Here I Go Again

on my own.

Teeth

I have a lot of problems with my teeth, both recently and in the past.

I think about them all the time: how permanent they are, and how irreplaceable. If you do something to your teeth, it is done for ever: teeth don't grow back.

I had braces for seven years, starting when I was six. The position of my jaw was deforming my face, and my front teeth stuck out in all sorts of directions (thank God I didn't live in the medieval period -- I would have been a total freak. And yes, yes I do think about these things).

Whatever. My family fixed my mouth through a long series of braces and retainers and weird rubber band things and thankfully no headgear was involved. My orthodontist was so proud of the work he had done, he used my before and after shots in his orthodontist lectures (which I'm sure were... scintillating to say that least). My orthodontist also spoke with a strong Brooklyn Jewish accent and called me Angel Face. I hearted him.

I think that because I had been so aware of my mouth and my teeth from a very young age, I always had a deep rooted fear of doing something to my teeth -- losing an adult tooth or breaking an adult tooth... etc. How horrible, I truly thought, it would be so do something so irrevocable -- and to your face.

So of course I broke my tooth this year. And not just any tooth. My right front tooth. Perhaps I should also mention that I have huge teeth and this was no small to-do. After it happened, I cried, inconsolable, for over an hour. I dreaded waking up the next morning and realizing that this is what I had done, unchanged and unchangeable, for the rest of my life.

The next morning, I went to my expert dentist and he bonded the tooth. Since then it has been shaved to (what I call) a snaggle (very very very small square of tooth) to prepare for it's permanent porcelain jacket, and had the first half of a root canal. However, if you looked at it you would have absolutely no idea there was something wrong beneath the plastic tooth-shaped coating.

But I know. And when I think about the tooth I lost in a second, the beautiful, frankly enormous, tooth that had been pushed and prodded into its proper place through years of orthodontistry....

I am filled with an incredible sense of loss.

PANIC

I took a semester off from college.
I was really sick last semester, you see. I had an emergency appendectomy with ensuing complications, my room got bed bugs, I lost all my college friends. I needed a break.
When I decided to take a semester off, I wrote a long piece about how our society doesn’t know how to slow down, that to do so is akin to admitting failure, that, even for me, taking time off from school felt like giving up. I wrote that because I wanted to convince myself that I was doing the opposite of giving up, that I was doing what was best for my health -- both mentally and physically. My whole life, it seems, has been a race: I am running and running and running to try and keep up with who my culture wants me to be.
And I don’t even know who that is.
I pretended that if I took a semester off I would stop running and take a moment to really get a handle on my life, and more specifically what I wanted from it.
But that was all pretend; what I really did was get two jobs and keep myself busy from 9 in the morning until 10 at night. However, I also started going to the gym, so I convinced myself that I was at least promoting my physical fitness and wellbeing.
My mom started telling me I needed to quit one of my jobs, and the truth is I want to. But I don’t know how. Despite everything I have said about needing a break, and perhaps more importantly, needing to be able to admit that I need a break..... I am exactly where I always have been: afraid that if I pause for even one second, I will never be able to get going again.
What if I do quit this job? What if I can never get another because I quit? What if quitting means that I am not cut out for the working world because I can’t handle.... anything? What if I just suck?
Who am I supposed to be? And does quitting this job determine who I will become?
I am terrified.
It’s an internal battle I have been fighting for the last week. The part of me that has never been able to give up is wrestling with the part of me that is trying to teach myself to slow down. I want to learn that it is ok to take a deep breath every once in a while, but that’s not what I’ve taught myself at all.
It’s not that I am an overachiever, not by a long shot. But I am internally motivated with an undying need to prove myself... to myself.
And I have this feeling, all the time, that every step I take is crucial in determining my future. I’m 21, standing at the foot of my career, and I have no idea what path I want to be on.

** Oh and my grandmother is still in the hospital. With a chest infection. And a consistently erratic heartbeat. Le sigh.

In Case of Emergency

I had a post all ready for today. It was about the new coat I bought, which is green and has big cargo pockets and is extremely trendy. I intended to write about how I saw it in the store, and I saw it was a small, which would have been my size, but when I tried it on it was HUGE. The sales lady made a pitch for it anyway, something about how oversized is super hip and thus it's totally the right size, but I wasn't buying. I was about to walk out of the store when she called to me -- "Hey Wait! This is actually the Men's small."

D'oh.

I am a total dumbass.

She handed me the woman's small and guess what? It totally fit. Like totally. And I bought it.

I was going to write about that but life had other plans. My grandfather calls my house at 10:30PM while me and my mom are peacefully watching tv (and I have yet to find out what happens on the latest episode of House BTW...) He says my grandmother is really sick -- fever, sweating, irregular heartbeat and chest pains. Now as my grandmother is 81 this is no laughing matter. My mom decides she has to run up to the Bronx and be with Her mother, and I decide it is my noble duty as daughter and granddaughter to accompany her. That was absolutely the last thing I felt like doing, of course. I felt like watching House and reading my book and generally getting to bed at a reasonable hour.

But that's not how life works. Not ever.

So we trek up to the Bronx, where my grandmother looks worse than I have ever seen her. We make the executive decision that she needs to go the hospital, especially because she is moaning loudly that she feels as though she is having a heart attack. We make a big production of getting her dressed and loading her into the car (which involved a lot of carrying on the part of me and my mom).

And when we are half way to the hospital, with my equally old and feeble grandfather following behind us in his own car, my grandmother announces that she feels totally fine and jeez, why are we making this big fuss anyway.

Oh no. Me and my mom stare blankly at her and then insist that she does not feel well and she better continue to not feel well once we get to the hospital --this trip better be worth it, especially as time is passing, the night is progressing, and the two of us are becoming increasingly exhausted.

We get her there and they hook her to machines and attempt to stabilize her heartbeat and do a lot of things that generally make us feel as though bringing her to the hospital was a good idea. And then um..... well the truth is.... I came home.

I still feel guilty about it because my mom is still up there doing God knows what with my grandmother who is feeling God knows how well. And I have to wait here, impatient for updates.... but there was so little I could do besides sit in the waiting room and, well, wait, that I decided I was better off waiting at home and getting to sleep in the meantime.

But I'm glad I was there. Very glad. Because, to be frank, my mom's response to any emergency is to immediately switch into panic mode, and someone has to be there to regulate the situation. And to tell my grandmother she still looks every bit an elegant lady, even as she sweats and moans and...

Oh God. I never should have left.

OMG

I am going to Cape Town, South Africa in two weeks. Two weeks. I'm trying not to get my panties in a twist but it's hard because.... you see... I've always had a small... very small... hardly noticeable... crippling fear of flying.

I have had it for as long as I can remember, not that I ever let it get in the way. My family has traveled a lot my whole life, and then I went and landed myself a long-distance boyfriend who lives just far enough away to make flying the only reasonable mode of transport if I ever want to see him. Ever. So flying is what I do.

For the most part, I can keep the phobia under control. On transatlantic flights, I pump myself full of sleeping pills or tranquilizers. Even though they hardly ever actually succeed in getting me to fall asleep, at least they keep my nerves from escalating out of control. And on short domestic flights... well I take those so often I can almost view them as fun -- I tell myself that I've always wanted to be able to fly and this is my one and only chance. The flights are short enough that I can convince myself there isn't even enough time for anything to really go wrong... and just as I start to panic we're already beginning out descent.

But on a 22 hour flight to Africa....... now we're pushing all my limits.

I will have to put my flying pants on.

And my thinking cap.

And other useful attire......... as if there is such a thing.

And I will have to bring every book in my library.

And an entire medicine cabinet's worth of anti-anxiety pills.

And remind myself that I'm going for good reason: to see a place I've never seen, and my best friend whom I haven't seen in a long time; to bask in the sun in my bikini (which reminds me I need to hit the gym immediately and stop baking/eating cupcakes); and to see penguins for real in real life.

It will be my first voyage to Africa, a once in a lifetime opportunity.

No way will I let some pesky, good for nothing phobia stand in my way.

Two weeks.

What was I thinking?

I read a lot of blogs. This gave me the idea that I should start my own.... Despite the fact that I have nothing to say.

I love Harry Potter.

I love to bake.

I might love to write.

I started a blog once with my best friend in high school.... I think we collectively wrote three entries and then dropped the ball completely.

But this blog is my own. And hopefully I can keep it going for a while, at least while I am living at home in NYC and have nothing to do. We shall see.