heart

"It could be all that smoking, you know.  Smoking two cigarettes in less than ten minutes can make you dizzy."

She stares at me from the tall, cold, awkward-paper-covered exam bed. She knows I'm right, but she doesn't want to admit it. 

"You have pretty blue eyes like me, Laura. I just noticed that." 

All I have time for is a smile before the doctor walks in and immediately starts asking questions. 

"Is it worse when you turn your head?"

"No, just when I'm walking." Then, the most Oscar-worthy moment I've seen from a client. She turns her head as far to the right as possible and jerks it back to the front, hands on her ears with her mouth open. Home Alone style. "Oh! I lied. It does get worse when I turn my head."

And just like that, we got sent to HyVee for Gatorade while the nurse got a heart monitor ready.  Don't get me wrong, I love the better safe than sorry approach when it comes to someone's life, but oh, the drama this girl will create with one of those. 

I am always right. We got the monitor on a Friday and by Monday, she had called the monitoring center 14 times. 

No, they had not seen any irregularities. 

Yes, the monitor is functioning fine. 

No, there's nothing else you need to do. 

I can handle two and a half more weeks of this, right?

watch.

I love when pharmaceutical reps walk into the doctors office. Really. They're probably some of the most interesting people I've had the pleasure to people watch. They're probably taking a few samples themselves. 

They are always dressed fabulously. Right down to their designer shoes. Male or female, it doesn't matter. There isn't a hair out of place. Not a single crease in their suit. This counteracts the luggage overflowing with samples and pens and pamphlets that they cart around and stumble over. 

The luggage is what makes them interesting. You can tell who they really are just by their bag. You can see the person behind the primped and pressed exterior by the condition of that bag. 

The new ones always have that brand spanking new bag; the fabric is stiff with confidence and naivety, the zippers sparkle with zest and anticipation, and the pamphlets stacked neatly and at the ready. 

As they spend more time in their position, their bag starts to show it.  They might keep a neat exterior, but they can't hide the wear and tear of that luggage: broken zippers, dirt and coffee stains, pens and pamphlets shoved together willy-nilly where they don't belong... it's a hodgepodge of a broken soul. 

I have to give them credit, though. They don't show their broken spirit. They show up each week with a smile and polite small talk. They cart that bag to each office over and over again. They dress like Ralph Lauren models and they hold their head high. But, if you look close enough, as they turn to walk out the door, you can catch a glimpse. Just a fraction of a second! You'll miss it if you blink, but it's there. In their eyes you can see the worn down and tired soul, yearning for a change. 

But then, as quick as their guard fell, it's up again as they stroll to their car with that trusty, loyal, tired luggage. 

Attention Deficit Dis..

My brain travels at a speed unmeasurable by man. I think of so many brilliant things...so many...but then, oh! next thought. Previous brilliant idea gone. Then it sits, just beyond my reach, like a vivid dream slips away moments after waking. 

It makes me sad, almost. All the beautiful stories, thoughts, idea, that could have been. Should have been. 

I could be great, if only I could keep up with my thoughts. Even now, I can't keep up. They're always racing. Faster, faster, faster.  It's as if they don't want to be remembered. They want to stay secret. Locked away. 

We know you're genius, but the rest of the world can't know. 

It's not fair. It drives me crazy. I can think three, four steps ahead...but then, where'd step one go? I can't slow down. Stop and smell the roses? Please. I can barely stop for my next cup of coffee.  Oh, that could be the problem. 

Coffee. The root of all insanity. 

The problem is, when I go without it, my brain doesn't move. It stalls. No thoughts, no brilliance, just throbbing nothing. 

There is no happy medium. There is no well-controlled, non-socially awkward (side effect of skipping step one often), brilliant girl. There is me. A very, very weird and awkward, wibbly-wobbly girl with a notebook. 

I don't think I'd have it any other way. 

I think a confident, put-together, version of myself would scare the living daylights out of me. After all, we're all just stories in the end. Might as well make it an interesting one, eh? And what is more interesting than a girl who messes everything up because she can't control her mind?

no touching.

"Heeeey there, pretty lady.  I need to schedule a follow up."

"What days of the week work best? I have an 8 o'clock next Wednesday."

"8 o'clock in the morning? Oh, lady, I can't do that." 

"Hey, hey, hey...no reaching over my counter. No touching, no touching or I'm going to make you go over to Carla over there." 

"Okay, no touching. Have you had a stroke? I have. You forget things after you have one of those."

This man's awkward attempt at flirting with the receptionist continued with feigned ignorance when she explained the rules of fasting before his next appointment. 

"Why would I drink coffee after 10pm? Unless I have something to stay awake for..."

"No, I'm saying after 10pm and in the morning, before you're appointment, you can't have anything to eat or drink except water or black coffee."

"No sugar?"

"No. No sugar."

This is becoming a painful conversation to eavesdrop on.  I'm actually wishing I was in the freezing exam room at this point. I'll just tune that out and focus on another conversation. 

"Mom, I'm fine."

"You are not fine, and even if you are, I still wish you'd make yourself an appointment, too. It never hurts just to get a check up.  Your sister goes to the doctor all the time. She looks healthier than you."

"She's pregnant." 

Next. 

"Get your hands off those dirty, germ covered toys right now. You don't know how often those get cleaned. If they even do get cleaned."

That from the mom who walked in with on her cell phone and let the door slam on the toddler behind her without even a glance or a sliver of concern. 

We have been listening to these conversations for the past half hour. Our appointment was 20 minutes ago. I know we'll end up sitting in the exam room for another 20 before the doctor even sees her. That part will be five minutes. 

-

I'm right. I'm always right. 

Although, the mother from the second conversation walked by while we were waiting:

"Is he coming back to take you home?"

"No, my daughter will pick me up."

spinster

"You're too old to have kids now, Laura. You're 23 and you're not even married!" 

"I'm only three years older than you!"

"Yeah, but I'm cute."

I know she's being funny, but I also know her well enough to know when she truly believes what she's saying. 

"Zip that cute face before I leave it on the side of the road." 

She laughs and makes the motion of a zipper across her lips. 

I love my job. I do. Even when they tease me. Even when a police officer ruins my favorite shoes trying to get me out of harms way. Although, I actually would have traded my ruined shoes for getting ran into (her hands were cuffed behind her back, there's not a lot she could have done!) that day.  Even when they embarrass me in front of the cute nurse, on purpose, and laugh about it as soon as we leave.  They're the reason I get up in the morning.

"Oh I really like that house!" I pointed to one with a wrap around, enclosed, porch.  "But maybe I should just stop looking since I'm never going to need any more space than a studio apartment because I'm going to be alone and childless my whole life."
"Yep."
An exaggerated frown crossed my face and she immediately took to groveling.  
"Okay, no, being serious now.  You will be a great mom.  You'll be old, but you'll be great.  You have to bring them to our house so I can play with them.  They'll call me 'Auntie.'  They'll all have beautiful hair, like you, too."
"I feel better now.  Thanks, girl."  I wasn't really feeling bad in the first place.  You can't do this job if you take everything they say to heart.  If I got upset every time I get called a 'fucking bitch,' I'd go crazy, myself.  Not to mention, 9 times out of 10, half an hour after 'fucking bitch,' comes 'I love you, honey.'  1 out of 10 times it's still 'fucking bitch.'
"You're welcome.  Now, just because you're going to have all these beautiful babies and live in a big house, that does not mean you can leave us.  I'll let you have the babies, but you have to stay our supervisor."
"I can't make any promises...what if the man I marry has to move for his job?  What if he makes sooo much money that I don't need a job?"
"Leave him.  We'll need you more."
I love my job.

excuse me.

I like to walk. After really stressful days, I like to run as far away as I can and walk back. I walk to the Walgreens down the street once or twice a week for the little things I always forget. It's therapeutic. 

Running at night is my favorite.  It's so much more peaceful. Also, stranger danger is half the fun. Keep running, I saw a weird shadow. Keep going so they don't get you. 

I don't live in a bad part of town. I actually live in a great part of town. Nights like tonight make me consider moving to daytime, though. 

Three things. I needed three things from Walgreens, so I got my ass up and walked. The walk there was perfect: summer breeze, no one else on the sidewalk, and no random honks from cars driving by.  The walk back was not so great. 

I wasn't listening to music (I was enjoying the night), so I heard a car slow down.  It struck me as odd as I wasn't near a stoplight. 

"Excuse me, do you need a ride? I work at the Marriott." 

Really? Okay, creepy old man with the BMW, I was totally not going to accept a ride from you, but since you work at the Marriott...that changes everything! I laced my fingers through my keys as I told him I was walking on purpose and did not, in fact, need a ride.

He drove off without another word. 

I was on edge the rest of the way home. Every car that passed gave my heart a little jolt. Perhaps I should brave the heat and go during the day from now on...maybe even sleep with my pepper spray on my nightstand.  Stranger danger isn't such an appealing motivational tool anymore.