May 30, 2007

Sun of the Beach

My vacation was lovely. The pictures are lovely. Not so lovely: the sunburn I am sporting from chin to toes. Have I learned nothing from working for a dermatologist? My poor feet are revolting in all senses, responding to their first sun exposure in a decade by swelling and turning an angry purple. I think I’ll tap dance in a chair tonight, and if my instructor has a problem with it I’ll direct her sooth to my gangrenous, fishbowl-ed ankles. And you thought it was impossible for me to get any hotter. Rowwrrr.

Sadly, the inability to walk (without pain) or wear shoes (at all) forced me to spend a sick day on my couch, feet up like an old woman, a stack of backed-up Shape and Martha’s Livings by my side. If you’re rolling your eyes in sarcastic sympathy, let me tell you: it’s hard for me to stay still that long. I once stayed off a broken toe for all of six hours before pulling a Dances With Wolves, pushing on a bloody boot to stumble to classes and letting the bone knit as it may because dammit, I have shit to do. I would have worked yesterday in socks, were it not for a certain meddling nurse using terms like ‘aggravated’ and ‘cellulitis’ and parking me at home with (non-bribable) supervision. I’m working with one foot propped on the garbage can as we speak, but hey—I’m not a worthless layabout. I have pants on. This is a big deal.

All this is by way of saying that pictures will be up tomorrow. Boston, as you will soon see, is amazing. Fantastic. Like New York, only less annoying, rounder, and with history. It has so romanced my soul that I am thinking of moving there. Really, truly, and soon.

Round about every two years, I get a crazy wanderlust; I’m restless, cranky, and don’t really get any writing done. It’s usually when I’m at my most comfortable—good job, good apartment, tons of financial and emotional support—with nothing to really complain about. That’s when it’s time to move on.

I do best when I’m struggling. When I have seventeen things to do and a handful of daylight to do them, when I have no idea what’s happening on television, when it’s ten PM and I realize I’ve only eaten half a bagel? That’s when I’m at my best. Two jobs, full classload, one blessed night a month where alcohol comes in pitchers because you don’t have to work until noon the next day. I’m smiling huge right now, at the thought of all that. Work, exhaustion, and poverty? I’m on the next train! Does that make me weird?*

When I’m sedentary—complacent—for too long, I find insignificant things to worry about because I have no real problems. Like how my nutritionist just called to tell me they have to push my appointment back. By a month. Fantastic; I guess until they can deign to tell my why I’m inexplicably gaining weight I’ll just keep on doing pointless crunches and eating bark. Because it’s made a damn bit of difference. OH, WAIT.

See what I mean? My weight. My family. My hair, for Chrissakes. Things that, unless they are a) impeding my health b) affecting my job or c) currently on fire, shouldn’t have any time at bat in my conscience at all. I’m not that girl, the whiny girl. I’m Suck It Up Girl!

Yyet here I am, whining like I’m getting paid for it.

But see, that’s the thing: I kind of am getting paid for it. Right now, as I sit here, I’m getting paid more than I should for a job that affords me a lot of free time. I was led to believe that sweet-paying office jobs are few and far between—am I wrong? Is there just as tight a position working at MGH, some other high ranking, curmudgeonly official for whom I could be making copies in return for a living wage?

We shall see, time will tell, no wooden nickels. I shall offer developments as they arise. Until then, pictures of the city I wish I could move to tomorrow.

* I realize, as of yesterday, we are well beyond weird.


Anonymous said...

Glad to have you back. Glad to have you back HERE soon! Sam (light) and I are looking forward.


Ian said...

If that picture of me goes up, I will ensure that the ghost of Daniel Webster haunts you, sporting rattling chains of AA batteries. FOREVER.

Sarah Beedoo said...

"Wooo... holy ghooost... holy ghooost..."

You should have hit on that waitress, dude. Now. you must pay. the ultimate. price.