P: Marathon Monday + Fulbright Paperwork Madness

It took 4 readings for me to get my blood pressure down.

I have steadily been receiving the most disorganized correspondence from the wonderful people at the Fulbright office. They mail me a health physical, which needs to be completed in 3 weeks from the day they sent it (which actually then means 2 weeks, 3 days). The strongly-worded letter said my Fulbright acceptance is contingent on my passing the physical, and having it pass THEIR medical standards.

Naturally, I worked myself into a tizzy to be sure all of this comes out okay. I'm like, oh sh*t, what if I have tuberculosis? or syphilis? Are the 2 slices of free pizza I just ate for lunch going to affect my blood work??!! What if the Korean government doesn't let me into their country?

So, I'm sitting in the BU health services office, with the blood pressure monitor strapped around my arm, and the doctor takes my reading. 135/90. I have never in my life had a reading that off the charts. They say Asian women generally have low blood pressure, and I've never been over 120 over 80 that I know of.
"That is impossible! I KNEW it was because of what I ate for lunch!" My body was punishing me for splurging on eating greasy cheese and carbs.
"It's more the salt than the fat that's raising the reading," the doctor said. "Just try to relax."

But I couldn't. My future hinges on these results. So I went back two days later to get my reading again. 120 /83. Still high! I got it taken again 2 hours later, after I went for a 4 mile (or 16 lap) run. 122 over 80. Still high.

THEN they forgot to take my TB test, which needs 2 days to process. So I had to go back and get that taken.

Then finally today I went back again (I was in and out of that doctor's office 5x in 1.2 weeks) and she took my reading again. 108 over 65. That was actually the lowest I remember ever having. WTF? Anyway, hopefully that will appease the Fulbright people.

Oh, then they sent me several more forms to fill out, which all need to be returned in 2 weeks, and then I just learned that the critical language award I had applied for is moot, because they require that I take a year of college level Korean, even though I'm like, HELLO I'm Korean American! and they said, oh, in that case, we'll have to put you on the alternates list for the language class grant because the Fulbright rules specify that you need a year of college-level Korean. Grumble grumble...

Anyway, I was back in NY from Wed to Sun, seeing some of your smiling faces. My sister just had a baby girl, Clara, and I'm going to have a whole long post about that later. But for now I'll just talk about Boston.

Sunday night: I arrive at South Station via C-town bus at 8:30pm and high-tail it to Somerville, where Amy is wrapping up a pasta dinner party in honor of Brian. We're there till 10pmish. Then I meet up with my gay poet friend Adam and I--we're just supposed to get a quick catch-up drink at Beacon Tv, around the block from me. But 1 pint turns into 3, then 4 and we start talking with this guy Nick, who looks a little Wall St/meat-heady (he works for Fid-el..ity) and seems to be in his late 30s. Nick's friends had left (they had gone to the Kings of L-eon concert), and Nick bribed us with a round of drinks to stay and talk with him because there was this 65yo schizo man who was starting to approach us at the bar. According to Nick, this 65yo is a regular at the bar (which then makes Nick a regular) and he claims to be a psychiatrist, and he goes around trying to psychoanalyze people.

So Adam and I stay, and this old dude makes his way over, and I don't play my part and I let Nick get stuck talking with him. Then the old guy leaves and Nick is like, gee, thanks Patty. And the reason why Adam and I didn't help him out was because Adam was convinced this table of 2 men way at the back of the bar were gay, and he makes me start waving at them (Adam seems to think, after about 12midnight and a few drinks, that any grouplings of men at a bar are probably gay).

So once it becomes apparent to Nick that Adam's gay, I notice he kind of moves in closer to me. First a pat on the arm, then a friendly squeeze on the leg. I've had a few, so I'm like, whatever, people in Boston sure are friendly. Pretty soon the bar is closed, and we're all there with the bartender, who pours us shots of this black sludge that takes like deer horn extract (which I announce quite loudly, but no one understands what the hell I'm talking about), and they're all smoking. And then all of a sudden Adam just leaves. Before I can react, I see him hopping into a cab. Oh, and it's like 2:30 by this point. Ahem, this is not the first time a gay man has left me stranded at a bar (Diane, I'm talking about your friend Craig!!)

Then Nick turns to me and says, "We're all getting a drink down the block."
"Where?" I ask.
He tells me at his apartment, and I'm like, whoa, I gotta go home. And then he bristles at that, and the night ends abruptly. So much for making new friends in the neighborhood. Plus I think I lost my "in" with Paul the bartender.

Anyway, I go home, shove tons of leftover pasta into my face, and pass out, circa 3:30am. Then I'm up by 8:45am to go for a run...back to Health Services to get my TB shot. But I was still a little tipsy, which made for an interesting run. Which leads me to....
Boston Marathon Monday: WHAT A THRILL! Oh, the whole city of Boston shuts down on Marathon Monday (aka Patriots Day) and people are drunk on the streets starting 10am. Diane and my roommate's friend Brian was running again, so my roommate planned a viewing party. So we lined up at mile 25 across the street from our apt, and watched the racers go by. My heart went out for every single person that was running. And then there were a bunch of these small, old Korean men, and I went crazy. I was like, "Go Korea! Dae Han Min-Guk!" and they all turned around and waved or slapped my hand. A couple of them who had passed me even turned back to wave before starting up again! It was the cutest thing ever. Also, I wanted to tell all the runners, esp the ones who looked like they were going to die, "Hell, if I can do it, you can do it! Ignore the pain because yes I know how much you feel like hell and this sucks and no one put a gun to your head, but if you don't finish this, you will feel that public humiliation for the rest of your life" but you can't convey that much info in a 2 second span, so I just continued to shout out their names or T-shirt slogans and say, "Last stretch! Looking great!"

Incidentally, the apt building across from us had the grill going and they were all drinking beer at like 11am. And my roommate and I were like, oh, those people are age-appropriate! I want to be friends with them so they can invite us over for the BBQ next year! Then I squinted, and I realized one of the men--wearing a collared shirt and sweater, drinking a beer-- is that guy Nick from the bar. Oh holy sh*t. I felt really embarrassed. Then I was like, wait, why should I be embarrassed--HE should be! And THEN I thought, should I go over there and say hello, so I can pimp out for my friends Sheila and Amy? And maybe steal a hot dog? Instead, I wave, and either he doesn't see me, or he pretends not to. So I wave again, and then I'm just like, f* it, and continue to scream my head off for the marathoners. But this made me realize once again just how small Boston is, and how I probably shouldn't go back to Beacon Tav for a while. Which is the same thing I said about Audubon a few weeks back, based on various shenanigans that took place there.

Well, much more stuff to post and catch up on--I'm really sorry I've been bad about posting, and certainly not as prolific as Annie, but this Fulbright stuff is driving me batty. Also, yesterday I had my last piece of writing workshopped (no new writing for the semester! Now I just work on my thesis!) and felt yet another ego blow--my writing kind of sucks. I can't produce one piece of decent literature. Everything's just churned out with a one week lead-time. I was told that my essay felt like it was an essay. Instead it should feel more like a raconteur (storyteller) narrating something. And I'm like, jeez, can't I just cut and paste my blog entries, then? When before I was told THAT kind of writing was too...riddled i nthe vernacular. At least I'm too tired to cry.