On Conspicuous Consumption

I generally don’t think of myself as a big shopper. Sure, I’ll buy things when I want them, and I’ve gone on the occasional spree of shopping at several stores in one day or one afternoon. But my spending rarely exceeds $100 in any given day, and in general, I’m not as interested in buying things as many seem to be. In general, that is, except for when I’m in India. In India, a place where I have no friends to hang out with, no errands to run or schoolwork to attend to, my favorite thing to do is shop. I always think it’s a little hilarious when non-Indians marvel at “all the colors” in Indian clothing, but when I’m in the bazaars of my motherland, I share their awe. Compared to Western clothing, Indian fashion is a colorful free-for-all. Sure, you’ll always have your silk saris and your lehngas and your salvar kameez, but the colors and fabrics and patterns and designs keep changing. What’s the latest, trendy blend of silk and cotton? Which color combinations are all the rage now? Are puff sleeves in or out? What kinds of patterns are on borders these days? Is embroidery in, or stonework, or mirrorwork? The possibilities are endless.

Buying in India when you’re going to eventually fly home to America is, quite literally, a delicate balance. In past trips, I’ve purchased things ravenously, seduced by “all the colors” and influenced by the sights around me and the lifestyle of India, only to get home and open up my suitcase and wonder what on earth I was thinking. Somewhere in my parents’ house, I have barrettes and purses and jewelry and harem pants that I will never use in the States. Having become aware of my tendency to make ill-advised purchases under India Intoxication, in recent trips I’ve tried to rein in my purchasing. Never mind that this thing costs less than a dollar, I tell myself; Do I really need it? Often, the answer is no.

Still, even when I think I’m not shopping that much, somehow I always seem to end up struggling to pack my suitcases just so, so that I don’t exceed the allowed 50 pounds of luggage per bag (two bags per traveler, of course).  This always leads to tension. The last time I traveled to India by myself, I was filled with inordinate, overwhelming anxiety at the sheer weight and volume of my luggage. How could one person accumulate over 100 pounds of baggage? Why, when I was among my luggage, did I feel I could hide within a fort created by its volume? It just felt wrong for one person and her possessions to take up so much space. It felt entitled and over-the-top and I didn’t like it. It felt, well, like conspicuous consumption.

It’s funny, “conspicuous consumption” is a term most often applied to the American way of life. Booming, thriving capitalism, big malls and expensive clothes and more electronics than one can count. And while I agree that Americans buy a lot of stuff and spend a lot of money and don’t save enough (big generalization, of course), I think that I’ve never seen consumption quite as conspicuous as that of the bazaars of India. There, you’ll find narrow streets lined chock-full of shops upon shops upon shops, selling clothing and food and shoes and bags and anything else you can think of. And every single day, these bazaars are teeming with people, people who are buying things at these shops. I’m not saying this is bad, and I’m not saying it is good. I’m just saying it is an undeniable, and more than a little overwhelming, part of life in India.

But just in case you’re wondering: I got some pretty things here. Looking forward to trotting out my new clothes when I get back home. 

On Depending Upon Others

One of the most frustrating things, for me, is feeling like I can't do things independently. This is why coming to India always drives me a little crazy. In a country where my accent gives me away immediately as a "foreigner," where I look like I should fit in but I definitely don't, where my lack of fluency in the local language morphs me from an articulate young woman to a stuttering, shy child, I am constantly frustrated. I want to be able to shop, visit the tailor, go buy a snack, or go visit my grandfather independently, but I can't, because it's dangerous for a young woman to be alone in this country, especially a woman who barely knows the local languages. 

Yet I hate having to constantly depend upon my relatives for help with everything from shopping to tailoring to traveling and more. I hate that I depended upon my great-aunt to get me great deals on clothes, yet she didn't tell me when I was paying too much for saris yesterday. I hate that my aunt and uncle and cousins in Chennai act like I'm inconveniencing them terribly when I ask for someone to travel with me to Tanjore to visit my aged grandfather, who was too ill to travel to Chennai himself. I hate that I rarely have privacy in this country. I hate that when you depend upon others for a while and come to feel that they're not only mentors but friends, they can change their behavior towards you in a flash, leaving you blindsided and wondering what you did that was so wrong. 

When I came to the airport last week to check in for my flight, I was surprised to see a family friend around my age in the same line. I didn't realize she was going to India on the same day as I was and I was even more surprised when I realized it looked like she was in line alone. Then I saw her mother in line next to her. When I said hi to her after a while, I mentioned that at first I thought she was going by herself, and she said, "Oh my God, do you think I'd go to India alone?" Well, I reminded her, I was doing just that. Because the truth is, I want to be able to do things by myself, especially things that scare me. Things like going to India. Because at least right now, at the end of the day, the only person who's always with me is, well, me. Better learn how to depend on myself as much as possible.

The Ethics of Staying Home While Sick

I get sick frequently. This has been true about me since childhood, when it seemed like I had a runny nose or hacking cough at least once a month. Having been sick so frequently as a kid, I've learned to go to school even while ill. Because when you're sick several times a semester, and you're trying not to rack up a huge list of absences, ain't nobody got time to stay home when you have a little runny nose.
I've carried this general attitude of work-through-the-illness into adulthood. This presents a unique conundrum, when my "work" is interacting with hospitalized patients on a daily basis, some of whom are immunocompromised (ie, their immune systems are less capable of fending off illness than the immune systems of typical people). I've also learned that the more rest I allow myself during illnesses, the better. After all, when I have muscle aches and a fuzzy head and a fever, I'm not a very useful member of a patient care team.
So this Monday, when I began to feel a little fuzzy-headed and muscle-achey, I decided to go to my assigned night shift, since a part of me wasn't sure if my symptoms were due to sleep deprivation or a true illness--though a couple of sneezes from earlier that morning should have told me it was clearly the latter. Of course, I got to work and scrubbed into a surgery, only to find myself getting uncomfortably light-headed and feeling my bowels go into disarray. I ended up scrubbed out, on a stool in a corner of the OR, with my head between my knees and a juice cup in my hand. Since this week's rotation involves delivering babies, my resident and my attending decided I should stay away from newborns with whatever virus was afflicting me, and I was sent home early, with assurances that no one would fault me for doing so, and that I should take the next night off too, if I was still feeling bad.
I was really grateful for my team's incredibly healthy attitude toward illness. As one of my residents said, as a medical student, I should take advantage of being able to take time off when I'm sick, because most residents have precious little opportunity to do that. Since Monday night, I've also ended up staying home from work on Tuesday and Wednesday night, because my symptoms have steadily worsened into a garden-variety upper respiratory illness (URI)--one that rendered me unsafe to practice any kind of medicine, especially medicine involving newborns who would literally be entering the world into my germ-ridden hands.
The frustrating thing is that, in the time since I was sent home by my team on Monday night, I've gotten steadily more and more signs that people seem to think I'm stretching my sick leave a little longer than I should be. My residents have asked whether I've told the clerkship director about my absences. My dad keeps talking about how I should be sure not to miss too many "credits," and is expressing concern that I'll never learn how to deliver a baby (a skill that, while important for any physician to know, likely won't be of great use to me as a pediatric geneticist).
And this brings me to the point I'm trying to make with this post: When is it okay to prioritize my health above other factors? Granted, I'm not suffering from Yellow Fever or something, and this URI certainly isn't going to kill me. But it will make me uncomfortable and inefficient at work, and it will make me a hazard to the patients I encounter. Isn't it right to take off as much time as I need to get over this illness, or at the very least to get over the phase of the illness during which I feel like I'm actively shedding germs from every pore of my body? Or is it more important to fulfill my duties as a student? If I still don't feel 100% tomorrow, should I go to work anyway, lest I exceed the allowed number of days off from my rotation, and end up having to do makeup days?
Perhaps a more pressing line of questioning is, How will all of this play out when I'm a resident, and later an attending physician? When my contribution to the medical care team is no longer negligible, when my notes in the medical record carry actual legal weight, when my patients won't have a doctor if I don't come to work? I'm not sure what the right answer is. I suppose it's something I'll have to wrestle with in the future. For now, I will content myself with being grateful that, as a student, I can still take time off when my body needs me to.

Irresistible Radio Men

I was listening to an old episode of Snap Judgment today (if you don't listen to it, you should), and there was a man on the show, telling the story of the time he got catfished. In short: a mysterious woman started calling him, out of the blue, and having racy chats with him. These chats slowly evolved into real talks, about their lives and backgrounds, and they ended up cultivating a sort of relationship over the phone. All of this happened while the protagonist was on a cross-country road trip with his brother, and he often felt lonely on those long nights out on the road. Eventually, the protagonist returned home, where he started to spend time with real live girls, and his relationship with the Girl on the Phone (let's call her Nicole) melted away.

Fast forward a few years, and the protagonist finds himself stranded on the side of another highway, his car engine failed, and all alone with his thoughts. He eventually begins to think about Nicole, and wonders why he never tried to make something real out of the relationship he had with her. He calls her, and says, "Let's meet in person." Nicole agrees, but says, "I hope you're ready to meet the real me."

Our protagonist (Davy Rothbart is his name) flies to Austin, heart in his throat, and enters an Applebee's on the north side of I-35. In he walks, and the first woman he sees is ancient. That must be Nicole, he thinks, and walks right up to her and introduces himself. The old lady tells him "There's no radishes in my soup! I asked for radishes!" So, that wasn't Nicole. The next woman is sitting at the bar, beautiful, wearing a red skirt, and he feels a rush of vindication. But she isn't Nicole either. Confused and frustrated, he rushes out into the Texas night, running straight into a man on his way out. The man turns and gives him a tiny, cautious wave. And suddenly, Davy knows: this is Nicole.

So he walks over, and shakes the man's hand. "Nicole?" "You can call me Aaron," the man tells him. And instead of punching Aaron, instead of running away screaming, instead of accusing Aaron of being selfish and cruel and immature, Davy has a drink with him. And talks to him for several hours. And keeps in touch with him. For 8 years now.

I have mad respect for this guy's maturity and presence of mind and kindness to this gay guy who had deceived him for months, and kind of made a fool of him. I won't lie--I'm listening to Davy say the last few bits of his story, and I'm thinking "Where you at, Davy? Let's talk. You seem like a nice dude." AND THEN the host of Snap Judgment says, "You can read all about Davy and Nicole in Davy's latest book of personal essays." And then I went crazy. This man sounds awesome. Where can I meet him? Davy, can you hear me? (Note, this is an allusion to Rosie O'Donnell's infamous "Tommy can you hear me?" running joke.)

Alas, radio men are out of my reach. Still, I'm hoping he'll read this and come at me, bro.

On Doing Things That Scare Us

I feel like there's no point in life during which people like to tell you how to live, more than during your twenties. It seems like every time I open up Facebook, someone else has posted yet another Buzzfeed or Jezebel "list" of things one must do in one's twenties: places to travel, cities in which to live, things to do, books to read, movies to watch, things about which to be nostalgic. I suppose the digital era magnifies society's desire to tell us twenty-somethings what to do, but it still seems as if this urge to guide the lives of young adults has always been there.

"Do something every day that scares you" is an urging that makes an appearance in all of these "lists" in various forms. Either it's written verbatim as one of the items, it's reworded in some clever, themed way, or it underscores the entire list itself ("7 war-torn regions worth visiting in your twenties." I'm kidding. Or am I?). 

Now, most of the items on such lists kind of confound and mildly annoy me. I think it's up to me to decide how I'm going to live my twenties, and more often than not, reading about how others wish they had lived theirs doesn't really change my behavior or ideas. As John Mayer sings, "Is there anyone who really recalls ever breaking rank at all for something someone yelled real loud one time?" And to be perfectly honest, I think people who tout traveling at a young age sometimes just sound really entitled--not everyone has that kind of money to spend, or the freedom (literally or figuratively) to just drop their lives and go gallivanting across the world.

However, I've always liked the idea of doing something every day that scares you. It's a simple concept, it doesn't have to cost anything, and it leaves a lot of room for interpretation. Different things scare different people. Hell, I'm scared of birds and fish, and doing something that scares me could be as silly as staring at a fish tank for a while. [I've done it. It's unpleasant.]

But the truth is, I'm a pretty fearful person. I am terrified of rollercoasters. I am so entrenched in my fear and aversion that when I went to Universal Studios earlier this year, I literally brought a book to read while my friends went on their joyrides. When I was in dance performances in college and the choreographers wanted us to do flips, I point-blank refused to participate in such shenanigans, cause I just didn't like being upside-down, suspended in the air and at the mercy of both gravity and some random guy who was just as frightened of dropping me as I was. I have tried a rollercoaster once or twice. I even tried a flip a couple times. After the rollercoaster, I promptly decided that the fear and knee-knocking and trembling and anticipation weren't worth the 10-second euphoric high afterward. When I tried flips, I ended up dropped on my head. On more than one occasion. So, that was a no as well. 

And so trying to do things that scare me, things that REALLY scare me, often hasn't yielded the best results. Or at least, not the sort of results those lists would have me believe I'd get. Doing something that scares you should lead you to unexpected places, both literally and figuratively. It should expose you to unexpected vistas, set up that perfect photograph for your Facebook cover photo. So far, doing something that REALLY scares me has only shown me that I had good reason to be afraid, and I'll continue to live in fearfulness, thank you very much. 

Still, I guess fear is unavoidable. After all, the unknown is at the heart of life. No one knows what will happen tomorrow, or a year from now. No one knows how we'll look or who we'll be or where we'll work when we're in our thirties, giving advice to those twenty-something whippersnappers. And let's be real: that's scary, whether we feel like it is, or not. Because not all of it is in our control. And perhaps that's the real reason we are afraid. There's no way to mend that. There's no way to control it all. So we keep living. And we keep scaring ourselves. And we keep learning which fears are worth holding onto, and which we can let go. That's what I'm trying to do, anyway.

The Pros of a Con

Fact: I'm often at my most productive when I'm also at my most dejected. During medical school, all the new projects and initiatives I've taken on have been in the wake of a break-up. Indeed, these projects might never have gotten off the ground without the catalyst of my heartbreaks. When all I want to do is curl up in bed and cry, I instead end up seeking out challenges and pushing myself to the brink in strictly unemotional realms. How organized can I be? How many things can I juggle at once? What things can I focus my energies upon, and exhaust myself with, so that I'm left with as little time and emotion as possible in which to brood upon the state of my personal affairs?
People often tell me I'm a perfectionist, a Type A personality, and I always disagree with them pretty heartily. But I suppose this impulse of mine is as good evidence as any of what is perhaps my true nature. When things suck for me, I just try to keep myself busy so that I don't have time to wallow.
Not that it really works, exactly. Like most people, (I assume so, anyway; I suppose I have no idea what other people have in their heads) I have a lively inner dialogue, a tempestuous sea, if you will, that is constantly running, whatever I'm doing on the outside. So I still find time to wallow. Time to come up with new iterations of my pain, new metaphors and catchphrases and mental images and sounds. I guess you can't really run away from your problems, no matter how hard you try.
But at least I'm doing useful things in the meantime. I've found that when one is in a crummy place emotionally, (and, incidentally, when one is in general not where one wants to be) the idea of "fake it till you make it" is a pretty useful one to apply. Eventually, the person you're trying to be becomes the person you are. 

Way Too Spicy

Today I went to a Thai restaurant and experienced a most unpleasant convergence of sensations. My family foolishly ordered "hot" food and ended up with an entire meal that was so spicy it had us all blowing our noses, sweating, and coughing. My nose was running, my bowels were going crazy, my eyes were watering, my tongue was burning, and to top things off it was so freaking cold in the restaurant that I was shivering the entire while. Not an experience I'm likely to want to relive any time soon.