lindsay: 25, indianapolis. is not one of those feisty "i will survive" types. makes fun of what you're wearing. trying to figure out what to do after whitewashing her "future plans" board. has no opinion on dragons.
Reasons I have decided I was born 30 years too late:
1. A picture of a guy with a bandanna wrapped around his forehead Willie Nelson style, with a handlebar mustache and mirrored sunglasses - it made me a little warm. In my pants place.
2. I'd like to buy the world a Coke made with real sugar.
3. Housing costs near Columbia University 2008 vs 1978.
4. Relative danger of being raped and murdered while hitchhiking across the states, 2008 vs 1978.
5. Tragedy of missing out on the heyday of catchwords like "boss" and "rad."
6. Were I 55, this would not be so out of control:
Happy One Year Deep Vein Thrombosis Anniversary to ME!
In one hour and eight minutes, I will swallow my last ever dose of blood thinning rat poison.
And then I have to just switch to aspirin for the rest of my life, but HEY, you know how the alarm on my phone goes off at 9pm every single night, and every single night everyone gets annoyed and someone (usually me) says "Is it nine o'clock already? CRAZY!"
Well, that part's over.
I am in the middle of a precariously redesign, and have much to say, should I ever find the time to say it (which looks...vaguely likely).
I'm doing my best, but for right now let's all celebrate that I can ride on Fingers' motorbike without fearing for the brain hemorrhage I will have regardless of the awesomeness of his extra helmet. Just sayin'.
I know it's been brought to everyone's attention quite frequently in the past year or so that I am not so much in my twenties as in my geriatrics, so much so that during my brief sojourn in Lexington, KY, I received a loving thoughtful package in the mail from two (perilously close to former) friends, that contained a tube of Gold Bond medicated cream.
I am doing a lot of considering as the year anniversary of my ridiculously overwhelming life changing illness (which sometimes comes out far more dramatic than it really was, excepting the fact that I happened to have just embarked on pretty much the only career path that could be immediately put to death by my diagnosis) looms ever nearer. This anniversary means a lot of things, like I can get another tattoo and I can take the Med-Alert tag off my keychain (it's been lolling around in my purse so long at this point that the words have faded, and the permanent marker I inked over them has also faded, so should an emergency occur I hope there'll be someone in the know on hand to inform the paramedics what my now-generic keychain is supposed to be warning them about).
Those things in themselves indicate an increasing trend toward youthfulness. However, since the illness occurred last August I have worked a couple of different jobs, all of which required me to be on my feet and running around like crazy for eight hours a day. Good for circulation, good for the reduction of swelling. Now I'm working in a cubicle, the health benefits of being on my feet all day are no longer available. I have traded in my stinky, sweaty foodservice odor and tired aching feet for a swollen ankle, and the swollen ankle is the problem that could prove to be life threatening.
In the spirit of such, while at the pharmacy the other day picking up the scheduled refill on my anti-coagulants, I tossed a pair of compression hose into my basket.
Tomorrow I'm going to go to my doctor and beg to not have to wear them, though the last two days of sitting on my ass have yielded not so much as a bulge in my once-again svelte right ankle.
Combine that with the fact that the gentleman who promised to call tonight for dinner and various other activities around 8pm called at 11:30 to apologize and see if I was still up for other activities, and my response was "Sorry, bud, I'm going to bed," I'd say that my superficial signs of aging have officially turned inward.
Eight hours of sleep has officially trumped staying up late to make out.
Getting lost in the most basic way can be simple enough, but the kind of getting lost I've been involved in recently is both an art and a science. It's a good thing I have so much education.
There is a lot going on, and my time is hurtling past so quickly I tend to miss it, but I find myself dumbfounded at the other end of every day, wondering how I managed to get nothing accomplished.
Again. There is nothing going on.
It's closing in on a year, and I repeatedly find myself wondering what happened to my bright future. Ideas are bandied about: medical school, which means Doctors Without Borders, or the International Relations program at the University of Indianapolis, to which I will absolutely apply once I win the lottery. The Peace Corps will not take me and my genetic abnormality.
Still, they're only ideas. I go to work in a kitchen, carry grease to and fro, get lost in the art of perfecting the reuben, my ankle swells and I panic. Or I go to work in an office, get lost in the art of perfecting the no-mouse data entry sequence, my ankle swells and I panic.
But I'm tired of panic, I'm tired of moaning and lamenting. I'm tired of dreaming up far fetched schemes to get me somewhere beyond this hand to mouth existence that I am pretty sure I won't survive much longer.
On Tuesday night, Amanda and I went out for a beer and food tasting at the pub where I am no longer employed (angels, swelling music, plucking harps), and we met a nice couple who were new in town(and half of whose names escape me). After hearing some of our conversation, they turned to me and said, "So corporate life not what you were hoping for, huh?"
As it turns out, I wasn't hoping for much more out of corporate life than a moderately fatter paycheck so, hey, mission accomplished. But I explained to them that it just wasn't where I had planned to be at this point in my life (matter of fact: I had actually planned to, at this very specific moment-to-moment point of my life, be in Zambia studying livelihood strategies among internal refugees).
The next question was: "So, do you have a dream job, then?"
There was no hesitation. I was a few beers up, a few inhibitions down. My hand hit the table, making the cheese platter rock slightly. "I want to be an anthropologist."
Say true, sister, say true.
I'll stay on the path, until the very moment that I hear that it is actually, physically IMPOSSIBLE for me to continue. I bet there's an area of the world where I can study immigrant livelihood strategies adjacent to a hospital modern enough to perform a simple prothrombin time. And hell, should all go to plan, by the time international travel becomes necessary I will be below the recommended weight level for women with my particular issue, and will have eliminated all risk factors other than genetics.
I have options. If the rumors about the IUPUI graduate program prove to be unfounded (I sent the email to my undergrad advisor today: is it true?! CAN IT BE SO?!) there are options. Commuting to Purdue would be, in two words, a bitch - but I could do it. Or maybe in a year's time, or two years' time, I won't be such a pussy and I'll be capable of relocating without dying (literally, too).
In the last five years, every time I've been really content it's been because I was on this path. So I lace my shoes back up and step into it again.
I am officially 8 hours and 45 minutes (first day overtime!) into my new appallingly corporate career. Remember when I started working for Starbucks and I was all, today I embark on a journey to a new frontier, a place I swore I'd never go?
Well, today I one-upped myself and headed downtown to my (own personal prepaid!) parking space off the circle, where I walked six blocks in my flip flops to the largest building in Indianapolis, put my heels on outside the revolving doors, and headed upstairs with my electromagnetic ID badge to begin working for one of the biggest financial conglomerates in the whole entire world.
I will say that it was vastly entertaining. And I will say that wealth, wealth management, and asset acquirement and retainment are fascinating things. I hope to climb a bit of corporate ladder, find myself in a financially secure position, and use my new knowledge to, you know, embark on a journey to a new frontier. Only this time, I'll be armed with a resume that has more than food service listed on it.
I have also learned that: time-wasting is an art unlimited (but not required) overtime is like a healing balm to one who owes upwards of 50K to Sallie Mae people can be incredibly cruel when it comes to naming their children sitting on your ass all day is pretty tiring AND there is a town in Texas called Flower Mound.
I'd say things went swimmingly.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go pack my lunch for tomorrow.
I have so much to say right now that it keeps all coming out at once, in a blur. But I'm trying to work on it. Trying to dust off the cobwebs. Eventually I'll get you all caught up.
For now, please know that I hate summer so much it chokes me. I don't need the heat or the sweat or all the reminders of how my body doesn't work the way I wish it would.
Call me when August is over, yeah? I'll be less cranky then.
