I suppose seatbelts are a moot point.

7 Nov

I can’t believe I lived in DC for 14 years without taking the bus. I love it. It’s always an adventure.

Why, take Thursday morning, for example. I usually walk to work for the exercise (1.5 miles each way, thank you very much), but that morning I was running late. (Let me qualify that: when I say late, I mean, I might have arrived only 45 minutes before my co-workers, rather than a full hour. And because I’m OCD, it’s important to me that I get there an hour before anyone else. STEP AWAY FROM THE LEDGE.)

So Thursday morning I hopped the bus to save time. Now, I don’t know if it was the chilly weather, or if the bus had been delayed, or what – but the bus was PACKED. It was so full that half a dozen people were standing in front of the yellow line that says “stand behind this for your safety,” and lining the steps; my face was pressed against the windshield for at least three stops.

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I only parlez-français when it comes to champignons.

2 Nov

Our Learning Services team supports our offices around the world. I tell you this to explain why I was dialing Paris at 10am.

I thought I was calling someone who expected my call. We had a meeting invitation on our calendars, and I’d checked our corporate directory to ensure I had her direct line. But somehow, between trying to remember the international exchange code and entering her number, I managed to enter the general office number.

So I was surprised when she answered with a flowing sentence of French, beginning with the only word I understood: Bonjour. I responded with a Bonjour of my own, before switching to English in a “let’s drop this joke” kind of tone and said, “Hey! It’s Alison. Are you ready for me?”

Silence on the other end. Then, “Bonjour? Repetez, s’il vous plait…”

Which is when I realized it was NOT the person I was trying to reach. So, digging deep into my dusty mental reference drawer, I called upon the French I’d learned eight years ago when I briefly lived in France.

I strung together a sentence which – roughly translated – was intended to communicate the following: “Hi. My apologies. I speak little French. I am American. I am searching for Perrine. Is she there?”

The woman on the other end exclaimed like she finally understood me; then I was put on hold. After a brief delay, another woman answered. “Bonjour?”

Cautiously, I answered. “Perrine?”

Apparently not, because her response was a long sentence which left me stumped.

In my defense, even at the height of my French comprehension, I heavily relied on visual cues. The phone was always my enemy. Taking a deep breath, I had flashbacks of two other French phone calls from my past.

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What an almost perfect day looks like…

31 Oct

This is going to be me in 40 years.

Today, in (an extended) celebration of my birthday, I played hookey was given the day off work because it’s our company’s policy to consider your birthday a holiday. (Yay!)

So what did I do, you ask?

Well… First, I woke at 6am. And listened to NPR lazily from the comfort of my soft sheets for an hour. Because that’s what taking a day off looks like, when you’re a nerd. (We nerds know how to party.)

Then I made myself a perfect mug of espresso, before hitting a yoga class. Probably not the best sequencing of diet/activity.

But also not the worst, it turns out.

Not to out-do myself, after yoga (practically starving from the exertion) I demolished a tub of bean soup — without thinking about the massage appointment I’d scheduled a mere two hours later. Um. As soon as I was pleasantly full and tipped back in my recliner, I realized what I’d done.

Slightly panicked, I chatted my sister. Her advice? Take an egg and peel it in the lobby. Why? To really stink up the joint. Helpful. Thanks.

I shouldn’t have worried. Everything turned out JUST FINE. (But I did hit the ATM on my way, lest compensation need to run more along the lines of “damages” than tip.)

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Another year older…

30 Oct

Today was my birthday. Before this year, I raced into each birthday, excited for the additional year’s experience that lay ahead of me, wrinkles be damned.

This year, however, my body started to crap out on me in drips and dribbles… a mysteriously inflating calf, migraines, vertigo, Baker’s Cysts… I suddenly understood why old people only ever talk about what’s broken. Because everything breaks.

Oh, don’t  get my wrong. I’m not depressed to be another year older (beats the alternative!), but as I head into this year, I’m appreciative for what my body still CAN do, and I’m determined to maintain it as best I can.

I hit yoga twice today and during savasana I found myself giving thanks – not only for my health in general, but also for these specific things:

  • For being able to walk 25+ miles per week without thinking about it.
  • For not needing to change my underwear every time I sneeze.
  • For still having only my own teeth in my mouth.
  • For not having mysterious moles (with hair sprouting out of them) popping up on my chin.
  • For still finding bras that fit me.
  • And for still having the sense to not consider my waistband a bra.
  • For not truly knowing what a hot flash is yet.
  • For still being years away from finding adult diapers anything but funny.

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Whole new meaning to the expression “Feeling Stabby.”

28 Oct

I’m in Chicago for work this week, training a crop of new hires. We’re booked at a hotel I’ve stayed at half a dozen times before, a short walk from the office.

Only this time, after checking in, when I told someone where I was staying, they said, “Oh.”

You know, the sagging, “Oh” that leaves you wondering what the rest of the story is?

Turns out, someone was stabbed to death in my hotel two weeks ago. AWESOME.

I checked the BedBug Registry, but didn’t think to look at police reports. The good news? It doesn’t appear to be a random attack – of the variety in which some creeper is hiding under your bed. But that hasn’t stopped me from checking the shower every time I come in – just to be on the safe side.

It’s gotten me thinking about what happens in my hotel room before it becomes mine. While someone dying in my room is a pretty long shot (I hope), there are other situations that probably have occurred. A prostitute turning a trick? High school kids throwing a party? A drug deal going down? A marriage ending? A child conceived?

I’ve gotten you thinking now, haven’t I? It’s kind of hard to stop once you imagine other people in your hotel room.

I could try to be all deep and extrapolate some moral from this situation, like how interwoven our lives are or something… but instead I think I’ll just leave a juicy tip for housekeeping. Thanks to them, I can pretend I’m the only person who has ever used this room.

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