian.

I live an extraordinary life, blessed in ways that would be in poor taste to list.  If I was on the outside looking in, I might be envious of this life.  My life.  But I’m on the inside looking out and it can be plagued with fear and insecurity and loneliness.  Ironically enough, I know that I am not alone in this sentiment and that many of you, in some way, can relate.

Readers, we left off with my hair on fire, dodging swingers on the train and getting dissed by 30-year old virgins.  What’s happened since then - spontaneous trysts, D-List celebrities, men who barely qualify for the ‘half my age plus seven rule,’ men for whom I barely qualify for the ‘half their age plus seven rule,’ old flames, cheaters, liars and stalkers – is, simultaneously, why I both love and disparage my life. 

Last Sunday, I manage to walk into evening Mass next to a major hottie.  I flash him a smile that says, How you doin’?  He follows me in and sits directly behind me.  I’m wearing yoga pants and my shirt doesn’t cover my rear.  In other words, I’ve got him – hook, line and sinker.  He catches up to me at the end of Mass and we walk home together.  It turns out that we live half a block away from each other.  It’s a sign, an early Christmas gift from the baby Jesus.  Dear Lord, thank you.  Amen.  We talk about everything two people could talk about in the time it takes to walk ten blocks during the middle of the Advent Season, including the undecorated Christmas tree in his living room.

Here’s where things get interesting.

Major Hottie: If you want, you could come over and help me decorate my Christmas tree.  That’s my place, he points.  You can see the tree in the window. 

LG: Eh.  I appreciate that you’re Catholic, but I’m not sure that I feel comfortable going up to your apartment when I don’t know you.  Maybe a drink sometime instead?

He gets my number and we end the evening full of promise.  It’s perfect.

When I arrive at my apartment I decide to keep walking.  I’m too excited to go home and slip into my Sunday routine – pajamas, blanket, Showtime’s Homeland and pinot noir.  Instead, I replay our conversation in my head.  Neither of us had ever met anyone in church before, obviously another sign.  Then I get an idea – a brilliant idea - to be fun and spontaneous and impulsive.  I don’t have his number, but I do know where he lives.  I’m going to surprise him.  In his house.  On a Sunday evening.  Unannounced.  I’ll grab a bottle of wine and we’ll decorate the Christmas tree and it will be perfect.  Everything will be perfect.  Brilliant.

Three closed liquor stores (it’s Sunday, after all) and 45 minutes later, I end up on his doorstep with a bottle of pinot noir (some routines I refuse to change), butterflies in my stomach and a hint of rationale thought.  Dear Lord, please don’t let me get murdered and stuffed in his freezer.  Amen.

I ring the doorbell and he buzzes me in without asking who.  I walk up the stairs and he meets me in the hallway, outside his front door.

Here’s where things get humiliating.

Major Hottie: I’m so sorry.  I’m expecting someone for dinner.  You have to go.  Right now.  I’m sorry. 

Dear Lord, sometimes you can be a real asshole.  Amen.

I leave.  My cheeks are flushed.  My ears are burning.  My heart is sunk. 

The following day in Bible Study I ask for God’s peace to be with me and feel the Holy Spirit guide me.  The lecturer tells us: If you have a question, take it to Jesus.  He will give you the answer.

I walk home through Central Park.  I normally listen to music, but I find myself searching, reflecting on His Word.  I am left with a rare silence in New York.  I can hear my own footsteps, the breath of the runners who pass me, the rhythmic sound of the horse and carriage riding through the park at my pace.

Lord, what do you want me to learn from this time in my life?  And since this conversation is happening completely in my head, I cannot help but add: In other words, I mean just look at me!  Why haven’t I found someone to share my life with?  (No, the irony of this is not lost on me either.)  When are you going to stop dicking me around?

I wait for the answer to come to me like a bolt of lightning, but I get nothing.  I ask again, this time deciding to think through the question like I would an assignment at work.

Lord, what do you want me to learn from this time in my life?

Here’s what I come up with:

1)      Trust in God.

Can any of you by worrying add a single moment to your lifespan?  Let perseverance run its course.  How can I testify to God’s goodness if I don’t trust Him?  He has authority over every detail in my life.  TRUST HIM.

2)      Life is a gift.  Enjoy every moment, including this. 

As much as I am afraid that God will not answer my prayers, I am also afraid that He will.  I get bored and distracted very easily.  There will come a time when I feel all these things for the family God gives me.  It’s part of the package.  So when child services eventually comes knocking to ask why I hold my beautiful baby boy under water for minutes at a time, my answer will not be to mute his sweet little cries; instead, to prepare him to become a SEAL by strengthening his tiny little lungs.  Obvi.  You’re welcome, America.

3)      Grow up.

If it was just about looks, you’d already be taken.  Stop fishing for compliments from the Omega.  I know who and what you are because I created you.  So yeah, God thinks I’m hot.  His words, not mine.

One of the many ways that I am blessed is with an incredible group of diverse family and friends.  Not everyone can relate to my Christian faith.  Not everyone can relate to the equally exciting and disastrous dating life I lead.  And not everyone can relate to the bizarre sense of humor I have that makes me laugh out loud at my own jokes.  (To this last group, we are not friends, stop reading my blog, and there is only a slight chance that I will ever hold my baby under water for extended periods of time.)  What I think we can all relate to is the everyday hurdles we face with whatever place we’re at in life.  I turn 35 in a matter of days.  I thought I would be better, have more, want for less.  The greatest blessing in my life is the gift of faith and Christ’s peace that is given to me whenever I pray for it.  Readers, in this holiday season, I pray for that peace to be with you.  Please make room in your hearts to pray for me too.     

The Last Trip

No one understands how I get myself into these situations, least of all me.

I moved out of my downtown apartment last Friday, in preparation for a move to the Upper West Side, one of my favorite neighborhoods in the Manhattan.  My former apartment is by the Freedom Tower, which stands across from the 9/11 Memorial.  At any moment there are dozens of cops, bomb sniffing dogs and surveillance cameras.  It is also right next to Trinity Boxing Club, where I belonged for three months last winter.  I am friends with most of the trainers.  After recently seeing both White House Down and Olympus has Fallen, I’d argue that my old ‘hood is safer than the 1600 Block on Pennsylvania Avenue.

The apartment building, while nice, is kinda boot-leg.  The elevator goes out of service frequently and holding it open with any kind of object increases that frequency.  I have about 25 boxes and bags to put in storage before I move into my new apartment next month. I give myself 45 seconds to shove as many things on as possible when the elevator doors open.  It takes me as long to unload in the lobby.  I finish my move in three trips.  Yes, I am also quite impressed with myself.

The last trip.

I get all the way down to the lobby and there’s a man waiting for the elevator.  He’s tall, maybe 6”2, well dressed, athletic with dark hair and tanned olive skin. Though he is Caucasian, he has a foreign accent that I can’t quite place.  I soon discover that his accent is from the deepest pits of hell and that he is actually Satan.

I try to rush my boxes out of the elevator (whose doors I cannot prop open).  He stands over me as I shift my boxes across the threshold.

Lucifer: Why are you using this elevator to move?  Can you read?  Don’t you see the sign that says ‘You must use the service elevator for moves’ and you cannot hold the door open?

LG:  Not that it’s any of your business but the service elevator doesn’t go to the 11^th floor.  I’m not propping the door open.  This is gonna happen, so just get out of my way so I can finish.

This incites him.  I can see a physical change in his demeanor.  It’s aggressive.  He begins to berate me, swearing and insulting me, getting louder with each breath.  Clearly, I am no shrinking violet, but I am also thrown off guard by the situation.  He pushes past me onto the elevator while I still have a few things left, trying to hijack it along with half of my belongings.  Adrenaline fills my veins like an animated figure in a cartoon.  I block the elevator door with my leg (all the while unloading the last of my things).  This further infuriates him.  I see ripples of violence wash over his face, like a scene from a sci-fi show.  He takes a step back as if to wind his leg.  I brace myself thinking he’s going to kick me.  He kicks a hole in my box instead, screaming obscenities at me.

I.  Lose.  My.  Shit. 

I attack him.  Hard.  I push him against the elevator wall and punch him.   This catches him completely off guard.  I am afraid he is going to take a swing at me but he doesn’t.  I grab the last over-sized box, keeping it between the two of us.  He stays in place and I light the elevator up like Will Ferrell in Elf, pressing every floor until the eighth floor, his floor. 

“Enjoy your ride up, asshole,” I say in the most deadpan voice I can muster.  It’s over.  I start to process the most bizarre few minutes of my entire time in Manhattan.  How is this happening on my last day in the City?  Was this assault?  In what version does he relive or retell the story about what just went down and feel good about himself?      

Before I can organize my thoughts, he comes running down the stairs charging at me.  My heart races.  I am terrified.  He stops inches in front of my face. 

Lucifer:  I’m going to call the cops, you dumb… (I’ll let you use your imagination).  There are rules in this building and you cannot hold the elevator open whenever you feel like.  You’re going to pay for this.

Here’s what courses through my head in the first five seconds:  

I punched this man.  Why can’t I ever let anything go?  The elevator police are coming to get me and throw me into a paddy wagon with prostitutes and drunkards.  I’m too pretty to go to jail.  Someone’s going to try to scalp me for my hair.  Or take my face off.  Jealous bitches.  The pigs will never take me alive.

The sixth second:

I am a woman.  I am alone in a small, confined space with a man who is twice my size.  OK, fine.  He isn’t actually twice my size, but he easily has 40 pounds on me.  I am bullied; my property damaged; my physical safety questioned.

“Get the police,” I snap. 

I leave the apartment building, relieved to be out of danger.  I go next door to let my crew of burly boxers in on the situation.  I am not alone.  They flank me incase he comes back without the police.  It’s just like Michael Jackson’s video, Beat It.*  A choreographed street fight is about to go down.

Lucifer comes back with one of New York’s finest.  I show the Officer my Military Reserve ID to let him know that I’m a veteran and not bat-shit-crazy (shhh… this can be our little secret).  I recount the events shaking, my voice trembling and too aggressive for the police who repeatedly ask me to calm down.  As if.

Naturally, he was at fault.  I could have pressed charges for destruction of property, but ain’t nobody got time for that.  He gets a warning that if he does something like this again, he will go to jail.  I go back up to the 11^th floor to do a final walk through of my apartment.  I see my forgotten cane upstairs (I broke my foot earlier this year).  I grab it like a lost relic, clinging to it for safety.    

I am on the 11^th floor.  When the elevator door opens, he is there.  I know he lives on the 8^th floor.  Is he waiting for me?  Is he trying to hurt me?  Will he follow me off the elevator if I get out?  I lift my cane like a baseball bat. 

LG:  If you come near me, I will destroy you.

Clearly, I watch too many action pictures.  He takes a step back and begins to insult me again.  I keep my cane raised and draw it back.  He gets off on the eighth floor, but holds the door open with his hand continuing to taunt me.  Then he presses every button until the lobby, laughs and tells me to enjoy my ride down.    

When he moves, I get off after him and take the stairs the rest of the way down.  He follows me into the staircase.  I turn and threaten him again.  He stands inside the doorway of the staircase, yelling behind me until I’m out of sight.  I am terrified and run as fast as I can down the eight flights.  I never see him again.

I’m on a plane to Tanzania now, completely moved out of my apartment, technically homeless until my new apartment is ready next month.  I think about the last seven months of my experience in Manhattan; ordinary nights on the couch, salacious stories never to be told - all culminating in an adrenaline-laced rollercoaster.  I’m full of anticipation for the adventure that awaits me the moment I get off the plane.  I hope it is every bit as exciting and only a fraction as scary.  But knowing me, I’d ask you, my readers, if you receive an email from an African War Lord requesting money for my release from captivity, it’s probably safe to assume that it’s not a phishing scam.  Go ahead and send the money.  I’ll pay you back.    

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6B2wtC91_0U

One Day Closer

I moved to New York City knowing that the most exciting moments of my life would find me here.  They have.  So much, in fact, that I think it may be time for a move to South Dakota. 

March 2013

A handsome stranger flirts with me on the platform of the Acela train.  We grab a beer in the café car, talking and laughing for an hour.  He is successful, fun, and works for a bank not far from my office.  I am the most charming version of myself, and I know he is picking up what I am putting down.  My mind races to all the places it shouldn’t: picnics in the park, weekend get-aways, cozy dinners, sex (!) and (of course) having a great story to tell about how we met.  I am… ridiculous.

Imagine my disappointment then, when he tells me: “We are not a match.”

Irritation, shock and self-doubt wash over me. 

LG (Me): “Why”

SHS (Said Handsome Stranger):  “Because you said you were very Catholic, and I met my last girlfriend at a Swingers’ Party.”

LG: “Do you have sex with men?”

SHS: “That’s a personal question, but yes.  It’s a part of our lifestyle.”

LG: “You’re very intuitive.  We are definitely not a match.”

Invigorated by the memory of how great that initial spark can feel, I go home and decide I need professional help.  I activate my online dating profile because that’s just as sexy as meeting on the train.  Right?

I must admit, dating.com is fascinating.  Well, not literally www.dating.com; I just checked and it’s actually an escort service (with which I have no affiliation).  I mean, dating behind a computer screen.  In the loneliest city in the world, there’s comfort knowing that normal, attractive, educated, single people congregate to look for love men congregate to look for sex and women congregate to look for free drinks. 

April 2013

My girlfriend (stuck at work on a Friday evening) stands me up for a Festival we plan to attend together.  I go to the event alone.  Afterwards, I walk home with nothing to do on a gorgeous Friday night in the most bustling city in the world.  I feel pathetic.  I crash my roommate’s date with his girlfriend.  I pull open a bottle of wine and do what amounts to sitting between the pair on the couch during a rom-com.  We play Jenga and I get tipsy.  I graduate from wine to tequila and then… I go online.  Tragedy ensues.

I end up responding to a man who uses every manner of flattery to woo me in an email.  His pictures look great.  He is from Ireland, a former “professional” rugby player (whatever that means) and an investment banker.  I tell him to rescue me from my roommate’s date and we settle on grabbing a beer before he claims he has to meet his friends.  I down my tequila, crush my competition at Jenga and take off in search of adventure in Manhattan.

As soon as I see him, I know he is not the one.  His cheap cologne cloaks him in a five-feet radius.  His Irish accent is more Eliza Doolittle common than Gerard Butler sexy.  Still, I am happy to be off the couch on a Friday evening.  He speaks:

IG (Irish Guy): “Wow, you’re beautiful.”  This is normally enough to make me swoon. 

LG & IG:  Small talk, small talk. 

IG:  “So, tell me about your divorce.”

**Sirens and red flashing lights go off in my head.**

LG: “Nothing to tell, really.  We just got married too young.  What’s your story?”

IG:  “I was very Catholic growing up.  So much so that I was a virgin until I got married at the age of 30.”

**Missiles Incoming.**

IG:  “Then, two years after we got married, I found her in bed with her personal trainer and I guess she was sleeping with the whole town back at home. 

**Eject!  Eject!**    

IG:  “I moved to America and completely distanced myself from anything or anyone having to do with religion or God.” 

**Simulation Over.** 

I make the sign of the cross and chant, “The power of Christ compels you,” over and over like Father Michael in The Exorcist.

LG:  “I am very Catholic.”  And those of you who know me best understand my aversion to pre-marital sex, birth control, a woman’s right to choose and gay rights.  Naturally.

IG:  With a sour combination of condescendence and indignation: “This has no shot of working out.”  He chugs his beer, slams it down and says (angrily), “Good luck.  Enjoy the rest of your evening,” then storms out (like-his-hair-was-on-fire).

This is not a dramatization. 

I sit in the bar.  Alone.  Stunned.  Unbelieving. 

Captain Save-A-Ho witnesses this from the end of the bar and swoops in coming to my rescue.  I indulge it, yearning for validation.  I actually stand up, turn around, and show him my ass asking how a man (who, incidentally, I was not the slightest bit interested in) could turn himself away.  Delight sweeps his eyes and I realize I’ve gotten everything I wanted from the captain.  I bid him a good evening and walk home. 

May 2013

I leave my friends at a crowded bar with standing room only.  My feet are killing me and I am desperate for a taxi.  I see one across the street and run for it.  As I get there, I see a 6’7” tall, universally gorgeous, dangerously sexy man holding the taxi door open while people get out.  Not in the mood to stand one second longer, I get in before he has the chance and tell him we can split it.  The next morning I receive the following text:  “The highlight of my evening was the taxi ride home.” 

Trust me when I say that Lance, the only name that could do justice to this meet cute, is (on the surface) everything a man should be.  Our first date is perfect but there’s no invisible magnet pulling me across the table drawing me into him.  After a few half hearted texts and promises of a second date, I am neither surprised nor hurt when I do not hear from him again.   

June 2013

So, maybe I’m not ready to trade in my life in the Big Apple for the prairie lands of the Midwest just yet.  Manhattan is neither as glamorous as I want it to be, nor as overwhelming as it sometimes feels.  None of this is perfect, but all of it is exciting.  It’s a whirlwind of adventure, suspense, comedy, romance, drama, embarrassment, heartache, and time again failure.  I have no idea if I will meet the love of my life online or out of the pages of a Nora Ephron script.  But I do know that every day that I wake up is either the day that I will meet the one or at least one day closer.  

This Girl is on Fire

She's just a girl and she's on fire

Hotter than a fantasy, lonely like a highway

She's living in a world and it's on fire

Feeling the catastrophe, but she knows she can fly away

                 - Alicia Keys

Yeah.  It was kind of like that.

 My lover got me a ticket to Jamaica for Valentine’s Day.  When I say my lover, I mean my employer.  And when I say Jamaica, I mean Orlando, Florida for a client meeting.  So, maybe I didn’t get whisked off to the Caribbean (this time), but my Valentine’s Day was hotter than yours.  Believe it.

I sometimes wear my hair naturally and for me that means a bunch of curls.  It makes me feel a little spicy.  Like at any moment I’m going to hurt someone with a mere switch of my hips.  The first time I wore my hair naturally as an adult, it was to impress a boy.  He had a crush on a girl whose hair was curly.  She was also Latina, but with one of those really annoying Spanish accents that everyone finds sexy, except me.  It just made me want to punch her in the mouth.  She was a troll and I was fabulous (obviously).  I would make him see this. I would make him choose me.  Short of boiling a bunny, I decided I would make my hair look just like hers. 

What?  That’s not normal?

I had no idea what I was doing.  Out of the shower, my curls look great; at the beach, same-same.  So I imagined all I had to do was wet hair, towel dry and head out.  But by the time I got to work my hair was in a huge fro.  I was going for Selma Hayek-natural but instead looked like a meth addict.  Hot!  I had no rubber band to tie my hair back and no time to run to a convenience store.  So, instead of impressing my crush, I ended up terrifying him.  Honestly, I find it very unfair since he never even found the stash of memorabilia stolen from his office (used forks, dirty Kleenex’ and other such personal objects). 

I digress. 

Present Day. 

I carry extra hair ties in my bag… at all times.  I’ve also learned to wear my hair curly (it requires lots of product).  And I’ve got enough confidence in myself now that I’ve pretty much stopped stalking boys.

… 

Okay, that last part just isn’t true.  But my confidence level does (as you will see) border on the obnoxious.  That’s how all good stories start, though.  Right?

Last week, February 14^th, I walk into a bar to meet a guy I used to date, (but who now (like Biz Markie says) is just a friend), along with a bunch of his Navy buddies.  My hair is curly (product!), my makeup is flawless, my heels are fierce, and my jeans fit like a glove.  I smell delicious and it is literally and figuratively intoxicating.  Everyone in the bar is eating out of my hands. I’m not sure how many years, (or decades if I’m lucky) I have left of this, but for now, in this wonderful, magical carefree time, I’ve still got it and it feels beyond amazing.

So, my friend walks me to the back of the bar and pushes me against the wall (because girls really hate it when guys do this) and he kisses me.  Things get hot.  Too hot.  I begin to have sensory deprivation because nothing is matching up.  The sweet smell of hubris has been replaced with something foreign.  Something awful.  Something burning. 

My hair. 

My long, flowing, thick, beautiful hair.

It’s on fire. 

I am on fire.

I am on fucking fire. 

I shriek a scream so loud it sounds like murder.  It is murder.  My hair… has been murdered. 

My Navy friend, like all good sailors, skilled in the art of damage control, pats the fire out.   I run to the restroom, heart racing, whimpering like a slobbery buffoon.  The product in my hair caught an open flamed candle on the ledge of the wall I was leaned (pushed!) against.   I begin to pull chunks of burning hair out onto the floor and there seems to be no end.  The clumps - melted, charcoaled black clumps - keep coming out.  I have a lump in my throat.  My cheeks are flushed.  My armpits sweat.  I smell horrible.  The whole bar smells horrible and everyone knows who dealt it. 

I run out of the bar humiliated… like all good stories end.

Maybe it was a sign from Jesus to cut my hair.  Or to stop making out in public.  It’s difficult to tell because He does work in mysterious ways.  Six inches later, my hair is still long.  No one noticed my missing locks at work, which is a good sign.  Lord, in this your Lenten Season, if you want me to stop kissing frogs, please throw a couple of princes into the pond.  And might I add (respectfully), when you want to burn a bush in the future, please don’t use my hair.

I’m just a girl and I’m on fire.  I thought you knew.      

Thirty-Four

Today is my birthday.  I am 34.  This day has always felt magical to me, like anything is possible.  On this day, 17 years ago, I wished so hard that I would get kissed for the first time so I could stop practicing on my forearm.  Yes, I was a gigantic nerd, and I never did get that birthday kiss.  But in the last 17 years, I have kissed a lot of guys.  I mean, A LOT of guys (unless my parents are reading this, in which case I have kissed only three).  So I guess that means I’m kind of a big deal.  I am usually remiss in sharing my age; I’ve been 22 for the last twelve years.  But I am still smokin’ hot and being 34 gives that statement a lot more gravitas.  I mean, you don’t get to kiss ten (million) boys in your lifetime by being ugly.  More than that, I’ve got some battle scars from the last year and at 22, I couldn’t have done them justice.  I realize now that what makes this day, Boxing Day (the best thing about Canada), so special to me is more than having one magical day.  It’s about having one more magical year and using this day to stop and reflect; to count my war wounds and count my blessings; to set goals and wish for moments as exciting as my first kiss.   

Thirty-three.

I got laid off from my job this year.  Again.  It was scary and humiliating and frustrating.  I had a brand new mortgage.  I had a brand new surround sound system!  My juice cleanses were cut off.  I stopped shopping at Neiman Marcus.  It was terrifying.

I got my heart broken this year.  In an email.  On Thanksgiving Day.  Which I happened to read while (surprisingly enough) I was with my entire family.  It felt like I got sucker punched.  Through the smiles and jokes I forced for my family, all I wanted to do was crawl into a deep dark hole and cry.  I wanted to shed tears that sounded like a two year-old having a temper-tantrum, with random high-pitched screams and fist pounding and feet stomping thrown in for effect.  I wanted catharsis. I wanted comfort.  I wanted him. 

Those were two pretty hard blows, but 33 was still the most amazing year of my life.

I moved to a new city and made incredible, life-long friends.  I travelled to different countries and to Navy football games.  I saw my first Foxfield races.  I danced until the roof caught fire.  I bought an apartment, on my own, with my own money; and it is the most beautiful apartment in the history of apartments.  I drank my first gin-martini and it was absolutely delicious; I didn’t even have to pay for it.

I fell in love.  However fleeting and painful it turned out to be in the end, it was passionate and fun and beautiful and sexy.  And it gave me the promise for what I am capable of feeling and what someone, someday will be capable of feeling for me too.  As it turns out, that someone is probably going to be Jamie Foxx.  And we are probably going to get married.

Most of all, I got a fresh start.  Again.  I got a new job.  Lots of new jobs, actually.  After just over two months of being unemployed, I had my pick.  Having recently been rejected professionally and personally, it felt amazing to feel wanted again.  It felt magical. 

Thirty-four.

I’m moving to Manhattan.  It’s bitter sweet.  My new tenant came to look around the house and as she was telling me how much she loved it I got a lump in my throat and wanted to shove her out the door, then throw her jacket and purse out after her.  I love the life I had in Boston, but I’m so excited about moving to New York that I sometimes have difficulty sleeping.  That city catches my breath every time.  It is magnificent, electric, seductive; and moving there (again) scares the shit out of me. 

Turning another year older is daunting.  I don’t look quite as fresh or chipper first thing in the morning without makeup as my 22 year-old self.  I carry Tums to fight off Indigestion, my unwanted travel partner.  I worry about how many fertile years I have left and think about when the right time is to freeze my eggs.  I never had a thought of these issues in my twenties.  My thirties, layered with independence, responsibility and lactose intolerance, have been happier and more exciting than the entirety of its previous decade.  Thirty-three, with its highs and lows was truly extraordinary.  Thirty-four, with its wrinkles and achy bones, will be my greatest feat yet.  I am going to be the most fabulous version of myself and take Manhattan by storm.  Not just for today, but for the whole year, anything is possible.  My adventure starts now.   

World Domination or Certain Death

I broke my knee and arm in a skiing accident when I was 17.  I had surgery on that knee when I was in the Navy and have since had chronic pain.  For this and other reasons, I am a disabled veteran and am entitled to free health care for the rest of my life at any Veterans Administration’s (VA) Medical Facility.  This is a blessing, but much like Peter Parker’s brush with a radioactive spider, also a curse.

I’m familiar with hospitals all over the country.  My broken knee and arm were neither the first nor the last bones I would break on my 5”7 frame.  A friend (in no way associated with the medical community) recently diagnosed me with small-footed-syndrome™, a condition which limits the body from maintaining its balance due to its too-small base paired with its too-tall height.  I accept this information as fact and have since begun purchasing shoes a half size larger and stuffing them with socks.  Like millions of men before me, this is to give the impression of genetic superiority to potential mates, lest they believe our children would suffer from the same small-footed-syndrome™ as myself and search for a better (larger-footed) genetic match. 

Aside from my newly diagnosed disease, I am also a borderline hypochondriac… surprisingly enough.  I once had pain in my chest that was so intense that I convinced my parents to rush me to the ER before my impending heart attack triggered by the early onset heart disease that I so clearly had.  It turned out to be gas.  I walked out, head held high, with Mylanta and a few hundred dollars worth of co-pay.  As I explained to my parents all those years ago, this was a small price to pay for the peace of mind knowing that their healthy, athletic pre-teen daughter was in fact not having a heart attack. 

I recently had my yearly appointment (code word, pap smear) at my local VA hospital.  Like the others I have visited, these buildings are dreary, soul rendering institutions suitable only for the 47%.  The results came back abnormal, showing the possibility of pre-cancerous cells.  This is extremely common and is generally followed by a second pap smear to rule out irregularities due to different stages of menstruation, inflammation, a drop in the Dow or a regime change in the Sudan.   Naturally, in its infinite wisdom, the VA prescribed me a colposcopy, a highly invasive and unpleasant procedure.  This was like treating the common cold with an intensive round of chemo.  

My gynecologist knew nothing about me.  She didn’t know that I was an (Half) Ironman or that I floss every day.  I mean (Half) Ironmen and regular flossers do not get afflicted with pre-cancerous cells.   But the rational side of me took over and I realized that if I was having this procedure it meant that I was both barren and dying a slow, painful death.  Obviously. 

Leading up to the colposcopy was an arduous process that took about an hour.  The nurse practitioner took my vitals.  I told her I always have a low body temperature, but she didn’t believe me; they never do.  The thermometer read 94.6˚.  She took it twice with the same result then used a second thermometer, again testing twice.  She recorded the highest result of 96.4˚.  I’ve always had a very low body temperature, which I am convinced is preserving my skin so I will be the hottest 50-year-old on the planet (invest early, fellas), which leads me to believe that my life’s purpose is probably genetic world dominance, establishing the first true Gattaca* (after first researching prosthetic-foot-elongation™).

The nurse followed up with an extensive dive into my family’s medical history.  She glanced at my online medical record and then casually announced that I tested positive for Hepatitis B. 

Readers: slow your role.  If I had tested positive for HepB, “The Adventures and Missteps of a Boat School Diva: Shenanigans, Tomfoolery and Other Bits of Ridiculousness,” would hardly be the forum I would choose to announce this.  Continue reading, please…

I broke out into a cold 96.4˚ sweat.  My heart raced and I thought of all the reasons that my life was now over, of course knowing nothing about Hepatitis B, its causes, symptoms or treatment.  I nearly burst into tears, asking what this meant in an octave so high it rattled the windows. 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said flatly.  “It shows you were vaccinated for Hepatitis B.  You don’t actually have it.” 

Somewhere, somehow, I hope that I am wracking up points for my non-violent behavior.  “You see, Officer, I know I snapped this one time, but what had happened was…”

I moved into the treatment room where a matted brown sterile table with cold, sharp metal stirrups taunted me like a fat bully waiting for school to get out; no escape but to face it.  Having already been positively diagnosed with small-footed-syndrome™, and falsely diagnosed with Hepatitis B, which in my mind was every bit a life-ending, painful, humiliating disease, the pressure was too much and I broke.  I started sobbing, knowing that the worst was clearly in store. 

I had cancer. 

Contagious cancer. 

Leprous, contagious cancer that would spread through my uterus, breasts, skin, clothes and anyone I came in contact with. 

My life… was over.

I have always been a mass of contradictions.  The little girl who played with Barbies and planned her wedding to Ken in a beat before plastering mud on her face and playing Army with all boys on her block; the girl who was interested in fashion and makeup and went to the Naval Academy; the woman who loves her independence but yearns for a family.  So, for me, it’s not terribly shocking that I’m the same person who took those moguls head-on and fearless at 17, but dramatizes life in extremes that cause my 96.4˚ body to react with tears and trepidation. 

Either way, what hangs in the balance is simple.  World domination or certain death.  With stakes this high, I'm going to start flossing twice a day.  

    

*http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gattaca

Get Out of the Street

You fucking nigger!

I read these words days later, and they still hurt.

I grew up all over the country, but I managed a pretty long stint in Louisville, Kentucky.  I imagined as I was moving from New York all those years ago, that Kentucky was lined with dirt paved roads and wondered if people still traveled by horse and buggy.  The idea of moving out of an apartment building in the city into an actual house, with my own bedroom, backyard and picket fence was so exciting that I would have traded the luxuries of running water for the outhouse that surely waited for me in my new city.  Louisville, as it turned out, was every bit a metropolis, with concrete sidewalks and gas-fueled automobiles.  Incidentally, using the bathroom outside eventually proved to be frowned upon. 

I live in Boston now. They’ve had running water since the 1800’s.  Clearly, this city has arrived.  I share a neighborhood with Senator Kerry and his billionaire wife and Tom Brady and his leggy supermodel.  I have a good job.  I’m educated.  I buy my groceries at Whole Foods.  I share a dentist with Mick Jagger.  Clearly, I have arrived. 

I went to the beach on Saturday morning with a new group of friends.  I left my apartment at 8:45 to hail a cab, dressed in J. Crew from head to toe. Traffic was thin and I stood in the road giving myself easy access to taxis approaching from either direction. A couple of angry cars honked their horns at me.  One angry woman held her horn for seconds and threw her arms up at me. “Yatta Yatta!” I yelled back mockingly, not taking offense.  I knew I was wrong, but I was in a hurry.  I stayed in the middle of the street until a pretty, well-dressed woman my age in a brand new Nissan blew her horn, slowed down in front of me and yelled with venom that burned like poison, “Get out of the street, you fucking nigger!”

Like breaking a bone, the first reaction I had was numbness.  I stood slack jawed as if I had been slapped in the face.  Emotions raced through me as my mind began to process what had just happened.  I was immediately transported through time and was no longer the beautiful accomplished woman I believed myself to be, living in one of America’s biggest cities in the 21^st century.  Instead, I was back in 1990; an awkward little girl in Louisville, struggling with my identity, starting fist fights with boys who called me nigger. 

That woman, dressed like me, could have been any one of my friends.  She wasn’t a white supremacist.  She wasn’t old.  She didn’t have a confederate flag mounted on her window.  And as far as I know, she didn’t have magical powers. But in the course of five seconds, she was able to strip me of everything that I was.  In that moment, I wasn’t smart or kind, ambitious or quirky, funny or interesting; I was just a black girl, a nigger. 

I got into a cab and tears started flowing.  I had a lump in my throat and my breathing was shallow and quick, trying to prevent myself from sobbing.  As I went to meet my white friends, all I felt was humiliation.  They would know what this woman had called me and they would believe it too.   They would see my brown skin, full lips, curly thick hair, round button nose and they would think I was ugly.  They would see my clothes and think I was an imposter who wandered into the wrong side of town, the white side of town. 

More than that, they had probably always believed, as she did, that I was just a nigger. I felt bamboozled, betrayed by every white person I had ever met.  Because no matter what our background, we were all lumped into the same category and they referred to us this way behind our backs.  They were waiting for me to annoy them, to step out of place, to fail; then they would tell me how they truly felt about me; about all of us.

This woman could have been any one of my friends, but she wasn’t.  She had no idea what it was like to love me or be loved by me, to nurture me, laugh with me, learn with me, be annoyed with me or fight with me as so many of my beloved white friends and family have.  I have been struggling to find a meaning or lesson in all of this, but a social message seems a little boring.  Instead, I’ll share with you some thoughts I’ve had on the issue since it happened:

1)      I acknowledge that all white people are likely not out to get me.  I am fairly certain that this is probably true. 

2)      I imagine she will develop the strain of HPV that turns people into trees.  I mean, I’m not saying I hope this happens to her, I just kind of have a feeling that it will.

3)      I hope no one ever calls me this to my face without the luxury of fleeing in a car; not just for my sake but theirs as well.  Any one of my friends and likely any one of my blog posts will confirm that I truly am bat shit crazy.  Earrings will come off and Vaseline will come on.  I believe that there are certain situations where a good stomping is not only understandable, but well deserved.  At least I’ve got my insanity plea all but locked up.