Back to Reality

Well, I am home. The girls behind me on the flight from JFK to Minneapolis were proof enough of that. I think one was doing the People crossword and it was giving her hell. "What was the captain's name in Moby Dick?" she asked her friend. "A-R-A-B?" Yeah, good old Captain Arab. I am no literary expert, but you might want to double check that second letter. The words "Idol" of American Idol and "Inn" of Tori and Dean: Inn Love caused quite a bit of confusion as well. Good thing she didn't opt for the Times. Even if it hadn't been Sunday she wouldn't have stood a chance. In addition to her abysmal spelling and deficient reasoning skills, she possessed a diamond ring on her finger that you could probably see from outer space. Nothing screams "fucked-up values" like a conflict diamond that is big enough to feed the entire population of Bangladesh. It must be true love. Africa must have mellowed me out, because I didn't even start cursing the American education system, the evils of mass media or a God that I am not sure I believe in. I just laughed to myself and took notes on the airsick bag. I still think that she's an idiot and symbolic of a lot of things I don't believe in, but I didn't get angry. I have a lot of work to do on myself before I can be too judgmental.  

***

People have been asking a lot of questions since I've been home. I get a few pretty consistently. What is the best thing that happened? I have no idea how to answer that question. What did I learn about myself? I haven't really had time to do a proper analysis yet. Did I meet someone? Only my future husband. The best came from one of my patients. I am her favorite, and she has told me on numerous occasions that she loves me, which is not normally something you tell your dialysis nurse. When I visited the unit to say hello to everyone her eyes lit up and she smiled so big her whole face was teeth. "Darling! You look fabulous! You've lost weight!" she said excitedly. She is very concerned by me being fat. "Did you find a husband?" She asked it as if I went to Africa to go on a man safari. "Yeah. I did." I said. "Is he white.....or black?" The first part was asked in a normal voice, but she sounded pained to even utter the last part. I hesitated before saying, "He's black." I know her feelings on this particular topic, and she wouldn't consider my man safari a success unless I found a white one. "Oh. Is he nice?" she asked. I told her that he was. "Don't gain weight. Don't eat any bread, and you'll find someone better here," she advised. So much for him being nice. When she asked what he did for a living I knew I was in big trouble. "He's a bartender," I told her, trying hard not to laugh. I thought I was going to have to call a code and administer CPR. "NO BREAD!" she reiterated firmly, as she shook her bony, crooked finger at me. "OK, OK," I said, "but it's so hard." She told me that it wasn't. She thinks that my happiness depends on finding a man, and that finding a man depends on me dropping about eighty pounds. I don't know if it was subconscious sabotage, but I ate approximately three sandwiches today. Among other things. I don't want to find a better man here.