My commitment to regularly writing (and by “writing”, I refer not only to blogging—I am also referring to writing letters, writing notes, writing complete sentences in general) has faltered. I blame moving.

• Someone wittily remarked that we are experiencing “June-uary” weather. The days are long, yes, but so are the rainstorms. I do hope that my last memory of Seattle won’t be of grey skies, wind, and rain.
• On the other hand, one of my good friends in New York City informed me this past weekend that the weather is unbelievably, ridiculously, [expletive] hot”. The Beau more tactfully reported that “the heat is oppressive”. A good friend in Seattle inquired, “Won’t it be nice to experience real June weather instead of this Seattle crap?” Well, we’ll see.
• I’m done with saying “good-bye”—can all of this mushy relationship stuff just end already? (It’s culturally more appropriate to experience annoyance and anger than sadness. I’m just sayin’.)
• One of the men in the homeless shelter who is originally from New York City got on my case for not yet securing a place to live. “I don’t mean to be critical,” he commented, “but you really should have taken care of that three months ago.” That’s a humbling remark when it comes from a homeless guy. The dynamics in that interaction are remarkable and kinda makes my head spin.
• A few people have written about the child psychiatrists at Harvard’s Massachusetts General Hospital and their misreported financial relationships with pharmaceutical companies. I personally do not agree with the Biederman approach to diagnosing bipolar disorder in children (both with his approach and the subsequent prescribing of antipsychotic medications as the primary course of treatment), so that compounds my opinion of the situation. However, I do get the sense that Dr. Biederman really believes that he is fighting the good fight… and his tenacity and passion are impressive. I do hope that his financial misreporting more represents oversight rather than something nefarious.

Expect a random schedule of posts here for the next few weeks—I’ll be leaving for New York City soon to look for a place to live (send good juju, please—no evidence for it, but it sounds good), returning to Seattle to take care of loose ends and graduate, and then relocate to the other side of the continent. I anticipate that I shall use Twitter more often since, you know, typing 140 characters is less daunting than writing full sentences that are thoughtful and actually communicate ideas.

Two of my girlfriends took me to see Sex in the City tonight.

They snickered at me when, in the beginning of the movie, Carrie Bradshaw comments that it takes about three years for someone to find an apartment in the city. (It was pitiful snickering.)

And, even though I shan’t be living in a penthouse, wearing Blahniks, or attending fashion shows (thank goodness!), for the two-plus hours that I was in the theatre, I felt truly excited about my moving to New York City. I’ve been preoccupied with and, frankly, bogged down with all the details leading up to my relocation.

I got all tingly during the flyover shot of Central Park.

I’ve only been a distant admirer. Soon that will change. I can hardly wait.

I wasn’t happy when the DJ announced that it was my birthday and that, in honor of this occasion, there would be a “birthday dance”. I knew exactly who had told the DJ that it was my birthday and I had explicitly instructed this lead to refrain from sharing this information. I really did not want to dance in front of everyone.

He did not heed my instructions.

Another lead dragged me out onto the dance floor to begin the birthday dance. Most of the dancers in attendance formed a circle around us and the DJ began to play music. As is customary with these types of dances, a lead danced with me for a phrase of music and then another lead cut in and took over. Thus, by the end of the song, I had danced with probably a dozen leads.

(Of note, the lead who had told the DJ that it was my birthday did not dance with me in the circle. Tsk tsk tsk.)

Often, the more skilled dancers participate in these birthday dances as they have the confidence to dance in front of everyone else. At that time (this was about two years ago), I was not confident in my dancing abilities and felt anxious dancing with an audience watching.

They’re all going to think know that I’m not a good dancer!

I didn’t fall down, I didn’t trip, the leads didn’t leave the floor in frustration, and there was enough turnover so that I wasn’t dancing with the same lead for phrase after phrase after phrase. Some of them were even kind enough to wish me a “happy birthday!” when he took over for the previous lead.

And, in retrospect, that birthday dance boosted my dancing confidence significantly. In fact, I soon participated on a regular basis in birthday dances for leads.

Tonight was my last night of dancing in Seattle. I had not gone dancing in the past month due to competing obligations (which also interfered with my writing here) and, prior to attending the dance, I felt trepidation about going. Several dancers, upon learning about my relocation to New York City earlier this year, had already began to express sadness about my departure.

And, as I had essentially gone dancing once a week, every week, for the past three years, I, too, was feeling sad about breaking this healthy habit that had brought me much joy.

To my delight, most of the leads I had regularly danced with were present tonight and I made a point of dancing with all of them. (In fact, both the flight surgeon—who, thankfully, had safely arrived home from Iraq—and the Swedish statistician were also in attendance tonight!) And, as a testament of my lack of dancing recently, I found myself tiring quickly.

“This is my last night dancing in Seattle,” I informed them. People generally don’t like it when people just disappear without an explanation. Most of them knew about my relocation.

“Oh—we need to do a good-bye jam for you,” some of them remarked.

“No, we don’t,” I honestly replied. I wanted to dance with them, not dance with them in front of everyone else.

“C’mon, Maria,” they argued. “You’re part of the community, you’re going away, you should do a good-bye jam.”

I knew I would not win.

The DJ announced that I was leaving and, in honor of this occasion, held a “good-bye dance”. A lead dragged me out onto the dance floor to begin the good-bye dance. Most of the dancers in attendance formed a circle around us and the DJ began to play music.

And it was wonderful.

Most of the leads I regularly danced with—many of whom do not usually participate in these jams—participated and cut in to dance with me. (Some cut in more gracefully than others—but there’s entertainment value in watching leads creatively “steal the girl”.)

More touching than that were the leads who made a point of showcasing me for the audience. Some leads participate in these jam circles to showcase themselves (after all, everyone is watching, though that does not mean that everyone actually cares—yet another lesson I learned from that initial birthday dance). Like in any other relationship, it eventually becomes clear when people are actually doing things because they care about you and not because they’re satisfying them.

(A potential definition of “gentleman”?)

And it was sad.

How do we create meaning in the relationships that we have with others? With most dancers, particularly leads, there had been minimal conversation. Sure, we’ve exchanged pleasantries, discussed superficial aspects of life, and engaged in small talk, but for the most part, we’ve simply danced together. And, somehow, that dancing alone compelled many of them to not only share a good-bye dance (a gift) with me, but to also tell me that they would miss me. This clearly does not fall within the usual relationships that we have with others—relationships in which verbal language dominates.

(As noted in The Little Prince: “It is the time you have spent with your rose that makes your rose so important.”)

I’m incredibly fortunate in many different ways; my experiences in dancing have been blessings over the past three years. And, as usually happens, I was not fully aware of its importance in my life—particularly in the context of a month-long hiatus—until it ended tonight. And though the dancing itself is immensely fun, these quiet relationships arguably have given the dancing more meaning.

Thank you, Seattle lindy hop. You’ve been wonderful.

(And, yes, I anticipate that most of my posts will tend towards the maudlin side for the next week or so. I will cope—I trust that you will, too.)

Items patients have offered to me upon learning about and discussing my departure (i.e. termination):

- a pack of Pall Mall cigarettes
- a five dollar bill
- a viewing of a specific YouTube video
- Sephora eye shadow
- a brief documentary about a town in Washington
- advice about social interactions in New York City and the East Coast in general

And then there are all the requests for hugs.

Maybe it’s actually how we say “thank you”.

I think we had gone out for lunch and, thereafter, he asked me to accompany him into Victoria’s Secret.

(This was over four years ago.)

“I want to buy some panties for her,” he explained. He was in California and his fiancee was on the other side of the continent. “Whenever I visit, I like to hide a pair of panties for her somewhere in her apartment. When she finds it, she’s pleasantly surprised and then she thinks of me. I’m stocking up.”

He beamed with pride before concluding, “She likes it.”

While we gingerly dug through the stacks of brightly colored underthings on the round tables draped with pink linens, he commented, “You know, nice underwear is important.”

“Indeed,” I dryly agreed. “You apparently never know when you’ll be caught with your pants down.”

“Noooo,” he continued, “I’m serious. Nice underwear can make you feel like you’re unstoppable. You can take over the world! And, admit it, we all want to feel that way.”

This was not the conversation I was expecting to have with him in Victoria’s Secret.

“For example,” he said, “don’t you have a pair of lucky underwear?”

I handed him a pair of panties that sported thin horizontal stripes. He glanced at them and then plucked the pair from my hands.

“No,” I replied, continuing to pick through the pile.

“What?!” he exclaimed. His hands, both clutching several pairs of panties, fell to the table with a quiet thud. He looked at me, somewhat aghast.

The search had apparently officially stopped.

“What…?” I replied to his expression.

“How could you not have a pair of lucky underwear? Even I have a pair of lucky underwear,” he crowed.

This really wasn’t the conversation I was expecting to have with him in Victoria’s Secret.

“Don’t you wear anything special when—I don’t know—when you take big exams? Like when you took Step 1 and Step 2?” he pressed. He was referring to the USMLE board exams we had taken in medical school.

“No,” I said, my inner utilitarian confidently waving at my audience of one. “I just make sure my underwear is comfortable. I don’t want my underwear to distract me from the test.”

“Oh, come on,” he answered. “You gotta have a pair of lucky underwear. Let me tell you about mine—”

As if I could actually stop him.

“—I have a pair of bright green boxers that have white alligators all over them. Whenever I take a test, I almost always wear those boxers. Of course, they’re really loud, but that’s what makes them so special. And, yes, they are comfortable, too. In fact, they’re so comfortable that I hardly ever wear them otherwise.”

He flashed his Winning Smile at me. I playfully rolled my eyes at him.

“You should buy yourself some lucky underwear today,” he suggested. “Live a little.”

“I’m not used to spending five bucks on a single pair of underwear,” I said. My inner utilitarian was hovering over my shoulder, reminding me that there was no data to support the hypothesis that underwear choice could positively impact test performance and scores.

“Exactly!” he insisted. “Consider it an investment in yourself. Nice underwear is important. Lucky underwear is fun.”

He selected a fifth pair of panties from the table and then repeated, “Live a little.”

Theoretically, I know the most I will ever know about psychiatry and neurology right now. I have several thousand pages of knowledge somehow crammed into my brain that I will proceed to barf back up tomorrow for my board exam. (Please note that this does not reflect a regurgitation disorder. Sort of.) I’ve taken enough standardized exams in my life to know that it is highly likely that I will pass the exam… though there are no guarantees until I receive my score report.

I’ve put in what I believe is the requisite time and energy into this endeavor. I know how to get to the testing center and how much time it will take to get there (because I’m paranoid). I plan to prepare a nutritious lunch that shall not induce sleep. I’ll soon pre-pack my bag with two forms of ID and the documentation that proves that I am registered to take this (@#$%^&!) exam. (I am displeased with the board. I know the board doesn’t care that I am displeased.) I anticipate obtaining satisfactory sleep tonight.

And, for good measure, I’ll wear lucky underwear tomorrow. Because nice (comfortable) underwear is important and lucky (comfortable) underwear is fun.