My future is planned. My career is set. Angels are singing. You are applauding. Ed and June are feasting on the satisfaction that they don't have to be ashamed of my Bonnie-less-ness after all. Everyone is just excited they don't have to listen to me rant anymore, but I, for one, am proud of myself. Laudable? Hell yea. Laughable? Why not. Stephanie has a future. A Pi Beta Phuture, mind you. Get on the celebration train and chug.
Cheers.
As for my employment status (of which you are all so curious), I have finally settled with the intention of becoming a freelancer, post graduation. Who will I find to employ me? What will be my service? Please, everyone. Calm down. Stop worrying yourself with tedious details and skepticism. I've got this shit worked out. Let me lay it out for you.
Why freelance?
Working for yourself is the American Dream; but more importantly, it is your dream.. and I want what you want, bottom line. Everyone knows it. I want what you want and what you have. Case in point, your boyfriend. We're really great together and I've actually already plugged our pictures into one of those see what your baby is going to look like websites and let me just tell you, if given the proxemic opportunity, our child is going to reject whatever vapid, average-looking creature you end up bringing into this world. PTA meetings are going to rock. Next question.
Wait. What were we talking about again? Ah, yes. Freelancing. The cultural capital of a menial office jobs may satisfy the lifestyles of many, but not mine. My consideration of such an atrocity is now completely off the table. Ok, maybe not completely off. Listing Scranton as my one and only criterion for accepting an antiquated desk job, I am going to safely assume my prospect in this will inevitably fail. So, yes. Freelancing is where it at.
People that work for themselves have to find their craft and own it. What is my craft? Besides the ability to bullshit entire conversations, relationships and observation analyses, I have this incredible gift of using my personal experiences to help others. I can tell you the best tailor in town. I can give you the phone number of the closest Outback Steakhouse to you, no matter your location. I can spot a ruptured appendix a mile away. I know when you are sad. I know when you've been crying. Shit, I'm like Santa. A very dangerous, cracked out Santa, but Santa nonetheless. So why not put this goldmine to use? Enter: existential freelance work.
I have been to more doctor appointments than your diabetic grandfather. When you finally hit the second hour of sitting in a waiting room, you begin to observe the life around you. The monotony of scans and tests is finally broken when you allow the emotional weight of those around you to pour over your calm, motionless body like a torrential rain. I'm joking. That's weird. But, really. You see some really twisted shit when you're around sick people.
I like to make people happy. I like to reassure people. I like people that like who they are and what they're doing and why they're doing it. I want that to be my job. I want to combine all the things I like with all the things I've done and make it the most bad ass freelance job ever.
Have you ever seen someone waiting their turn to see the doctor and it looks like they might actually implode at any given moment? What about the people in line to turn in their charts after their appointment, clearly dealing with the information just provided to them? If you go to an appointment alone, you don't really experience the adventure to its full potential. Everyone needs a companion, a driver or an encouraging voice. I want to be that companion. I want to be that driver. I want to be that voice. After a slight miscommunication and wrongful prescription, I quickly learned that I can't make jokes or sarcastic comments during my own appointments.. therefore I want to come to yours.
Has something ever happened to you mid-exam or mid-physical that was so awkwardly hilarious you couldn't wait to tell your friend? Then, you hurriedly get dressed and rush out of the doctor's office to call that friend only for them to not pick up? I mean, you could leave a voicemail, but we all know it just wouldn't be the same. Don't you just wish someone was standing nearby ready and eager to hear all about your awkwardly hilarious experience? Yes, you do. I agree. That's why I want to be that person. I want to make your doctor's visit the ultimate experience.
You don't know what you have until it's gone. My rampant overuse of cliches may get old, but this one is the guiding light in my final career decision. I have always had someone accompany me to my appointments over the years. Whether it was my parents, sister or some undeserving friend who felt compelled to help, I had someone to drive me and keep me entertained throughout the entire process. I took this for granted and never truly appreciated their being there. It took one appointment for that all to change. Living three hours away from home, my parents aren't really feasible doctor appointment companions. In college, Bonnie had become the go-to passenger. Although this instance happened a long time ago, it serves as a turning point in my life. Ok, not really. But it was awkward and me posting it will make seven of you feel uncomfortable, so here we are.
One of my doctors is my best friend. I use the term best friend very lightly, by the way. Especially when my best friend is poking and prodding past my comfort zone. This same doctor is also Morgan's best friend too, but don't tell her I told you. She'd have a fit. A fit, I tell you. Between passing out in this lady's arms, flipping a coin with her to make decisions and taking conversations way past acceptable terms, this doctor has earned her title. Best friend she is; best friend she will always be.. until I leave Raleigh.
Doctor visit stories are my favorite. This one in particular isn't really funny, but its importance to my life has now made my telling it to you obligatory. That sentence was terrible; I'm sorry. Anyway. I have brought it up to Bonnie at least nine times, but she gets annoyed and makes a comment about how I have no boundaries. Her comment proverbially commences or concludes with, "Really, Stephanie?" Sometimes both if you're lucky or there was cursing involved. If you're ever curious as to whether I've overstepped my boundaries of acceptable things to say in front of Bonnie, just wait for the, "Really, Stephanie?" That's when you know.
Continuing on. Mine and Janice's relationship was a very exclusive, intimate one for quite a while. One you should envy. It's just that we weren't ready to tell our friends, you know? Afraid of their reaction, I guess. Luckily, Janice and I were on the same page. Her with her Doctor-Patient Privilege and me with my fear of Bonnie's disdain.
Due to the bill and insurance being on my father's tab, my parents had a little heads up as to my ever-developing relationship with Janice, or Neecy as I just decided I'd like to call her. It was weird not having Bonnie by my side through the talking and dating stages of the relationship, but I managed. Things had moved fast. We were already official. She was my doctor and I was her patient.. and damn it, we were proud. I knew Bonnie needed to know. She was going to find out eventually, and I needed to be the one to tell her. I didn't know the opportune time or the way to approach the subject, so I kept putting it off.
As it tends to do.. the moment presented itself. I sat in the office that morning; cold, barefooted and barely awake. As I waited for Janice to come in, an extreme feeling of discomfort came over me. I knew I was about to pass out and there was nothing I could do about it. Fearful that Janice would come in to a lifeless body, assume me for dead and bury me alive, I scrambled to find my phone. Thinking my plan was genius in my current state, I mustered the text, "Help." I was still trying to decide who the recipient should be, but I was running out of time. It never crossed my mind that I was in a DOCTOR'S OFFICE and that I am idiot, so my thought process continued. Finally, between the spinning room and my guilt of withholding, I decided to text Bonnie. "Help" was followed by an update as to where I was, why I wasn't clothed and when exactly I planned to recover from my vasovagal episode. I knew it wasn't the perfect timing or method of communication, but it needed to be done. You know, kind of like in high school, you calling your parents on your conscious' behalf to admit that there was underage drinking at the party you're at and you had, unfortunately, fallen victim to peer pressure and finished a Raspberry Smirnoff Ice, but hoped they would forgive you since you were honest enough to tell them and since you heard from your best friend, Casey, that Smirnoff Ice isn't "that bad" of an alcohol beverage after all? Yea, it's just like that.. Except your parent is your sister, the party is the gynecologist's office, the underage drinking is your anticipated promiscuity, the Raspberry Smirnoff Ice is your fifth appointment, your best friend is a Certified Nurse Midwife named Janice and the reassurance she is feeding you is the fact that you're not a whore.
See? All in all, the exact same. Glad we can all relate.
I needed Bonnie that day, just as you need me. Take me to your doctor appointments, world. I am ready. If you pass out, I will waft the ammonia until you come to. If you need to laugh, I will make a racial slur. If you cry, I will turn away until you finish. Yep. I am that good.
Hire me.
Disclaimer: Names, details and occurrences may have been changed to protect innocent others and the innocence of myself.