My body is reacting to illness and the end of an era, and it is saying: I’m so done.
I attempted my loop around Central Park yesterday, hoping that the cooler weather boded a better run. About a mile and a half in, my lungs informed me that I could keep going if I wanted to, but they would not be joining me. I slowed to a walk and turned off my iPod, wondering if maybe God had a message he could only share with me in quiet and non-spastic movements. Well if he did, I’m going to need a translator, because the rest of my route I was surrounded by Europeans and Asians on spring break. It’s too bad, because I get some of my best ideas while I’m exercising. So if this entry is crap, please say a prayer for my restored health. And for this God-forsaken pollen to take a hike.
The rapidly approaching finale of my five-year New York tenure is leaving me conflicted. One hand clutches my bucket list and a tissue for the tears I’ll cry over leaving some amazing people and the city that grew me up and whipped me into shape. The other is held in the air, “Talk to the hand”-style, signaling my unwillingness to take shit off anyone. The second mindset dominates my days at NYU School of Dentistry, or as I think of it most days, Foreign Dentist and Petulant Entitled Student Daycare. I realized today that I am a glorified babysitter. I’m not kidding. I repeat myself dozens of times a day to people who look at me like this is the first they’ve heard of the Pope being Catholic. I make little marks beside the names of people older than I am because they decided to take an hour-long smoke, coffee, and computer break rather than stay in the class they are paying serious cash to take. I tell a student to drill a small hole and come back minutes later to find the dental Grand Canyon. Most of the time, I’m trying to just keep them from killing the children and reminding myself to tell everyone I know never to go to an NYU-trained dentist. The rest of the time, I’m wondering how similar I was to them when I was a student. I have a feeling I wouldn’t like the answer. (Except for the hour-long break part. I was way too scared to do anything like that.) Throw in some complete inefficiency and mismanagement from the higher-ups, and you have my typical day.
Yet…as faculty, we have what’s called an Educational Account, which means the school doles out some money to us each year that can go to pay licensing fees, cover continuing education courses, or–my favorite–reimburse us for materials bought that can be used for “Professional Purposes.”
Cut to me and the BF hitting the Apple store downtown two weeks ago and loading armfuls of Mac products into a waiting cab. SUCK IT, NYU.
The tear-stained tissue will make many more appearances in the coming months, but in the meantime I’m typing this on my new Macbook Air with a glass of wine and the BF beside me, and my newest music download playing in the background: my niece’s heartbeat. That’s what I call a severance package.