things I do when you’re not here
August 27, 2012

Change into that huge, unflattering, washed-out blue T-shirt advertising the Vermont forestry department, stolen from my brother’s dresser years ago immediately upon coming home from work. Or a wisp of a nightgown, should I miraculously resist my afternoon chocolate croissant and not feel terribly gross. (Note: this has happened precisely once. And it was maybe because Pret was out of chocolate croissants.)

Prance in front of the living windows scantily clad. You hate it when I do this, but then again you’re currently at the hospital, which our windows face. Regretting that whole modesty campaign now, aren’t you?

Eat whatever I want.

Ok, the above is nearly always true but now my meals are bent even more to my whims, which are decidedly bipolar in their range and unquestionably manic in their intensity. A pile of roasted eggplant and sliced radishes over arugula one night; half a pan of blackberry crumb bars another. Preferably eaten while standing up at the kitchen counter.

Rock out in the living room to Robyn (Look! I really am dancing on my own!)

Linger extra long on our friends’ couch upstairs like some sad orphan they haven’t even agreed to take in, long after Franny and Madeline are collapsed in opposite corners of the room, all play-dated out.

Recklessly decide to head out to a college friend’s place on 86th after 10 p.m., because all of a sudden, the comfort or novelty (post Philadelphia friend wasteland) or nostalgia or simple pull of having someone who in 2003 lived one floor above you now less than a mile away seems too much to resist. Also, he has the next disc of West Wing that we’re missing.

Write precisely one paragraph of awful fiction, though that’s one paragraph more than I usually get out when you’re around and there’s television to watch.

Sleep diagonally across the bed, utilizing all five pillows.

Enjoy that last step very, very much but think: “It’s still totally not worth it.”

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happy birthday, husband
August 20, 2012

Dave has had to work the overnight shift on his birthday for three out of the last four years.

The first year, I took peach cupcakes across the bridge to Camden and then watched as my medical student helped a very pregnant woman into a wheelchair.

“Is this your first child?” he asked her.

“First three, yes,” she said.

I waved goodbye to the newly 24 year old with the terrified look on his face as he scurried off to handle the forthcoming triplets.

Last year, he was just switching to overnights. This meant that if I took the day off from work we could spend it together, because he hadn’t yet fallen into the nocturnal rhythm of the rotation.

Last year, we had just moved to New York. This meant that we were itching to try new things in the city; and also, that nearly everything in the city was new to us.

Last year, we had just started getting adjusted to his residency schedule. This meant that a day together felt like fucking Christmas. (But not residency Christmas, because you work then. And not Jewish Christmas, because that doesn’t involve presents or Jesus. So, ok, that was officially the worst simile ever.)

Anyway, the point is, all of these circumstances led to us celebrating Dave’s birthday by swinging on a trapeze on the roof of a building overlooking the Hudson River. It was kind of gorgeous but mostly terrifying (“Check out that girl shaking,” people would say when I was up on the platform, knees banging together, refusing to jump.) Our post-class Shake Shack cheese fries were arguably the best part of the day. No, the best part of the day was triumphantly somersaulting down from the net after I landed the first catch of the class (the shaking girl pulled it off!) or maybe walking along the river in the sun or probably just being together, but still. No need to face your greatest fear just to commemorate your significant others’ birthday, you know?

So this year, I wised up. I took the day off but we made plans only to sleep in, laze about in bed and walk to midtown for a nice little lunch.

I think it was our best celebration yet.

So happy 27th to that guy who’s been my greatest happiness for the last six August 20ths. I love you, day and night.

the calm after the storm
July 12, 2012

Things have been a little…how to say this? Busy is a bit loaded these days, nuts is on the vague side, topsy-turvy is probably the most accurate, but it sounds a tad lame, doesn’t it?

Oh well. Let’s go with topsy-turvy, for lack of better, cooler options.

Things have been a little topsy-turvy around here lately.

It started when we seized on Dave’s first weekend days off in forever and opted to camp out at my parents’ house in Connecticut, sifting through a sea of boxes and bubble wrap and then driving back a carload of wedding gifts deemed fit to flood our tiny New York City kitchen. We swapped out the fancy new plates for the old chipped ones, fancy new pots for the old not-so-much-nonstick-anymore ones, and boxed up all the castaways for Meg.

Have I mentioned that my best friend Meg just started residency at this hospital, the one Dave works at and the one we live right next door to? Oh, only a hundred times? With multiple exclamation points? I’m a little excited. She’s training to be a pediatrician here and living right across the street — but first, for two weeks, was living right here with us.

She got home from work every evening in her predictably adorable outfits and arrestingly professional white coat and we chatted about our days. We all sat down around the table together and ate big dinners that I, for the first time in months, felt genuinely motivated to make – big batches of gazpacho and roasted eggplant and a plum cake which, unfortunately, may have unintentionally lacked oil (whoops.) We used placemats and serving bowls. Meg and Dave said everything was delicious, even the cake without oil. I packed up the leftovers for lunch and turned my back on my love affair with Wendy’s fries for a few days.

Life was lovely — who doesn’t like presents and in-house best friends and meals that make you feel like an actual adult? — but also, like I mentioned, a little topsy-turvy. Boxes and suitcases and stray socks were everywhere. Cooking for a crowd every day left me a bit self-conscious and frazzled. Francine, for one, was convinced we were moving. She donned that same “what the fuck” expression she wore when we left Philadelphia and made a run for the door every time we tried to head out with boxes in hand. She started waking up at 4:15 a.m., 4 a.m., 3:45 a.m., intent on playing with Megan. It was endearing, but also supremely annoying, for all parties involved. We didn’t get much sleep.

And now it’s kind of over. I mean, it’s really just starting, the part where my best friend and I share a zip code for at least two years and I use china plates with a boy who’s signed up for a hell of a lot longer than that. But the lack of chaos, it’s pretty strange.

Because when I sat down and actually thought about it, I realized we’ve been in this state of motion for a while. Pressing rewind brought up that trip to Hawaii, that wedding, that move to New York, that endless brooding over whether to move to New York (or maybe California or maybe Boston), that engagement, that engagement freak-out, that year of travel and, hmm, that move to Philadelphia that really started this whole thing off. It’s been kind of a crazy few years.

Some of the stuff was scary and overwhelming. But it was also almost universally  joyful, even if it didn’t quite feel that way at the time. And it was all pretty…big, at least in the scheme of my little life.

So it’s unfamiliar now, this feeling of not having anything on the horizon. I think you may have gotten the drift that we’re not planning to have kids anytime soon. The fellowship application process that Dave would normally have to start prepping for now actually got pushed back for this crop of internal medicine residents, meaning we don’t have to think about where we’re moving or what specialty’s he’s doing for another year or so. (And besides, it’s already pretty clear that we’re probably staying in New York and he’s probably going to be my Dad. Sigh.)

There’s no big milestones to look forward to, no catastrophe to plan for or big party to pine for. It’s a little disconcerting and it doesn’t quite fit my personality. I get bored easily. I like having big projects (especially those that involve tulle and lots of cake.) I like dashing off from one thing to the next.

But I also like cooking for my friends and drinking cold beers on hot rooftops and walking along the East River with my dog (especially when she spends her nights asleep.) And I have lots of little blips dotting the space from here until the next big marker: birthday parties and beach weekends and PTO days we’ll figure out some use for. I’m starting to suspect that I could get used to this. I’m starting to suspect that it will probably fly by anyway, and we’ll be back to the life changes, the big milestones, the topsy-turvy, before you know it.

true love is…(part 2)
June 22, 2012

…letting your resident (!) husband take a peak inside your ears with his otoscope (in your living room, of course), to make sure that that head cold is really just a head cold.

On a similar note: congrats, Dave, on finishing your intern year. I am in awe of you a lot, but especially when I think back on all the people you’ve helped and the calm, patient, positive way you’ve done it. Even with all the crazy hours and the crazy pressure and the mandatory Upper East Side residence, watching you grow into a physician has been one of the greatest joys of my life so far. Really.

(True love part 1, back when he was just my med student boyfriend, and I just had a huge, India-acquired gash in my leg, is here.)

excel epiphany
June 7, 2011

This morning, I got a little teary-eyed over a spreadsheet. And it wasn’t even related to my job.

Nope, it was a happy kind of spreadsheet, one spelling out Dave’s next year as an intern. I thought I’d already come to terms with this whole “doctor” thing – after all, I sat through six hours of various graduation ceremonies, ate a cake with a picture of him in a white coat emblazoned on the frosting – but apparently it didn’t really hit me until I saw all those rotations lined up, side by side, in Excel.

Like, wow, he’s really doing this thing, huh? This is actually – finally! – the real deal. He’s going to help people and sleep very little and become more and more like my dad.

And while I’m still a little creeped out by the whole “nephrologist: the sequel” thing, still a little incredulous that people are going to trust the kid who can’t install our blinds to fix their bodies, I mostly feel very, very proud and blessed and inspired when I think about the two new letters that go before his name.

So yes, I was beaming like a Jewish grandmother this morning, eyes tearing just a bit as I scanned through the spreadsheet. I didn’t even understand most of the rotation names strewn across the document, but one little label, planted squarely in May 2012, caught my eye. “Vac,” it said. Vac as in vacation. Vacation as in honeymoon. Honeymoon as in…oh, wow. I guess we’re doing that thing too. 

Like I said, welcome to the next chapter.

and the envelope says…
March 17, 2011

Cornell.

I had all these pithy remarks prepared for the Match I was bracing for, but now I’m left speechless at the prospect of doing exactly what I wanted all along: moving to New York, moving forward with my career, with nearly all my friends and family gathered close. I have a few thoughts still to get straight in my head – and, to be honest, my hands are still shaking to such an extent that I’m having trouble hitting the right keys – but I just wanted to give you guys the news. More to come, as soon as I remember how to type – and breathe.

xo,

Rach

famous last words
March 16, 2011

Well, here we are at t minus 24 hours before Match. I have a few random thoughts on the rather odd predicament I find myself in right now (odd because, as I’ve said before, I never, ever intended to be starring as my mother in some creepy horror-show rendition of my parents’ “meet-in-med-school-move-for-match” story.)

But before we dive into that I thought I’d acknowledge one very important thing: I have perspective. Not in my weaker moments maybe, when I’m crying over job listings and looking at the Boston weather.com page, but, in my more calculated ones, sure: I’m really trying to see the bigger picture. I’ve been bombarding myself with excessive coverage of the heartbreaking disaster in Japan as well as reading up on all my favorite everyday tragedies (childhood cancers, unexpected loss of spouse, etc. etc.) in an attempt to remind myself that three more years with my best friend really isn’t that bad, even if the backdrop is chilly and the company is sparse and my career is non-existent. The world is so much bigger than this and I intend to force my reaction to tomorrow’s envelope to reflect that, no matter if said reaction comes naturally or not. Katie Couric made me cry on the elliptical yesterday, so I’d say it’s kind of working.

With all that being said, here’s a few lingering thoughts:

-It’s really weird to be on the opposite team from Dave, especially when that means, essentially, not wanting him to do his best. In theory, of course, I want Dave to be the best doctor he can be and go to the most prestigious program he can, but in practice? When said practice involves snow and ice and a New England town devoid of journalism jobs? Not so much…or at least not so much that it’s stopped me from pushing for a compromise, a place that’s maybe not as good for him but also won’t be as bad for me.

The fact that I’m not totally rooting for him to get exactly what he wants is ok, I think – I’ve made peace with it, even if it makes me a bad fiance or partner or whatever – but it’s still just essentially strange. We’ve always been on the same team before and it’s weird to not be going into tomorrow with one goal, one mindset. I guess, in that way, no matter what the outcome, I’ll be happy when this is all over and we can go back to being teammates instead of rivals, in this one little arena of our life. And I’m more than happy to let a computer be the one to settle the score.

-I’m not going to Match. Yes, I see the irony: I’ve made you suffer through a year of whiney posts and hysterical phone calls (hi Mom!), and yet, when the big day arrives, I can’t even get it together to show up? It’s a little strange, but I really think it’s better this way. After all, Dave’s parents will be there, and we essentially want different things from this whole computer-orchestrated gig. And Dave will be there, and we also essentially want different things from this whole computer-orchestrated gig. Plus I’d like to save my days off for all those weekend trips to Boston (shudder) we might have to take to search for apartments/convince ourselves (er, me) the city really isn’t as bad as Jon says it is.

Also, my mom didn’t go to my dad’s match (instead choosing to burst into tears when my dad and his best friend brought the envelope to her office), so I have that precedent to live up to.

-Bridget, for one, is not in favor of this plan, remaining convinced I’m going to make a run for our fourth-floor window if the verdict isn’t what I want. Which brings me to my most important point: I’m really not going to jump, I swear. I might cry and scream and freak out a little, but eventually (next June, once the Boston snow finally starts to melt?) I’ll get it together and do my best to be happy wherever we are. If for no other reason than Dave’s recent plea: “Franny needs a mother.”

See you on the other side, kids.

the calm before the storm
March 3, 2011

In two weeks, things are going to get a little crazy.

There will be jobs to search for (possibly) and boxes to pack (probably) and new mattresses to buy (definitely; I’d rather move to Baltimore than continue to sleep in our full-sized bed.)

Relatedly: if we have to move to Baltimore, I’m at least requesting a king. With a feathertop. That I can cry into every night as I endure the continuing realization that I live in Baltimore.

Also relatedly: Me? Dramatic? Never.

In case you haven’t gotten the gist yet, we’re staring in the face of a Big Change, made all the more frustrating and anxiety-provoking by the fact that it’s both mysterious and unknown and yet completely sure – on March 17, Dave will get an envelope giving him unquestionable, unarguable instructions on where to move for three years, so that his training as a doctor can begin.

My original plan, naturally, was to try to control the uncontrollable. As a born and bred control freak, I figured this little computer roulette would be no match for my neurotic tendencies: I’d simply insist we put two New York programs that Dave had a decent shot at up top, taking some of the guess work out of the process.

But, according to Dave, that took some of the fun out of the process too, as well as some of the chance that he’d end up with a solid career that could facilitate my Anthropologie shopping habit in the future and maybe even support a few kids. He’d gotten interviews at all these prestigious places; why rule them out automatically?, he pleaded. Why not just throw one up top and see what happens?

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how we ended up ranking a Boston program numero uno.

At the time, it actually seemed like a fair deal to me. He’d rank his top choice – with its freezing winters and lack of friends and career options for me – first and then I’d get to choose the next two spots, which happened to be easier to get into.

And here’s the dirty little secret that convinced me to say “Bring on the Brigham!”: I honestly never thought he’d get in.

I know the kid is smart, and hard-working, and worshipped by his grandparents. But last time I checked, they weren’t the ones making admissions decisions for Harvard’s hospital system. In fact, last time I checked, the most recent admit to Dave’s residency program of choice from his medical school had Dave’s scores, and Dave’s grades, with the small catch that he was super good looking and super black.

Good luck, sweetie! You put your first choice right up top! I said, smirking to myself.

Even my mother acknowledged my plan was brilliant. This way, he’ll be happy when he ends up at Cornell, she said. He’ll know he wasn’t missing out on anything. He won’t have residual anger toward you. Win!

So we clicked ‘certify’ and sent the little list off into the oblivion of the Internet. And then a few more facts started coming to light.

First, that Dave had had a few professors and administrators make some calls on his behalf. OK, I reasoned, I hadn’t totally remembered that lobbying the program I felt conflicted, at best, about was part of the plan, but whatevs. How much damage could it do?

And then Dave got an email from the top-ranked internal medicine program in the country telling him he was one of their top picks and would be guaranteed a spot there if he decided he was interested in attending.

That one threw me for a loop. Because if that little school in Baltimore wants Dave, there’s probably at least a sliver of a possibility the Boston one isn’t going to turn up their nose at him.

I tossed and turned and freaked out and cried and screamed and cried some more and did extensive Mediabistro searches on job listings in Boston. And then I just kind of took a deep breath and calmed the fuck down. Because there’s not really much else to do right now.

Match is a double-edged sword like that. All the things that make it so hard and scary also make it strangely comforting too, if you let them. After all: there’s nothing for me to do. There are no boxes to pack yet. There are no jobs to search for. There might be mattresses to buy, but it’s probably better to wait for the inevitable Memorial Day sales.

Right now, everything is possible. In two weeks, that sense of possibility will be firmly slammed shut, replaced with just one name in an envelope. But today, it’s all blank slate and open air. So I’m left with only one path forward: embrace the unknown, trust in fate, bury myself in denial – whatever you want to call it. Either way, it should be the most carefree 14 days of my life.

speaking of bitching about match…
February 10, 2011

I made the unfortunate mistake yesterday of drifting down into the rabbit’s hole that is the “Wife of a Doctor” blog scene. To be honest, I didn’t even know such a scene existed until an intriguingly-titled link popped up in my Google Reader – then poof, there I was, two hours later, reading about some wife of a first year med student in Texas who drilled her husband with flash cards before his big exam while he was sick in the bathroom. Say what? Like, I like Dave, but I don’t really want to be involved in anything that involves his vomit or his studying, let alone a combination of the two.

The whole genre seems eerily close to that of the Army Wife, with a few more Indians. And yet…even though Dave and I spent a solid half hour reading each other quotes from a Significant Others message board, even though I laughed and laughed and joked about how, um, different from me, these ladies seemed to be, the truth is that I’m envious of many of their characteristics: their empathy, their selflessness, their capacity for sacrifice. It made me wish – for both my sake and Dave’s – that maybe I could just not be so me all the time.

Instead of having trouble with Change and New Things, I could be open to cross-country moves and new settings. Instead of needing lots of friends! around all the time!, I could adjust to the solitude and simply learn to be satisfied with this boy I’ve chosen to spend the rest of my life with. Instead of craving an office and colleagues, I could relish in working from home, in my PJs, with my puppy, day in and day out. Instead of pursuing a career in an industry that’s dying a slow, painful, semi-embarrassing death, I could opt for one that’s lucrative, one that could actually support us when he’s in school. Instead of wanting a voice in this residency process, I could leave it all up to him, and just tag along, like obliging and supportive significant others do all. the. freaking. time.

I could do what’s practical, I could do what’s wife-ly. Except, of course, we’re not married yet. And I’m not that kind of girl.

For whatever reason, I just can’t keep my mouth shut on this one. I want him to do well in his career, I want him to do well in this match – but I want to do well too. With my career – and with my life.

I wish, all the time, that picking up and moving to Boston or Baltimore would be a tolerable experience for me. But I know myself. I know what the past six months have been like for me here, in this city I came to for him, this city I knew! And liked! And spent four years of college in! This city that still, still has come up short for me in its post-graduate incarnation.

On my good days, life here is just fine, with glimpses of the wonderful on occasion. But on my bad days, I feel like I’ve failed miserably, like this stint in Philadelphia was a trial, training wheels for our next move, a test that proved that I’m clearly not ready to be promoted to the two-wheeler. Instead, I have to go backwards. To New York.

This is where things get really hilarious. Because remember last year, when I swore, up and down, that the last thing I ever wanted to do was move two hours up the Eastern seaboard? Or maybe you recall in the spring, when I bad-mouthed a little University in upstate New York?

Well, um, yeah. My first choice residency program for Dave is currently none other than the Upper East Side’s Weil Cornell Medical Center. Hypocrisy at its finest, huh?

I haven’t totally changed my views on New York: I still think it has its anxiety-ridden, status-obsessed pockets and wonder how we’ll survive in a city so expensive. But the last few months have taught me a few things about what I need to be happy and successful as I round out my 20s. You know how they say it it takes a village to raise a child? I’m now convinced it will take that same village just to get me through my 26th year. I need friends and family close to me. I need job opportunities galore. (Do I finally have some vague notion of what I want to be when I grow up? Hell no. Do I want a place with oodles of options in the hopes of one day figuring out the answer to that pesky little question? Yes, please.)

And Cornell, well, I never thought I’d type these words but: Cornell has it all. It has a prime location on the Upper East side, away from the hustle and bustle of the touristy heart of the city but still super convenient to everything. It has a hospital with the patient population Dave’s looking for (no habla espanol…and clearly, neither do I.) And, it has housing! Four apartment buildings filled with people just like us, creating an instant sense of community (not that I’ll really need it in New York! with all my friends!) We won’t have to go through the rat race that is finding a Manhattan apartment on our own. We won’t have to pay market rent. Dave won’t have any commute, so we’ll get to see each other more. It’s…as perfect as something that’s still associated with upstate New York can be.

Of course, the second I was all, concrete jungle where dreams are made of!, Dave was like, you know what’s fun? Winters even more miserable than ours! People who pronounce water even more strangely than they do here! He’s still in favor of trekking up I-95, but now the kid doesn’t want to stop until he reaches Massachusetts. Ugh.

And suddenly the non-Spanish speakers find themselves in a situation that can only be described as “un problemo.”

Es un problemo grande, in my opinion, and to be honest, it’s not getting any better as the days until March 17 tick by. Every time we think we’ve come up with the magic combination (Columbia! Stanford! Penn! How many interviews did you go on again?) someone tells Dave he’ll just die if he doesn’t go to X School, or his career will be over if he ranks Y first. My own career aspirations ebb and flow according to a multitude of factors of varying legitimacy (the advice of the professional I’m networking with that day, an article in the Wall Street Journal, the changing tides, bird migration patterns, who the f knows), making for a very confused little birthday girl. This is not my best February on record, that’s for sure.

The advice from my mother, who has been through this before, was, at some point, just to throw up my hands and leave the whole thing to chance. Dave tells me that Columbia, too, is all about trusting in the match, playing by the rules – no phone calls or recruiting allowed. Of course, I’m still not the girl who radiates empathy and selflessness and sacrifice like all those other doctor wives, and I’m still not the girl that’s alright with risk and change and not knowing. But I figure if one of the country’s largest universities can put all its faith in a computer, I guess, just this once, I can try too.

all by myself
October 11, 2010

I’m a little lonely. I’m a little sad. And there’s absolutely no denying the fact that I, Rachel Anna, am the sole person responsible for finishing that bag of cheese crunchies.

Because I’m currently the sole inhabitant of apartment 4, and even our cockroaches don’t have that poor taste in snacks.

I’m all alone, and it’s all my fault.

After all, I’m the one that suggested, then nagged, then physically forced my fiance to apply for away rotations in California. I practically pushed him across the Mississippi, insisting that the round-trip flight and the three weeks spent on someone’s couch and the three weeks spent on opposite coasts of the country would be worth it. I was intent on moving to California for residency, intent on trying something new, on moving at a slower pace, on pissing off his parents. You know, I wanted to go for all the right reasons.

And then, just like that, I changed my mind.

First, it was a total 180.

California? Did I say California? I totally meant Connecticut. You must have misheard me. Why are you shlepping out to UCLA again?

Amid some stressful times at work, I decided the best thing was for us to go back to our (and by ‘our,’ I mean ‘my’) roots. Screw the West Coast, and freedom, and trying new things! All I wanted was to sleep in my old bed and hang out with my (very) old dog and have my mom cook dinner for me. People on House Hunters do it all the time, and what is real life like if not HGTV? Yale has a great residency program…but why move all the way up to New Haven, when we could be even closer to my home town with a residency at a community hospital! Who needs Stanford when you can have Stamford?

It would be awesome! And relaxing! And totally like high school!

Wait a minute…

That phase passed once I realized that it might, in fact, be just like high school, and that fighting with my parents 24/7 could severely compromise my efforts to extract a designer dress from our wedding budget.

So, new plan! New York it is! Bright lights, big city, loads of friends, loads of job opportunities, loads of shopping opportunities! God, I love Bloomies.

And then I remembered we have no money. And that idea promptly went out the window.

Shortly thereafter, Dave got an interview from Duke, which of course bred in me an immediate desire to head down I-95 and eat ribs.

We could develop cute Southern accents! And hit up all the BBQ places from Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives! And buy a house for $4,000! Count me in!

And then I remembered Durham was in North Carolina.

Now, of course, I’m left with no ideas at all. Every destination seems to have a strike against it: requires a car, requires a trust fund, requires massive antidepressants to survive the winter/the Republican residents. Nowhere seems like a good fit. Nowhere seems promising. Nowhere seems right.

And yet, more than apprehension and anxiety about our big move, there’s one thought clouding my vision these days. Sitting here in my living room, loving the sounds of the city outside my window but missing the kid that’s usually sitting here next to me, feet propped up on the coffee table, medical school books perched on his lap, I can’t ignore this fact: nothing seems more wrong than being without Dave.

I’m a little over all the corny that’s been on this blog recently, but it’s the truth. While the fact that he’s in Cali right now might, indeed, be all my fault; while it also might be pointless now that I’ve reneged on that whole West Coast pilgrimage plan; while I’m flip-flopping all over the place these days; the truth is, it’s never been more clear that I want to be with Dave. Even if it means living with my parents or facing down the temptation that is 5th avenue shopping or facing down the temptation that is perfect pulled pork, each and every day. As long as we’re together, I’ll be ok.

And, hopefully, I’ll figure out my ideal city by the time fellowship interviews roll around. Because three years below the Mason Dixon line is one thing, but six years? Please. I don’t think I could love anyone that much.