Why Georgia

It's the last day of 2006 and I should be writing a best-of blog, but instead I'm just stuck here wondering. Wondering. Thinking. Pondering. It's strange how all the what if's can keep you up at night.

2006 was supposed to be amazing. And I won't lie. There were some fabulous moments. Sunrises and beach bonfires. First kisses. Parties to end all parties. Graduation. Summer loves and spring flings. Getting my white coat. New York. Spontaneous family dance parties.

But so much of 2006 had so many question marks as well. And now I'm sitting here, wondering. Wondering how a year so promising turned out to be one of my darkest to date.

I had a dream last night. I dreamt I was driving down this straight open road around sunset in a gorgeous red convertible going 85mph with the wind in my hair. It was actually very music video-esque. I didn't have a care in the world. No destination really. I was driving just for the hell of it and I was so happy.

Then, out of nowhere, it got pitch black, and I hit a huge truck - a huge cargo truck - in a head-on collision. And as everything proceeded in slow motion, as they will during car accidents, I hit another truck as I reeled and tried to gain control of my car. It flipped and turned, sirens and beeping alarms going off everywhere, and then I woke up. I woke up scared out of my mind how metaphorically-realistically my dream had just recreated my life.

It used to be that when things were bad, the only direction things could go was up.

Oh how wrong that turned out to be. Turns out they like to hit you while you're down. Hit you and beat you to a bloody pulp until you're nothing but a shell of a person wondering whether anything is worth the proverbial "it" to keep going.

My dad has cancer.



I can't sleep, but I don't even know how to write this post.

It's not fair. It's not fair for him. It's not fair for our family. Our family has enough heartbreak to last for the next five generations. We just can't seem to beat the odds. If it's not one thing, it's another. I don't know how my mother manages to keep us all together when we're bursting at the seams and falling to pieces. All at the same time.

I completely lost it when I found out. I still lose it from time to time, and I'm amazed I can keep up a good a facade as I do when I'm around friends. Like nothing's wrong, when actually, everthing is. I can be the most open person in the world - and I have the best friends in the world to open up to - but I don't during times like these. And I don't know why I suddenly just emotionally break down. Shut down. Especially since I feel so alone. But I feel so alone because I can't let anyone know how much it's eating me up inside. Because I've convinced myself that maybe, if I keep pretending everything is okay, and everyone believes me, maybe - just maybe - it will all be okay.

I'm sorry for ending 2006 on such a depressing note. But I wanted everything that's recently happened to be an ending, and not a beginning. Because while no one wants to end on a bad note, no one really wants to start on a bad one either.

Last year I started this blog, knowing that my wishing on satellites was childish and silly. This year, I don't care how childish it is. I'm crossing my fingers and toes, jumping over cracks (to save my mother's back), wishing on stars, satellites, planes, birthday cakes...I'll do whatever it takes. I just want my family to be okay.

Please.

Starfish and coffee

Last Christmas

It's a little insane how quickly time flies. And it's a little insane how much can happen in just one year.

Happy birthday blog. You officially turn one year old today.

So much has changed since then, and yet, so much has stayed the same.

My older sister is getting married. Married! I still can't quite wrap my head around that. And it was painfully obvious this year. Instead of forming alliances and plotting how to take down Park Place during our family Monopoly tournaments, she was off visiting her soon-to-be in-laws. She's not just my sister anymore. She has extended cousins and great-aunts to have dinner with.

I don't like sharing.

No, I lie. I don't mind sharing. I don't like change. Why bother fixing something that isn't broken? And our family is a well well well-oiled machine. Everyone plays a specific role - my little sister is the tomboy, while my older sister plays the protective, yet ridiculously girly one, and I'm the rational one. So when you've been wronged in an argument, you go to my older sister first and have her rage with you about the injustice of the world, before you come to me and realize that hey - you were a little wrong too, and then you go hang out with my little sister who somehow makes everything better with a trip to Starbucks.

Our balance was off this Christmas.

But that's life. Things change, and you change with it. Adapt to the new.

As I flipped through my old posts, trying to figure out what to write today, I came to the realization that I need to be better at adapting. I'm so used to clinging on to what's familiar, to what I know. Yet, reading my posts, I was shocked to see that those times when I was most ecstatically happy were all times when I took a chance and ventured out of my comfort zone.

My family, friends, school are all changing. And I've been stuck in the same. In the familiar. I've wanted to stay there. Where I thought I knew what to expect. But the course is changing, and I'm suddenly the only one standing still in a fast-paced city. Even as I try to hold on to the familiar, I'm realizing that everyone is changing around me. What was once familiar is now vastly different.

It's time for me to pull up my roots and learn to grow in different places. In the unfamiliar.

Bring it on, 2007. Though I'm a little apprehensive, let's see where you end up taking me.

Bigger than my body

I could be famous.

Well, I’m not. But I get mistaken for it whenever I fly.

So I’m an Asian girl. And it seems that every time I go home to Los Angeles, someone on the airplane asks me if I’m a different Asian actress. It helps that my dad travels a lot and always upgrades my ticket to first class. It helps me exude importance and celebrity.

Ohmigosh, hi!! I love your work!!

Huh, what??

Can I get your autograph?

You talkin’ to me? Very Robert De Niro of me, I know.

Oh is this a bad time?

Oh no no no. I just think you have the wrong person.

You're not Sandra Oh?

Substitute in other names – Lucy Liu, Gong Li, Michelle Kwan. It’s the same every time. Well, sometimes they don’t know the names and just say things.

Oh! You’re the girl from the Bond movie! Tomorrow Never Dies! That scene with the you know what was amazing! And the way you kicked that guy’s ---

Or sometimes they’d talk about me loudly to their very disinterested husband, who’s just trying to read the latest sports news.

Look Hank…it’s that girl from the Charlie’s Angels movies. (Cue here where Hank looks up and is mightily disappointed that his wife isn’t talking about Cameron Diaz or Demi Moore.) Look Hank…are you looking? I didn’t know she played the violin…why do you suppose she’s in Chicago? Excuse me miss, are you ---

But my response is always the same. I’d smile politely at them, blush a little and tell them that no, I’m not who they think I am. I’m just a plain ol’ student going home for the holidays. To be perfectly honest, I silently gloat inside that my commonplace genes somehow look famous during this exchange. But I digress. They look a little embarrassed and then after an appropriate amount of time has passed, go off to get their luggage.

Today was a little different.

So you’re not Ziyi Zhang?

No, sorry.

Oh…

That’s disappointing.

Man. If I had known she’d be so crushed, I would have pretended right along.

But the icing on the cake happened five minutes later.

Look Hank, at the woman in 4B. Isn’t that Princess Diana?

Marge. Princess Diana’s dead.

…

Oh.

Embers and envelopes

You'd think I would have learned to never ever leave a hot stove.

Apparently I didn't. And, well, now I have a crazy fear of sirens and fire alarms and angry neighbors.

I'm getting ahead of myself.

Last night, I was itching for a midnight snack, so I decided to fix up a plate of waffle fries. I followed the directions and everything. Turned on the stove to 475 F. Preheated the oven. Arranged the fries in a single layer and tossed them in.

So as I was waiting for my food to cook, I watched the ending to a Friends episode on TBS. Went to the bathroom. Wrapped up my Christmas shopping. Started packing. Sat down at my computer and replied to an email.

Then I smelled it. Something gross. Something burning. Something definitely burning.

And that's when I remembered I was hungry forty-five minutes ago, and had put my fries in the oven.

I rushed to my kitchen, and was amazed by how much smoke there was. Quickly I turned the oven off and yanked the door open. Smoke came billowing out, and as our fire alarm started beeping loudly and insistently, I realized that there was a small fire inside. Apparently, our cookie sheet had changed shape as it heated, and one of the fries had fallen off and caught on fire. I threw some water on it, but the smoke got even worse, and I heard my neighbors' fire alarms start to go off too.

Fire successfully out, I rushed to the windows and threw them open, as I willed the fire alarm to shush. Doors started opening, as my neighbors started wondering what to do.

Do we evacuate? We're not supposed to take the elevator when there's a fire are we? But it's a small apartment fire, and we're on the 27th floor. There's no way I'm walking down 27 flights of stairs...

I silently started freaking out as my neighbors started going around to the different apartments to figure out where the smoke was coming from. I grabbed my Oust can and started spraying like no other. Thankfully the fire alarm stopped, as the smoke started to clear the room.

I left the windows opened and hopped under my covers. But every time I heard sirens, I'd jump up and run over to make sure the fire department wasn't coming for me. See, after that incident in April? My suitemates and I are on fire probation...and I really don't think another kitchen fire would look good on my record.

Now, given that we live right next to the hospital - with ambulances pulling in and out all the time - I've been awfully jumpy.

Dreams for plans

What do you do when everything you've ever done has always gone well for you and you've had everything you ever wished for, and then all of a sudden, out of nowhere, you hit a brick wall and realize that you have nowhere left to go?

I just hit that brick wall.

I'm starting to worry that medicine might not be right for me. Or rather, that I might not be right for medicine. That while I may have the passion, I might not have the smarts. And while I was always convinced that as long as you really loved something, you could do it - I'm starting to realize that the smarts are a mandatory prerequisite. All the passion in the world isn't gonna help me.

So where do I go from there?

Everything I've ever done has been for this. My friends, my family, my hobbies, my life - my everything - revolves around medicine. And since everything up to today came to me so easily, pointed me in this direction, I don't quite know what to do.

My compass is broken.

I've having the "who am I?" crisis four years too late. I should have been discovering other things I'm good at while I was an undergrad. Heck, I was even an Undecided for a good two years. And all I found out was that I could never write a newspaper column and my stage fright got proportionately worse with audience size. There went journalism and music. But it didn't matter. Because I had medicine. In fact, I even pointed to those failures as clear signs that medicine was right for me. That they were necessary detours on my path to becoming a doctor.

And medicine seemed so obvious. I'm a good person. Despite what the jealous ex-girlfriends and backstabbing ex-best friends may think, I am a good person. And medicine to me, was the noblest profession one could have. It was something where you could actually make a difference in someone's life. Actually help someone else. And everything pointed me in this direction. I got a scholarship to a high school medical conference - and I loved it. I loved the fake PBLs, the site visits, the public health symposium. I was accepted as a high school student to do neuroscience research at the local university. I got into an honors program straight out of high school - which meant guaranteed admission to a top medical school in the nation, and no MCATs. My writing thesis was about terminal care - and it turned out to be the easiest twenty page paper I'd ever written. I joined Dance Marathon, and immediately fell in love with the autistic kids that we worked with. Every detour in my life has somehow led me back to medicine.

Now I'm left wondering, if medicine isn't for me, what is? The problem with being the girl with everything is that when everything revolves around one thing and that one thing is taken from you, you're suddenly a girl with absolutely nothing. No direction. Nothing to fall back on. Nowhere to go.

Remember that blog from a couple of posts ago? The one where I lamented about wanting a sign? Proof that yes, I am smart enough. Yes, I belong at Northwestern. Yes, I will be a competent doctor.

I didn't get the sign I so desperately wanted.

The sign I got said in big blaring letters: YOU DON'T BELONG HERE. BUT IF YOU WANT TO STAY, YOU BETTER DAMN WELL MAKE SURE YOU WANT TO BE HERE.

I want to be here so badly. Desperately. Terribly.

I do. I really really do.

Here's hoping that's enough to get me through. Because I don't know what else there is for me out there.

California dreamin'

I miss California.

Breakaway

I think I'm homesick.

I always get this way around the holidays. Especially right after Thanksgiving. Maybe it's because I don't go home. Maybe it's because I spent Thanksgiving with my roommate's adorable cousins, and I miss my own family. Maybe it's because I spent Black Friday with my older sister and her fiance, and it just hit me that our Thanksgivings will never be the same after she's married.

Maybe it's not homesickness at all. Maybe I'm just realizing how much studying I have yet to do, and I'd much rather disappear. Or run away from it.

I'm burnt out.

That sounds so silly. It's only been two units! But I am. This constant stressing to be at least average on a test? Not healthy. But every day, the stress levels just seem to rise a little higher, and I swear, I feel like I'm in over my head for this current unit.

I'm burnt out and I miss my parents.

I'm overwhelmed. And I shouldn't be. But I'm at a top twenty med school, and I'm starting to wonder if there was a huge fluke in the admissions office the day they sent me my acceptance letter. Honestly, should I be floundering this much? Should it take me 3-4 lecture run-throughs to have a vague idea of what I'm supposed to be learning? If I'm supposed to be here, why don't things come more easily than they do?

This unit was going to be different from the last two, I told myself. I was going to stay on top of things, study with a genius, swallow my pride and ask the stupid questions, get things done...I was going to prove to myself that I belonged here. That I could be a top twenty med student. That the admissions office didn't make a mistake.

I don't know if that's going to happen. Tomorrow's the one-week mark. And despite my resolutions, I find myself hoping, crossing my fingers, that I'll somehow miraculously pass. Here's hoping I have a guardian angel looking over me. Honestly? There are serious problems with going from being the top student in high school to being above-average in college to clinging on by a hair in med school. I peaked in high school, and it's been a steady decline ever since.

One thing's for sure; my self esteem is plummeting.

But that's not what concerns me that much. I can handle not being the smartest person in class. I can deal with low self-esteem. What worries me is that I might not be as competent as I thought. And if there's one thing I don't want to be, it's an incompetent doctor.

So much for wanting to help people. I should have became a baker instead, and made a fortune off of healthy dessert alternatives.

I wish I were home. Having bonfires with my friends and enjoying the year-round California weather loveliness. I wish I were studying at home, knowing my mommy would bring me midnight snacks of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with the crusts cut off. Giant bear hugs from my dad. Yes, I'm twenty-two years old, but those childhood pleasures still make me infinitely happy.

I just need a sign, an omen, validation. Anything, really. I need something that tells me that yes, I do belong here. That yes, Chicago could be home too.

When you're dreaming with a broken heart, waking up is the hardest part.

Broken hearts are hard to heal.

Everyone has a different remedy. Find a rebound. Get a hobby. Stuff yourself with chocolate and ice cream. Take up running. Get a dramatic new haircut. Buy some cute new shoes. Or clothes. Adopt a pet. Throw yourself into schoolwork. Surround yourself with friends.

I blog.

It doesn't matter what you do...all that matters is that you forget about the boy. Forget why you fell for him. Forget all the fabulous times you had together. Forget the funny stories.

After all, if you forget it all, you can't be reminded.

Tonight, I played a dangerous game with one of my friends. Eye for an eye, we exchanged lovelorn stories from kindergarten. Seventh grade. Senior year of high school. That one literature class for our English major.

It's amazing how one simple story can take you back. How you start to remember everything. The way his aftershave smells. How nervous he was when he asked you out to dinner for that first date. How much you hated men when you were stood up because of a misunderstanding. The first kiss. One memory just starts triggering all of the rest.

All of our stories ended with our sentences trailing off, as our minds wandered nostalgically back to days past.

Which brings me to my point.

I think no matter how hard we try, we never ever really get over past loves. We move on (or at least we try to), but a little part of our lives will forever be intertwined. And by a little part, I mean all of it.

But that's okay. These episodes shape us into who we are today.

For instance, I will forever associate seventh grade with my failed Sadies Hawkins' dance. And because of that, it will forever be hard for me to make the first move.

Orchestra will always be connected to my first huge crush. And prom. And Roman Holiday. And acting so silly at one of Switzerland's swankiest restaurants and consequently being grounded.

My memories are intertwined with these failed loves. But they're good memories.

My summer job in Los Angeles is now forever linked to memories of Tim. Trying on dorky sunglasses. Universal Studios. Singing along to Kelly Clarkson at the top of our lungs on a road trip to San Francisco. Thrift store Hawaiian shirts and poodle purses. Group rivalries.

And while I can look back fondly on orchestra and seventh grade algebra now, I can't yet look back at this summer. It's too soon.

Tim wrote me an email two weeks ago. And while I could ignore it then, blaming my upcoming test for not responding, I don't quite know what to do now. I could write him back. Be the bigger person. Give him the peace of mind he so desperately seeks. Pretend that yeah, I'm fine. We can be friends. But I'm not ready yet. So I deleted his email. Blocked him on facebook. Because to write him back? Would be opening old wounds. Ripping off the band-aid before I'm completely healed.

So much for shoes and chocolate and moving on. I just need time. We all need time.

Here's the take home message. You take as much time as you need. There's no clear-cut mathematical formula for figuring out how much time is enough time. You take exactly as much time as you need to figure out how much is enough. Don't erase your memories a la Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. Because while those memories may be hard to recall now, those memories are us - at every point in our lives. Don't forget about the boy completely. You forget about the boy for a little bit so that you can look back when you're good and ready. So that when you look back, you get that nice warm nostalgic feeling.

Those boys after all are part of our memories. They're our memories of cooties and grade school plays and missing front teeth.

Broken hearts are hard to heal, but they do. With time. It's amazing really. We bounce back. We're resilient. We just need time.

Wreck of the day

Good things should happen to good people.

And it totally sucks when it doesn't.

I volunteer in the pediatrics ward of a rehabilitation hospital, and over the past couple of weeks, I've gotten to know a young man pretty well. He's great. He smiles, he's polite, he's encouraging, he's active, he cracks jokes, and he's really super sweet. But the first couple of weeks, he could barely get around in his wheelchair, depending on others to cart him around. His condition seemed dismal at best when he first came in - no one could understand what he was trying to say, he had casts on literally every single limb of his body, and it didn't seem as though he'd ever walk again. But as time has passed, his therapy seems to be working, and every week, there's a new improvement to crow about. No neck brace! No feeding tube! No trach! His complete mastery over his power wheelchair. His first full sentence. His attempts at walking again. Every time I see him, he greets me with his huge beautiful smile (that only recently has come out of hiding), and tells me excitedly about the new happenings in his life, and together we pump air and yell out yays and hurrahs.

And his mom. She is absolutely amazing. A force to be reckoned with. Every day, she wakes up at 5am so that she can drive into the city and be there when he wakes up - sitting in his room, reading the newspaper, pretending everything is normal. And somehow, she knows the perfect balance of being there for him, but not being overbearing. She goes to therapy with him, encouraging him on, reassuring him when he can't do something, pushing him to new limits at other times, and always smiling. She works on crosswords during rec time, so that he can talk with the other boys about sports and cars without a mother hovering close-by. Then, after getting the next day's schedule from the nurses and figuring out events that her son would want to go to - yes to the jazz concert, no to dogs (he wouldn't be able to pet them), yes to the scary movie - she waits until he falls asleep around ten, and then she makes the two-hour commute home to make sure her daughter and husband ate more than just pizza for dinner.

She does this every day. Every day for the past two months.

Now I've always admired these two. I don't know how I would do it. If I could do it. Because I'm pretty positive that I wouldn't be able to stay optimistic. I wouldn't be able to keep smiling.

I never pried to find out how it happened. Why he was in the hospital. Why he couldn't walk anymore. Then one day, it came up casually in conversation. Car accident. I didn't ask for more details. I just assumed that it was his fault. Drunk driving perhaps. An illegal right turn.

His high school had a benefit for him a couple weeks ago, and so it was on the news. And the actual details came out. It was a car accident. But it wasn't his fault. He and his friend were driving to the supermarket to get more soda for a choir fundraiser. Unbeknownst to them, two men had robbed a bank, and were being pursued by the police. The two men, making their getaway, crashed into them, killing the friend, and leaving my new friend so severely injured.

This shouldn't happen to good people. It's not fair. And I know life's not fair, but when things like this happen, I can't help but feel completely and utterly discouraged.

He's supposed to be a senior in high school. He was in musical theatre. He probably would have been the lead male in this year's musical -Wicked, his favorite. His mom says he sings like an angel. Right now, he's just learned how to reform his sentences.

These people are good people. This shouldn't be happening to them. They shouldn't be making plans for Thanksgiving in a hospital - wondering if the cafeteria will let them deep-fry a turkey. He should be at home. Living out a plain ol' happy, normal life. Making plans with his friends to go ice-skating. Freaking out over whom to ask to the big Homecoming dance.

I know. I'm getting too attached. But I can't help but wonder...what happened to justice and karma and all that good stuff?

'Cause he really really really doesn't deserve this.

In repair

I never thought I would say this, but it's gotten to the point where I'm kinda sorta maybe really relieved that Tim broke up with me.

I've always loved the single life. This was the Year of Yes, afterall. Being single means being able to go out without having to reassure antsy boyfriends that yes, you're being a faithful girlfriend. Singlehood means not having to waste two hours on the phone every night, when you know I'd much rather spend that time getting some much-needed sleep.

That's not to say that I don't miss being a girlfriend. I think I can be pretty fabulous at it. And yes, I miss having a boyfriend. I miss having someone kiss me goodnight. I miss having a bug/spider exterminator on speed dial. I miss having someone call just because they missed me, and not because they want to know where this meeting is at this and that time. And having a boyfriend? Meant that you could have guy friends without girlfriends becoming jealous. Could have guy friends without worrying about them misinterpreting your flirtatious-by-nature behavior. I miss all the things Tim represented, all the boyfriend-y things he did.

But I think I can cautiously say that I miss Tim a lot less. I miss having a boyfriend, not necessarily the boy in particular.

I think that's a step in the right direction.

But I'm nowhere near getting there yet. I'm in repair.

I don't think I'm going to be dating for a long while. What with juggling med school and trying to define myself as a person, I can't deal with adding signficiant other to my list of responsibilities. This is officially where I kiss the Year of Yes goodbye. Ten months to the day. Two flings, three flirtatious encounters, and one boyfriend later, I think we can all agree that it served its purposes.

I dated people I never thought I'd be open to. I talked to people I'd have run away from before. Bad boys. Smokers. Long-haired hippies (although I suppose he thinks of himself as emo punk rock). TAs. Shorter boys. Republicans.

It's been a busy year.

Today it ends.

Not to say that it wasn't useful. I learned a lot of new things about myself. Deal breakers turned out to bearable. Seemingly inconsequential things turned out to be huge annoyances.

But here's the thing. You can't teach an old Michelle new tricks. No matter what happens, I'm still me. Having flings? Pretending that I'm not emotionally involved? Not caring? So not me. I'm a die-hard romantic through and through. And regardless of the guy, I'm still the naive, goody two-shoes girl who doesn't want to hurt anyone.

Which brings us back to the point I was trying to make in the beginning of this post. I'm glad Tim broke up with me, because I wouldn't have been able to do it. Reading my old posts, it seems almost obvious that I knew it wouldn't last more than three months. That it wouldn't last the distance. But I would have held on for a long time. Let's face it. Our relationship had nothing going for it. And it was dying a slow and painful death. But I would have held on, just for the sake of holding on. For the security of having someone.

So I'm glad it's over. For better or for worse.

Vultures

Trust me. There's a reason why they put the word gross in gross anatomy.

We started lab this week.

I know it's a rite of passage. Every med student goes through it. And dissecting a cadaver? Means you get to be part of that cool club with the cool handshake with the other cool people whom you can talk to about all that cool anatomy stuff.

And I was excited. Excited to see everything I've been learning from books and lectures. Excited to be part of this "med school experience." Excited to learn from doing. But I was also so apprehensive. Seriously. Cutting someone open? Especially someone who's dead? It's not natural. And it's not like chopping up chicken for stew. This is a person! Someone just like you and me. I couldn't wrap my mind around the fact that I would be cutting through someone. Cutting through skin. Fat. Muscle. Bone. I couldn't get over the fact that it felt like a total invasion of personal space. Personal privacy. Yes, I know that they donated their body to science. But when they made that decision, did they realize that first year students would be doing the dissecting? In other words, complete idiots to the whole dissection process. Cause honestly? Most of us know nothing about dissecting a cadaver. We don't know how thick the skin is. We barely know where and what muscles should be where and what. When we're dissecting, our hands are everywhere - prying, pulling, pushing.

Now mind you, I'm completely grateful to these people. This is an experience that no one outside of the medical field has ever had. Will ever have. And oh man, learning by doing makes so much more sense than reading pages and pages of anatomy books and then trying to correlate that to illustrated drawings.

But the first day, I was scared. When I walked into lab on Monday, all decked out in my anatomy gown and purple gloves, I was shaking. Not visibly. Heck, no. I have far too much pride to let my classmates know how freaked out I was. And that false swagger got me through a lot. It got me through the smell which hits you the moment you walk into lab. And, to be perfectly honest, I don't think I'll ever get used to it. The smell follows me around. No matter how much I wash my hand, I swear I can still smell it on my fingers. It's on my salt and vinegar chips. It's on my clothes. It's in my books. I can't escape it.

Yet somehow, I managed to get to my group without hurling up the breakfast I had forced myself to eat that morning. And bright, fake smile in place, I met "George." Luckily, the anatomy staff had placed big black trash bags over his arms, his legs, his face. Also, he's a pretty big guy which kind of distorts the body. All of which made it much easier to pretend that there wasn't a person lying in front of us. That it was just another science experiment to get through.

Two of my group members made the first cut.

I couldn't do it. And I don't really know quite what I was expecting. Stuff to ooze out, I guess. He didn't "wake up" on the table when we made that first cut, like he did in my nightmares. Nothing happened actually. We folded back the skin, and proceeded to start taking the fat off so that we could see the muscles underneath better.

Now, because George is a big guy, we all had to help out. And pretty soon, I was de-fatting like nobody's business. I was so concentrated on my little section, that I completely forgot exactly what I was doing. Focused on the details, I could forget all about the big picture, which I was more than happy to do. We were at it for a good two hours. And then, finally, we started to see the muscles. The pectoralis major. The pectoralis minor. The deltoid. Every now and then someone would find something huge. A nerve we were supposed to locate. The vein without an artery. Each time we would get very excited. "Look what I found!" "Whoaaaaaaa..." "SO cool!" We were like little kids. "Look here!! Look here!!!"

And then, all of a sudden, I started to feel very weak. Maybe it was from standing for the past two hours, but I felt my knees starting to buckle. So I grabbed the lab stool and tried to keep going. But then my head started spinning, and I noticed I was breaking out in a cold sweat. I tried to reason with myself in my head. Michelle. Don't freak out. You're doing great. Look at how much you've done already! Heck, you found the cephalic vein! There was no use. I couldn't get the room to stop spinning. I was starting to black out.

Muttering an excuse to my group, I rushed out of lab. But I could barely see where I was going. I was just fumbling to get through any door. I ended up in the supplies room. I didn't care how we were told not to touch anything in the anatomy lab. I plopped down on the floor and put my head in between my knees. After ten minutes, I tried to get back up, but the moment I stood up, the dizziness started all over again.

I couldn't finish anatomy lab that day. And after freaking out for twenty or so minutes that I wouldn't be able to get through med school, I went home and ate some chocolate. Talk about a cure-all.

I got through anatomy lab just fine on Wednesday. True, I'm still prying and pulling and pushing and I still have absolutely no idea what I'm doing, but I guess that's what the actual rite of passage is. Figuring it out. Working it out.

Out of reach

I know I ended my last post resolving to move on. The exact words being move forward, if I recall/read correctly.

I lied.

I miss him.

I want so much to call him up and tell him that. Cause I do. I miss him a lot. Even though we did the long-distance thing, and he technically wasn't ever physically there for me, I knew that I needed anything, he was just one phone call away. He was emotionally there for me. And so, I miss him.

But I know I can't. Call it pride. Call it smart. Call it whatever you want. I can't make that phone call. Cause somewhere, deep down, I know that he let go of this relationship a long time ago. He's already well into the healing stage, whereas I am still barely treading water. I just got over the shock of it all a day ago. See, the silver lining in long-distance relationships? Once you break up, there's no chance of an awkward run-in. No worrying about seeing them in the corridors at school. No hiding about in the supermarket. No avoiding eye contact. No hedge diving. Actually, the long-distance breakup has ideal conditions, if you think about it. Everyone around you probably knows you better, and so, is automatically, "on your side," even if there are no sides to speak of. There are no "spies" to go back and report to him how horribly you're doing.

So I've been taking full advantage of this "ideal" breakup situation. Not showering. Vegetating in front of the television with lots and lots of junk food. I definitely feel no need to cook for myself, so I've been subsisting on whatever's edible in our fridge. Kraft single slices of cheese. Spoonfuls of peanut butter - straight from the jar. Gummy bears meant as part of a birthday package. Yogurt (that turned out to be past its expiration date). Pickles.

I knew there was absolutely no chance that I would see him, so I'd go check my mail in the lobby occasionally - pajamas and unkempt hair be damned. I knew I wouldn't run into him on my way to class, so I would throw on the stained sweatshirt that I left on the floor a week ago, and walk out the door. I had absolutely zero energy to devote to looking nice, or even presentable, really.

It was pathetic, really. And my apartment was turning into an absolute pig sty.

Last night, my friends were fabulous. They made me finally get out of the house, and took me to the Joffrey - where the dress code dictates that you a) must have taken a shower prior to the performance, and b) look relatively nice.

The ballet was gorgeous. Amazing. Wonderful. But what's even better is that my friends and I then just hung out at one of our apartments afterwards - taking silly pictures and basically just enjoying ourselves. It was so therapeutic. They got my thoughts off of Tim. Which is a lot harder of a task than you might think - since I was supposed to go visit him this weekend.

So once I got home, I resolved to put my life back in order. Folded my laundry that I had been sleeping on for the past day and a half. Did the dishes that had started to overflow in the sink. Finally stepped back into my room and got rid of that last bit of Tim - unpacked that suitcase that I, last Monday, thought was bound for Kansas City. And with the unpacking, threw away any last bits of denial that my relationship was really over. Okay, in the spirit of being honest, I tried to get rid of that denial. A big part of me is still clinging to the hope that he'll call and tell me he misses me. As much as I miss him.

I really do. Everything I see or hear makes me want to call him. Tell him things. Or I'll think things and relate them back to us. I see people flirting with each other, and it's super cute. We used to be super cute. I just found out that one of my friends is dating a girl who lives in Japan. Has been dating her. For over a year now. If he can make it work, why couldn't we? Or maybe more importantly, why didn't he want to make it work??

I know I'm just hurting myself by thinking these things. But I can't help it.

I miss him. Terribly.

And I was a fool for thinking I could move past it so quickly. I need this time to "get over him," to fall out of love with him. I was so hopeful - wanting to be able to be that bigger person and forgive and forget quickly. But, I know me, and so I should have known better. It's gonna take me a while. And I'll probably hurt for a while. And I need to be okay with that. After all, time heals everything, right?

She will be loved

Today was hard to get through.

I woke up hoping everything would turn out to be just a bad dream.

It wasn't. And so...today was hard.

It was hard smiling at others and responding in the affirmative to casual how are you questions. It was hard going about my normal routine, realizing that it wasn't actually very normal. It was hard leaving class, and looking at my phone, and stopping myself before I did something I'd regret later.

And if I'm completely honest with you, I'd tell you that I haven't even ventured into my room yet cause I know there's just too much to handle in there. It would be just a little too hard.

Tim and I broke up last night.

That line took me ten minutes to type out. But there. I said it. It's officially real.

The room finally burned up.

I wanted this to be an angry post. Angry at the world. Angry at the situation. Angry at him. Angry at all men. It's my pity party, and hell, if you're gonna crash it, you're gonna listen to me rant.

But I can't. When all is said and done, even though I have a million questions, and I think we could have lasted for another year or so, he's right. Long distance is hard. Maybe we could have talked more. Maybe we could have arranged to see each other more often. Maybe if we had met two years earlier. Maybe if we had a stronger foundation to go on. Maybe if we hadn't started out long distance. But those are all maybe's, baby. No use dwelling on the what if's, the what might have been's.

Speaking of dwelling, or rather refusing to allow myself to do so, I finally officially de-relationshipped myself from facebook, and untagged all of our couple-y pictures. I wanted him to do it. Part of me, pathetic as it might sound, hoped that he'd do it and realize what a huge mistake he had made. But I did it. Threw away the roses he sent me for my birthday. Got rid of the screensavers. Locked away the postcards and the little trinkets from his trips around the nation. Took control. Took charge.

That doesn't mean it was easy. Not in the least. Pushing that "cancel relationship" button, throwing away those gorgeous pink flowers...made it all so very real.

One of the big reasons why it's so hard to face the reality of it all, is because it was so unexpected. I think it's safe to say that I was completely blindsided, and am still reeling a little bit. Shell-shocked. A week ago, he bought me a ticket to Kansas City. Four days ago, I told my parents about him. He had his crazy I-don't-know-what-I-want-to-do-with-my-life quarter-life crisis two days ago, and yesterday afternoon I found something that would fit his wants and needs perfectly, and set up the necessary connections. I thought we worked. That we were a good fit for each other.

While he was busy detaching, I was trying to keep us together.

It seems so silly that I would be so wrapped up in a three-month relationship. But I fell. I fell hard. How did so much change in him in just one week?

I went to the dentist today. And it felt so strange not talking to him on my way there, knowing that he would have assuaged all of my fears of dental drills. I walked home from clinic, not knowing who to call about my apprehension over the new unit. He thinks he was a bad boyfriend because he never really had time for me. I mean, can you really sustain a relationship on brief five-minute snatches of conversations? Regardless of what he thinks he was or wasn't, he was someone that I depended on. And all of our little interactions added up to a whole heck of a lot that I really missed today.

I wish I knew what he was thinking. What he is thinking. What he's feeling.

But I know the only way I'm going to get out of this only half-burned, is to be strong, and move forward.

---
And you ask me what I want this year, and I try to make this kind and clear - just a chance that maybe we'll find better days. 'Cause I don't need boxes wrapped in strings, and desire and love and empty things - just a chance that maybe we'll find better days. So take these words and sing out loud 'cause everyone is forgiven now - cause tonight's the night the world begins again. - Better Days, Goo Goo Dolls

Growing up is hard to do

I've been punctuating all of my posts with "I'm a med student." I think it's partly because I can't believe I'm actually finally here. I took so many detours along the way. Majored in something non-medicine-related, just to see if medicine was really what I wanted. Rebelled against my parents "I want all three of my daughters to be doctors" wishes/orders. Dabbled in journalism. Tried to be a ballerina. But now I'm here. Because this is where I want to be. And I'm glad for the journey I took to get here, no matter how cliched that is, because now I know that this is what I want.

But that's only part of it. A huge part of me can't believe I'm a med student because that means I have to start growing up. I'm going to take care of people? I can't even take care of myself. I have to talk to patients and assuage their fears? Hello, I'm the geeky, awkward kid with braces who sits in the back eating paste. I'm supposed to convey some kind of wisdom when I have absolutely no common sense? Really?

Med student. It's a huge title. It means responsibility and diligence and thinking of the future.

But I've been avoiding all of that. I want to stay my naive silly self. Be a die-hard romantic. I refuse to turn into this jaded, cynical, skeptical person.

Everyone has to grow up at some point though.

This past Friday I officially turned another year older. It was like any other day, except for one thing. One huge thing. I had my first big unit test. Biochem. Cell bio. Genetics. The foundations of medicine, the professors tell us, trying to convince us that yes, we'll need to know the TCA cycle in it's entirety so we can explain it to our patients - whom I'm sure will be far more worried about whether or not his succinate dehydrogenase is working rather than whether or not we can fix him.

That test, while not quite as hard as I thought it could be, was hard. It was hard because I hadn't had to memorize and then synthesize so much information in such a short time period. Honestly? They took my entire bio major and condensed two years into four weeks. It was hard because I got my grades back within four hours. And they weren't anywhere near spectacular. It was hard because I realized that, even though this is something I want to do, I need to work for it.

My first major medical school test. And my birthday. All in one day. If that's not telling me something, I don't know what is.

It's telling me that I need to buckle down and start studying and start being a med student. This is what I'm going to be doing for the rest of my life. It's my responsibility, not only to myself, but to my future patients, to know this. No one wants a dreamer for a doctor. We all want responsible, intelligent physicians. So. No more time for silly pipe dreams. No more pretending that the far-off future isn't going to turn into the present in less than four years. It's about time that I start facing what's real and seeing what I make of it, as it makes something out of me.

Blind

Someone should just go ahead and slap a big ol' NEWBIE sign on my forehead.

Hi, I'm Michelle, and I'm an idiot.

I've been studying at the library for the past couple of days, trying to cram as much information as possible into my head. Seriously, it's like drinking water out of a fire hose. There's so much to absorb, and so little that actually goes in. Anyhow, the med school library stresses me out. Like I've said before, I constantly see people from class doing additional reading, researching confusing lecture points, and so on.

THIS IS VERY STRESSFUL FOR SOMEONE WHO IS REVIEWING HER LECTURE NOTES FOR THE FIRST TIME.

Fire hydrant! Large quantities of water rushing out at you! Mouth! NOT LARGE ENOUGH.

You understand the analogy right?

Thankfully, today I overheard some older (and clearly, wiser) med students talking about studying in the Law School Library.

Brilliant. Far away from books about mitochondria. Far away from more studious classmates. And right next to gorgeous views of the lake. Hello, study salvation. Hello sanity.

So, after class today, a couple of my friends and I walked the block over to the Law School, and tried to find the law library.

We asked the security guard (who was a little suspicious that we had no idea where the library was). We asked students. We asked professors. Each giving us more and more convoluted directions.

Student 1: Go up the stairs. Turn right. Up some more. Go through the clearing, and it'll be right there.

Random person passing by whom we thought was a student, but clearly was not: Go up the stairs.

Student 2: Library? I don't go to the library. Use the internet.

We went with Student #1. I mean, those directions seemed the most promising. So we went up the stairs. Turned right. Couldn't find any more stairs to go up, so we kept going straight. And in front of us was this glorious study space. We walked in, put down our stuff, and were just about to pull out our books when we realized that we had wandered into the Faculty Commons room instead. We'd clearly wandered too far.

We high-tailed it out of there, back-tracked our way back through an arched doorway to where we had seen several students studying and chatting. No longer too proud to ask for directions, I approached an Asian guy, tapped him on the shoulder, and when he turned to look at me, said:

Hi. Sorry to disturb you, but can you tell me how to get to the library? Confidence, my friends, will get you everywhere.

He looked at me. Looked back at his book. And then looked back at me. He was very, VERY confused.

Whaaa--?

The li-bra-ry. I enunciated. Speaking slowly. Loudly. Just in case he was an international student and didn't quite understand English. Never mind that he was reading case studies and various This vs. That verdicts. Maybe he didn't understand conversational English.

The library, he repeated after me, completely accent-free.

Yes. I smiled, nodding at him.

Just then, my two friends, who had been behind me, doubled over in laughter, came up and pulled me away as they apologized profusely to the law student. Who was still very very confused.

See. That arched doorway we had passed? Apparently had Old English text on it. Something Library.

We were IN the library. I had asked a law student IN the library WHERE the library was.

Oh my god. Cue embarrassment.

But hey, at least I found the library, right?

Stupid girls

Oh my god. I just got faced.

Only my die-hard Sex and the City fans will know what I'm talking about. How when Carrie met Nina Katz, the talent scout, Nina made a face like she had just smelled sour milk, and went Eeeeeesh! along with it. Just cause Nina was dating Carrie's old boyfriend, and knew all about the ex-files.

Yes.

I just got faced.

I was the official greeter for a faculty-student mixer tonight. Not doing anything particularly out of the ordinary. Just sitting there. Writing names and drawing happy faces on Hello, my name is... stickies. My welcomes were robotic. Overly cheery. Then, I looked up and recognized a girl from class, with a friend.

"Oh hi! Here for the dinner?" came my automatic reply.
"Hey Michelle...yup!" responded my friend, equally cheery.
"Okay, just write your name --" I responded, following the script I'd been given to the T.
"Michelle?" said the other girl, questioning.
"Yes?"
"Wait...Michelle from Northwestern?"
"...yes?"
"Oh, do you know..."

As soon as I replied in the affirmative, she gave me The Face. Like I had just boiled babies and eaten them for dinner alongside my pad thai.

Turns out that while I had been the spring fling, she had been the summer fling. Mind you, it didn't work out for her either. But somehow, some way, instead of the boy taking the blame, I was the one who was the tease who ruined him for all future relationships.

In my defense, he was already damaged goods. I didn't do anything.

I shouldn't let it get to me. Really. Who cares what he thinks? Who cares what he's saying? He was just a fling. And we all know flings are bad news. But, the thing is - I've kept my mouth shut about him. You'd think - no, you'd wish - that he'd keep his mouth shut too. I mean, whatever happened to kissing and not telling?

Honestly.

Slow dancing in a burning room

I pity the fools who date me. I come with so much relationship baggage. My parents won't approve of my boyfriends. I have a height complex. I'm non-committal. I have a List. And I tend to be distant.

But this time around, something was different. I was open. I actually told the guy that I - gasp! - liked him. That I missed him. That I needed him. I didn't think I was setting myself up for heartbreak (as cliched as that is), especially since he said all the same things.

I should have known better.

And I have known better in the past. I knew not to make myself too vulnerable. Knew to maintain distance, stay detached. I knew how not to get hurt.

No worries. Tim and I are still dating.

But last night, just as I was about to drift off to sleep, he mentioned off-hand that he was sorry for being in a weird mood.

"You weren't in a weird mood, were you?" I mumbled, hoping to appease him so we could both get in more than 3 hours of sleep.
"Yeah. I was."
"Why?"
"Because I've realized that tonight is our last night together for a long time and I'm afraid our relationship won't last."

My eyes shot open.

We were having that conversation. Now. At 2:30 AM. After two months of dating.

See, the problem is this. My parents will never let me marry a white boy. So, I can't let them know I'm dating him. Our relationship will always be long-distance for I will be in Chicago for the next four years of my life, and he's going to be in St. Louis. Let's admit it. That's hard on all parties involved. Me. Him. My roommate who has to hear me complain about the long-distance-ship of it all.

Parental approval and distance. Those are some pretty big obstacles for any relationship to scale.

I wish none of it mattered. And I live in this dreamworld where none of it does. So much of me wants to believe that as long as he loves me and I love him, none of it matters. All you need is love, right? The Beatles are never wrong.

I haven't really thought about how there's no light at the end of this tunnel. That I have no clue where I'm going with this. How there's no way I'll be able to marry him. After all, it's only been two months.

But apparently, that's been weighing on his mind. We fit together so well. We don't fight. He treats me right. I don't bug the living daylights out of him, which is a little surprising, what with the constant (window) shopping on Michigan Avenue. And with the exception of which version of The Office is better (I love Jim and Pam, while he prefers Donna and Tim), we agree on basically everything. So if we break up, it's gonna be because of the distance or the parents thing. And since that's inevitably going to force us apart, what's the point?

What's the point? The point is that we have the time of our lives right now. We make each other happy for the time being, so why do we need complicate our lives with fears of what might happen in three months? Two years? I'm still at that age where dating just for the sake of dating is okay. Acceptable. Why isn't he at that stage too?

I don't know what to do or say to make him understand that. That he makes me happy. And that while sure, we might not end up together til our dying days, I still love our time together. Maybe we're at different points in our lives. Maybe he just doesn't want to prolong the inevitable. But it might not be inevitable. We don't know what's going to happen. I just can't stand that he wants to start "detaching" himself from the relationship. Honestly, what does that even mean?

I hate not having the upper hand. For the first time in my life, I've really fallen for something. For someone. I've realized that I'm not this jaded, cynical, horrible girlfriend of a person. I could be good for someone. I could be good for him.

I don't know what to do. I know I should start distancing myself. Start detaching. But I can't. I went all in a month ago, and now I'm just hoping that my hand is enough to win the pot.

My stupid mouth

I need to learn to keep my big mouth shut.

A week ago, I applied for a position in an organization I was part of. They were looking for two show directors and a webmaster. I applied to be one of the chairs. I had a friend on the exec board, and I figured this would be a good social outlet. And besides, if there's one thing I know how to do, it's put on one heck of a show.

It doesn't hurt that I have connections. Meaning, I have a friend who's on the club's exec board. So, after the board made their decision, he informed me (off-the-record of course) that I would indeed be one of the chairpersons.

Now, I know my limits. I am no good with powerpoint presentations or anything dealing with computers. So, knowing that I am probably the least tech-savvy person out there, I jokingly asked if my partner was competent.

"Eh."

That's the response I got.

"Eh."

Turns out that for the two positions offered, they had received a whopping TWO applications. So while I attached a resume and essays that would make my college writing mentor proud, my now co-chair wrote two-sentence answers. Talk about effort.

Naturally, I freaked.

My friend then told me that they weren't going to announce the positions yet, so that if I could get a few more people to apply, they would extend the deadline and reconsider the position. I, of course, started begging and beseeching friends to think about it, bribing them with brownies and promises of fun.

Yesterday, it kind of blew up in my face.

I went to the library to study with my friend, and I mentioned aloud that I had found a couple of people who had expressed a slight interest in applying. I didn't mention how I had held them at gunpoint, and annoyed them to no end until they finally agreed that they would "think about it."
I had forgotten that sitting at the table with my friend and me was another girl who was part of the executive board. And when she heard the conversation, she looked up sharply.

"Why? What's wrong with the current girl?"

Realizing that I was treading dangerous water, I started to hem and haw, while I tried to backpedal as quickly as possible.

"I mean, do you even know her?"

"Uh....no, not really."

"Then why don't you want to work with her?"

It's a little impossible to describe to someone you don't really know how you don't want to work with someone who doesn't put in as much effort as you do. Especially when you're worried that you're going to be carrying the entire workload. True, I had never heard anything spectacularly bad about the girl, but I had never heard anything spectacularly good either. And to be perfectly honest, I was more than a little afraid that I was going to be the one who got screwed over in the end.

So as I hedged and said that I didn't actually know her, and I was sure that the board would make the right decision in the end.

That's when my friend decided to butt in. "Oh come on! Two days ago you totally didn't want to work with her, and you had all these complaints about her."

Two days ago, I thought my concerns and - all right, I'll admit it - uncharitable remarks would remain between just us. I was fuming. Absolutely livid that my friend had just betrayed my trust like that. I glanced over at my friend and gave him the Look.

"What? We're all friends here. We can be open and honest about our feelings."

I wanted to melt into my seat right then and there. The truth is, I had known the other girl at the table for a long time. That girl never says a mean thing about anyone. That girl has always been extremely nice to me. We were friendly, sure, but I wouldn't say that we were close, exactly. And in that moment, I felt like my relationship with that girl changed.

I was no longer the nice person. And she was miffed by my comments, I could tell.

She left about ten minutes later. And this whole ordeal was still weighing on my mind.

So I wrote her an apology note. I didn't even try to explain my position. I merely told her that I knew I was in the wrong for making such a snap judgment, and that I was only thinking about what would be best for the organization, but that I understood that it wasn't for me to decide. I accepted the wrongness of my position contritely and asked that we chalk it up to my having a bad day.

Today I received a response. And instead of just acknowledging that she had received my email, she went into detail about her problems with my comments - even though I had already admitted that I had been in the wrong. After reading it, I felt very lectured. Chastised. As though I had just been sent to my room without dinner.

I felt shamed. And I don't know if that was an appropriate thing for her to do. I don't know if I was more disappointed because she had found out who I truly was (in other words, not the nicest person), or because she had found out, and had such issues with it.

I need to learn how to keep my big mouth shut. It always gets me into trouble.

Get ur freak on

I'm freaking out.

There's absolutely no way I can finish this. I've fallen too far behind, and it's just impossible now to catch up. Fifteen lectures. One essay. Piles upon piles of research. Two presentations. And that's just my to-do list for this weekend.

Wait. Stop. Breathe.

You have three weeks until your test. You can do this.

Oh my freaking god.

I only have three weeks to cram all this knowledge into my head?

Shit.

Like I said, I'm freaking out.

I'll admit that I've always been prone to freakouts. But usually the little voice in my head manages to talk some sense into my overwhelmed psyche and the freakout subsides. Today was different. I knew I had work to do, but my stress levels were still at a healthy level. Armed with a grande Green Tea Frappuccino from Starbucks (I'm addicted to that stuff), I headed for the library, ready to get my study on.

That's where it all went wrong. I ran into a friend, so naturally I stopped to say hello. Jokingly, I remarked that there was so much to study. And much to my surprise, she immediately got very serious and agreed, telling me how she was going to do additional research on a lecture point, since there was a bonus question in the supplemental material about the genetics related to maternal mitochondrial damage and its corresponding neurodegenerative effects.

Bonus question? Supplemental material? Genetics? What?

I nodded calmly in agreement, even though my head was spinning. After all, I didn't want to appear like the dumb med student who goes home to take naps while the rest of her classmates all visit the library religiously to go over the day's lecture in excruciating detail.

Except I am that slacker student.

I hastily left before she could stress me out any more with how much she was behind since I knew in my head that I was clearly eons behind her. I power-walked to the library, determined to get as much done as possible. There, I walked by several study rooms, all occupied by my classmates who were drawing detailed mechanisms and fact-filled charts on the blackboards.

Oh. My. God.

Yes. I'm freaking out. I'm in medical school, and I worked hard to get here. And I'm determined to stay. I'm just a little worried I might not make the cut.

Babylon

I talked to my spring fling last night.

Yes. It was quite the uh oh moment. But also quite enlightening.

Let's back it up a couple of days. Last Friday, I opted to opt out of the first-year-med-student gathering to hang out with some close friends. I mean, who wants to get trashed in front of 170 classmates-for-the-next-four-years, when you can have a nice drink with a nice dinner with some nice people who won't hold your pathetic-non-partying-self against you?

So that's what I did.

Fast-forward a couple of hours to when my roommate called me.

Michelle! You will NOT believe who I just saw at Lizzie's!
Surprise me.
That guy from spring quarter!
What?!
YEAH!
Huh. Imagine that.
Yeah, good thing you didn't come out tonight.

And then we hung up. I was getting ready for bed, but a little part of me started to wish I had gone to Lizzie's. There's something about blasts from the pasts, especially when the past kind of just tapers off, instead of having an actual end. And let's not lie. I had a good time with him. It would be great to find out what he was up to nowadays...like what he was doing in Chicago!

But I'm a devoted girlfriend, so I stayed home and went to bed instead.

The next day, I was itching to get out (perhaps because of what happened the night before) so with my roommate and posse in tow, we headed out to a bar, where the special of the night was $25 for all you can drink. Crafty med students that we are, only a couple of us got the special wristband, and the rest of us benefited off of it the whole night. Needless to say, I got pretty trashed.

I came home to find my IM box blinking. A message from him.

P: Yo...why didn't you go out tonight?
M: I did...
P: I didn't see you. And you weren't at the past two M1 parties either...
M: And you were?
P: Yeah...I told everyone there I was an M3. HAHAHA.
M: Yeah. That's hilarious.
P: Don't be all grumpy cause I'm making more M1 friends than you are.
M: Haha, I'm not grumpy. But I am tired, so I'm gonna get going.
P: [lots of curse words deliberately deleted to protect the innocent.]
P has now signed off.

Label me speechless. How did I go from thinking he might be the most exciting boy I'd ever kissed to one of the most pathetic? First of all, he's trolling about the med student parties, pretending to be older and wiser - and I didn't have the heart to tell him that everyone knows M3s are far too busy with rotations to go to our parties. Secondly, I don't remember him being so needy.

It seems weird that an encounter with an ex-fling could validate my current relationship, but it truly did. I'm no longer itching to see him. No longer wishing for a happy ending. No longer wanting anything from him. Having that last conversation with him just made me so happy that my boy is exactly the way he is.

The whole exchange just seemed so undergrad to me. Feeling the pressure to go out and drink every night. To hook up blindly with others. Needing to drink in order to have a good time. Verbally competing to prove to others that you're a bigger party animal than they are. That was never really me. But somehow spring quarter, I got tangled up with that kind of company. It was exciting, to be sure. Yet, I'm finding that that's not me at all. Sure, I might be facing a lot more nights in, from here on out. But I can live with that.

Who knew that a conversation with the past could do so much to validate the present? I'm happy with my relationship. And I'm happy with the kind of person I truly am.

No longer doubting. Closure is a wonderful thing.

Here with me

I've never been a believer in long-distance relationships.

It never appealed to me, for sure. Think about it. Building a relationship based on five minute snatches of conversations before work, voicemails in between classes, and the obligatory once-a-month out-of-town visit? It just doesn't seem possible that it'll be able to last. Sure flowers and chocolate are nice, but no matter how hard Hallmark wishes it did, a card with a cheesy message saying "I miss you" just isn't as good as the real thing. Oh, make no doubt about it; those are great for impressing the girlfriends. And as they ooh and aah over the gorgeous lilies or roses and remark how thoughtful and loving your boyfriend is, you think, yeah, I've got it pretty good. But then you see the couple on the street doing mundane, everyday tasks like grocery shopping or walking their dog, and you really start to wish he were there to hold your hand or share an umbrella with you.

What can I say? I like tangible things. I like to be able to reach out and feel someone next to me. It's hard for me to feel connected to someone via a phone line. I crave human touch. Eye contact. Sure, there's comfort in knowing that if I really needed something, my someone is just a phone call away. For sure. But it sucks when I make that phone call and I have to leave a message...knowing that I won't see him when I get home from school, or later that night at dinner. No, I won't see him until the second week of the month, when he finally cashes in on his limited vacation days. And let's not lie. Sometimes I just want a big ol' hug. And I don't know how you transmit that cross-country.

And then there's the whole trust issue. I trust him. I do. But I still get jealous flare-ups when he talks about his coworkers (male and female, mind you). Not because I think he's going to cheat on me. Not because they're prettier or funnier. Not for any rational reason. I'm jealous purely because they get to see him and spend far more time with him than I do. He works from 6am to 8pm. And it's not boring individual cubicle work either. It's fun team-building leadership camp counselor kind of work. My Tim time is on the phone from 11pm to midnight. It makes no sense at all for me to be jealous. But I'm jealous because I can't be there with him. It's an absolutely ridiculous reason. I know this. But I never claimed to be a rational person.

I found someone so good and so right for me, and yet we hardly have any time for each other. So does that still make him "so good for me"?

The honeymoon's over. That's clear. Nobody said relationships were easy. But no one ever told me I could care about someone so much, and yet have to work so hard for it.

You can't stop the beat

Not again.

Seriously.

I mean, seriously?! You have got to be kidding me.

You all remember my last neighbor. Loud. Obnoxious. Total frat boy. Constantly playing his music at deafening levels, and having crazy kinky sex along with it. You remember him.

I moved into the city a couple of weeks ago. Out of suburbia. Out of dorm rooms. Far far far far away from annoying white boys who think they're all that (and honey, really...what do you have? A car? A job? Money? ...cause you sure ain't got no looks). Out of Evanston. Into Chicago. Into peace and quiet. My own apartment. My safe haven.

Or so I thought.

This morning, I woke up around 5am to someone knocking. Though I was a little surprised I could hear my neighbor's door so clearly, I was positive that nobody was coming to visit me. So I rolled over, pulled my pillow over my head, and went back to sleep. Two seconds later, it finally registered in my head that there was definitely no one at my door. And no one at anyone else's door either, for that matter. See, the banging that I was hearing? Definitely accompanied by some heavy moaning. And by moaning, I mean crazy loud "oh baby"s and "yeah!"s.

Yeah.

People. Please.

Learn how to have sex a little quieter.

I mean. Honestly!

I'm a med student. I need my sleep.

Bless the broken road

You might want to take a seat. I have some big news.

Ready?

I have a boyfriend.

Yes.

A boyfriend.

Now here’s the kicker. I’m scared out of my mind that I’m setting myself up for disappointment.

Let’s be honest; we met under less-than-ideal conditions. We had both just graduated and starting this very temporary summer job in gorgeous Los Angeles where we work from 6am to midnight. I was salty after my last pseudo-relationship went belly-up. Six months ago, he broke up with his girlfriend of three years – the one he thought he was going to marry, mind you – after she cheated on him.

Talk about excess baggage.

Never mind that we had only known each other for two weeks. And that we were only going to be working with each other for another month.

Never mind that I live in Chicago, and he’s from Missouri.

Never mind that my parents would never approve of his non-Taiwanese heritage.

Never mind all that. We were in Los Angeles. Land of impulse buying and instant gratification. Los Angeles is, after all, Lindsay’s Lohan home base – and we all see the tabloid stories of her 4-day relationships with different men.

Yet, what started out as a summer fling has started to turn somewhat more permanent. And I couldn’t be more excited.

Something about our relationship just clicks. He understands me. That’s quite the cliché, I know. But he does. He’s so ridiculously right-on all the time about my feelings and fears, and he knows exactly what to do to assuage them. Which is very unlike my ex-boyfriends. My last boyfriend was not the guy to go to for affirmation. He would say things like “hey, if I stop liking you, I’ll let you know – otherwise just assume that I still like you,” while Tim – yes, you know I’m serious about a boy when I actually name him in my posts - is very vocal about being heads over heels for me.

I’m not going to lie. It’s strange to hear that from someone you’ve only known for a short while. Self-esteem boosting for sure, but still strange. I mean, what does he like? How could he possibly know who I am after knowing me for merely a month and a half? True, we spent every waking moment together. But still. What if summer vacation Michelle is very different from during the school year Michelle? Will he still like me then? I’m starting medical school! It’s going to be tough. It’s going to be stressful. And him! He’s going to be traveling around the country, working for a junior high conference, working from 6am to midnight. How is our relationship possibly going to work out? And how weird is it to start off a relationship long-distance? And how insane is my phone bill going to be every month?

Like I said, I’m scared out of my mind.

I’m scared because I like this boy far too much. Far more than I should, given the circumstances.

Keep your fingers crossed that this doesn't blow up in my face. When I'm least expecting it.

Wow. It's been quite a while since I've last posted. Maybe it's the smog, maybe it's the crazy work hours, but while I was in Los Angeles, I couldn't write a single decent post (which is why I ended up deleting so many). But I'm back in Chicago, and the rambling will commence soon enough!

Chicago's my kind of town. I love this place.

Paper bag

Cue the cheers and applause because I've graduated and am now a proud member of the working population. At least for the next month or so.

I'm back in Los Angeles. Home, smoggy home. Except I'm back in a dorm room, living out of a suitcase, working for a "high school professional forum" - fancy schmancy words to disguise what it really is. A Camp for Overachieving High Schoolers. Not that I don't love my group of kids. Because I honestly do love them. Who wouldn't love a group of kids willing to cross-dress and dance around - a choreographed dance, mind you, not random spastic movements - to Aqua's Barbie Girl song?

Granted, it's been a little tough.

The morning went perfectly. My students were a little tired, but that was to be expected. We played some "energy-up" icebreaking games, and then they were on. Everyone was participating, which really made my job a whole lot easier. Then we started PBL (problem-based learning). And they started to get frustrated. Which they then started to take out on me. Luckily for me, (note the sarcasm), my boss decided to come observe my classroom at that exact moment.

Survey the scene, if you please.

One female student, blatently sleeping on the floor in the middle of the room, despite my protests and beseeching.

One male student, adamantly refusing to determine "what is wrong with Mrs. Anderson," and repeating, continuously and loudly, "she's going to die, she's going to die, she's going to die."

Another male student, picking at his cuticles and hangnails. And responding with huhs every time I ask for his feedback in a desperate attempt to get him to participate.

Three female students loudly gossiping about the cute boy in the other corner as he blushes and pretends that he can't hear them.

Me - trying desperately to look like I have some kind of control over the group and failing miserably.

I can't wait to get my formal evaluation...

Oh but the fun didn't end there. Oh no siree.

After that trying session, we headed over to dinner, where I picked up a spaghetti plate and headed over to the salad bar.

"Sorry, can I just reach in here and grab some dressing?" asked the cute little Asian girl.

"Sure!" responded the naive faculty advisor who, from this point on, will not let another soul cut in line.

"Thanks!" said the cute little Asian girl as she reached across, leaned against my cafeteria tray, which then proceeded to tip dangerously. I reached out to save the tray, two seconds too late, and the tray with the spaghetti plate came crashing down on my pristine black and white skirt.

The next day I was eating a teriyaki burger, when the wax paper holding the bottom of my burger broke, and a hamburger patty with a side of teriyaki sauce fell into my lap. So now, I have yet another souvenir - a permanent stain on my khaki skirt.

I can't wait to see how many outfits I have left at the end of the week.

But regardless, this week has been so enlightening and fun. I now have a newfound respect for teachers everywhere. I don't know where I would be if I didn't have a pre-set lesson plan waiting for me every morning. And I'm learning so much. Learning to eat with a napkin in my lap. Learning choreographed dances. Learning to not use trays in the dining hall. Learning how to use my height to command respect. Learning to know when to not let people know you listen to country. Learning how to read people (but we'll save that for next time).

I bet I'm learning more than my students. What with the blatent gossiping and sleeping.

But it's time to face the truth - I'll never be with you

Just kidding.

That's all I have to say about the last post.

Just kidding.

I thought I was a good judge of whether or not a boy liked me. I even err on the cautious side, more likely to believe that the guy isn't enamored. But with this one, I thought I was right. I didn't realize that electricity could be self-generating.

Let's start at the beginning.

Well, you already know the beginning. Let's follow up.

So after that night at the club, I figured I'd never see the boy again. It was, after all, the end of the year, and we were destined for two very different lives. Me for med school. Him for the political spotlight. But my guy friends - crafty guys that they are - devised various reasons for me to see the boy again and again.

We were invited over for game night. And after six grueling hours of taboo, apples to apples, chess, and various drinking games, we all realized that it was 4:20am. Perfect for a quick trip to the 24-hour Burger King and then a jaunt to the beach to watch the sunrise. A group of us went, but we miraculously found ourselves paired off. No doubt thanks to my boys who made sure certain people went to the left so that I was left alone with the boy on the right side of the beach. As we sat there, the alcohol began to wear off, and we realized that I was shivering. Chivalrous boy that he is, the boy immediately took off his sweater and gave it to me. And though I know it was just a piece of clothing, that gesture made me swoon. So imagine how I felt when he put his arm around me and pulled me in close. And then we sat there. Together. Watching the sun rise. It was great.

We left soon after. I was sleepy and he had a paper that was due in a couple of hours. (That fact alone made me convinced that he must have felt something between us, since he gave up precious typing time to go to the beach instead.)

But that's not all.

A couple of days later, Kelvin and I were invited to a birthday party at a downtown hotspot. Remember now, Kelvin's one crafty boy. So he invited the boy along to be my plus one. (Although I'm sure he didn't phrase it that way.) A couple other people came along as well, including the boy's roommate. The infamous boy from the beginning of the quarter.

But it was fine. The infamous boy was angry pretty much the whole time and ignored the rest of us, but the boy and I had a blast. Given that it was an open bar, we got pretty trashed - it being graduation and all. So with that liquid courage, we were being openly flirtatious. Holding hands. Dancing real close. I didn't feel so well towards the end of the night, so he sat with me. Petting my hand and resting his head against mine.

I was so happy.

We rode home together. And when he was dropped off, he petted my knee and said, "good night...take care."

I didn't realize that would be the last time I would talk to him.

The next day was a senior event. He had tickets to attend, but ended up skipping.

The day after, he missed a BBQ that a mutual friend was hosting.

And the night after that was Senior Formal. Both of us had tickets to that. Interestingly enough, though he was invited to be a part of our group, he decided not to come with us. And then when we were at the actual formal, we barely acknowledged each other. No, I take that back. I acknowledged him, and all I got was the slightest hint of a head nod.

I don't know what I did. Was he avoiding me? Why was it suddenly awkward?

Maybe he realized that there was no point. My best guy friend is convinced that he, perhaps, realized that he liked me, and then was scared to let it develop any more - given how we were graduating and all. Or it could be something completely different. Maybe I scared him off, 'cause I couldn't read the signs. I am, after all, Intimidation Central.

I don't know. I'm just sad there wasn't a proper ending to what could have been the best fling of my life.

Beautiful love

Just a quick update before a full post:

I've decided that two weeks of bliss is totally worth more than a lifetime of regret. So I've spent a fair amount of time with the boy from the last post. Sunrises. Late night dancing. BBQs.

It's been heaven.

Full post to come as soon as senior week is officially over and I'm no longer in a constant tipsy state and can actually write coherently.

Just know that I'm quite happy. :)

Nice to meet you anyway

But I need you to go, 'cause Kelvin will just leave me there once he finds a cute girl on the dance floor.

Dennis - I really ought to be studying for finals. Besides, why do you want me to go? Aren't you going so you can finally meet Tiffany? I sighed. I was already way behind schedule.

Please? he begged, giving me his best puppy-dog eyes. I've never asked you for anything before...I need you to come. Please?

After much more hassling and reassurance that I didn't need to study - my grades don't matter anymore! - I finally relented and agreed to be his wingman for the night. Kelvin and Dennis then gave me five minutes (no more, preferably less) to primp and whip my hair into submission, while they figured out travel plans.

Twenty minutes later - I am a girl after all - I was ready to go. Meeting the boys downstairs, I was shocked to find another guy who was going to catch a ride to the club with us. Though, given my luck, I should have figured that our travel plans would include this guy.

Shooting death glares at Kelvin, who merely smiled innocently and asked if I wanted to sit in the back with our friend, I grabbed Dennis' hand and pulled him into the backseat with me. He might have convinced me to be his wingman, but there was no way I was going to endure a 30+ minute drive talking about I-don't-know-what with that guy. Hello, Awkward, party of two.

Once we got to the club, we met up with the rest of the group whom I didn't really know. Cute, scantily-clad girls and boys dressed in striped dress-shirts milled about as Dennis not-so-conspicuously pointed out the target girl - who was talking to a rather attractive boy.

Maybe being Dennis' wingman wouldn't be so bad after all.

We sidled up next to them, and introductions were made. After seeing that Dennis was actually having a conversation with Tiffany that seemed to be going rather smoothly, I pulled the guy away and started a conversation of my own. We clicked right away since he rolled with my sarcastic punches and even pulled a wisecrack or two. It was one of those fun conversations, where it's closing time before you know it, and you're surprised that you are actually sober since the whole time the two of you were talking, you were so entranced and entertained that you forgot you were holding a drink. It hit 3am, and the rest of the party decided it was finally time to head home, so we smiled, and with a casual "I'll see you around," walked away from each other.

The next morning my friends quite eagerly woke me up, hoping to hear me regale them with tales of love at first sight, since they insisted that they saw sparks fly between me and the boy. Dennis chided me to "tell the truth" since he had unwittingly played wingman for me, instead of the other way around. I laughed and noted that there were only two weeks of school left.

So? He's going to be in Springfield!

Yes, and I'm going to be in Chicago.

Well, it doesn't matter, you have two weeks still.

You mean I only have two weeks.

The conversation turned to other things - such as the flop that was Tiffany and Dennis - but I couldn't help but wonder how things would have been different if I had met the guy a year, two years, earlier. We could have been great friends instead of mere acquaintances who bonded over dorky dances.

I need to keep reminding myself that there's no point in thinking about the boy. Two weeks is too short for anything. And though I don't know how things might be different if there was more time, I wish I had more than two weeks. But that's how it goes, isn't it? You only find what you're looking for when you're least expecting it.


---
Side note: Coincidentally, his roommate happens to be the same guy who caught a ride with me, Dennis, and Kelvin to the club. What a small world. And they couldn't be more different from each other.

Harder to breathe

"Joy Yee Noodle."

"Hi - delivery please?"

"Okay. What you want?"

"Um. 1 shrimp spring rolls, 1 Korean beef over rice.."

"Okay. That'll be $10.51."

"Wait! And 1 hot and sour soup."

"Small or large?"

"Small--no. Large. Yes. Large."

"Okay. That'll be --"

"Oh! and 1 raspberry freeze with tapioca."

"What?"

"Raspberry freeze with tapioca."

"...is that all?"

"Um. Yeah."

"Okay. Let me repeat the order back to you. 1 Vietnamese spring roll. 1 Korean beef over rice. 1 raspberry freeze with tapioca. and 1 large hot and sour soup."

"Yes."

"You want all of that?"

"...yes?"

I half-expected him to ask if it was all for me. Which it was. But you know. After you go a whole day without eating (okay, that's a lie - I had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich when I woke up, but you get the idea) you get mighty hungry after you come home from class at 9pm!

The Chinese food came 30 minutes later. And was gone 15 minutes after that.

But the ensuing stomachache has been raging hard for the past 2 hours.

There's a lesson here. It's just too hard to type out while I'm curled up in the fetal position.

Goodbye alice in wonderland

Three weeks.

In three weeks, I'll be graduating from college.

Three weeks.

Graduating.

I've been waiting for this moment for so long. Studying for tests and writing endless papers were all punctuated by one desire. Must. Get. Out. I was restless, itching to escape. My friends felt it too. We took full advantage of free weekends (and trust me, there weren't many) to not only catch up on sleep, but go window shopping on Michigan Avenue, watch that highly-anticipated movie that was panned by the critics, take random road trips to neighboring states - anything that got us out of our college-town bubble. Merely a week into each quarter, along with the side-by-side weather report comparisons for Miami and Chicago, countdowns would commence.

30 more days of class 'til spring break!

4 more weeks of school 'til FREEDOM!

2 midterms down, 1 more to go!

All of these countdowns were accompanied by exuberant smiley faces as vacations and time away from the dreaded libraries approached.

This quarter started off like every other. People in denial that our spring breaks were now behind us. Incredulous that instead of April showers, we got snow. And the countdowns quickly made an appearance. These countdowns had plenty of exclamation marks, because now, it was merely 8 weeks between us and graduation. Four tests between us and endless vacation (well - until our parents kicked us out of the house and made us get real jobs). One paper between us and the rest of our lives.

We were excited. We could finally see the light at the end of the tunnel.

But now that there are only three weeks left - three weeks! - those smiley faces next to our numbers have slowly changed to uncertain ones.

We can finally see the endgame. But that endgame comes with so much uncertainty. At the end of the tunnel, where do our lives lead? Away from each other? Intertwined still? Regardless, it's something new - and the new is always a little frightening.

I'll admit it right now. I'm scared to death. Sure, I have a plan. I know what I should be doing for the next ten years. But I'm still scared. After all, plans do change. And up until now, I haven't really had to face reality. Being at Northwestern has been great. I have these amazing friends who've created this safe and comfortable haven for me. With them, I am completely myself. And now that graduation is upon us, I'm realizing that I'm going to be a fish out of water soon. Walking the tightrope without a net. No one to rely on. I'm not ready to let go of these people. Call me clingy. Call me needy. Whatever. These people are good people. To think in a few months I'm going to have to start all over again. It boggles my mind. How exactly, am I supposed to find new friends when I've gotten so close and so comfortable with these?

I'm not the person I was four years ago. Four years ago, I was so excited to leave home and start college. The newness of everything was exciting. Boyfriends. Dating. The Midwest. My first roommate. Cafeteria food.

Four years later, I should be feeling the same way. Med school. Fiances. Weddings. My first apartment. My first job. But, instead of feeling excited, I'm a little scared of the unknown. And more than a little nostalgic about everything I'm going to be leaving behind. Just yesterday, I was eating dinner with my suitemates and I realized - next year, it's going to be me and the TV. Instead of conversations going through individual daily highs and lows, it'll be the newest CW dramedy keeping me company.

I'm stuck in the middle. The middle of what, I'm not quite sure. I'm not ready to leave, but I know I don't really belong here anymore. I can't wait to graduate, and yet, I can't bring myself to say goodbye because I know I'm not ready for that.

I've outgrown something I never realized I would miss and want to hold on to so much.

Chasing cars

It's decided. I want the Grey's Anatomy writers to be there to script every key point of my life. Don't get me wrong. I don't need that affair, or the fiance dying, or the dog getting put to sleep even. And there were some moments where I wanted to throw things at my TV (like when Izzie was being so very unethical, the sex scene, the dog dying unnecessarily, Cristina's inability to be there for her boyfriend). I cringed and watched the show through my fingers during much of the show. It was not my most favorite episode. But then there were those moments that made up for all of it.

Like when Denny proposed to Izzie with that line: "I want to go to bed with you. Wake up with you. And everything else in between with you." Or when McVet told Meredith that he wanted to make plans with her. He has plans, people! Plans! Or that touching touching moment when Alex picked up Izzie in that Prince Charming kind of way, and comforted her. Or when George told Callie that when he says those three little words to her, he wants to mean them, and not just say them for the sake of saying them. Or when Alex gave that amazing medicine-as-a-sports-team analogy.

And for heaven's sake - that ending song was great. If I lay here - if I just lay here, would you lie with me and just forget about the world?

I shouldn't like this show so much. But I do. Why? Besides the fact that I have two X chromosomes, it's because I can identify with so many of the characters. And because I hope for those kind of friendships. That kind of romance.

Now I'm sure some of you all are wondering why I'm rambling on about a television show and how it's possibly relevant to what I'm trying to say. Well here it is. I love those moments because you realize how much everyone cares for everyone else. Sometimes, I think I need a little bit more validation in my friendships. Anyone can be there for you. The question is, do they want to be there? I guess I measure my friendships by how much someone seeks me out in times of need, in times of whatever. It validates my friendship. It validates me. Because if they're going to seek me out, that means they value when I go to them unasked. It makes me realize that they want to be in my company. They appreciate it. Heck, maybe they even value it. Let's face it - my biggest worry is that I'm going to be that cousin no one wants to invite to the wedding, but everyone feels obligated to because you're The Cousin. I don't want to be that friend.

It's not just the words that I need. It's the actions. The feelings. The caring. Anyone can ask you how you are. And just as easily, anyone can brush off a bad day by merely saying, "I'm okay." A true friend, in my opinion, is going to probe to see if that "okay" is actually code for "really bad - and I need someone to hold me." That's what proves to me that you care about the friendship, about the friend. You make an effort. And it's not just any superficial kind of effort - you can see right through those. It has to be genuine, and let's not lie - it absolutely rubs me the wrong way if you're just going through the motions of being a good friend. And believe you me, I can tell. I've done it too. I'm not proud of it. And I hope to be better. But oh boy, can I recognize it.

Sometimes, a girl needs a really good hug. Or sweet nothings that make her swoon just a little, and wonder if she's living a fairytale. What this girl needs most is someone to want to make plans with her. Plans, people. Plans. Plans make a girl feel wanted.