Hamlet is Fun

I wrote this piece for a creative nonfiction class during my junior year of college. I am more than a bit leary about posting something so personal on the internet, but I have decided that it doesn't have to be a big deal. While I often wish that I had made different decisions, I am becoming increasingly less ashamed of my past as I continue to mature and move forward in life. Plus, the majority of people who actually read this blog suffered through this period of my life with me anyway. If you are a newer friend or an internet friend or a random visitor and you have questions, feel free to send them my way. Because I am still kind of paranoid, I'd really appreciate comments if you read this. I'd love to hear some suggestions on improving the style or content or anything else. Thanks.

*****

"No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool."

- T.S. Eliot
"The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"

“I am Polonius.” I struggle not to giggle. I attempt to mask my high-pitched, nasally voice with caricatural grandiosity. I state the opening line of this impromptu one-woman Hamlet show on a Saturday evening in October. I am a college junior, and I have been oddly enraptured by the tragic play for over three years. I am convinced that Shakespeare intended for this role to be portrayed exclusively by a short, chubby, balding man. To compensate, I kneel on the toast colored, beer stained carpet in my friends’ living room. I straighten my back and extend my belly. Good enough. I pause for dramatic effect. My tiny audience is surprisingly attentive.

“La la la. To thine own self be true. Be a good kid, Laertes. Listen to me. I am wise and wonderful and dead sexy and very chatty. More matter, with less art, requests Gerty. Blah, blah, blah. Oh, my daughter is assuredly making Hamlet crazy. I will get to the bottom of this, yet! As I am such an unbelievably brilliant mastermind, I shall hide behind this thick, velvety curtain and uncover the truth. My stealthiness knows no bounds . . . Ow! Oooh! Ouch!” I speedily collapse and clutch my chest with both hands. For half a minute, I thrash about on the floor. My arms flail wildly. I warp my face into a slew of hideous contortions in an attempt to relay the intense pain of being stabbed.

“Oh, the agony. I am not your rat, you loser! Oh, I am slain! Sad day for me.” I draw my limbs to my chest and lie curled in the fetal position. I quickly peer up to assure that my friends are enjoying themselves. Satisfied, I return to character in order to display my perfected dead person face. The side of my head meets the floor with a heavy thud. My lips part slightly as I fix my eyes blankly ahead.

“I am Horatio.” Quickly moving on with the performance, I jump up and stand atop the center of the coffee table.

“I am the most noble literary character of all time. I am a scholar. I know lots of Latin. So what if the ghost wasn’t exactly responsive to my efforts? I am Hamlet’s only true-blue buddy - the one who sticks it out until the end. And since I’m such a great guy, I am permitted to survive this nasty bloodbath of a drama.” Pausing, I clasp my hands together and tilt my head slightly to the left. I make the most contemplative face I can render, glancing down at the imaginary dead guy.

“Now cracks a noble heart - Goodnight, sweet prince. And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest! Alright, Fortinbras, march on in to restore the order in Denmark.”

“I am Gertrude.” I sit regally upon the edge of the table, crossing my legs at the ankles. I demonstrate my beauty queen wave and hold my chin high.

“Since my husband has suffered an untimely death, I might as well marry his brother. We can use the funeral leftovers for the wedding reception. What a grand and thrifty idea! Oh, my son has gone quite mad. Frailty thy name is woman!” In my manliest voice, I shout Hamlet’s blatant insult in an aggressive, yet comically drawn-out manner.

“Here, Hamlet, come in my bedroom and scream at me for a while. Then we can make out. (But only if you are Mel Gibson.) Oh, the agony! I am so torn. My husband, my son, my husband, my child, my throne, my life . . . Hamlet, honey, hand me your cup.” I form the universal choking sign with my hands. I cough, gurgle, and gag, as I farcically fall from my coffee table throne. “Oh, what a dark, sad day in Denmark.”

“I am Ophelia.” I announce the character change in a light, singsong tone. I begin to skip around in circles. It is difficult to contain my giddiness.

“I’m obedient and fair and everyone loves me. Oh, sad for Hamlet, my sort-of love. His dad is dead, and he is getting stranger by the day. Get thee to a nunnery!” My demanding Hamlet voice makes a quick reappearance.

"Um, no thanks, and you’re weird. Daddy, help! Hamlet is freaking me out. Does he honestly think I’ll look good in a habit? What? Dad is dead?” I sigh, placing the back of my hand on my forehead as I listlessly stagger around the room.

“Time to sing the remainder of my lines. I’m little Ophelia, the poor psychotic girl.” I dance about. I pass out make-believe flowers to my onlookers.

“Some rosemary for you. You get some rue. I’m beyond crazy now, and I hope you all feel guilty for the pathetically short remainders of your lives.” I stop and pull my hair from its drooping ponytail. Bending over, I fervently tousle it and shake my head in order to appear authentically disheveled.

“La la la la. Time to die. I’m off to find some heavy rocks to shove in my pockets. Fighting in my grave, boys? That’s intense, anyway.” I daintily collapse into a sloppy heap, kindly sparing my friends my interpretation of drowning oneself to death.

*****

I, like Ophelia, have also lost it. Overwhelming insecurities coupled with external stresses beyond my control have left me with disastrous coping mechanisms at points in my life. My body has been perpetually and relentlessly targeted as the scapegoat for my discontent. On a dreary afternoon in early April 2002, I arrive at my hometown cemetery. A faint drizzle of rain lingers. The sunless sky accents both the lifeless blacktop on which I travel and my colorless disposition. The cemetery is the ideal exercise facility during college breaks. It is quiet, serene, clean, and free of cost. Most importantly, I know that walking one lap around the new section and another around the old one equals almost exactly one mile. I need to accurately track the distance traveled in order to experience the slightest bit of relief.

I am alone with my thoughts. I can’t believe I ate that today. Fucking fat ass. I pinch my stomach and grasp each of my wrists. A recently consumed bagel sits sqarely in my stomach, a heavy, lumpy reminder of my ostensible failures. I try to assess the damage. Yep, definitely at least 10 pounds heavier than last week. What are people going to think when I get back to school? I can’t even be consistently sick. I glance at the rusty garbage can that rests to the right of my similarly colored car. Should I? Could I really get away with it? It’s already been at least fifteen minutes. And what if someone sees me? I drag myself past the parking area, tracing my collarbone with my fingers.

Oh, my goodness, my grades from last term . . . My second term average boasts three incompletes and a D in American Sign Language, presumably the easiest course offered at my college. A 0.9 GPA. I cringe in disbelief. Formerly an academic overachiever, I find myself abruptly plagued by an inexplicable strain of deranged perfectionism that prohibits me from accomplishing any work at all. Lovely. I’m still fat. I feel like shit, and I’ve ruined my entire college career. What a plan.

I slow my pace. I walk with my head fixed to my right. I eye every shiny, upright tombstone with the hopes of catching an accurate glimpse of myself in a makeshift mirror. After a few minutes, I approach the towering headstone of a fourteen year old killed in a car accident three days before Christmas. It is a gorgeous standout that displays a haunting etching of a weeping willow that the artistic youth sketched prior to his passing. It allows me to examine myself from the hips down. I stop and stare. Gross. My legs are way bigger than I thought. And my butt? I’m never eating again. Facing the tombstone, I press my heels together. I roll my black yoga pants to my knees and begin to scrutinize my calves. I then tug at the material hugging my thighs and measure the space between them. Elephantine. I squeeze my stomach chub and turn from side to side, examining my profile from every imaginable angle. Eventually, I force myself to continue walking, checking my arms for Oprah flub as I round the corner. People are silly. No one this fat is worthy of concern. Not entirely satisfied, I search out another means by which to view myself. I spot a large mud puddle a couple of feet to my left. I am thankful to be the lone visitor in this section of the graveyard. I straddle the edges of the misshapen circle, hovering over the murky waters in a desperate search to see myself.

Baby You Can Drive My Car

Ruminations on Driving

I'm an awkward driver. I slide the seat back a bit too far and sit straight up, as if bound to a back brace. It's probably the only time that I practice good posture. I keep both hands on my steering wheel at all times, unless I am smoking. I chain smoke while I drive, though I have to drop the cigarette for any big moves, such as hitting an exit ramp or turning left at a red light. I usually forget to use my side mirrors and when I remember, I don't trust them anyway. I always have to turn around to assure myself that I'm not going to meet an untimely death while changing lanes. I typically only ever drive 5 mph over the speed limit, but that's only when I'm feeling brave. I tend to zone out. I am a phantom breaker. I can't pop the hood of my own car. I get lost in my hometown. (There are only 4 stoplights in the entire area. This takes talent.) I am completely devoid of the ability to backtrack. I panic often.

I provide continuous commentary throughout the length of road trips, especially when I'm the only person in the car. I sometimes talk to myself, usually offering encouraging phrases like, "Almost there," or "Yay, I'm still alive," or "I'm okay, I'm okay, I'm okay." I often talk to other drivers. I beg them not to hate me and thank them for passing me. I compliment their pretty cars or giggle when I spot a vehicle that is even junkier than mine and announce that we should be friends. I inform unhelmeted bikers of their stupidity. During rougher moments, I might pray. My usual line is, "Please, God, help me to not wreck. I'd really prefer not to die right now. There are so many good tv shows on tonight." I also give my car lots of pep talks. I like to say, "You can do it, little Saabie," and "Come on Georgie, speed it up." I'm kind of nuts.

****

I have had three run-ins with other vehicles throughout my eight year driving history. Two of them happened in my driveway.

Incident # 1

I was driving my family's Chevy Astro (not so) minivan. It was like a tank. I was about to make my nightly jaunt to the local Pizza Hut. (This incident occured during my junior year of high school or what is now retrospectively referred to as the "Pizza Hut Butt" Era. I lived off of personal pan pizzas and humongous bottles or regular Pepsi. I gained eleven pounds. I never even got a "you are by far our most regular and devoted customer" discount or award or anything for my troubles. Oh, well.) The van was parked in our yard and my grandparents' old Mazda was parked in our driveway. As I was rounding the gigantic tree that sits in our yard directly in front of the driveway, I concluded that I had enough room to squeeze the big ass Astro between a basketball pole and the parked car. It was a slight lapse of judgment. As the van was rolling forward, I had to choose between hitting the pole or the car. I picked the car. At least, I think I did. I might have closed my eyes and hoped for the best. (Again, another lapse of judgment. I guess I don't make the best decisions ever while I'm in panic mode.) I smashed up the front of it pretty decently, but the Astrotank was barely damaged. I went and picked up the pizzas (the whole family was eating Sarastyle that night,) dropped one on the ground, and returned to inform everyone of what I had done. No one yelled at me too much, yet I still cried a lot.

Incident #2

I was returning to college following February break of my junior year. The roads were lined with a thin layer of ice, and it was snowing. I was feeling tentatively confident, as I had made it through all of the curvy backroads without hesitation, despite the dismal weather conditions. I approached a red light and hit my breaks for the first time upon arriving in the city of Elmira, and they locked. My car pummeled squarely into a brand new truck. Truck Owner yelled. I cried. The cops came. Truck Owner grumbled as he detached a huge chunk of the dangling lower portion of his vehicle that once displayed his license plate and tossed it in the bed. My car was suddenly sporting an accordion hood and mangled headlights. I received my first (and only, thus far) ticket ever. I somehow managed to drive back to campus, even though the roads were ridiculously sloppy and I was nearly hyperventilating. I continued to drive the battered eyesore every once in a while during daylight hours, even though it was slightly mortifying. I needed to tan! And to buy fat free hot dogs! The battery died a few months later, and the junky car sat in an Elmira College parking lot until the summer was at least halfway over. It's surprising that it was never towed, especially because I never got a student parking sticker. Mike DellaSalla (or whomever made the towing decisions at that time) is great. Thanks, buddy!

Incident # 3

Maybe half a year ago or so, I was headed out of the house to make a midafternoon Dunkin Donuts run. (Speaking of which, I haven't located the Dunkin Donuts in State College yet. Maybe it's a blessing.) My mom's friend was visiting and, as she is quite knowledgable about my clumsy past, reminded me not to hit her car as I left. I laughed and told her I'd try my best. I jumped in my car and proceeded to back out of the driveway in my normal fashion. Apparently, in Saraland, "normal fashion" = "without looking until I reach the end of the driveway." I backed directly into her car. The damages were thankfully minimal. Her car remained unmarred and mine suffered a tiny crack in the fender. People laughed at me a lot, and I still haven't entirely lived it down.

****

Needless to say, my lack of adequate driving skills has kind of hindered my life so far. I am hoping to change this fact. I have recently discovered that knowing which route one is currently traveling on is especially helpful. So is actually reading signs and thinking ahead. I'm slowly becoming a more confident and competent driver. I went exploring the area yesterday, in search of employment opportunities. There are highways here. There are also pastures. It's a bizarre combination, but I guess that is what results from building a massive university in pretty much the middle of nowhere amidst tons of farmland. I missed an exit and ended up slightly befuddled, on the outskirts of a tiny neighboring town. I passed what I assume were some prisoners on work release or something, though they weren't wearing orange jumpsuits. They were scruffy looking men wearing white working in a field. Two stoic men wearing what looked like helmets and uniforms sat statuesquely atop horses facing the road. Maybe the nearby State Correctional Institute likes to practice archaic means of guarding. Maybe it was just a weird coincidence. It was definitely strange. I ended up passing the whole scene twice, so I know I wasn't hallucinating. I worried that the horses would suddenly make a run for it and lurch into the road, but they didn't. I located the mall and scored a few interviews. I didn't die.

Someday, I will be a real driver with a real car. For now, I seem to be faking it well enough.

"Get Your Facts First, And Then You Can Distort Them As Much As You Please." - Mark Twain

A Continuation

36.) I weeped every time I watched Snoopy Come Home as a child.

37.) In kindergarten, I once stealthily kissed three boys on the back of their heads in the span of a single afternoon.

38.) My first elementary school had no playground. We had to entertain ourselves on an empty cube of concrete during recess.

39.) My first boyfriend (6th grade) was a quiet boy named Shawn that I barely knew. Shortly after our coupling had gone public, I discovered that his friends referred to me as "Roadblock."

40.) I'm not sure I'd be capable of teaching kids at the middle school level for any amount of money. They're too nasty to each other. It breaks my heart.

41.) From 8th - 10th grade, I had fairly thick bangs that refused to fall perfectly, even though I spent approximately 30 minutes every morning curling and recurling them.

42.) I love to drink pickle juice.

43.) I secretly wish that someone would nominate me for What Not to Wear. (I'm wearing a 7 year old, ratty, holey hoodie as I type. I clearly need a style intervention!)

44.) I find serial killers to be more than slightly fascinating.

45.) My first job was cleaning rooms at the motel my friend's parents owned. If you've ever witnessed the way I live, you'll understand why this is funny.

46.) I wish I had taken the SATs more than once.

47.) During the latter years of high school, I had a broken spell checker and a mental block regarding the spelling of "disgust." I liked to use it frequently in my essays, and I consistently spelled it "disguist." It makes no sense whatsoever.

48.) I think Elizabeth Bishop's "Sestina" is one of the most hauntingly poignant poems ever written. (And sestinas are notoriously challenging to pull off.)

49.) I was chosen as an alternate for Pennsylvania Governor's School For Healthcare during my junior year of high school. I never followed through with the steps to accept my alternate status. I wonder if my life would have taken a different trajectory if I had attended.

50.) While I was in high school, I was very involved with this site. I still have the cards and letters I received from some of the parents and children. I think I am going to start sending some mail in the near future.

51.) I watched The Wizard of Oz on a daily basis during my early childhood. I always covered my eyes when the flying monkeys made an appearance.

52.) I was terrified of mummies from the age of 6 - 12. I was traumatized to such an extent that, at the moment I discovered their existence, I immediately stopped calling my mother "mommy" from that day forward, as it beared too close a resemblance. I wasn't scared of them in the "I'm a mean, horror movie mummy coming to get you with filthy, rotting bandages dripping from my extended arms" kind of way. I was actually horrified by the notion of being dead, tightly wrapped, and forever preserved. I was a weird kid.

53.) In late middle school and early high school, I had more than a few incidents filled with overwrought tears and dramatic crumbles to the floor in department stores, as I could never find anything to fit my awkward, pudgy figure.

54.) My parents almost named me Amie.

55.) At the age of 3, I ate the same meals every day (peanut butter and jelly for lunch, microwaved hot dog for dinner.) My doctor advised my mother to indulge me, assuring her that I'd soon grow out of the pattern of eating. Heh.

56.) I think I'd actually quite enjoy the fall, if it weren't for the fact that I am socked with the harsh reality that I will be unable to feel my fingers and toes for the next 6 months.

57.) The few dreams I remember are typically anxiety-ridden and disturbing.

58.) I only visited/applied to one college. I sometimes regret not doing a bit more research and taking my financial situation into more serious consideration.

59.) As I age, my temperament becomes increasingly more even-keeled. I appreciate this.

60.) I want a Welsh Corgi.

61.) I am opposed to buying pets when there are so many in shelters who need homes.

62.) I am embarrassingly unphotogenic.

63.) Whenever I come across them, I put on my old pointe shoes and play around the house in them.

64.) Co-ed volleyball tournaments were the bane of my high school gym class existence.

65.) Meryl Streep's daughter went to the summer camp I worked at. I never met her or her mother.

66.) I regret not trying out the flying trapeze while I worked at that camp. How many times is one presented with such an opportunity?

67.) I taught golf for 3 summers to kids ages 6 - 17 or so. The one time I actually went golfing with friends for fun, I was kicked off the fairway during the first hole because I was so awful and slow. I didn't mind. I manned the golf cart and drank beer and chased geese.

68.) A couple of friends probably saved my college career during the second term of my sophomore year, by requesting help for me that I couldn't ask for myself. I hated them for it at the time, but I am so grateful for their kindness in retrospect.

69.) I hate to say it, but I think I'd possibly consider a nose job if I had the means, even though I absolutely cannot stomach depictions of rhinoplasty on televison.

70.) I am desperate to see a stage production of Equus at some point in my lifetime.

The Write Stuff

Over the weekend, I stumbled upon Jennifer Weiner's blog. I find the trend of established young writers maintaining blogs and websites to be interesting. It makes sense, as it serves as a way to keep fans updated and hopefully a venue to draw in potential readers. I guess I am intrigued by the everyday/personal nature of the author blogs (I found a few) that I visited. I guess I expected that they'd be more focused on bigger efforts (such as the ones that people actually pay to read), rather than the seemingly mundane stuff that everyone else and her mother is blogging about. It's kind of cool. I think both her blog and her website are rather entertaining, even though I've never read Jennifer Weiner's books. (I have seen In Her Shoes, though, and I think it's a lovely little film.) Her writing style is conversational, cute, and quirky. I appreciate her self-deprecating sense of humor and enthusiasm for reality television.

A few years ago, I was encouraged to read her first novel, Good in Bed, by multiple friends. Apparently, my pseudo-pretentious little brat persona shone through, and I refused, as I dismissively informed them that chick lit was not my style. The funniest thing is, I subsequently purchased and read Hungerpoint, which definitely deserves the same classification. The glossy, hot pink cover and slightly chubby, "lookin for lovin" protagonist both serve as dead giveaways. So, I nullified my entire argument with my spring break reading selection. If I were my friends, I would have laughed at me. Maybe I was adamantly opposed to reading Good in Bed because, judging by the title, I figured I wouldn't find the heroine relatable. Maybe I was just a moody snot, and the invitations to read the book fell consistently on bad days. Whatever the case, three years later, I am feeling a bit foolish.

While surfing around her site, I happened upon a page with tips for wannabe writers. It's practical, humorous, and refreshing. I especially enjoy step # 3: "Major in Liberal Arts (but not necessarily creative writing)." I am too often confronted with judgmentally posed questions/statements such as, "Why would you ever decide to major in just English?" or "What kind of decent job will you ever pick up with a degree in that?" and the oh so encouraging, "Well, that seems like a waste of money. My kid knows he/she better pick a serious major." And even when it's not directly stated, it's implied quite often. My response usually begins with me rambling in my haughty tone about how there are two different schools of thoughts concerning college majors; some prefer pre-professional routes and some favor the liberal arts. I tell them that many intellectuals prefer the latter, as it doesn't pigeonhole students, encourages them to think and reflect, and allows them to pursue a variety of worthy interests, blah, blah. Then I usually become defensive and explain that I intended to graduate with secondary ed certification, but spending an extra semester at a private college wasn't the most practical plan. (As if to say, "see, plain old English majors are sometimes practical, too!") I tell them that I would have had to attain a master's degree within a few years, anyway, and it is fairly easy to pick up certification at the same time. That was once the plan . . . Then I remember that it's almost two years post-graduation, and I'm nowhere near decisive enough or financially able to pursue my master's. And I'm not sure that I even want to teach and the thought of taking another slew of education classes is about as appealing as having my eyes gouged out. So then I start to wonder if maybe the critical parties' points hold some validity, and I feel defeated and panicky. At this point I shut my mouth, letting the mean people win.

Now, they will win no more. I will simple say in response to their inquisitions, "Kindly refer to www.jennfierweiner.com/forthewriters.htm. It is all a part of my long established master plan for penning books. Having already mastered many of her suggestions, all I need to do is care for a dog, go through a few nasty break-ups, and peruse some cereal box labels and Harlequin novels. I'm well on my way. Thanks for your concern. If you're nice, maybe I'll autograph a copy of my first publication for you." In all seriousness, I do think Jennifer presents an adequate and concise argument for liberal arts education. And I just might print it out and carry it with me, just in case. (And, no, I don't hold any real delusions of grandeur or expectations of supporting myself through writing. I'm average, at best, and much more skilled at writing about other people's writing than coming up with my own material. Plus, it is too often an arduous and draining process for me. It would be nice, though.)

Blast From the Past

For one reason or another, I reluctantly agreed to arrange an appointment with a doctor I had seen off and on throughout college for a follow-up of sorts. If I were to compile a list of people, dead or alive, that I would least like to be stuck alone in a room with, he'd probably make the top 10, falling somewhere below Adolph Hitler and Jerry Falwell, but slightly higher than (present day) Charles Manson. At the very least, Manson presents the opportunity for entertaining discussion, and I'd know with certainty that I wasn't the craziest person in the room. And if a lull in conversation did occur, we could always start belting Beatles tunes together to pass the time away. Plus he's old and probably drugged up in jail. I'm a good kicker and have mastered the basics of self-defense, thanks to the so-called expert ladies who gave us a lesson in the class Becky and I took 3rd term of senior year called "Growing Up Female In America." We naively believed the course would center around reading and writing about girl stuff. (Silly us, for blindly buying into the description in the course catalog. Even sillier us, for not taking 6 credits of dance, like every self-respecting senior who doesn't need to take any more credible courses for graduation should do.) The class would have been more aptly titled "Seemingly Free Group Therapy Sessions for Confused 19 Year Old Lesbians." By the fifth week, repeatedly hearing tearful stories that often started out along the lines of, "I loved reading this section so much because I like totally identified with her. When I was 13 . . .," became more than a bit wearying. More than anything, I felt embarrassed for them, having done more than my share of draining overspeaking during my younger days. But I digress . . .

So, yes, on most any given day, I think I'd prefer Charles Manson's company to this doctor's. Sure, that's a bit exaggerated and unfair and unscientific, as I've met one and not the other, but I think it speaks to the degree to which I find interactions with him to be unpleasant. And I consider myself capable of, at the very least, tolerating just about anyone. Someone may act stupidly or selfishly or annoyingly, but I understand that people are complex, their motivations are sometimes misunderstood, and their backgrounds are often unknown. Under normal circumstances, I am more interested in attempting to understand where another person is coming from, rather than automatically dismissing his/her opinions. I try to be, anyway. With this man, though, I make no attempts. If prompted to describe him, I tend to come up with something similar to, "a fucking arrogant, pill-pushing asshole who is totally judgmental and disinterested in listening to patients. He's also really really mean." I know, a statement like that just oozes with charm and eloquence. But that is what seeing this man does to me . . . I allow myself to instantly regress into juvenile thought processes and behaviors. For whatever reason (I don't even necessarily remember too many details from the first couple of encounters), he is cemented in my mind as a bad guy in a steady, unchanging position. In the past, I, at times, had to almost literally be dragged in to see this man. I'd cry, mumble, refuse to communicate with him. To be fair, these moments occurred in the midst of my drama queen days, in which I was ridiculously self-involved and far from the most emotionally stable person one could encounter. Looking back, I recognize that I was difficult enough to handle as a friend, let alone a non-compliant patient.

So, when presented with the opportunity to return to see him after a couple of years of blissful avoidance, I decided to give it a go. If I were to oversimplify things, I'd claim to be a totally different person at this time in my life. However, that's a misguided and banal phrase. More accurately, I have a different perspective at this time in my life. I am fairly mellow, far less dramatic, and certainly more competent and capable than I was a few years ago. Still the same old me, but a much more palatable version. So I viewed this visit as an experiment of sorts. I wanted to go into it with as much of an open mind as I could conjure, in an attempt to see if the caricature I'd created in my mind was at all accurate and to discover whether or not I'd unjustly demonized someone.

After considering calling to cancel on multiple occasions, I went on Thursday morning. I was brimming with anxiety, not surprisingly. I don't really care for doctors in general. I think it has something to do with the fact that they try to inform patients about what is best for their bodies. I seem to have some kind of underlying "it's my body, I'll do what I like with it" resentment about that. Plus, there is the whole lingering dread that they will start spouting unpleasant news indicating that one is not normal or about to die or something like that. Not that the latter was really a factor in this certain situation, but it must play a part of my overarching issue with doctors.

Shortly after entering his office, my blood pressure was taken. It was highish - 160/70, as I expected. It was taken again a few minutes later, and the reading remained the same. I figured it'd be worse. I don't think I've pulled off a normal blood pressure reading in a doctor's office in the last 10 years, at least. It's kind of pathetic, really. They call it "White Coat Hypertension," which is basically a whole load of nothing. I apparently get myself so worked up about doctor's appointments that I am constantly accused of having high blood pressure. And I don't especially appreciate it because, according to my brain, a person having high blood pressure at my age must be fat. Whether or not that is an accurate assumption, I can't really say. Regardless, I don't enjoy people insinuating that I am fat, so I don't take blood pressure discussions all that well. Now, when I was 13 or so and they started telling me that my blood pressure was high, at least I was legitimately overweight at the time. So I could maybe kind of see it. My family doctor finally stopped bugging me about it long ago once I proved that when I take my own blood pressure at, say, Wal-Mart, it falls within the normal range.

Well, this guy didn't seem to find anything more pressing to focus his lecture on, so a portion of our conversation proceeded as follows:

HIM: "Wow, your blood pressure is high."

ME: "Yeah, I know. It always is. It's not really high, though. Just pretend high."

HIM: "That's just not acceptable." (to the nurse) "Take it again."

ME: "She already took it twice. It'll still be high."

HIM (chewing his gum obnoxiously): "Well, you need to be medicated for it."

ME: "No, I don't. It's only high when I'm nervous. I've been like this for years."

HIM (flipping through the pages of my chart for the first time): "Well, it's been high every time I've seen you. 160/70, 160/70, 160/60 . . . "

ME: "It could have been worse, considering that . . ."

HIM (cutting me off): "Well, we can't keep ignoring it. This is obviously a problem and we need to treat you for it."

ME (twirling my hair): "I swear it's not really high. I just don't like doctors."

HIM (seeming to completely ignore me): "Well, it's not like it's a big deal right now. But, when you're older, you'll just get heart disease and die."

In retrospect, I wish I had followed that statement with, "Well, we all have to go at some point." Instead, I just listened to him talk at me about recording my blood pressure twice a week in order to "prove him wrong." He eventually moved on, and I proceeded to attempt to honestly answer a bunch questions that he read off the standard checklist. He gave me some suggestions, and I'm still considering whether or not I will take them. Overall, it was probably the most painless encounter I've had with him. His cavalier attitude, blatantly dismissive reactions to my opinions, and haughty tone of voice still make him extremely offputting. I'd never recommend him to a friend, which is unfortunate, as I have nothing but praise for the other professionals he is associated with. Oh, well. And while I've now established that I am capable of acting in a mature and civil enough fashion while trapped in a room with him, I don't intend to make a habit of it.

The Internet is for . . . Bush Bashing?

Last weekend, in an attempt to entertain my younger brother, I started looking for the rumored, um, adult site that can be accessed by typing whitehouse.com or .org or .something. (I do feel the need to justify my actions and explain that it's not as though we intended to look at pictures or anything. I just merely wanted to see if it existed as stated.) Needless to say, we did not stumble upon the supposed site. We did come across some fairly interesting findings. We especially enjoyed the kids' letters to the president. We are suckers for anything bearing the phrase "tee hee" because it reminds us of the good ole days, when I used to encourage Brett to run around the house, flicking his wrist and squealing like a southern school gal when he was around 5 or maybe 10 years old. I bet my father would consider permitting my mother to get a new kitten (we fear she is two steps away from becoming a crazy cat lady at such a young age) if she promised to name it President Bush.

Anyway, I found what I read of the site to be rather humorous. I'm all for satire, parody, smart, and even not so smart humor. When we filled my card-carrying conservative father in about what we were looking at, he muttered something about disgusting filth. I attempted to briefly explain satire's place in society and the canon through Swift's "A Modest Proposal," but he would have none of it. I quickly realized that republicans probably don't sympathize too much with the poor Irish folks who are all already dead, so I kind of gave up.

In terms of politics, when prompted, I will sometimes claim to be the most moderate person you've ever met. (Of late, this title that I have bestowed upon myself is becoming increasingly inaccurate.) I am a registered independent and have no intentions of declaring a party alliance anytime soon. I don't really care that much about money matters (beyond having enough of my own to support myself), I can't imagine living long enough to collect social security (though I do wish the elderly were currently being better supported), and I can (sometimes, though it is becoming increasingly difficult) see both sides of the war. I think most effective politicians are showy smooth-talkers and I don't think liars are cool, so I remain a bit put off by politics in general. I tend to let factors like candidates' backgrounds, looks, families, and speech-delivering abilities mildly affect my decision about whom to support. I refused to vote for Kerry because he gives off a skeevy vibe and his wife seems like a nasty lady, though I didn't mind John Edwards because he is kinda cute and has a dead son. (And yes, with that statement, I acknowledge that I am probably invalidating any point I am trying to make, if indeed I even have one, with my admission of ridiculous and thoughtless decisions. Such is life.) As far as republicans go, I enjoy John McCain because he seems to be a middle of the liner, plus he's a cute old guy who was a POW in Vietnam.

Admittedly, I have refrained from becoming especially invested or well-versed in a lot of the issues. Those more aggressively involved in politics may fault me for taking the easy way out and refusing to take sides more often than not. That's fine. I can take it. I can admit it, even. I think our society still, albeit more subtly, dictates that girls shouldn't necessarily hold strong opinions. "Nice" girls don't discuss politics and religion, right? Anyway, I have no intentions of launching into a lengthy feminist diatribe. I do believe that, at first, my moderate views resulted from my desire to be utterly inoffensive and universally accepted. During the latter part of my teenage years and the very early part of my early adulthood, I transformed from a loud, vivacious, and, at times, slightly obnoxious girl to a mumbling someone who constantly played with her hair and could barely make eye contact or speak without covering her mouth with her hand. This change in demeanor was also accompanied by a complete disinterest in expressing or even holding any strong opinions about much of anything.

Now that I'm old and wise and no longer consumed by such an insane degree of self-consciousness, I try to retain my moderate status for more empowering reasons. I like refusing to allow a group of people to attempt to dictate my beliefs regarding a particular issue. I like considering both sides, weighing the positives and negatives and sometimes refusing to pick the lesser of two evils. I like disliking both President Bush and Michael Moore. I recognize that this is overly simplistic and that many people do not blindly follow party lines, but many do.

At the same time, I may be becoming a bit radical. My father would love to be BFF with GWB and my younger sister is in a conservative cult at Penn State. (No matter how much I disagree with her political beliefs, I can give her props for figuring out what they are and rolling with it.) The tv in my parents' room is left on Fox News for approximately 19 hours each day. Needless to say, for entertainment purposes, someone has to play devil's advocate and get everyone worked up every once in a while. (And, yes, I have few friends/no life.) Most recently, we have been going at it about gay rights and abortion, because I seem to get most riled up about those two topics. I won't go into the conversations, but we never get anywhere. I will say that choosing to have an abortion, in my opinion, is a very personal, complicated, and potentially haunting decision. I believe that, ultimately, beyond the messy debates over when life begins and who's killing whom, denying women this right will set our gender back about 40 years. At the same time, I can respect the opinions of others, especially concerning such a touchy and emotional issue that is often deep rooted in people's beliefs. I do tend to get a bit fiery in the comfort of my own home, though.

So the other night, some anti-abortion group called our house and spoke with my mother. My first reaction was, "what kind of mailing/calling lists did my father put us on?," which was quickly followed by, "oh, she should have let me talk to them." They called back a few days later, and I regretfully did not answer the phone. Apparently, they were calling regarding the $30.00 pledge my mother made during their previous conversation. Ooooh. So not cool. She claims she just made it to get them to shut up and had no intentions of paying them. (Of course, providing a perfect example of an adherence to the rule that women should play nice rather than risk offending someone with what they truly think.) This morning, my father started talking about how some man named Sam will hopefully be the newest Supreme Court Justice and stick it to Row v. Wade. I gave him my standard, "Well, then I'll be moving to D.C. to protest in an 'I Heart my Vagina' tee," response. Then, I explained if the crazies call back and I happen to answer the phone, I will respond with, "I think you have the wrong house. This is what we do for fun here," and immediately start singing, "kill the babies" to the tune of "Oh My Darling, Clementine." And, yes, I sang it out. My father was far from impressed. Maybe I should have changed the lyrics to "terminate the pregnancies," but there are too many syllables and I've never been one to speak in euphamisms. My brother and I were amused (it doesn't take much), though I worry that the little ditty may have been a "had to be there" moment that comes off as harsh, less than articulate, and one-sided on paper (well, computer screen). For the record, I actually enjoy babies and do not promote the killing of anything. (I was even a tiny bit saddened when I was forced to squash a spider to spare a coworker's sanity the other day. She ran away from her desk, screaming, "Sara, if you don't want to be working by yourself today, you need to kill that thing." Poor little dude.) Ultimately, I had a strong reaction based on a firm belief, and for that, I will remain unapologetic.