Treatment #8

Showing up early is what I do. This time was the first time I felt comfortable in the waiting area.

I had been waitlisted for a while. And was having a hard time being available. My fault. Always prioritizing a sweaty work out.

Therefore, I had a few apologetic phone calls with Crystal, our receptionist.

They were running a bit late. But, I was still due an extra treatment, so I was fine with waiting.

Zap. Zap.

Armpits are basically done. Good to go.

The other space is in progress. One more to go.

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Culver City Kindness

It’s a lovely walk to get groceries. It’s a short walk to get groceries.

Children playing. Adults lunching or enjoying their coffee. Construction to raise the value of the area.

It’s all so great. Until you get shamed for not being grateful.

Now on my way back. Two bags. One on each shoulder. Trying not to think about the extra weight on my cankle.

I come to a crosswalk. There was a car. It had been stopped there for a while before I approached. I go to cross. They let go of the brake. And rebrake. I don’t engage in the: no you go ahead. Instead, I move to walk behind the car.

Maybe it’s because I have trouble inconveniencing others. Or because I didn’t want to stop my steady pace.

I’m behind the car. The car still doesn’t move.

I’m now on the other side of the street and the car still hadn’t moved. I hear: um, I waited for you.

I’m now a few feet down the street. The car follows me slowly: woooow.

And they finally drive on.

And here I thought, wooow, was only my family’s judgy response.

They really did want to let me know I didn’t see their kindness. And that it wasn’t appreciated.

Not sorry.

And still grateful for the sometimes lovely walk to get groceries.

It’s broken.

I knew it was bad. The pain was unfamiliar.

It felt wrong. It felt too sharp. Too much. It lingered. It got worse. But i kept playing. Of course I did.

When I finally got to take off my shoe and sock, I asked Mo: is it broken?

She examined the pinky toe in question.

–Well. If the bruise continues and grows, it is.

There was hope for a moment. Thanks Mo!

The bruise got worse. Adding broken pinky toe. Though. Unconfirmed.

Because having a bionic collar bone wasn’t enough.

Treatment #7

5 mins early.

What’s your name?

M-A-R-S-H-A

Marsha?

( Don’t say good job. Don’t say good job)

Yep.

10mins after my scheduled appointment:

Marsha, we are waiting for BLANK to get back from lunch, then you’re next.

15mins after my scheduled appointment:

Marsha? Right this way. You can sit in here.

Okay.

Am I pronouncing it correctly?

Yep.

I was being weird. She was trying to be kind and welcoming.

Another 10 minutes.

Zap. Zap. And out.

Before I reached the door, the receptionist apologized for the long wait and offered another free session. Wait. Really?

I accepted. She booked it with me and we confirmed. I thanked her for her kindness.

Mind you. I still have one more. #8. So now I get a grand total of 9!

Two more treatments to go…

Treatment #6

The appointment is scheduled for 1pm. I was lucky to be squeezed in. Everyone and their mom is trying to get in their treatments before the holidays.

12:45 and I’m walking through the doors. The receptionist/sales person is in heavy consultation talk.

Hello! And I bolt straight for the bathroom. But before I reach the door, I hear: what’s your name?

I hate that greeting. It’s the only one they are capable of. Why does that question seem so rude to me? Why does it feel so confronting? What happened to: how may I help you? Or hey there, you already had an appointment?

I spell it out for her: M A R S H A and walk into the bathroom.

The toilet paper roll is almost out. I switch it out for a fresh one. Yes, I’m that person.

I finish up and go to awkwardly sit two feet from this graphic consultation and pretend like I’m not there. In all fairness, all consultations in this office are detailed.

Luckily, I don’t have to sit for too long. I get called in by someone I hadn’t met before.

She asks all the appropriate questions: any anti-biotics? Prego? New medications?

Before we get started, she chalks me up. This is new.

She explains she’ll work in sections. Okay. I’m cool with clear expectations.

Minutes later the torture is over. Andddd out. Thanks team.

Two more to go. Let’s make those count.

My phoneith got runnith over.

I knew I packed too much: lasagna, pumpkin spice creamer, and a Greek yogurt parfait. Along with my usual change of clothes and bulky highlighter jacket that I wear on the ride home for safety. It’s a small backpack, but I crammed it all in there.

The pocket where I usually store my phone was too tightly compressed from the other items, so I slipped it into a different pocket this time.

When I got to the guard gate, I swiped in as usual and I noticed a coworker nearby. She was headed in the same direction. I tried to get her attention to say hello. And hello! We walked together to the building elevators in silence. It was much too loud on the lot to speak. Trucks, cranes and lots of grip equipment. A very busy morning on the lot. The noise is how I didn’t hear my phone hit the ground.

When I got to my desk to unload my food rations, I couldn’t feel my phone anywhere in my backpack. I immediately checked FIND MY IPHONE to see if it was still on the dining room table. Nope. Here on the lot. How so? Where?

I emptied out the backpack and instead of going to the bathroom to change my clothes– I follow my gut to retrace my steps. By the time I got to the guard gate, I still see nothing on the ground. I almost didn’t want to bring it up with security. I didn’t want to bother them. I felt shame in loosing it in the first place. I finally spoke up awkwardly:

Me: I dropped something, but I don’t see it. Meh– must not be here.

Them: Is it a phone?

Me: Yes…

They show me a phone with a badly shattered screen. It’s mine. Definitely mine. Definitely in very bad shape. Pieces of glass missing. Definitely ran the FUCK over.

I couldn’t help myself. Tears. Tears of not-today. Of not-now. Of auughh-gawd.

Sharp stories fill my head: This is why I can’t have nice things. This is what I deserve. This is a reflection of your ability to be a responsible adult. A reflection of your worth. A reflection of your maturity. All not true. All hitting me at 100 mph.

Just that morning, I was feeling especially annoyed with my Iphone for being glitchy and slow recently: a sticky home button, notifications upgrading and glitchy text messages interfering with my communication with loved ones. I then told myself: be patient until next Fall. Then you’ll be able to get a new phone. Yours works, kinda-fine. It’s alright.

Well, the universe said– you need a new phone NOW. But did it?

Or is my phone a metaphor for me? I was working kinda-fine. Getting by. But I took a major fall to see the truth, the damage and the true need for repair.

And repair I did. I took my phone to a guy that only needed 15 minutes and $65 in cash to make my phone look brand new. It got ran over. How does it still work? How was it just the screen? I was ready to throw it out completely. Baby with the bathwater.

My final thoughts:

Repair is done in practice. I’ll try not to be over zealous with packing my packpack.

I’m learning to be at peace when it’s time for change– being at peace with accepting the new. And being grateful for the entire experience.

 

That WGA Holiday Party 2017

  • It was a first for me to step into an Uber I didn’t arrange. Is this what fancy people do? Am I fancy?
  • Taking Kurt up to MY SPOT was my opportunity to show HIM around town for once. It also reminded me of my uneasiness with heights.
  • Arm in arm we step up to the plate and give his name. I’m a happy plus one at this party.
  • What do you want to drink? I don’t know. What do you want to drink? No, what do you want to drink? Huh? What do you want to drink? Vodka-Cranberry? NO. Um, whiskey? Are sure? Yeah? What kind? Huh? What kind of whiskey?– we should have figured out a plan before stepping into the club.
  • Hey look it’s JJ! HA! I got you.
  • Let’s count how many people here aren’t white. Now, are they writers? Or a plus one?
  • Cochran? Who? Johnny?
  • The food was cheeses and roasted veggies. Is this what Hollywood eats? Do writers subscribe to being a size 2, too? Gluten free? And here I thought they were the normal ones.
  • Clusters of people who aren’t white. Clusters of safety.
  • How to introduce yourself to a stranger at the WGA Holiday Party:
    • Hey, you look familiar to me. Have we met?
    • Tap on shoulder– You’re a writer! Right? Hi! What do you get to work on?
  • How NOT to introduce yourself to a stranger at the WGA Holiday Party:
    • Are you a plus one?
      • Especially if they are two women– don’t do it. James!
  • Welp. We inadvertently blocked you from the food and now it’s all gone. All is fair in the world?
  • What I said: You work on the Young and the Restless? I loved that one! Every summer in high school and college. That was my jam!
  • What I didn’t say: my heart belonged to Passions. It hooked me in with the creepiness and mystery. It captured me with the sillyness. Teresaaaaaa, you always fuck shit up! Listen to Pilar!
  • And the lights come on. And we’re allllll ugly. Goodnight!