The Natalie Show

I graduated college in 2002 (seeing that written in black and white makes me cringe) with a degree in English…but ever since I was little, I wanted to be a surgeon.  I was obsessed with blood, guts, sugar and spice, and things that made most other little girls squirm.

I LOVED watching live surgery on TV.  I remember being 6 years old and trying to convince my mom to let me drop out of ballet class.  Why? Because my Saturday AM ballet classes were interfering with the marathon of open heart procedures that for some reason started immediately after Garfield and Friends.  Garfield, surgery, and Corn Pops , what else could a kid ask for?

It’s probably no shocker that I was a pathetic ballerina anyway.  Tutus = BARF.  And the little girls were such aholes.

My younger brother and I were pretty big klutzes.  In the few years that we lived in California, each of us split our chin open multiple times.  For some reason it was always the chin.  On one occasion, I was spastically hopping up and down over our tile kitchen counter. SPLAT. SPLIT.  Suddenly our sunny California kitchen looked like a scene from SAW.

Another time I vividly recall spastically running across the backyard, tripping over an inner tube (we had a rad pool) and landing, of course, chin down on the metal edge of our trampoline.  SPLIT. SPLAT. SPLIT. That incident in particular I remember running inside, cupping my blood-covered chin, and screaming for my mom.  My bro, who was all of 5 years old, was cross legged in the living room playing Super Mario Bros.  He was so accustomed to seeing me injured and frantic that his calm reaction to my distress was simply, “I’ll let you play the next game.”

Luckily our family pediatrician was 2 minutes down the road, so the ride there was fairly quick.  I ALWAYS had to be wrapped up in a papoose, like a mini crazy person, so I wouldn’t thrash around and fuck up the stitches (or hit the doctor).

That always sucked. But when my bro was in the papoose, I always insisted on watching every little stitch.   And you may think that I simply was getting joy out of his pain.  But just because I used to try to bite his fingers off doesn’t make that true. I just loved watching the process.

So I was pretty firmly settled on my future career as a surgeon…up until 8th grade, when I started having a really hard time in math.  And then in 10th grade, when I almost failed chemistry.  The only reason I didn’t was because I stuck a piece of paper with the answers inside my shoe.

My dreams were crushed.  I somehow got soul-sucking thought into my head that I would never ever understand science, and sadly, completely put away the idea of ever being anything that involved science or math..and that included a surgeon.

Meanwhile, my brother, who is 2 years my junior, completed his PhD in biochemistry with his eyes closed and is now living in China studying T-Cell receptors in HIV…likely revenge for the finger biting incidents.

I WAS a huge nerd though. I loved to read and write, so by the time I got to college, English seemed a natural choice of a major.  Despite my father’s constant questioning (What the hell are you going to do with an English Degree?) I made my decision and stuck with it.

8 year later I’m doing pretty damn good..  After writing for papers and tutoring for a year after graduating, I landed a job working on the overnight news desk at Dow Jones…that randomly led to a stint in marketing, which turned into Search Engine Marketing which turned into working for an agency..and then I got a gig working for AOL’s Health channel, where I was a fitness writer/editor.  Now I work for another well known health site, managing doctors and nutritionists, editing and writing health and wellness stories, etc.  I make a good living, and because I am an athlete and a health nut, I genuinely love what I do.

But In short, the past 4 years of my career have been spent being the messenger for the very people that I had once envisioned myself being - the doctors, surgeons, and nutritionists - before giving up on myself.

And one day I just realized that if I didn’t make that attempt to get some type of degree in a science field that I would regret it forever.  Maybe I got scared that one day I would be 80 years old, sitting in a Dr’s office with my husband so that he could get his Viagra Rx refilled, and randomly get crazy rage and lose it on the very human that was supposed to supply our viagra.  “I WAS SUPPOSED TO BE YOU, DAMNIT, F*CCK!! ARGH!!!”

Or that during one of my way-too-frequent-to-be-normal visits to the Jersey City ER, I would completely go apeshit on an idiot physicians assistant.  “I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU YOU ACTUALLY MANAGE TO DRESS YOURSELF LET ALONE WENT THROUGH SOME TYPE OF MEDICAL TRAINING.”

Or maybe I would just look at my son and/or daughter and realize that I didn’t try to reach my full potential.  That I was a hypocrite when I told them they could do anything that they wanted to do.

Which leads me to the point of this blog post.

3 or 4 months ago, I was browsing the pre-requisites that I would need to complete before even attempting to get a degree in Nutrition.  The names that popped up brought a wave of nausea.  Not because they were unexpected, but because I was looking at things that I had irrationally been afraid of for 15+ years.

Chemistry. BARF

Biology. BARF

Organic Chemistry. DOUBLE BARF

Anatomy and Physiology…hmmmm, that doesn’t sound TOO bad.

I called the local college and found out that registration was still open for Spring semester…but that the A&P night classes only had 7 available seats left - and I would have to register in person.

So what did I do?  On a crazy whim I left my office and literally ran to the train and into the registration office of the college..and registered for A&P. Miraculously, my chin stayed intact.

I realized that if I even thought about it for more than a minute, I would chicken out  I knew that I had to face my fear head on, just like I had faced my fear of white bread back in 2009.

Well Tuesday was my first class.  I was filled with weird ‘first day of school’  jitters. I was scared that the people would be mean, that my professor would be scary, that I would get lost and be late, etc.  So I was pleasantly surprised to find that my classmates were all pretty cool.  Some much older than me, others the same age..most were college aged women pursuing nursing careers.

And then..there he was. In the front corner. THE Douche Bag of the class.

We all know who this guy is…but we typically know this guy from kindergarten, grade school, high school, or college.  This guy isn’t ugly.  But he isn’t particularly attractive.  He’s totally neutral.

He’s average height…he might be a soccer player.  Or he might just be a wanna be frat boy.  Not overly nerdy but not quite douchey or aggressive enough to be punching people after shotgunning 13 too many Natty Lites or accidentally drinking bong water.

He wears ill fitting hooded sweatshirts and straight-legged jeans.  He has the sex appeal of Jeremy Piven.  In fact, he could be Jeremy Piven.  He says hi to everyone and laughs at his own jokes, but you know that he isn’t genuinely friendly…he doesn’t really want to know everyone’s name.  He’s just that guy.  That is his role.  Socially awkward and uncomfortable enough in his own skin to just not know when to shut the f*ck up.

He’s a little creepy, and if he didn’t look like he might be a little ‘off,’ you might be afraid of him.

I was suspicious of his overenthusiastic interest in the career aspirations of someone he had known for less than 2 minutes so I discreetly positioned my left hand so that he could see my engagement ring (which I just lost today on my way to class, btw.  Who has 2 thumbs and is a major ahole? This girl!!)

But shortly after class started, I realized his true intentions.  This 35 year old gym teacher-hoping-to-turn-into-a-physical therapist who runs his creeper hands on 18 and 80 year olds with the same gentle touch wanted to make it known that he knew everything there was to know about 10th grade level biology.

He wanted to show the class who was boss.   His ass-kissing positioning in the seat that couldn’t get any closer to the Professor made it abundantly clear: His dog-eared copy of “Anatomy and Physiology for Dummies” had been living next to his toilet for the past 6 months.

All dreams I had of being an active participant in my breakthrough science class were shattered faster than you could say ahole.

The class pretty much went like this.

Professor: “Blah blah blah intro level stuff that even Natalie knows despite nearly failing highschool chemistry, cell wall blah blah mitochondria blah blah.  And who knows what the powerhouse of a ce–”

DBag:  “NUCLEUS!!!!!”

Um, ok she didn’t even finish her question but good for you. What are we, 5? Even I knew that answer..

Professor: “Yes, that’s right. Nucleus.  Blah blah blah blah nucleus cytoplasm blah blah and does anyone know what it is that determines our entire genetic-

DBag: “DNA!!!!”

At this point I glanced around just to make sure that I wasn’t the only one who wanted to kick this guy.

I think the professor actually had to stop herself from asking him if he had forgotten to take his meds.

The worst yet most hilarious thing about these people is that they don’t even realize that the answers they’re giving are not complicated.  Or that 99% of everyone else in the room knew the answer but just didn’t want to waste their breath saying it out loud because it was so obvious.

This guy probably had a Disney Character jumping out of a cake every time he said the right object when his parents pointed to it.

I’m honestly concerned that in my attempts to avoid losing it on a physician, I might lose it on a total tool.  I can just picture how our first lab is gonna go.

The whole class is going to be staring at a dead rabbit, the teacher will ask what animal it is, and he’ll scream it out, like he’s Steve Jobs announcing the iPad.

I guess it could be worse.  Instead of dealing with some spaz trumping everyone by blurting out bio 101 terms, I could be attempting to answer the questions myself…

To be continued…..