Just so you know, the age limit to see a pediatrician is 18

One day after coming home for break, I told Mom I needed to see a doctor because of some mysterious rib pain (which still isn’t gone, by the way). She gave me a number and told me to schedule my own appointment.

Lady: Hi, how can I help you?
Me: Hi, I’d like to schedule an appointment for mysterious, annoying rib pain? (This is always said like a question for some reason)
Lady: Is this for you or for your child? (really, this should’ve been my first clue about this particular number)
Me: Me….
Lady: Ok! Can I have your name and date of birth?
Me: Michelle… 1991.
Lady: Oh… [extremely awkward pause as she tries to figure how to word it] We usually only accept patients ages 0-18… Do you still want to make an appointment…?
Me: Um… I’ll call you back.

I bet she and her fellow secretaries all had a good laugh that day. “You’ll never believe what just happened… a 21 year old just tried to make an appointment with a pediatrician!”

But I also had some laughs… and some revelations.

First of all, did I not go to the doctor’s for 3 years?? Not even a check up? How else was I (mostly my mom, really) so oblivious to this?? I guess I’m the poster child of health then. Go me. On another note, however, if I die sometime this year, we’ll all know it was because of a lack of yearly checkups.

Or death by chocolate. Or overeating. I guess my death will actually be more of a mystery. Should I be leading a healthier lifestyle?


Crushes History, or, Crushtory (If You Will) Part 1

Before actually entering (a more accurate description here would be pushed into the deep, dark pool of) the dating scene, I only had a few crushes. But the few that I had basically took over my life. It was like being in reciprocated love—the highs when we were together—with a sucker punch of Just-Kidding-you’re-a-crazy-bitch.

Let’s jump back through the time portal.

A few crushes here and there in Junior High and High School which were mostly me slapping a face onto my “ideal man.” Actually, it was me vomiting idyllic projections onto the guy without him knowing. Stalking Admiring from afar.

Give me this instead. I know exactly what to do…

But in college, boy did I wise up. Actual dating seemed weird to me my first two years of college. You didn’t even know them, how would that interaction even happen? “Hi, uh, I think you’re gorgeous so on the off chance that you have an awesome personality, let’s subject ourselves to an hour and a half of maybe-good conversation”? What if you don’t click at all? Then it’s going to be awkward the next time you see each other around campus. “That’s the girl I almost had a thing for. Thank god I found out she’s crazy…”

So, I friendzoned myself. All the time, with a side of Creepy.

That’s a step up, right? Going from admiring from a distance to actually talking to them? I think I deserve a gold medal. It’s not like I have to tell them I liked them. They’re going to fall for me first! … publicly… !

Mario and I met where any other couple meets: the badminton courts. If you’ve ever wanted to climb up the social ladder, I suggest you not look towards badminton. If you wanted a good recommendation for grad school, however…

He caught my attention because he was the first normal-looking white guy I’ve ever seen on the courts.  Usually it’s nerds of all colors in the yellow-brown family. But I dismissed him immediately because he was attractive. In my experience, attractive guys provide the least stimulating conversation.

During this time, it was my Lost Years at the university so I was jonesing for some close friends. Around the time I met Mario, I met Jonie, who was petite and fiery. We clicked on and off the court and were soon inseparable.The three of us traveled to tournaments together, stayed in hotel rooms together, and went out at night together. I wasn’t 21 at the time, so I was the Super Baby of the group.

My love for him grew. But I refused to hang out alone with him. Guys had to make the first move and at least I was getting SOME airtime with him, right? The fact that they hung out without me meant nothing.

A comic strip has never described my love life so well...

The one time we hung out it was at a dive bar indie concert. And it was clearly not a date, although I did treat it like one. I got a little too tipsy on pre-mixed margarita, stood awkwardly while I waited for him to pay cover (not part of the plan, but I made it so), and then bought him donuts afterward. I felt bad, so I paid him back during the ride home.

I was getting desperate because I knew Jonie, my only connection to Mario, was moving away at the end of that year. And Mario? He was graduating soon. But that didn’t matter as much because without Jonie, there was nothing.

So it continued. Nothing. Nothing. Something? Nothing.

Soon, it was summer and whatever small momentum we had was lost.

Anytime anyone asks me about what happened, I get snappy. And they’re confused because everything happened in my head. 

Mom: So, what happened to that Mario guy? Is he still on campus?
Me: I think he left. (Actually he didn’t, but explaining why we haven’t hung out is worse)
Mom: He left without saying goodbye?! I thought you guys were friends.
Me: HE’S JUST LIKE THAT, MA. Pull into McDonalds right now.



Interesting Trivia From My Fall This Morning

Background: today while on a bike, I rammed into a fellow biker.

  • I went flying while he jumped gracefully off his bike
  • I stood there for about 2 minutes, just holding his hand. I think he offered it to help me up, but I just took it as a comfort and just held it.
  • 30 seconds prior to impact, I was distracted by what seemed to be really gross cellulite on the upper back thighs of this girl. Upon closer inspection (T-10 seconds), I realized it was her ass, being squeezed out of her high-waisted booty shorts with every step.
  • People probably thought I was a lesbian.
  • He was an athlete. No wonder he was able to escape unscathed.
  • Had he not escaped, the impact would’ve felt, I imagine, akin to that of an elephant stomping on a baby.
  • I said “I’m so sorry” 10 times
  • My shoe came off. How does that happen? One minute it’s happily being lived in by my foot, the next minute it’s on the ground looking so lost and victim-like.

So how was your day? Anything interesting to alleviate my embarrassment? 

Dear, Adolescence

Dear Adolescence,

As it is my last year as an undergrad, our relationship seems to be coming to an end. It hasn’t always been sunshine and rainbows. Because of you, I was always moody; I never knew why I felt the way I did. Because of you, I got fat, lost a crazy amount of weight, and put on the pounds again. Because of you, my skin has never looked worse. Because of you, I could stay in bed for 14 hours, wasting my day away. It was really stressful, you know? So, don’t take this the hard way, but I’m looking forward to something else.

But before we say our true goodbyes—I know I’m going to have my weak moments—I have a few questions for you. Will the good parts be as good as the times we had together? I’ve heard a lot and people seem to just want to get back together with you. And the sleeping less thing. I’m particularly interested in that. We wasted a lot of time together in bed and I would really like to need less sleep.

It’s been a good run, A, and I’ll never forget the good times we had together. You taught me a lot about myself; I love to laugh, to be immature and silly, and that I can’t possibly survive without friends. You gave me the energy to rage for three consecutive days at Lollapalooza on five hours of sleep each night while still attending aftershows and such. You gave me courage to pull off a spontaneous hair dye that was a little too bright for my skin tone. And being with you was like hiding in a safe haven; never did I have to worry about paying rent or if I could make it on my own.

You know, on second thought, maybe we don’t have to completely cut it off. In fact, why don’t you stay for another, let’s say, 10 years? Does that sound good? … please? I promise we’ll do fun things like travel around the world, go to all these music festivals, etc. Yeah? Ok, great! You promise?

In that case, I’ll start writing a letter to Adulthood.

Yeah I know he’s a bore.



The Day I Took Drugs From a Stranger

I don’t advocate taking drugs from a stranger, but I don’t really regret it. It made for a good story although I really wish I could illustrate with my body how this story goes, but I’ll settle with painting a word picture… 

To say that it was just “crowded” or “hot” would surely be a gross understatement and whoever uttered it deserved to be sentenced to jail for outright lying. I stood there, under direct noon sunlight, in front of the Google Play stage waiting for The Givers to come onstage.

It was the second day of Lollapalooza 2012, which meant that my dehydration and exhaustion was compounded that day from the day before. For those of you who have never been, the first day feels like you’re a five-year-old thrown into bootcamp, forced to survive among hundreds of thousands of other people. But it’s worse, because you signed up for it. And, by God, you’re going to enjoy the fuck out of it! You didn’t pay upwards of $200 to have painful, exhausted memories. No, you came here to make a legacy.

Pressed up against the protruding backpack of the behemoth of a man in front of me (there is always that one really huge man in every concert, and he always happens to be standing in front of you), occasionally running my face into it because there are dickwads everywhere trying to push their way to the front even though they didn’t earn the right like I did, standing under the punishing sun.

To my left, another behemoth, smoking what seems to be a pipe-sized joint. To my right, the one friend out of my entire group that I would not have raged with, the one that thought anyone who enjoyed themselves committing sins were bound not to be good people.

It was only noon. There were 30 minutes left until The Givers would make their way onstage. 40, if you count the fact that all performers are divas and that they move for no one.

My friend, who had been complaining about the heat and exhaustion even before entering Lollapalooza on the first day and told me that morning that she had to take Advil for the muscle aches, stood there stoically. She preferred to suffer in silence.

I felt a nudge to my left and glanced down. The smoking behemoth was offering me a hit of his joint. My eyes slid over to my oblivious friend and I shrugged. If you don’t smoke at Lolla, you’re not alive. I took a hit, and it was like riding a—I died coughing. The joint came around one other time, and I sighed regretfully, knowing that two hits were definitely not enough to get me anywhere. Except cottonmouth.

How many more minutes until they came on? Was I supposed to make polite conversation in an attempt to bond with the offerer of ganja? Who else were we supposed to see today? Fun.? God, I can’t wait until tonight, when I see Of Monsters and Men at the House of Blues. 

Then it hit me. My eyes suddenly seemed to slow to capture images around me. I smiled, relaxing, knowing that music sounds like Angels’ farts when in this state of mind; happy that I could still feel it. I needed The Givers to come onstage now. And that want abruptly turned into a consuming need.

I don’t know when I realized that I was feeling it much more than I should have, that when the effects should’ve stopped, it just kept plowing on. Tamping down my concern, I held on to sanity, knowing that once worried while high, it would become paranoia.

Looking down at my watch, I saw the time but didn’t comprehend and looked again. Ten more minutes. Oh god, I don’t know if I could hold on that long. As a precaution, I leaned down to whisper in my friend’s ear, “Hey… I don’t really feel that good.”

Bright lights everywhere. Was I thrust onto a movie set? Why was everything suddenly in sepia?

It seemed like an additional hour when I decided I couldn’t take it anymore. The effects continued marching and I was having semi out-of-body sensations that I knew, from last year, could result in fainting. One of the first thoughts that popped into my head was that my friend, who had never attended a college party, wouldn’t know how to deal.

“Let’s leave,” I told her, and caught a small line weaving out of the crowd.

I concentrated on walking, but by now, the effects were so strong that I had to think about how to walk. It was like one of those movie scenes with the protagonist tripping balls mixed with Moses walking through the desert in ‘Prince of Egypt’. Images whirled across my eyes. Really bright.

I’m doing such a good job, I thought to myself proudly, as I weaved. Sure, people were staring blatantly for no reason, but I was doing it. Holy shit, how far in were we? Where did this sea of people come from? How long have I been walking?! I blacked in and out, and abruptly decided that I couldn’t walk anymore. I spotted an empty piece of land and collapsed, gasping like I was an asthmatic having a panic attack, which wouldn’t be too far off the truth.

Unfortunately, my perspective was completely off from reality. According to my friend, I had been doing well at first, and then my concentration steadily deteriorated from shouldering straight into people without apology (she followed up with a stream of apologies for me), and then finally just shoving people aside, like I was freakin’ Mr. Incredible meets Hulk trying out for linebacker.

And me finding a patch of land to rest on? Nope. A girl put me there after I completely collapsed on her.

My poor friend didn’t know the effects of weed, so she was highly confused and probably thought that I was suddenly schizophrenic bipolar. She chose that time to remember an article she read the other day about someone who smoked synthetic weed and suddenly had an urge to nom people’s faces off and was afraid that that was to be my fate as well. 

I spent the rest of the concert lying in the grass and looking through the picket fence of legs. My friend then escorted me to Chipotle for lunch. On the way, she told me that I when I saw any fast food restaurant, I would exclaim loudly an item that I really wanted to chomp on from there.

And, after ordering enough food for 20 men at Chipotle, I fell asleep in the booth with a bursting stomach and cottonmouth.