In Moderation

I found this in my move. One of those unfiled pictures. I know I kept it out because I thought it was funny even if I do look like hell in it. It's from when I had a PICC line for the Lyme. This is why I look like Uncle Fester with a wig pretending to be pregnant. I realize now that it looks more like I was pretending to have huge, unrestrained knockers. Why was I pretending to be pregnant? I wanted that nice reserved parking space at CVS pharmacy, but alas, I only had a fucking catheter threaded through a vein from my mid-bicep to my heart and not a baby on board. PICC lines suck, btw. If you ever need one, I strongly recommend a sedative while they insert it. The lie is that no one needs a sedative. It is a lie that the radiology staff at the Backus Hospital severely regretted attempting to perpetuate in my case.

Oh how I hate the whim of the internet. I just finished writing this carefully thought out email on how usage of the term “lesbian” and associated words suggest two distinct social categories for “lesbian” and hit "send" only to find out that my session in Yahoo had timed out while I was writing. Jeezus, that’s frustrating. You know, because then you try to go back on the browser only to find that your text is all gone. Hell. That is pretty much all I did of consequence today on account of my feeling like crap. I’m taking it easy today, I have to or I’ll end up involuntarily taking it easy flat on my back in bed all weekend. Hence, moderation. My fear is that what I consider necessary moderation in my activity level might be considered laziness by my professors. It is extremely difficult to explain that although I do not have an active Lyme infection, the disease seems to have permanently altered my constitution. It is difficult for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is my still not wanting to fully accept this. On a related note, my last set of liver function tests were “completely normal”, which is delightful news. Still waiting on the ANA test. I’ve decided that sometime this Fall, I am going to have the big talk with my doctor about autoimmune disorders. Right now though I’ll just keep trying to believe that someday, this will pass.

Two amusing conversations and one perplexing social interaction:
1) “I discovered during one of the talks at the conference, that I could tie a knot in my leg hair”
“On purpose or by accident?”
“By accident. And I couldn’t get it undone, so I had to rip it out”

2)T was over this weekend. At one point when no one was accusing anyone of being upset about obscure stuff or of seeing the valid and clear causes for upset as obscure due to disengagement in the relationship, T turned to me and said "I wonder what the pope's bathroom looks like." He paused and we waited for the lexical shapes of his frequently impenatrable thoughts to manifest. "I mean, not when he's sick," he continued. "You know, just his regular bathroom.” I considered this for a moment and said "So you’re wondering if there is an official papal potty?" He exuberantly replied "YES, exactly!", excited that I was able to understand the delicate nuance of his question. I find his joy at being readily understood endearing but I ask myself if this remnant of the mutual understanding and easy intimacy in our relationship could possibly be enough to make it worth my time and emotional investment under the current circumstances.

Back to the entirely not obscure topic though - the pope's bathroom. From what I saw of the Vatican when I did the whirlwind tour of Italy in 11^th grade, I’d guess it probably has solid gold fixtures, massive white marble tiles, is immaculately scrubbed twice a day by penitent nuns, and has lots and lots of hand rails. No crucifixes though. Maybe a jolly naked cherub or two.

3) My sister, AM, called this weekend with a rant, the provocation for which I’d like to post. Any feedback is welcome. AM was recently at her favorite café up the little college hamlet that is her home. She’s a regular, although I’m not sure she’d describe herself as such. This is a very popular place and it is often crowded, even in the summer. Because of this, people sometimes sit at tables together even if they are not out together. (I believe there is some pattern to how the table is filled by unrelated café goers, but that is a side note to be filed under topics for future observation.)

On the day in question, AM, was sharing a table with a man who she had never seen at the coffeeshop. She was writing busily in her notebook and was largely oblivious to this man or what he was doing. She had noticed him as he came in, and stated that he looked around and when he saw her, she felt sure that a brief and smarmy smirk flashed on his face. Presumably she dismissed this and would have entirely forgotten it if the man had behaved himself. He did not.

After being seated at AM’s table for some time, he stood up and said to her “Watch my stuff”. At this point, AM looked up and noticed that his “stuff” consisted of two legal pads and a fanny pack. She explained to me in retelling this story that his tone was odd. I asked if the oddness was that it lacked the proper intonation for a question, and she agreed that this was it. It was not said in an entirely commanding tone, but it was clearly NOT stated with the vocal equivalent of a question mark. AM looked at him, I'm sure with a completely withering look, and told him that she was busy and was watching just one set of stuff, her own. He replied by telling her that she didn’t look busy, and then strapped on his fanny pack and huffed out of the café. He returned a short time later. He sat at the table shuffling his papers, dusting the table repeatedly, and bumping his feet into the chairs and table legs. From AM’s description, his behavior after their exchange was markedly more restless than it had been before. Finally, after about an hour, AM decided it was time for her to leave. As she was packing up her stuff, the man said “Excuse me, can I ask you something?” My sister said yes, and the man responded by asking her “When I asked you to watch my stuff, did you think I was being rude?” AM said “Yes, I did.” The man said “Well I think you are out of line!” to which AM said “And I think you’re being rude right now,” and left. As she was leaving, the man repeated several more times “You’re out of line…You were out of line”.

AM and I debated the possible motives for this man’s behavior. I asked if there was any chance he displayed characteristics that would suggest instability, fannypack aside. She said yes, there may have been some muttering and mumbling to himself even before the “watch my stuff” moment. To me, this man clearly was a mentally imbalanced individual. I suggested that it seemed he had a pathological need to control his environment and AM’s failure to respond as he desired and expected provoked his sense of her being “out of line”. AM stated that she felt the man was sexist, not someone who would be considered pathological but merely on the far end of what is considered appropriate social behavior when placed in the proper sexist context (which is of course the reality of the one we live in).