COVID CORNER

COVID CORNER

Defiance

I’m sure most have seen the pictures of Americans defying the virus. They have decided to toss away their masks, jump into crowded pools with their umbrella drinks, yell at essential workers who ask politely to follow the guidelines during this pandemic. Cringe-worthy.

It’s an odd time in the course of this virus. Everyone is tired of losing money, of being cooped up at home, of being dictated to by the microscopic droplets. They are teeny little things, and we Americans do not do well with the tiny telling us what to do. Just saying.

At work, on the COVID wing, I stood in front of the patient’s closed door: airborne, droplet precautions notice in big red letters. I asked  the nurse for the PAPR because the hospital issued N95 doesn’t seal like it should around my face. 

Secretly I carry the N95 in my pocket anyway. Nurse said no PAPR because there are no virus particulates floating in the air. Oh. She turned away to focus on the computer screen. 

I took the N95 out of my pocket, put it on, covered it up with my regular mask, put on my plastic gown, flimsy face shield, etc... Nurse saw that I had on the regular mask and gave me the thumbs up.

I entered the room, and the ill patient was coughing. Lots of coughing.

And so, I kept entering the room. Got a job to do. I guess you can say, I too challenged the authority of this microscopic spiky dictator. 

COVID CORNER

Tension of Opposites.

Selfishness. Selflessness. Living through these chaotic times, I’m finding these two concepts are changing me. I know that when, and if we get to the other side of this, many of us will be changed, but how exactly? It’s a curious thing.

Since I work in a hospital, the stress that already exists in the environment has been ratcheted up for the long term. How to find a place of normalcy when the job that was once without life or death risks, becomes a job with dire consequences.

I have seen how the chaos and stress has brought out a selfishness in people that can be mindboggling. A superior justifies shoving an underling into a situation where the virus is prevalent, but the safety measures are not. I did not sign up for that danger when I entered the healthcare system. That kind of thing is the military. When someone sits in their home eating Cocoa Puffs for lunch and says that “This is what you signed up for,” I am blown away. How thoughtless, how wrong. Yes, I signed up to care for sick people, but I didn’t sign up for a pandemic that has been complete chaos. And don’t even get me started on the mask wearing in public situation. You refuse? My God.

And then there are those that have helped. They check in to give me encouragement to get through the chaos. They make sure I have received masks. They have given to food banks to help feed those that have lost their incomes, they do little things such as deliver some flowers for the healthcare workers, or cookies, or just a sign of encouragement. They give a heartfelt thank you card, or bang the pots and pans in the evening shift change. They have given up in-person time with parents, children, and grandchildren to keep everyone safe. It’s the reason we are human: we want everyone to continue living.

I know of which I want to be, and I know that both exist in all of us to a degree. And for me it will be how these two behaviors weave into me to create someone different.

In the Time of COVID19

I sit on my 3^rd floor balcony in the spring sunshine where there’s a light breeze and the sound of birds talking. It all seems so normal, yet…

The acute care hospital where I work as an Echocardiographer has a wing dedicated to COVID19 patients. Some stay there throughout their hospitalization; some get transferred to the ICU; some get transferred back to the wing; some pass away.

This is a normal for healthcare workers now.

So I am just one of the plethora of healthcare workers who are experiencing this pandemic. I am, like you, without a way to fix, or control anything. The emotions, the feelings are incredible, aren’t they?

Let’s start with the unfortunate timing of re-opening the “economy.” As our hospital’s positives have climbed, we can manage so far. Only a handful of employees have contracted the virus. But, without testing strategies, without the proper PPE, without any plan, I feel doomed. The virus hasn’t yet defeated greed and chaos, but give it time…

And here is a snippet of what my days have become:

PPE:

I have been wearing the same hospital issued masked for two weeks now. I pointed this out to our “PPE Czar.” The term Czar originated as a Russian word for emperor, or ruler. Russia’s working class under the Czars was a place with shameful sanitary conditions-as in disease ridden filth; horrendous working hours-every day for at least 12 hours; and unrelenting risks for injury and death in the workplace. What a regrettable, yet appropriate title.

These past two weeks with my mask, I have been screening patients who come through the tent, some positives, I stand close to them while I take their temperature, and hand them a mask before sending them through. I then wear that mask while going from one patient to another in hospital rooms throughout my days. I wore it when I was inches away from a patient who decided to sneeze right into my face-“Oops.” Not sorry, just “Oops.”

The “PPE Czar” gave me a thumbs up. She was so thrilled, “keep using it…”

Flip sides to a story

November 12, 2016 

Around the same time I was beginning my new career as an echo tech, the ACA was also beginning.

In a land far, far away on another planet that resembled Earth, this happened:

I remember scanning people who obviously had issues with their hearts that had been left untreated. Why? They could not afford health insurance because of pre-existing conditions, as well as not being able to afford the premiums after turning 50-years of age. One person had tears in her eyes. This person was so cooperative during the exam.

Fellow echo techs understand what I mean: willingly turned into a left decubitus position, didn’t ask when I would be finished 30 seconds into the at least 30-minute exam, didn’t complain that I had to press the transducer into their chest, didn’t complain that the exam bed was too small, the pillows not fluffy enough. This person was so relieved that a treatment plan would be in place by the end of the day.

After this patient, I scanned a patient who was angry. Angry that she had to wait her turn. You see, she said, she was always able to get her appointments whenever she wanted. But now that “those” people had insurance, she had to wait. She said she couldn’t wait for this Obama Care to be repealed. This person had spent her life in the security of her husband’s career. Not her own, but living off of someone else’s hard-earned paycheck. Oh gasp. Can of worms.

Nevertheless, I said to myself—self: you can never, ever be a Republican. 

A Voice Found and Ready to Speak

I have spent the years since my MFA graduation restructuring my life, gaining strength of mind, finding joy, laughter, love, and meaningful work. I needed to be practical, and make sure I was on my way to building a retirement. It takes time to calm the distractions enough to focus on writing. I have missed my writer self immensely.

And so I begin…

A while ago, I discovered something. It was a discovery that hit me right in the middle of the stomach. Two emotions overwhelmed me: regret, and embarrassment. And with the force of those two emotions, a door to a new world blew opened. What was this discovery? What kind of power did this discovery have that gave me a complete paradigm shift in my life?

Let me try to explain it before I name it. Think of an object. Think of this object as beloved. This object is virtuous, fantastic, and fabulous. While holding this object, look at it from all sides. See its beauty, its goodness. Then, suddenly something changes. Now look at the object again. While you look at it, I will explain the result of this change:  This object does awful things, this object causes great heartache, this object is to blame for all that goes wrong, this object is bad, stingy, horrific, and dreadful. Geesh. This object must be maligned, and destroyed!

How does this object go from virtuous to wicked? Where did such perceptions of that object come from in the first place? As a child, the adults in my life influenced my perceptions. The most dominant person in my childhood, as with many, was my mother. She controlled my environment. She convinced me that her perceptions were right, and valid. She wanted me to believe that these objects that were once one hundred percent good were now one hundred percent bad. The poor woman had some major psychological issues that she had no idea she possessed.

This is how I grew up. My childhood was defined by the needs of someone who manifested the mental structure of a borderline personality disorder. The pattern was like this: A person would enter into our lives. This person would be all wonderful, all loving, all kinds of fun, until something would change. And that change was when my mother would declare that this person was now all bad. I don’t have enough fingers and toes to count the numbers of people who did awful things, caused great heartache, and were to blame for all that went wrong. The many good people who became so bad that they had to abruptly disappear from our lives forever baffled me.

It turns out that I do not have Borderline Personality Disorder; thus, there was always a part of me that had extreme difficulties with this “splitting behavior.” In that environment, I was not the norm. I was abnormal. I thought there was something wrong with me. Most of the time, the leaving of the all-good to all-bad person was dramatic. And I was always full of questions that were never answered. Thus, I had two things to do in my life’s journey. One was to find the answers, and the other was what to do with the answers once I had them.

What would cause my mother to declare that someone who was all good was now all bad? How could that happen so many times? Why did she have a circle around her who would fiercely defend, and believe her? I have insight because I was once in that circle. As a child, what choice did I have? Who could I turn to for different perspectives? If I caught a glimmer of a different perspective, I had to be brought back under her influence. As a result, under her influence, the perception of my reality was constantly being re-spun. She could keep me by her side that way. I would never leave her. That was her intention. As part of the characteristics of this disorder, abandonment was her all-consuming fear.

It wasn’t until I finally got myself in a somewhat stable adult relationship that I was able to hear the words other people said to me. Some of these strange words were: “That isn’t normal.” “Nothing is ever black or white.” “Tell me what you think about this-use your thoughts, your words based on your experience with this person.” Oh. I was schooled by people who genuinely cared for themselves, and for me, who could think outside of their own damaged selves, and valued consistent, and healthy relationships. The door blew open, my soul opened up, and wow, it was one deprived place.

I was on my way to a complete paradigm shift. I had to restructure my whole life, restructure my entire perceptions, and beliefs. I had to learn that nothing in life was black or white. This journey was and is a process. And, for me, the beginning of this shift was dramatic, and seemingly something I couldn’t survive. But, survive I did. And that is my story. The one I can return to writing now that I have had some distance from the beginning of this journey. And now that I have found a way to sustain myself through my own financial independence, and my own healthy relationships, I can use my voice. And I will use it without fear of my mother’s retaliation. Well, there is some fear there, as will become evident and validated…

Just another theory among others

August 13, 2014

As we know, the world has lost a fellow depressive. Robin Williams, the funny man, ended it without an ounce of humor for us. He was done, and he meant it. Many don’t understand-I mean he was scheduled to start filming the sequel to Mrs. Doubtfire.

The movie came out in 1993. I remember it as being a fun gender bending trope, along the lines of Tootsie. It was fun, silly, with the appropriate happy ending, and a dialogue starter on social constructs. 

 

As someone who understands a lot about depression, I know what it’s like to be in a depressive state, “the down,” as I call it. I can maybe hypothesize that this movie sequel would not be enough of a trampoline to get back into the healthy thinking stratosphere.

Actually, I don’t know a thing about Robin Williams' depression. He was brilliant, and he could be manic in his brilliance. He was adored, he could fill auditoriums. He was amazing. I can’t relate to any of that celebrity royalty stuff. I can only relate to a feeling of that pit of sadness with a perception that the only thing to look forward to is some silly thing that will require tons of energy and time.

And so it seems he did something depressives shouldn’t do: over extend, get too tired, forget that your brain chemistry requires intellectual stimulation, your heart requires connection, and your body requires rest. If these things are thrown out of whack, there isn’t much a depressive can do, except wait it out. Wait until those things become in sync again. I have developed many strategies over a lifetime of how to get my out of sync self on that trampoline and jump back into that healthy thinking stratosphere. Unfortunately, he just didn’t have the will to wait it out once again. And he stopped the clock. Serious business this flipping sad stuff.

That’s my two cent theory anyway. 

Space

I’m not in Omaha anymore. When I drove out of town last May, I drove, and drove determined to put as many miles as possible between that place and myself in one day. 800 miles later, blurry-eyed, thrilled, I stopped in Rock Springs, Wyoming for the night.

Being back out west is a dream. I love the west. It’s a lot more densely populated than the spaces that stretch from Rock Springs, WY to Omaha, NE. But out west is where I belong. I can breathe. It seems the spaces in the Midwest are vast. But in my experience, the space to be fully human was small, and cramped. I did cross paths with some wonderful people. And they were the kind of people that give the Midwest its good name. But there were those experiences that were beyond the absurd. And it is only now that I’m feeling that my experience of Midwest oppression is becoming more and more distant. In a year or two, it will all be nothing but dust.

So, I still do carry some anger. Who wouldn’t after completely changing your life, and then having to put up with some really stupid, unnecessary situations? But, I am beginning to talk as if I can now. Freedom is sweet. And I am turning that anger into a determination to be the human being I choose to be. I don’t want to be an angry, bitter person. My life even before Omaha could have turned me that way. But, no. Screw that. I want to be that soft, compassionate, but stronger than anyone thinks kind of person. Of course, it’s not always so easy to be that way out west either. But I don’t care. I will, “to thine ownself be true.”

So after some re-entry adjustments, I have a job as a cardiovascular sonographer, my stuff is out of storage, and either donated to the Goodwill, or with me, and I have a cat. Somehow I have inherited a cat along the way.

The New Post-Modernism: The Lyism Age

I hate this political campaigning season more than any other, which is saying a lot because I hate all political campaigning seasons. I've tried to stay out of the fray because it's all so icky. But, I would be wrong not to take a step forward, and not say something.

This season is particularly disturbing. The lying is so blatant, so in our faces, so justified, and so righteous that it’s truthful. Yes the truth is in the lying.

In listening to some of these unashamed lies, I can’t help but think—if you keep lying, then at some point, just through repetition, it becomes believable. This was a Hitler strategy, he said, “If you tell a big enough lie and tell it frequently enough, it will be believed.”

In January, the Lyism age got a push start. Let’s take Mitt Romney. He said that his first name is Mitt. If you look at the facts, his first name is “Willard.” Hmmm wasn’t Willard a 1971 horror movie about rats?

It’s hard enough to weed out the facts from the propaganda in a political campaigning season, because everyone wants to be the winner. But when lying big becomes the right thing to do, we really are stepping into some kind of horror movie.

○ Cycles ○

The air in the Midwest has cycled into summer. It is saturated with heat and humidity, which seems to mirror the heaviness I feel most days here. The plains’ winds serve to blow the heat and dampness around, but never shoo it all away.

In about a month I will have lived in Nebraska for a year. It is also the time of year that will mark the third year of my sister’s passing. I still haven’t floated by the day without thinking of her. I do wonder when the time will come when I will look at the calendar and realize I hadn’t noticed that it was June 29^th. Not this year I suspect.

Right now, I am in the middle of the long summer session of my school program. My days are saturated with  homework. And those pesky insects I call bumps in the road that I find more than a nuisance. I still haven’t gotten used to this place that sets rules, then breaks them, and then throws you around in the pieces for awhile. At least I am not going to pieces. I am becoming someone other than the one who arrived here last year. 

During this season, I don’t have the sense of play, or the sense of humor I know I have inside me somewhere. I hope when the air isn’t weighing me down anymore, it will come back. I’m guessing it will, just as winter will.

Spring Cleaning

Spring Cleaning

The first week of Spring always meant “March 21^st.” My youngest sister’s birthday. So naturally, she has been occupying my thoughts. Every year when I get a new calendar, I wonder if I should stop marking her birthday in it. I don’t know if there is an answer other than whenever the time comes when I don’t note it.

The other thing that brings her to mind is my recent start of clinical training. So far, twice a week, I am in a hospital 8 ½ hours a day. Not visiting. I’m learning how to take pictures of and understand people’s hearts, and vascular systems.

It seems every time I enter a patient’s room, I remember the hospitals of our childhood. I can’t help but check the patients’ toes for unnecessary filth. I know this is an acute care medical facility with very high cleanliness standards and protocols, and not the state run institutions where the staff were thieves, and the fungus ran the place. I guess my point is childhood memories appear at the strangest times.

As I passed by families gathered in ICU, and others who were sound asleep on the couches outside the unit’s doors, I felt a twinge. A twinge of a complicated relief. I wasn’t the one who had to cry.

Culture Adjustment

It has been a disorienting couple weeks in Omaha. I’m still adjusting to the ways things are done here, the implicit signs and symbols of what is and isn’t allowed. And once again, I had to be told to be a good little lemming. I was feeling like a scolded child. So yesterday when UPS left a package slip in my door, I had a funny sensation. I felt like I had just found Wilson (remember Tom Hanks crying over his pet volleyball?).

When I went out to California for the winter break, I had rummaged through my storage unit looking for warm things—my heavy coat, sweatshirts, long-sleeves—anything. The temperature while I was out there on break was in the high 60’s, and sunny every day.  I was reminded of when I packed up these warm things in the middle of August. I had stuffed them in a crate that became a sturdy shelf for stacks of boxes. I wasn’t thinking about anything cold.

Finally, after messing up my balanced columns, I was able to get to what I wanted. But what I really wanted to do was close the metal door, and spend the night with my stuff. Yet, the contract I signed states, in big explicit print, that storage units are not places to sleep. It’s not allowed.

Because I couldn’t fit my old sweatshirts in my suitcase, I had them packed into another box, and had it mailed to Omaha. And weeks later, I held a dulled knife, and gingerly cut through the packing tape until I saw my pink sweatshirt and my green Antioch University sweatshirt. Tossing the knife, I picked up my warm clothes, and pressed them to my face. They smelled of California. I put on the pink one, and all during the evening I would bury my nose in my sleeve, and breathe in the scent while wishing it would never fade away. 

adVENTure

So far in my adventure, physics has become my gigantic boulder—a big red blood cell rolling down the hill (think of me as the stick figure, with stick figure arms pointing straight up running from that energized boulder).  I hear the word physics every day.

 I’m thinking physics is a subject like English grammar. Who cares if it’s potential energy or kinetic energy, just as who cares if it’s restrictive or nonrestrictive? It only matters in English when someone who is in hyper-grading mode gets perturbed about comma usage, and wants to use his or her new red pen to mark up papers. Kick ass content? No, that is not as important as whether or not the comma is there. His 12-year-old son John was hit by a car. Oh My God! There needs to be a comma after son and after John!

 This is how I am feeling about physics. The vessel with a bulge from an aortic aneurysm is ready to blow. Oh my God! Is that potential energy or kinetic energy? 

When an Adventure Earns its Name

Weather. Nebraska has some stormy nights. They aren’t dark though. The lightning is so bright, and so often, one could do the smallest of needle work at 3 am. The storms are anything but quiet. Rain drops turn into gigantic balls of hail. In California, a sound on a roof could be a squirrel or raccoon romping across; but, in Nebraska it is like a million squirrel and raccoon feet are pounding the rooftops in a meth induced frenzy.

These storms would wipe out California because the lightning strikes would set the whole state on fire in two seconds, which is my frame of reference having always lived there. At 3 am, my brain goes into fear mode until I am wide awake, wide-eyed, wondering how soon before we all go up in smoke. Then I laugh at myself. In Nebraska it isn’t the smoke and flames that will destroy, it’s the flying glass and hail that will rip you apart. So watching the storm by standing at the window is one very stupid thing to do. It’s better to find a corner clutching a change of clothes in case I would need to evacuate. I’m so much a California girl. Give me an earthquake any day.

And then after an hour or so, the storm is gone. The air is quiet, the skies are clear, the driveways are dried up. One would think it was all a very bad nightmare if it wasn’t for the tell-tale tree branches, and loosened stones scattered on the ground.

It’s trippy. I kind of would like to return to Cali about now; but, not yet. The adventure has only just officially started.

Road Trip

I had room in my car for my son. I figured he would ask where he could put his suitcase. He agreed to ride with me from California to Nebraska; so the least I could do was find a place for his tiny amount of stuff.  I couldn’t see well enough out the back window with everything in my car. I bit my nails knowing I had to make one more drop off at the storage unit before leaving town.

The trip was uneventful in the dramatic sense. We didn’t have any car trouble, no one thought to break into my car, we ate well, the weather was clear. The event for me was being with my son and having a good time. He never complained. His only request was that when we arrived in Laramie, Wyoming, we go to Pizza Hut.

We were going to stop there for the night, but eating our pizza, we decided to keep driving.  The town was desolate and depressed. The only color among the monochrome of tan dirt was an anachronism: a cowboy riding his horse on the sidewalks.  He wasn’t going to find any saloons though, only a Pizza Hut with kind waitresses, and a family or two enjoying their meal.

Transplanting

I accumulated too much stuff in the 10 years I lived in one place. So my wonderful life-long friend drove up from her town to help me sort, pack, and move. What an ordeal. But, we dug in and filled many trash bags, boxes for donation, and boxes for storage. By the time I was ready to turn in my apartment keys, and be on the road, I had only a car load of stuff. Still, it seemed like too much.

Now, I will have 2 years to live without many of my things. So far, it’s going okay. I hated that I had to buy hangers because I forgot to pack any, and I had many. But oh well. In any case, I know one thing, I will never accumulate stuff as I did these past 10 years. It really is cathartic. 

Change

Last fall, I knew my life needed to change. I had come to an end in my interpreting career. Budget cuts at the community college were the big exit signs on the freeway.  I couldn’t ignore those flashing arrows. So I began taking some preparatory classes, and I started my search for a program in a new career field: cardiovascular diagnostic sonography. After application processes, I was accepted into a school in the Midwest.

When I tell people what I will be learning how to do, they wonder why I have to go all the way to Omaha to learn “stenography.” A nurse who gave me a few of my vaccinations wondered why the “stenography” school required the same immunizations as nursing students. I have started to say “ultra sound.” Everyone understands me when I say “ultra sound school.” It almost sounds like the school is incredibly grounded. Now that is another sign along the way that tells me: it’s all a new adventure, and relish all it will offer.

This summer isn’t really one I want to do again. I am finishing up the pre-requisite classes while packing up my things to shove into a storage unit, and saying good-bye to a place I have called home for many years.  I will have a couple of boxes of clothes, kitchen things, and my plants in my car on the way out to the Midwest. One car load of stuff will be all I can take with me at this point in the adventure. It’s already interesting.

My Kid Friended me on FaceBook

Friend is now a verb. For a long time, I carried a quarter in my wallet in case I needed to make a phone call from a pay phone. Now it’s all about signal bars and 4G networks. As fast as technology changes, the farther apart the generations it seems.

But there is one place where we have met: FaceBook. I always hear the kid’s point of view on this topic. How embarrassing it is when a parent comments on their child’s status update regarding the really bad ending of a party the night before. Ack.

We know this side of the story. But what about the parent’s side? I’m not as unworldly as my child wants me to be. After all I was a teen when there were key parties (just in case my child comes across this blog, I want to be clear: I never attended one). Along with the nonsense, there still are many things I don’t want to tell him.

I love all this social networking. In my childhood, letter writing was the only way to communicate. I wrote letters, but hardly anyone took time to write back. When email and status updates came along, I always got instant replies. I loved it from the very start—from the time when I was stuck in the house potty training that child who learned to read until now. Now we cringe in unison over our status updates.

The both of us are in a similar position. We might not appreciate certain aspects of the generations meeting on common ground. I censor my own status updates. Would I want my kid to know that I spent any amount of time with one of his friend's fathers (a divorced or widowed one of course)? Do I want him to see that his teenage years are making me a nervous wreck? These are only scenarios because I won’t dare tell him what I really did on New Year’s Eve. Not that he doesn’t know—I am his predictable mother in spite of everything.

I would never want my child to unfriend me—how embarrassing would that be? In any case, it’s time to begin a list about FB Etiquette for Teens who Have Friended Parents.

1) Always post a flawless Photoshopped picture of your mom with George Clooney.

2)Never tell your parent in a comment that it has been the worst year of your life all because of you.

3) Never ask your parent in a comment if they are stalking your status updates. They are so get over yourself.

4) Once in a while write a brief I love you in a comment. It makes your parents very cool among their friends.

Well, it’s a start anyway.

Comfort Zone

Dressing up in leathers, as they are called, and being in an atmosphere of steel, figuratively and literally, I’m experiencing a new thing. I want to be incredibly girlie. I want to wear a diaphanous dress made of baby blue chiffon. I yearn to let my hair flow delicately behind me as I run barefoot through a field of wildflowers. In this image I include purple, yellow, and blue butterflies fluttering overhead.

Ridiculous.

I know, cheesy picture but too fun to pass up.

Description Play

Fall is flirting with these early mornings—cool and crisp.

This early morning, a cool breeze fans the machine shop. Floating through the air, remnants of former sparks land on my jacket and chaps as lightly as snowflakes. When I catch one in my hand, it doesn’t melt into water, instead it smudges like charcoal.

Blue-flamed torches send a waterfall of yellow sparks pouring towards the concrete floor. Some sparkle and then turn to black dust before they hit the ground; others hit the cement and die out completely. The sparks are unpredictable. They have been known to wiggle inside a glove causing blistery burns.

The torches burn so intensely it’s like staring at the sun. Different shades of dark lenses, depending on eye color, are supposed to prevent blindness.

By nine am fall has retreated. The sun burns away any coolness, the wind blows warm and dry. The seasons start later now.

Idenity Twist

Luckily I wasn’t the one who had sprayed my hair until it could walk on its own. But my silk blend blouse gave the men in the shop a stroke. Sparks. All it would take was one wayward spark to make its sneaky way towards us and set us on fire. Who would have thought?

So to be one of the interpreters in this program, I must wear a formless leather jacket, a cap, safety glasses, leather gloves, clunky steel-toed work boots, and worst of all, leather chaps. None of these pieces of fashion are made for women. Women do not need chaps to have a baggy codpiece in the front. There is a bonus though: there is a double guarantee that sparks will not ignite around anyone.

Sure does take the fun out of a day.

Every morning I spend an hour getting ready for work—hair dryer, curling iron, eyeliner, mascara—that kind of thing. And when I arrive, I change into my get-up tucking my hair into my cap, and stuffing my feet into those silly boots. When my turn is up and I pass the baton to the next interpreter, my hair style is ruined, flattened against my scalp. I do have my priorities straight.

Fashion isn’t the issue. It’s really being in this predominately all alpha male world. The other day, I wondered why these alpha males were giving me such attitude when I was dressed to look like them. Apparently, I wasn’t playing the part well enough.

 My coworker told me my communication style is like I’m asking these alphas to join my kumbaya circle. She has cracked the alpha male code. She said if you speak to these alphas as a reporter, then their invading feather receptors will return to normal. I tried it. I clomped up to the alpha males, and reported the facts of the day.

I learned the proper response. Nodding. Not just any nodding, but one nod, no smile. In alpha male language that is being agreeable. Yawn. Makes me understand why men fall asleep so easily.

This is going to be a very long year.