Grounded

Give me too much time and I will spend it thinking. I've got a lot of time on my hands now. I can't run, but I can remember running. I can remember specific days, specific routes. I spent the last part of last year increasing my mileage so I could run a half marathon. It led to pain in my right foot and now I'm trying to manage that pain and - more importantly - recover. My mind is circling around those months, those runs. Give me too much time and I will spend it thinking.

In the world of pain management, there are traditionally thought to be three types of pain: neuropathic (the deranged, confused signals sent to the brain by nerves that feels like electricity/numbness/sparks), somatic pain (muscle, bone or deep tissue pain), and visceral pain (such as happens when an internal organ is stretched or injured). I'll get back to this.

Several weeks ago I was driving home from the park, having finished my run. I was listening to the radio. (How many times have I started a story like this?) I had less than an hour to shower, have breakfast, and dress before I was to be in clinic and start seeing patients. I listened to a story about books related to worklife, books not to be missed, like "Revolutionary Road" and "Bartleby, The Scrivener". I was struck by the discussion of Melville's character, Bartleby, and how questions begin to come up in an office when someone says, "I'd prefer not to."

This brings me to now.

Sweet Baby Jesus, I'd prefer not to.

The litany of tasks I'd prefer not to includes; reading reports about histologic derangement of cellular patterns over the phone instead of face-to-face because people doctor shop and have appointments all over the country in one week (not understanding that it may not be the best for their outcomes), dealing with insurers who are literally trying to save a buck, and functioning as a biller/coder.

Dear Healing Jesus with palms outstretched, I'd prefer not to.

Back to my discussion on pain. I don't feel pain this morning, but what I feel is most certainly visceral.

I'd prefer not to.

It's there at every turn. I have become Bartleby. It's part of my makeup. It's visceral.

How is Your Tenacity?

How is your tenacity? Do you hang on, or will you be shaken? I suggest you be shaken.

This morning I spent the better part of fifteen minutes pulling tiny burrs out of a picnic blanket. A group of us attended an outdoors performance of Puccini’s “Tosca” last night and when we arrived at the large grassy hill and claimed our spot I quickly realized that I’d carried with me several hundred hitchhikers from the Art Car Parade a couple weeks ago. After a quick glance at the little offenders, it became evident that they were dug in and wouldn’t budge with a shake of the blanket. The sweet grade-schooler in our party said they were only “bumpy” and didn’t really cause a bother. She was correct.

We enjoyed a beautiful late spring night in the park and I tossed the blanket in the laundry room when I arrived home, not thinking much about it until this morning when I realized I’d have to remove as many of the burrs by hand as possible before I washed it or it would end up a matted mess when it came out of the machine.


Removing them wasn’t unpleasant. They weren’t the big, pointy kind that pricks your fingers. It was just something that had to be done unless I wanted to throw the blanket out. I didn’t. Too many memories or fun times are wrapped up in that blanket. I keep it in my car for events just like last night. Houston is full of opportunities to share a meal outside with friends, or gaze at the stars while an orchestra plays, or just sit and talk. We live in a wonderful city for such things.

While I was picking those little burrs off the blanket I thought back to my own days in grade school when I learned how organisms and plants develop survival methods. Whatever seed was inside those heavily armored and pointy burrs had worked very hard to survive. Maybe I’d helped it along the way, carrying it from Allen Parkway and dropping one of its progeny along my route. Maybe it’s a noxious weed. Probably. One thing is for certain. It holds on.

Which brings me to Tosca, and me, and maybe you.
The character Floria Tosca (for those of you who aren’t familiar) carried herself as a strong woman. She was a prominent singer, even famous in her community. She fought off the advances of the Chief of Police and through the entire opera argued with her true love over her own jealousy which was oddly misplaced because the object of her affection was not cheating on Tosca. He was working on a religious painting, and if Tosca was anything, she was a church-going gal. She was one tenacious (read: “clingy”) woman. She held onto an idea and clutched it for all it was worth. She just kept going…and going. I won’t ruin the story for you, but I will tell you that if you want a classic opera experience, go see this one by Puccini.

Tosca, the singer, would annoy the hell out of me if she was my friend. I’d probably tell her to snap out of it. That kind of tenacity doesn’t get you very far. It doesn’t allow for optimal growth. If you’re lucky enough to fall into some random soil, great! Grow for all you’re worth but I think you may be in for being stuck, for being carried along on someone else’s blanket.

Today:
Letting go. Softening. Lying ON the blanket instead of being stuck to it – or worse yet, under it. That, my friend, is suffocation.


©Michelle Scofield, May 22, 2010 All Rights Reserved

Reason Number 463: "You're Intimidating"

Ask any smart woman and she'll tell you she's been let down, let go, let off the dating hook by an otherwise great guy until he said these words, "You're intimidating". Huh?

Things were probably going along swimmingly for a date or two. They'd engaged in conversation over a meal or a walk. They might have taken in the latest movie at the Indie cinema and she was fascinated that he was fascinated by her opinions. Then he wasn't so fascinated anymore. He stopped calling. He didn't text her anymore. What happened? He was such a nice guy.

Being the intelligent, empowered, independent woman that she is, she called him and asked. He stammered a bit, said something about being busy and finally blurted out a five syllable word - usually quite a turn-on for her, but not in this case.

Intimidating.

It's a cop out guys. It's right up there with standing someone up. Well, maybe not quite as bad, but it's not honest.

What's honest? You could say...

"I feel intimidated."

or

You could talk about insecurity around brains, or money, or just about anything. You could talk about how you're feeling compared to someone else.

That would be asking a lot, wouldn't it? I know, I know.

But putting it on the other person. Saying they are "intimidating". Yeah, probably not exactly accurate, is it?

So here's the exercise portion of this Date Coach post: Stretch those subjectivity muscles and consider what you can learn about yourself if someone you've dated isn't right for you. Seriously, maybe it's not about the other person, maybe it's about you. Why would someone else make you feel intimidated?

Is it about brains? Money? Something else? Who is doing the comparing and why?

This is rhetorical to me and potentially life-changing to you. That's all.




©Michelle Scofield All Rights Reserved

Cellular Purge - No Replay

The reappearance of a past love can cause one to stop short and pause. So let's do that, for a moment. Please note the word, "past". There is a reason for the tense that causes one to become, well...tense.

Just last week a yo yo bounced back to me. Team, I wouldn't tell you to do anything I wouldn't do myself. Repeat after me: Cut. The. String. This can be a dangerous game for fragile hearts on both sides of the field. No reason to engage in such nonsense. Returns are for Macy's on the day after Christmas, not for dating.

Here's a little something for your consideration. I wrote it a long time ago, inspired by a sweet man who couldn't make up his mind between Houston and Moscow. I chose to make it a little easier (on myself). Harsh? Perhaps, but I've not regretted my decision, and I love the poem - even if I do say so myself.


Deleted (Cellular Purge)

Intersection break.

The NPR newsman
says the market's up
but housing's in slump.

Next car over a
gangster shouts a warning
to his backseat toddler
while his bass rocks the road.

Two train cycles
keep me sitting
through the light.

I think of leMetro.
I think of caviar and vodka.
I think of ICE and am suddenly cold.

Reaching for my phone I find the
entry and confirm that I want to

Delete?
1.Yes

The green arrow points my way west.
I follow the path homeward bound,
wrapped in the warmth of the sable sun.
Do svidania.




©Michelle Scofield All Rights Reserved

Sorority Girls

Mom was a sorority girl, a bonafied sweater girl in pink and pearls, plus a pencil skirt. She was a member of Alpha Chi Omega where she learned many life lessons that she attempted to pass on to me as her legacy. She knew how to distinguish an authentic china teacup from the dime-store stuff. (Hold it up to the light, Missy). She learned how to half-smile so as not to appear overly eager. I never quite got that one; it’s all or nothing for me. She learned to say “fantastic” when she was thinking “bullshit”. Again, a lesson I’m still working on.

She was also a young mother. I came along when she was only 19 years old and her college career was cut short. Things were a little different in the early 60’s and there was no money and I never knew the story but she didn’t finish college. She did, however, keep going to sorority meetings. When I was a little girl she was always serving on some board or another and I can remember her coming home at night looking quite pissed off and throwing her purse on the table, sinking into the couch, and telling me, “Missy, I just don’t make a good sorority girl. I can’t stand being in a room full of women. They talk and talk and they say nothing at all.”

Which brings me to last night. I took myself out for dinner to a place I know I can have a cocktail, chat with the bartender and get a delicious meal. As a bonus there are often single people around to share a few minutes of benign conversation. If not, a television is there with ESPN turned to mute and something to watch while I unwind from the day. Yesterday was a day that needed unwinding.

I ordered my drink and waited for my dinner. Two members of the TripleH (dressed for Happy Hour in Houston) sat to my left and a man and his date sat to my right. The couple to my right was obviously quite involved with each other, having a quiet evening. That’s nice to see once in awhile. The women to my left? All I can say is I’m glad they found each other.

I’m not an eavesdropper. It’s difficult to ignore the equivalent of some tropical bird screeching on the barstool next to me. Volume control is possible with human voice. I know. I’ve studied anatomy and physiology.

Last night I heard about: how to clean an oven, fourth grade soccer shoes, and a funeral in Arkansas (complete with makeup, hair, and clothing descriptions - of the dearly departed).

Really? Really? Is that all you’ve got to talk about in public, LOUDLY? Forgive me, I forgot. At one point, early in the single hour I managed to sit through (trying to eat my dinner in peace), I heard BP (British Petroleum) mentioned. I perked up, thinking perhaps there was a political leaning, an inkling of social interest about to be batted about. No… I heard, “I’m so tired of all that news stuff.”

I paid my tab and started to leave. I felt a hand on my arm. TripleH Tropical Bird Number One was trying to get my attention. “Not too many to choose from, are there?”

I smiled and told her I was only out for dinner. I pointed to the seat I’d vacated next to her and said, “You never know.”

My point: If a woman sitting at the bar next to you thinks your conversation is vapid, what might a man think? Even if you’re all dressed up and looking fine, as soon as you open your mouth the game is over. Unless, of course, he’s just too dumb to notice, then I suppose you get what you play for. Point to ponder.

Of course, if you’ve read this far, you’re probably not that woman anyway, are you?


©Michelle Scofield All Rights Reserved

Because It's Worth Saying At Least Twice (Reposted from Inner Canthus)

This is a repost of a repost of a repost. The world is making me sad today. I don't need sad. I'm about to see my family for the first time in months and I need something other than sad.






A Plea For Human Kind(ness)

Please, please stand up. It's not that hard, really. Just plant your feet firmly on the floor of this bus, engage your quadriceps, and push. You will rise from that seat and you will redeem your punk ass in my eyes. I don't care that you are wearing a white coat. I don't care that you have a new Littman Master Cardiology stethoscope hanging around your neck, I have one too. I see that you are studying. Your nose is practically buried in that text but you see her. You must. Her pregnant, full belly is right in front of you, at your eye level. I don't care that she is a tech, or a nurse, or an assistant. She is pregnant. Stand up and be a man.

Please, please stop honking your horn. He is old, he has Louisiana plates on his car. He is stopped on Fannin and he is lost. He is driving through the largest medical center in the United States, in the fourth largest city in the country. He is your brother, my father, someones son. He is a grandfather, a husband. He is a man with dignity. Is he not deserving of just ten seconds of latitude, ten seconds of patience?

Please, please accept your own truth. I heard you discount your intuition today in favor of anothers desires. I am watching you sacrifice your happiness and security yet again in order to satisfy the needs of another. Determining your own rank with yourself - and defending it - is permitted and I encourage you to do so. It is the ultimate act of kindness to oneself.

©Michelle Scofield All Rights Reserved

Put Me In, Coach!

But...but...you're not ready to play. Sorry, you're really nowhere near ready to play. Sit down, grab a towel, warm that bench, and listen.

You think you want to date. You think because you've dated, you're good at it. You think you've done it before, so you can do it again. You think you can practice until you get it right. It's not like riding a bike. It's not like throwing free throws - or a Frisbee. It's not like hitting a sled. This isn't about muscle memory.

Stop it.

You dated before you were married. Then you married someone and that didn't really go so well. Now you're e-winking, having coffee, having dinner, having sex, having regrets. Might we call a time-out?

Why do you want to date? What? You're lonely? Shut the hell up. Deal with it. Sit on that bench by yourself for awhile. I want you to watch something. It's called Instant Replay. Come on, it's not all that bad. I know, seeing the hits, over and over again is kind of brutal, but I know you can take it. Why are you slammed so hard? Because you keep making the same moves, for God's sake. Oh, and get this, you're playing against the same team over and over again. Do you recognize them? Sometimes they change uniforms, but watch their moves, they don't change. You know these teams, they are called The Abusers, The Weaklings, The Whiners, or The Users.

Wait! I know you think you've learned a new game plan by watching the films, but you're not getting up off that bench yet. Sit down. I want you to get to know some of your teammates now. Play is suspended, so you have as much time as it takes. Get to know them. Talk, but more importantly, listen. These people are wonderful. Forget about the game (it's suspended, remember?) and just get to know them as people. You'll be better for it.

Where the hell are you going? Don't set one foot on that field! You are such a rookie. You need balance. You're in such a rush to get in there and tackle, that all your finesse has gone out the window. For you, I'm assigning yoga AND meditation. I want you to sit. I want you to sit - alone. Sit alone in a room with no television, no music, no computer, no noise. Sit alone in a room with you, with your emotions and...feel.

Next season, maybe. Maybe you'll be ready to play. You tell me. You tell me if you recognize why you're in the game. You tell me if you're enough of a solo athlete to be a team player.

Now hit the showers. The colder the better.








©Michelle Scofield All Rights Reserved

How to Handle a Houdini

"He pulled a Houdini."

It's a phrase that's batted about dating circles with disdain and disgust. Everyone seems to hate The Houdini. He's the man who shows fairly intense interest, perhaps takes a woman out on several dates and then, poof! He's gone leaving her behind in a cloud of bewilderment and confusion. There is no white dove, no rabbit, no Siberian tiger on a platform to wow his audience. He leaves behind an empty stage and a theater so silent you can almost hear the digits change on her cell phone LCD time display as she checks it once again from the third row back. The soft green glow lights her face as she hits "messages"...just in case. Nothing.

Harry Houdini (3/24/1874 - 10/31/1926) was a master illusionist. He was an escape artist. He didn't really disappear, although some wondered if he might have had the power to do so, given the sheer audacity and difficulty of his illusions and stunts. His profession required incredible physical and mental training, practice and precise timing. The Dating Houdini doesn't really deserve the title, because disappearing from a dating situation isn't nearly as grand when compared to what Houdini accomplished. Houdini had to work at what he did. He had to struggle, sweat, and at times risk his life. Most dating escape artists simply stop showing up. That's pretty easy in comparison.

The offender (the escape artist) can also be female. Nothing is to say that a Houdini has to be a male. There are two basic ways to handle being Houdini'd. I promise the first option is the most attractive to future suitors who might be paying attention to your behavior, but feel free to attempt option two. My guess is that if you're reading this and you have any inkling that option two has merit, my words won't hold much weight, but I have to try.

Option One: Move on after taking a quick personal inventory. How's your grooming, mood, manners, general presentation? I want this inventory to be ultra-brief. This is most likely, almost certainly, I can almost promise you, not about you! There, there, isn't that better? Forget about it. Take a walk, ride your bike, go to the movie, call a friend. Oh, and leave the booze and ice cream out of this. They have no part in it.

Option Two (Remember, not the recommended option): Call him or her. Texting is good, too. Email? Why not? Perhaps write a poem, odes are nice. Do you know any of his friends? Where does she work? You getting my drift? You can investigate, make sure, make really, really, really sure that nothing happened to him. He COULD be in a ditch somewhere, bleeding a steady, marching stream of blood cells out of a gash in his groin. Oh my God! If only he could. just. reach. his. cell. phone!!!

Now that you've considered your options, I'd like to cover one more point, the followup. There may be a time when you encounter your Houdini out in public. I suggest you smile, nod and keep on walking. That's what you would do with any stranger, is it not? Your date coach wants you to resist the urge to take up with the escape artist again.

I'm going to let you in on a little bit of personal history here. I rarely give out my own dating dirt, because I think it can be tacky, but this little resurrection of my own personal Houdini happened on Halloween, the anniversary of the Great One's death, so I think it's fitting. I hadn't heard from Mr. Man since he disappeared seven months earlier. Suddenly he's standing next to me at a party. He's talking to me and he seems quite interested. This was all quite surreal. I nodded, smiled and told him it was nice to see him. I couldn't very well have NOT talked at that point. I didn't hook up with him. I truly believe all that was attracting him was my handcuffs. Remember, it was Halloween, and he is an escape artist, after all.

©Michelle Scofield All Rights Reserved