Ode to a gynecologist at sea
I entered the bar 10 years older. The same music was playing. The same drunk guy trying to dry hump anyone who accidentally made eye contact with him. Feeling slightly absurd in a way too thick cheetah sweater, I scanned the throngs of dancing bodies for my classmates. I was relieved to find them politely sipping their drinks in a corner, also straining to hear over the pounding music and wondering why we had picked a reunion venue that made us feel so old.
Everything was remarkably pleasant.
We exchanged information in units of career, real estate, partnerships and children we had procured. The child units were the most valuable for this purpose as they let you into a secret club where you could easily vomit Paw Patrol and developmental milestone banalities upon other people and they would be delighted to splash around in it and vomit it back onto you.
Those who were lacking in units seemed to be self-conscious and sometimes even apologetic about their lack of conformity. Especially child units. Perhaps they were unaware of how much they were envied. How easily they could just take a trip on a whim without having to pack 4 giant suitcases filled with complete bullshit somehow necessary for the survival of one’s offspring abroad. How they could probably just nap or read a book on the plane instead of continuously looking for the tiniest most irrelevant toy in the world for 12 hours under an airplane seat with a sweaty, raging 3 year old on your lap completely unaware of how unforgivable it was to have immediately spilled your inadequate yet very essential ration of airplane wine on your shirt. All they saw was cute photos of us all in our matching Christmas pyjamas. All we saw was fucking freedom.
About two hours deep into the whole thing, Lee walked in. She looked a bit uncomfortable, like her shoes didn’t fit right and that she was entirely conscious of wearing land clothes. I asked her the usual series of opening questions about which Paw Patrol mayor she least wanted to kill. She just looked at me confused and said that she had been living on tall ships for the last 5 years and she didn’t know anything about who the mayor of Paw Patrol was. She told me she mostly worked gigs as a ship doctor but filled most of her spare time by learning how to climb rope ladders barefoot and tie knots. Oh, and fucking sailors. There was definitely a lot of fucking of sailors involved. While she maintained that her training in gynecology was quite relevant for all the suturing and venereal disease that she treated, the college of physicians and surgeons quite disagreed, and had forced her to come to shore to treat more land vaginas. So here she was, meeting her land quotas and counting down the hours until she could be at sea again. Her French accent seemed thicker, her eyes more twinkly and her beer belly a bit jauntier. She left the party early, first scouring the crowd in case there was a sailor lost out there amidst the frat and farm boy types.
There wasn’t.
I wonder what she thought of the whole thing, if anything? Perhaps she envies all of our Paw Patrol banter. Perhaps the accomplishment of some others. But hers is the only career I still think about or truly envy. When I think about doing a Masters in Public Health versus playing cards with* my sailor pals on a tall ship, I know which one wins first prize. So, here’s to you Lee. In a room full of doctors, you were the one that I envied most.
Here’s some sea-inspired homes for your forced servitude on land. But first, maybe you should just buy this house in Montreal that may as well be a boat.
*fucking
Or, you could just live on a houseboat.
Is it story time again? Because when I was 5, my family rented a houseboat near the Thousand Islands with another Polish family. I fondly remember playing card games at the RV-style formica table, the feeling of moss under my bare toes as we debarked to explore the islands, and learning how to swim in my water wings. It was such a magical experience that it nearly made up for the part where I nearly drowned because my water wing deflated while I was splashing around a bit too far from shore. Thankfully, good old lefty kept me afloat. As I bobbed in the water awaiting rescue, my left ear, still floating above water, took in the sounds of adult laughter. Ah, parenting was so much more carefree in those days.
Here is what assholes might commonly refer to as inspo. Yes, I am one.
