Big Boobies and Other Travesties

Today at work it occurred to me that only an upbeat, bouncy soundtrack was separating me from Bridgett Jones and an entire legion of hapless female sitcom stars, all of whom are stuck forever in uncomfortable workplace situations. For all that I am good at public speaking and the giving of formal presentations, I am a disaster in the office. I forget to introduce myself when people shake my hand and tell me their name, I hang up on calls I’m attempting to transfer, I forget what I supposed to say when I pick up the phone in the first place and I somehow manage to pop up around corners and doorways in such a fashion as to surprise oncoming victims.

The first day that I worked at this temp job (NOTE: though this particular assignment was supposed to last two days I’m now on my second full week and looking at a potential third) I noted – and admittedly this is an embarrassingly late point at which to note this – that when I’m unfamiliar with people I stutter. To the uninitiated, it would seem that I had a poor knack for compiling sentences rather than a severe speech impediment. I do, however, spend seconds umming while I try to pick out appropriate words, and I break unevenly for pauses and repetitions in my verbal train of thought.

I noticed this because – as I babbled incoherently at some poor sap who had ventured into the lobby – I flashed back to those first few weeks (months?) with my boyfriend. It didn’t take him long to point out how I tripped over my words; it was cute, he said. Cute or not, I eventually learned to speak in his presence and he has learned to accept me for that.

Assuming that there is a ‘real’ job someplace for me on the horizon, I wonder what I’m ever going to do with myself. In general, I present very well at interviews – well-spoken, charismatic, engaging, blah blah blah – but once the pressure’s off I get confused. It’s an odd reversal that leaves me hoping that I can fulfill my dreams of becoming a columnist (or something) so that I can stay home in my PJs and eat cereal all day. Furthermore, I’ll be a really great columnist, which will enable me to give formal presentations – really great ones – whenever I please, and others will be obligated to attend them.

When not distracted by having to drag a giant hose to Professor Will Ferrell’s chemistry class (now playing in my sleep-addled mind) that, my friends, is the stuff of my wildest dreams.

Today I shot the messenger.

He pointed this out to me, and I readily agreed. The guy couldn’t help it; he had tests. He had numbers. And so, logically, I had this stuff, this thing hunkered down in my body, and he couldn’t say it any other way.

“You look unhappy,” he said.

Well, no shit.

I got irritated, though, because the he – the doctor – began treating me like a child, apologizing profusely in that way you apologize to children when they’re being ridiculous and whiney. “Well, I’m sorry, Miss Diana”.

Please.

I paid for my visit, walked blindly to the car, swung out of the parking lot and methodically began breaking down. Mild panic attacks at health care facilities are old hat for me. To skip over the parts where I hyperventilate alone on the examination table and choke up to the point where I can’t speak without breaking into tears, this is how most of my doctor’s appointments end. 

I am beyond myself in exasperation.  At a frequency averaging – on the short end – every other month, I’ve gone to a doctor (the community clinic, the student health center, the dermatologist, the Chinese herbalist) with a specific complaint and every single time I’m prodded, discussed, examined under lights and kneaded only to be fed the same line:

“That’s unusual.”

Then I leave with some pills, some prescription, some antibiotics, some weak explanation, and it begins again; only this time it’s something different and equally inexplicable.

And though I’m not dying, though I face no real threat of a life lived decaying from some tragic disease, I feel myself losing it in the slightest ways, for no good reason except that I’m mildly frightened and immensely confused. I want to scream at the doctor for treating me like an idiot child and I want to force him to sit with me and talk to me and listen to me instead of acting like an adolescent himself.

There’s this deadlock: ideally, I want to buck up and act like I’ve got a pair; ultimately, however, the slightest reminder that something is amiss sends me reeling. With my hands bound from all other options, I’m forced to go lurking in those dark spiritual corners where I rarely tread. Not without hesitation, I swing my burden (it’s in a backpack; JanSport; lavender corduroy) from my shoulders, and I chuck it at Gos/Buddha/Jesus/Allah/Zeuss/Menthu-Ra.

“Take this,” I say.

And I'm off.

I’m trying to convince my dermis that it’ll be awesome.

“This’ll be awesome!” I say.

“Let’s go outside and garden! Let’s run around! THEN we’ll come back inside and when we do the water will feel SO GOOD!”

Dermis is not fooled.

Day three in the bush: no hot water.

The dishes languish in the dishwasher, their soiled hands pressed pleadingly together in hopes that hot water will soon be available and they will be made clean again. I, tired, hot and dirty, am standing backed into the far regions of the tub, shying away from the shower head’s icy spray.

For three days I’ve taken what amounts to glorified sponge baths. Crouched in naked defense, I rub cold suds all over myself with a loofah, then do a little squeegee number with my bladed hands to get the soapy mess off. No way am I changing my opinion: cold showers are just plain mean.

When not dreading Bath Time, I’m at my temp gig, assigned by the agency to a front desk job at an insurance company. I get paid handsomely to sit on my duff, read books ‘til my eyes go cross and occasionally pick up the phone, intoning the name of the company followed by my own title. That done, I do a poor job of transferring the call to voice mail and then wrap up the process by accidentally hanging up on the caller. I go back to reading.

Lather.

Rinse.

Repeat.

I must emphasize that from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. I do virtually nothing. Not for lack of want or effort; there’s simply nothing in the job description beyond “Sit here. Answer the phone.” So I read. Today a man – one of the company’s insured customers – saw me at my desk. Turning halfway, he called over his shoulder to the agent he had been speaking with.

“She’s reading!” He called out. This was hot news.

He turned to me.

“What are you reading?”

I told him.

He laughed as if this were the punch line to a very great joke he had just made up.

“She’s just sittin’ here reading!”

I wondered just what I should be doing to better please him. Something, perhaps, that wasn’t so damn funny. But I had nothing to say and really didn’t understand what all the fuss was about, besides, so I turned back to my book.

Laugh all you want, sir; I’m gettin’ paid for this.

Fantastic news: spinach is a SuperFood.

Over the weeks my refrigerator has gradually emptied out. There's the ever-present jug of water and pitcher of Crystal Light lemonade, a giant bag of tortillas I'm slowly doing away with, some baking soda and a stray pudding cup or two. I open the door and look helplessly at this, thinking about the days (not so long ago) when my fridge was well-stocked.

With a defeated sigh, I reach for the spinach and carrots in the bottom drawer. For the past week my diet has consisted of little more than spinach salads ("Salad" is a term I use lightly, since I would  - and sometimes do - just as happily eat a bowl of raw spinach with dressing, snacking on the carrots separately. Have you ever tried stabbing those bastards with a fork?), and not for lack of money or energy. As someone who loves to cook, it's mildly tragic that this is what it's come to.

My prime suspect the pills. 20 years of what I would classify as "really good" health finally bit the dust and left me with a slew of maladies; sore throats, everlasting rashes, allergies, infections and more. The pills that sap the viruses also haul off with the appetite and any number of other things.

On the upside, I found out that Cortaid - God's gift to men inflicted with rashes - can make the Pityriasis Rosea I've been suffering for the past nine months all but disappear. Don't get me wrong; this is great. What's not great is that I went an entire school year with giant, leperous-looking patches on my skin, not knowing that a $6 over-the-counter cream could make them go away in two days.

Boy, is my face red.
Note on the Pityriasis: my spots didn't look quite as gnarly as the ones pictured on the website. Or maybe they did and I'm just trying to convince myself that I looked at least a little bit socially acceptable when I was afflicted.

Sometimes I wonder if things like this are just serendipitous timing; maybe the cream does nothing - maybe the Pityriasis was going to up and leave anyway, and the Cortaid had nothing to do with it. At this point I'll never know, but I'll be damned if I'm not going to keep slathering myself with that stuff...just to cover all the bases.

As of - oh, say - fifteen minutes ago, I've a deep yearning to play an instrument. Not a piano or a violin (harkening back to my adolescence), but something more casual; a guitar, perhaps, or a good harmonica. As your stereotypically poor-and-unemployed college student, however, I have to train my sights on the more modest music-makers; I've got two spoons and a rubber band right here at home. Or maybe I can swing the cost of a nose harp.