Baneful

I fucking miss Bane of My Existence.

RIP: Bane of My Existence

My heart is seriously, seriously broken.

In class yesterday, it splintered in two when a girl said to me, "Oh yeah! You didn't hear?? Dr. ____ (aka. Bane of My Existence) up and quit."

It had been rumored for a while that he was going to switch over to a management position at the school and deprive us all of his bad-ass teaching abilities. But at least with that, I still might've chanced to see his white buzz of hair making its way through the hallways, hear the occasional caustic comment busting from his mouth, or catch him doing a bad imitation from the Johnny Carson show with his "Hiiii-Ohhhhh"s.

But now: gone.

And I didn't even get to see him one last time.

Don't get me wrong: I 100% understand why he quit. In fact, it wouldn't've seemed in character for him to have done anything but. And I appreciate that about him. He *knows* the school is falling into a bullshit crap vortex. He *knew* and was undoubtedly *disgusted* with the fact that we'd been given an instructor last semester that NEVER ACTUALLY TAUGHT US A GODDAMN THING and yet who is teaching again this semester. And he wanted nothing to do with that.

But still. I'm gonna miss my feelings of hatred nose-diving into smittenness every 5 minutes. I'm gonna miss driving past him on the way into class and having him cock his arm out the window at me, in a kind of "Power to the People" motion. I'm gonna miss him Sybil-ing from crazy comedian to serious lover of anatomy in less than 5 seconds. I'm gonna miss his absolute, raw love of anatomy and physiology, and his extremely bad-ass ability to explain something excruciatingly complex with absolute clarity and simplicity. And I'm gonna miss his plain old dumb-fucking sense of humor.

In fact, yesterday, while I was sitting in pathophysiology and our instructor was going over different severities of diseases, what immediately popped into my head when she asked "What's an acute disease?" was "It's a disease that ain't too bad too look at" followed by maniacal mental laughter that could've been none other than that of Bane of My Existence. It was precisely the kind of dumb-ass joke that he would crack in class and that I would find myself trying to stifle my grin over. And for a second, I felt like I was channeling.

I don't say this lightly: In the 8 (as of January 2008) post-high school years I've spent in school, he seriously has probably been the most brilliant and skilled instructor I've had. And I say that with absolute sincerity.

It's just a bloody fucking shame. That's what it is.

So RIP: Bane of My Existence.

May you find a job at a better school that will appreciate and put to better use your mad mad awesome brilliant teaching skills. It'd be a shame and a waste if you did anything but.

Gimme Gimme Gimme Brain-Food!

Yesterday, Chiro-man asked me at my appointment, "So is the nerve-pain in your quads?" and I had to pause and think a second about which set of muscles were the quads before answering.

And then I had to double-check after my appointment in my anatomy book in the car, just to make sure I wasn't a total retard and that the quads WERE, in fact, the ones in the front of the thigh.

I hate this.

I am so super-envious, blindingly and fiendishly so, of the folks who know these things without having to think about them.

I want to be them already.

I want it to already be the day where if someone refers to, say, the tibialis anterior, I don't have to take 10 seconds to think about what the fuck muscle that is exactly.

I want to be able to instinctively reach out and touch the precisely correct area when somebody tells me their levator scapula is bothering them (although, now that I've said that, I've realized that most people wouldn't know enough about anatomy themselves to recognize that it is in fact their levator scapula that is bothering them--most folks would just point, and say "It hurts here"--but STILL!).

I want I want I want to have all that knowledge squooshed all up in the grayish crinkles of my brain already, goddammit.

Seriously... I am in absolute awe of people like Chiro-Man and Bane of My Existence who can just rattle that shit off like it's their phone number or something, down to the smallest of crazy-science details.

And I'm in awe of folks who have such a complete understanding of the body, that all they have to do is a two-second rotation of a body-part to know wtf is wrong with it. And then two seconds to fix it. And then no more pain.

I am in awe of the folks who, when asked complicated physiological questions, get all geeked out and rattle off the explanations to you excitedly, without even batting an eyelash, as though they were born with the knowledge, as though it were the greatest thing since sliced bread, as though they are still blown away by how amazing the body is, even after all these years.

Granted, I know they've probably been studying this stuff for a LONG LONG time and I've only been for a year and a half, but I wanna teletransport myself to their state of knowledge. And I don't wanna forget the shit I'm learning--this is the biggest thing. As I move from semester to semester, without relearning the same things over and over, they're kinda fluffing out of my brain, like giant flaky brainy dandruff. And THAT'S NO GOOD.

And it makes me angry sometimes to feel so far away from this brilliant state of understanding, partially because our school sucks when it comes to making the connection between abstract anatomy to applied anatomy and I want to be able to make those connections.

I mean, fuck! Let me poke some bones on somebody, let me squeeze the fuck out of a muscle, let me jam my fingers around somebody's vertebra, so I know where the damn thing IS on a real human being, not just where it's drawn on a fricking piece of glossy paper with arrows and labels--that's what I say. (I am kind of interested in taking a gross anatomy class for that very reason--that and because I'm intrigued by the whole metaphysical experience of being around a dead body. But that's a whole 'nother story.)

Which brings me back to my anatomy class this semester:

Our crazy anatomy instructor this semester read EVERY SINGLE QUESTION ON THE FINAL TO US AND TOLD US THE CORRECT ANSWER TO EVERY SINGLE QUESTION ON THE FINAL.

And this is how we're supposed to learn?

Rote memorization?

Being encouraged to study only the exact answers that were given to us instead of processing everything so that it all makes sense?

Fuck.

It's no wonder I can't remember where the hell the quads are.

What Are Those Fish Called?

• So, both Chiro-Man and Bane of My Existence have each shown up to class once (at least that I'm aware of) looking positively translucent and ethereal and with skin so pale that they look like some sorta strange bottom-feeding fish in the greatest depths of the ocean, ones that have never ever seen the light of day (and which have those weird eyes that are on rods). They apparently need to get out in the sun more.



• Bane of My Existence (who just blows my fucking mind sometimes) went off on a tangent last night about a whole school of scientific study dealing with proportions, and the interrelationship between proportions and anatomy and physiology, and how each and every part of each and every living being has a specific proportion that is intended to relate to every other structure of the being's body so that the body can function in its ideal state. It just fucking blows my mind that our structures are THAT fucking amazing and beautiful and perfect in so many ways:


More stuffs on the proportions and all that:

* The Golden Ratio

* Brief points about proportions and art

* Phi

* Body proportiony stuff


• Last night, the Tom Waits song "Jitterbug Boys" came on my ipod on my way out to school, and I realized that Bane of My Existence often uses a quote from it, talking about "fast women, slow horses" and it made my ears perk. Granted, clearly Tom Waits ain't the only one to spin this phrase, but for a second--just a second--I thought maybe perhaps.



• While trying to explain the momentum of blood in the veins last night in class, Bane of My Existence drew a picture on the board of two large hills with a person on a bike at the base of the second hill and a person on the bike at the top of the first hill. The point was that the person who starts out on the top of the first hill will have a much easier time making it back up to the top of the next hill because they'll have picked up the momentum from speeding downhill to help them get back up. The person starting out at the base of the hill is pretty much shit outta luck because they're lacking the momentum. The problem was, when he asked us (after drawing his picture) which person would have a less difficult time getting to the top of the next hill, I had the terrible urge to shout, On *those* piece of shit bicycles you just drew? Ain't NO ONE gonna make it to the top. And what's up with that one dude's eye being obscenely larger than the other? I *didn't* shout it, but I couldn't stop thinking it. So for the next five minutes while he was trying to explain all this, my lips kept quivering with pent-up laughter and I swear I thought I was gonna go all maniacal on his ass.

Things Since Last We Spoke (Or Since Last I Spoke at You and You Pretended to Care, You Big Fake!)

1. Saw Bane of My Existence's children and wife the other night. He was herding them through the hallways and shushing his delightfully curly-haired and angelic daughter while she yammered away. I would like to say that having physically seen that he is a father has effectively cut off my crush at the knees. But alas, it did not. In fact, it made it a bit more squishy, truth be told.



2. Chiro-man adjusted my neck last week and it was *THE LOUDEST CRACK EVER* (I think because it was jammed up). Immediately after the noise echoed through the room, he shouted "Oh, yeah!" and for a second, massaged my shoulders like trainers do their boxers when they return to their corner, bloodied and battered, after the bell. I felt like shouting "Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee!" and flitting around a little while jib-jabbing the air with my fists. I also pictured the Rocky theme song playing. But when I pictured it, I think it was "Eye of the Tiger." Which is from Karate Kid, not Rocky if I remember correctly. *Jib-jabbing some more*



3. I was gonna say something about pain here today, about it being subjective and how there was something cool about that fact and that it had intriguing ramifications. But now I don't remember what it was. Use your imagination.



4. Scheduling classes makes me nervous. Only three more semesters (technically two, but I'm sticking around for one more out of necessity), and I feel uber-paranoid that something's gonna get fucked up and I'm not gonna get done on time.



5. Something something something.

I Mean This from the Bottom of Mine

In class yesterday, The Bane of My Existence was cynically wisecracking about how we really need to do away with the expression "I love you from the bottom of my heart" as a) the heart has nothing to do with emotion (that's the limbic system), and b) the bottom of one's heart, he claims, would be the diaphragm, so the expression is the equivalent of saying "I love you from my diaphragm."

I'm not a big one for cliche, but after learning last night that the heart has its own electrical system which runs independently of the skeletal muscular system and the nervous system, that "[t]he heart could actually be removed from the body, placed in a saline solution, given oxygen and still continue to beat"[1] , I must admit, that time-worn expression somehow seems all the more lovely to me.

Again, I don't know how exactly I've gone 30 years without realizing that the heart beats independently from the nervous system (which controls the contracture of all skeletal musculature in the body), but I have. And to say you love someone from a place that stands out from all other portions of the body, that pumps 30 times its own weight in blood *every minute*, that trums out the quiet rhythmic soundtrack of your insides, that is its own engine, that generates its own fierce electricity, that needs not the brain or nervous system to tell it what to do, and that continues to trudge on gallantly even after the brain has died, well, hell, I can hardly think of a place from which I'd rather be loved.

Last Night

• We randomly got on the topic of porphyria which is this weird disease that King George had and which, back in the day, people confused with vampirism because folks who had it had bad reactions to sunlight, so they'd mostly stay in all day and only go out at night, and they were pale.
  
  Never thought I'd be talking about vampirism in a Phys class.





• Had a lengthy conversation with the Bane of My Existence about my job and what it is precisely that I do down to the most minute details. Like a 15-minute discussion. He was weirdly interested in the topic. I don't think I've ever talked in such detail about what it is I do. I don't think anyone's ever ASKED or cared enough to want to KNOW the details. And to think, it was all because I said I'd love to poison my coworkers with rat-poison-filled muffins.



• The Bane of My Existence got in cute nerded-up little-kid mode when he started talking about some book that apparently looks at the role that certain diseases/physiology have played in historical events--like the Boston Tea Party as being rooted in King George's porphyria, or some dude winning some battle because his opponent got a really bad gallstone. He kept grinning the whole time he was talking about it and waving his hands. Such delightful nerdliness.



• Apparently, when the president has to take a plane somewhere, all the hospitals in areas the plane will be flying over have to make sure to have his blood-type on hand in case there's a plane-crash.
  
  F-ed up, if you ask me.

More Demonstrable Proof

Bane of My Existence:

Total closeted literature-lover.

Yesterday, while trying to think up some historical figure's name, he blurted out "O'Henry!" and then was like, "Oh wait, no. He was just a writer."

WTF.

O'Henry--Gift of the Magi and all that.

I had to fricking google the man, since I wasn't even sure he was definitely a writer and if so, what precisely he'd written.

Seriously, he totally must sit around hunched under his covers at night with a flashlight and a good book. I'm telling you.

Just a Few Things...

1. It takes a rare sort of person to be able to make you laugh about sickle cell anemia.



2. I cannot help but laugh every time I microwave my dinner at school because for some reason, on the list of "microwave-usage rules" they posted by the microwave, it asks that we please do not use the microwave for a) canning purposes, and b) deep frying. I inevitably end up picturing some student in scrubs standing there in the cafeteria, trying to get the rest of their strawberry preserves canned before the long hard winter sets in.



3. I am beginning to think that The Bane of My Existence doth protest too much and may actually be a closeted lover of literature. Why? He hasn't been in school for about 20 years, and yet he remembered enough about Eliot's most popular poem to refer to it as "That Prufrock poem." How many people out of the general population would even have a clue as to what you were talking about if you mentioned "Prufrock" to them? My guess would be "not many." And yesterday, in a cute and dorky moment while talking about homeostasis , he started hollering "Homeo, Homeo, wherefore art thou homeo{{*dramatic pause*}}stasis?"
   
   *Singing* Closeted! */Singing*



4. I accidentally walked into the wrong changing-room after I got adjusted on Monday. And there were people in there. And they were changing, as people typically do in changing rooms. And for a second, I was about ready to shout, "What the hell are you doing in my changing room?!?!"
   
   I really do suspect I was Inspector Clouseau in a past life sometimes.

I think one of my favorite things in the world is when adults get so geeked out about something they're into that they end up sounding like an excitable little kid when they talk about it, all bright-faced and grinny and breathless and using "And then"s and "it was the coolest thing ever"s. Especially when the subject matter is particularly adult-like and WAY over the heads of little kids:

"Oh oh! Like a couple years ago I went to this seminar about myelination where the presenter brought in video footage of Michael Jordan and Michael Jordan would be doing a slam-dunk or something and he would freeze mid-air and this explanation would pop up on-screen of precisely all the physiological activities that were playing a role in that one single action--from the brain stem to the messages being relayed from the eyes to the nerve impulses involved. It was SO COOL. *Grinning hugely and waving hands excitably* And everything just comes down to myelination, you know? I mean, the only reason that Michael Jordan can do what he does is just because he's way more myelinated than the rest of us. THAT'S IT. But man, I just kept thinking how cool is that, seeing exactly all the little physiological functions that come together for just that one slam-dunk? It was SO FREAKIN' COOL."

It makes me wanna squish them so hard that they pass out.

So Baneful

Why oh why must I find brilliantly smart guys so goddamn dreamy?

Seriously...

And just like that: BOING FWHIP!

My night classes apparently (and hopefully--god only knows, seeing as they're super last-minute about everything) didn't get cancelled for this upcoming semester, which is a *BIG* sigh of relief as it would've made for a hectic 15 weeks.

However, this means I'm gonna have The Bane of My Existence for 15 whole weeks, two nights a week, 5 hours a week, a total of 75 hours.

I gave this a bit of thought this weekend, remembering how upset and frustrated and face-burningly angry I would feel in his class somedays, having to listen to him joke about torturing cats for experiments or beating his dog at home, and I came to the conclusion that I really need to figure out a way to deal with this without internalizing this huge amount of anger and hatred (made all the more complicated by the fact that I also secretly heart him a bit). And despite the fact that I tried to let his words BOING FWHIP right off me my first semester, I realized how unsuccessful this actually was. How royally royally unsuccessful it actually was. It really wore me down quite a bit and made me feel really hateful and cynical towards the world.

So I am pleased to announce that the solution came to me brilliantly this Sunday morning, right when my eyes cracked open to the blindingly white snow-tinted sunlight:

Every time the Bane of My Existence opens his stupid (but foxy) mouth and discusses a) torturing an animal, b) beating an animal, or c) doing other horrible things to animals, I'm gonna donate $1 towards an animal-related nonprofit organization (to be decided after a bit more research, though I'm leaning towards Farm Sanctuary right now). I'm gonna keep a tally throughout the semester, and then at the end, I'm gonna cut a check to the non-profit organization and send it on in. That way, it'll basically help my brain neutralize any of the horrible horrible things he says because instead of focusing on the negativity and anger I feel towards the situation, I can cut a big fat grin knowing that some well-deserved charity has just gotten another dollar donated to their cause. And it'll also render his comments completely ineffectual, as essentially, he'll inadvertently be raising money towards something that he (at least pretends to) detest.

And to that, I say:

BOING FWHIP, BANE OF MY EXISTENCE! BOING MOTHERF-ING FWHIP!

Back to class: mixed blessing. My evenings were starting to get a bit boring and I was getting a bit funktified due to my lack of energy and my desire to do nothing but watch television. I am not a freakishly huge television junkie or anything--but when you're kinda going non-stop all semester and finally have two weeks to do absolutely nothing, it is difficult to get yourself psyched up enough to do constructive things like read and knit and carve sculptures of your family out of soap when ALL YOU DO ALL SEMESTER LONG IS BE F-ING CONSTRUCTIVE. So yeah. Television. Somehow that became the unhealthy solution. It is kinda sick when you actually find yourself a bit happy to be back in the insanity that is full-time school and work.

This week is our last week before finals, so only a week and a half more of classes this semester and I'll be all done with my first year.

How fucked up is that?

The double-edged sword that is next semester:

As I mentioned before, they may cancel our A&P night-class next semester which would make my work schedule the most f-ed up work schedule ever. Right now, we're all on the edge of our seats waiting to see what happens.

I'm leaning towards the hope that the evening class does pan out, though both the evening and day class have big big positives and big big negatives...

THE DAY CLASS:

• Taught by my current A&P instructor whom I've grown fond of;


• Taught by my current A&P instructor who has succeeded in giving us all a wicked batch of carpal tunnel due to the rabid quantity of notes we take nightly in class;


• Class is from 8:30 am to 2:30 pm on a Tuesday which is like a big flatulent wad of shit dumped into the middle of my work day;


• This would also mean 5 hours in a row (compared to our current 3) of excruciating cramping of the wrist.

THE NIGHT CLASS:

• It's at the usual time which is much better for my schedule but...


• It's also taught by The Bane of My Existence, which is its own double-edged sword--it would mean that I get to fantasize about making him get on his hands and knees and beg all semester, but it also means having to deal with his HUGELY irritating animal-torturing instructor-comedian persona;


• I'd actually kinda miss my current instructor who, as I've mentioned, has grown on me.

So it looks like fate will be the deciding factor.

I DID have a dream about The Bane of My Existence though last night, so maybe that's some sorta harbinger. He just smiled at me and never said a word. Exactly the way I'd like him to be all the time, particularly when bent over in front of me and my spike-heeled boots.

Two Things

My schedule next semester:

• Monday: Anatomy 6-8pm


• Tuesday: Physiology 6-9pm


• Wednesday: Psychology of Health 6-8pm


• March 2-4 (Friday--6-10pm, Saturday 9-5:30, Sunday 9-5:30): Neuromuscular Therapy Seminar, Part I


• March 16-18 (Friday--6-10pm, Saturday 9-5:30, Sunday 9-5:30): Neuromuscular Therapy Seminar, Part II

I am a bit paranoid about my schedule because as of right now, not very many people have signed up for the evening A&P classes. If 10 people don't sign up, I'm gonna have to take the day class instead, which means the most pain-in-the-ass fucked up work schedule ever, as the class runs from 8:30am to 2:30pm on Tuesdays. Good news if the class ISN'T cancelled: The Bane of My Existence is teaching it. *Conflicted sigh*

Oh, and ps. My A&P instructor touched my ass-dimples last night. I am sure glad I wasn't wearing my laundry-day granny-panties. =)

Earthy, But Sexually Deviant

Thursday was crazy with madness and craziness in spa massage. I really dig having only a handful of people in our "class" as it forces us to very quickly bond and get comfortable with one another, seeing as you're practicing techniques on the same people over and over. And the folks in my class are a strange but lovely variety--there's M, a middle-aged woman whose mouth talks faster than her words and is always asking 1500 questions. There's S, a gal a bit younger than me who is the bubbliest but nicest person I've met there and who calls everyone "hon" all the time. There's W, a fellow who says cutely flaming stuff every two seconds (this week, he started fanning himself and squealing about how he thought he was having a heart attack) and who coughs a lot and instead of just letting it go (so as not to be any more disruptive than the coughing) always has to say really loudly "Oh, excuse me! Sorry 'bout that" every time it happens. And there's J, the salon-owning fellow with the thick southern-Ohio-esque drawl who is short but built like the thick trunk of a tree and has a tribal tattoo that starts on each forearm and crawls up both arms and apparently onto both his chest and his back.

And so it was that all of us who were quickly beginning to bond learned on Thursday how to give an herbal wrap. And this is where all the crazy madness comes in.

I happened to have my bathing suit on under my scrubs (since he told us to make sure to bring it with us in case we got to the body paraffins), so I got volunteered to be the one he demonstrated on. Which is no big deal--it's always more fun to get a technique done on you by an instructor rather than a student since they already know what they're doing.

Despite me being the guineau pig, he insisted I follow them around to find out where everything's located before they "experimented" on me. The preparation for the herbal wrap is freakishly complicated and drawn out, requiring thick rubber gloves and lots of fricking patience. On the massage table, you lay out a sheet and then a towel and then another sheet and then a mylar sheet and then a plastic sheet. Then you lay out a wet blanket that's been soaking in herbs in a 180-degree herb bath and cocoon your patient up in that along with the overhang of most of your lower-layers of sheets and mylar. And then you wrap up 4-8 hot-packs (that have also been soaking in 180-degree water) in towels and place them at various areas on the person--ankles, hips, shoulders, etc. Hence the need for rubber gloves. And then you wrap them up the rest of the way in the cocoon and then lay a blanket over them. The idea is to get them to enjoyably sweat out any toxins and to relax all the muscles in their body.

After all that was explained to us, my instructor told me to go back in the room and take off my scrubs and put on a robe. (*bow chicka bow wow--and then the cable repair guy showed up and asked if I needed him to "fix my cable"--ah, but I kid*) Anyways, I did, and then a few of the female students reentered the room donning the infamous rubber gloves and the large herbal blanket that had steam billowing off of it. They stretched it out over the table, and then my instructor told me to remove my robe while they stepped out and lay down on it--they returned and proceeded to cocoon me up in the lovely warm layers of tea-smelling earthiness. We'd already been in class for about 3 hours, so everyone was reaching that slightly-cracked out giddy stage of night, so people were jokey and goofbally and grinning and giggling at me as they wrapped me up so tight that I could no longer move and my head was the only thing sticking out, making me look like a human burrito. And then they layered on about 4 hot packs, a couple by my ankles and two on my hips. And as they did so, I could feel a sudden and unexpected wave of panic and claustrophobia wash over me. My throat and chest tightened and I tried to calmly breathe and contain myself. The sensation passed quickly, thankfully, and the warm cuddliness of the blanket sunk in.

My instructor reminded everyone that you should always check back on your client after about 5 minutes or so and make sure that the hot-packs aren't burning them. He told me they'd be back in a few to do so and in the meantime, they went and set up another room for W (they were demonstrating on one woman and one man).

As I lay there quietly, the hot-packs on my hips slowly started to increase in intensity. I pondered this. A second later, S peeked in and asked, "How ya doin', hon?" I told her that my hips were starting to get a bit hot, but that I'd give it a little bit longer because maybe the heat would level off. "Ok, hon. We'll come check on you again in a few."

The heat didn't level off though. Very quickly my hips began to burn. Fuck, I thought. But then I reminded myself they'd be back shortly to check and I'd just ask them to adjust the hot packs then. Minutes passed. My hips continued to burn even more violently. I sucked in my gut to try to get the heat away from my skin. This worked for a few seconds, and then not so much. I tried to wiggle my hands down to that area to pull the heat pads up. No such luck. So I just lay there and sweated and burned. For minutes and minutes and more minutes. Apparently the other students were so wrapped up (no pun intended) in the other fellow's herbal wrap that I'd been forgotten. And then, thank jeebus, M walked back in again.

"I sure don't like the smell of the herbal stuff on these blankets," she mused. I tried not to shriek as I responded, uncharacteristically high-pitched, "Really? Yeah, I kind of like it myself. It's kind of earthy and nice-smelling." S entered. M said, "Yeah, you SEEM like an earthy kinda gal, so I could see that." (And so goes the dirty hippie stereotype again--even more mind-bogglingly so, seeing as they've never even seen how I dress outside of scrubs.) "Yeah, down-to-earthy," S shouted, grinning. "Um, yeah. Can you get these hot packs off of me, cuz they're burning my hips?!?" I finally blurted out. "Oh my god, yeah," both women said and scurried around as my instructor came in and asked what was going on and helped them replace the hot packs on my shoulders instead of my hips. Sweet motherf-ing relief.

But then our instructor started in on the claustrophobia stuff. "Another thing you want to be aware of is that some people can get really claustrophobic when they're getting this done, enough so that you'll come back after 5 minutes and they want out and that's the end of the session." My heart started a-thumpin' at the reminder that I was completely incapable of moving and/or freeing myself from the sweltering hot burrito I was cocooned in. I began to feel like something out of a really lame sitcom as my mannerisms began to coincide directly with his comments. I started to breathe heavily and tried to calm myself down by attempting to ignore his words. "If you come back into the room after five minutes, and the person's eyes are wide open and gaping..." S____ looked down at me curiously, my eyes bulging nervously... "...and they don't look like they're relaxed at all..." S___ glanced at me again; my muscles had started to tighten, and I was trying to talk myself out of hyperventilating--I know I'm claustrophobic when it comes to crowds, but it was news to me that I'm apparently not a big fan of enclosed spaces--"You may want to ask them if they're ok and/or feeling claustrophobic and whether they would like to be unwrapped." S____ peered at me again and then whispered hoarsely, "Are you feeling claustrophobic, hon?" I nodded my head vigorously (though sheepishly) and told her not to worry, that it should pass. Meanwhile, I was using the last of my willpower to quell the increasing urge to explode into a panic attack, complete with hyperventilation and struggling and screeching to "Get me out of here." My brain was no more than 30 seconds off from this when, thankfully, right then, they all scurried out of the room back to W____.

I talked myself back down and after a few minutes began to feel much better. Powerful, the power of suggestion, apparently.

Tattooed J peeked his head in my room a short while later and then snuck in, adjusting my hot packs as he chuckled at me. "How is it in there? Was starting to get you claustrophobic, huh?" I nodded my head as much as I could, given that I was wrapped up to my chin in blankets. "Yeah, I never realized it, but I guess I'm not very fond of being wrapped up so tightly that I can't move at all." He chuckled, "At least not at school," he murmured in response. My glasses were off, so I couldn't see him--but I could hear the big fat grin in his voice as he waited for his words to sink in. And then they did and I laughed out loud. "Yeah, exactly," I said, and he dipped back out of the room laughing to himself. Despite the blandness of the scrubs, apparently I wear the mark of a sexual deviant on me like a scarlet letter A.

A short while later, they returned to my room and (gloriously, joyously) unwrapped me and then rubbed me down with all sorts of lotions. (There is a thin line between massage school and p0rn; another thin line between massage school and harems.) And then finally I was done. And I was chilled (even after putting my scrubs back on). And I was damp (from the blankets, weirdos).

I threw on my hoodie, shivering, and shuffled around, helping folks clean up so we could leave. A couple minutes later, I suddenly felt particularly clammy and reached down to the ass of my scrubs only to find that my bathing suit trunks had soaked straight through and it looked like I'd majorly wet myself. I was peering at them as J rounded the corner, and he burst out laughing when he saw my ass. Ah, comraderie.

I grinned at him half-miserably, thinking of what a fun ride home it was gonna be, my burnt-hips throbbing (I had red welts all over them when I got home), my wet ass soaking into my car seat, a loaf of bread blooming in my pants from all the excess moisture. And of course, on my way out, ass sopping, I ran into my A&P crush of an instructor from my first semester. I looked so damn attractive, shivering, a bit high-strung as I came down from the claustrophobia panic-attack, hair askew, ass dripping, I'm not quite sure how he was able to control himself enough not to jump me.

But he somehow managed.

Herbal wraps--awesomest ever.

Basking in the Glow

So who should walk in to teach my Massage II class last night but the Scrubs-Nazi who gives me the evil eye whenever we cross paths and obviously and deliberately looks me up and down to try to find some inappropriate clothing that he can yell at me about. Fuck.

Perhaps I've not mentioned him before, but during the middle of last semester, while I was rushing around between work and class to both get my uniform on and also eat something and then clock in, the aforementioned Scrubs-Nazi followed me *all* the way down the hallway to very rudely inquire about the absence of my scrubs top (as it was not yet on my body). I very icily told him that it was not yet *on* my body because some of us were rushing around to get to school from work and have to *change* once we get here. He mumbled and grumped something under his breath and stomped off. Ever after that, whenever we would cross paths, he would go out of his way to make it clear that he was inspecting me for failure to abide by the dress code. So I of course took *extra* long to get dressed before class and made sure to switch back into a civilian top before leaving JUST TO PISS HIM OFF.

Yeah.

And so now he's teaching my Massage II class.

I about shit a brick.

When he walked in, I immediately took out my nosering because I figured I sure as shit was doomed if he saw that. I then whispered to my friend T____, That's the scrubs-nazi guy who yelled at me that one week! And she just looked at me with a "you're so doomed" look and laughed.

This wouldn't be quite so major a problem if it didn't mean that I am now gonna end up working my ass off double-time just to prove to this guy that I am *not* in fact the slacker chick he had pegged me for based on my appearance. Gah!

A little bit of info about the Scrubs-Nazi, so you understand my pain: he is an ex-Marine. He worked in a factory-atmosphere for about 31 years before making the (inexplicable) switch over to massage therapy. He served in Vietnam. And he does power-point presentations for each class.

Double yeah.

He also has the most monotone speaking voice I've heard in a while, and having to sit through four hours of class with him after having sat through a previous two-hour class and also 8 and 1/2 hours of work IS GOING TO MAKE MY SKIN TURN INSIDE OUT AND CATCH FIRE.

Erf erf erf, I said to myself the first two hours of class. This guy is going to be the death of me.

And then we went into practical and I got to play patient. We spent the evening working on client-requested massage (i.e. I had to fill out fake-paperwork about the fact that I have carpal tunnel problems and a perpetually stiff neck from computer-usage at work) and our partner spent 1/2 an hour devoting their time to working on these areas.

As he wandered around the room offering tips and suggestions, he stopped at my table and my partner T___ asked him what kind of massage could be used for carpal tunnel.

Color me impressed when he showed my partner how to pinpoint the area of the wrist/hand to work on by wandering up and down my forearm, stimulating my tendons so that my fingers kept compulsively twitching and flexing until he hit the problem areas where the tendon was no longer stimulating the reflexive twitch of my fingers--that, he said, is the area where I'm having problems. How many times have I been to the doctors about this and how many times have they shown me this so that I might be able to more successfully combat my sore tight wrists daily? You guessed it--not a once.

Then he asked about my other problem areas, and I told him about my neck. He started to very gently massage and then was like, "Wow--your one neck muscle is strung as tight as a guitar string." He then showed T___ how to numb the nerve and in turn relax the muscle by applying pressure to the motor point in the back of my neck. It was the most bizarre thing I've experience, body-wise, because as he pressed against this muscle, it actually began to jump and kick. He looked at me and said, Do you feel that? And I sure as shit did. It was my muscle spasming and it felt like I had a little Rosemary's baby gestating in my neck that was getting surly and kicking in utero. It literally jumped and kicked several times before he managed to numb it and then it felt like sweet sweet glorious goodness. He smiled at me and that was that.

Despite my initial reservations, he had won me over with his (dare I say it) professionalism and his tender and gentle touch. I guess judging a book by the cover works both ways.

So all in all, it was a good (albeit long) day. My two-hour massage clinic is *not* in fact the one where we work on friends and family (yes, I know you all are disappointed now--but that's NEXT semester apparently). Instead we will be spending an hour each Wednesday getting massaged and an hour giving a massage--no tests, no lecture, just massaging so that we familiarize ourselves with it more. And my roly-poly Russian instructor teaches that, so I am happy.

This also means I'll be receiving about 2 hours-worth of massage every Wednesday night, and ain't nothing bad about that--woot woot.

Tired and worn out, but my neck feeling like butter, I left school at 10:00pm to trek home. As I crawled into my car and switched into my crocs, who should walk by but my ABC Anatomy Instructor (henceforth to be referred to as The Bane of My Existence)... Had I taken just a few moments longer to pack up and clock out, I would've gotten to chat with him on the way to my car, but what can you do? Instead I turned on my headlights and let him bask in the glow as I sighed to myself, my stupid chest all 14-years old and giggly.

Death... Poop... What's Your Poison?

I had my first long night of classes yesterday and found out that I do not, in fact, have my Assholey But Crushable (henceforth referred to as ABC) Anatomy instructor this semester. This is probably a good thing as I will get to avoid the discordant medley of swooning and then angrily berating myself during four hours-worth of class.

And yet, somehow I was a tad bit sad. Color me masochistic.

Our new Anatomy & Physiology instructor is a bizarre little fireball of a blond woman whose brain meanders with an incoherence remarkably akin to my own. Her attitude towards learning is a bit intimidating (this is good), but she cracks my shit up--I have not laughed so hard and consistently in a while. Her bizarre comments will be finding a place in my sidebar to replace ye old insane Ethics instructor, no doubt, and this time they're shared with love, not bitterness.

Oh, and she giggled when she referred to a bony structure as a "horny protuberance," so I suspect I shall enjoy her.

My current A&P instructor discussing my ABC Anatomy instructor's obsession with all things death-related:

"He talks about death. I talk about poop. Death... Poop... What's your poison?"

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Continuing A&P Quote Collection:

"He talks about death. I talk about poop. Death... Poop... What's your poison?"

"Fissures! They're the cracks around your anus!"

"Cells! Make you wanna yell! ...
I's just kiddin'.""

Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde

Gah.

I hate my anatomy instructor so much. Mostly because sometimes I *do* in fact wanna jump his bones, and THAT IS JUST F-ING WRONG!

The man has two distinct personas--a sort of Jekyl and Hyde thing, if you will. One side I could just bat my ga-ga-y eyelashes over and swoon and fan my chest about:

He is f-ing brilliant when it comes to anatomy and what he knows about it.

He is damn talented at teaching--he can make clear and cogent sense out of the most complicated thing you've ever tried to understand. Rocket science? Pah. He could explain that in under two minutes.

He gets all nerdly and geeky and excited when he talks about anatomy because he clearly loves it and enjoys teaching it.

He values education and spent 10-minutes yesterday basically lecturing a couple of students who were bitching about a different instructor and telling them that they're not going to learn anything if they only take the classes of the same instructors all the time--that they need to challenge themselves to learn the material through a whole bunch of different techniques and stuff, and that *this* is ultimately how they will learn and that *this* is what is ultimately important, not the grades.

He is a smart-ass and has a quick-wit and biting tongue.

And then there's Mr. Hyde:

His facial expression, his demeanor, his whole persona change as if a switch has been flicked and he goes off on extended ramblings degrading his wife and kids, or discussing how much he enjoyed torturing lab rats or how beating his dog is the only way to train her to be a good dog etc. etc.

I suspect most of this is bluff, that mostly he's just talking big and saying stuff for the shock value.

But it's disturbing to this animal-loving nerd. Mostly because some days I just absolutely adore the rat bastard and other days I find myself hating him *so much* during class that it makes my face burn. And I'm completely incapable of reconciling these two very disparate figures, so it drives me mad and makes me wanna beat myself with a long switch for the moments where I just wanna put my chin on my hands and stare longingly at him.

*Sigh*

Oh, but I did get a 99% in the class. To which I say, Stuff *THAT* in your animal-torturing asshole and smoke it, Mr. Hyde.

It shall most definitely be a mixed blessing if I get stuck with him again next semester.

Lucy! I'm Home!

According to our anatomy instructor, they've found that with elderly folks who've been dancers most of their adult lives, that just playing a song to which they once performed over and over and over again will actually *cause* their motor neurons to begin firing in the *exact* pattern of movements the dance once entailed, causing their muscles to begin contracting in rhythm to their old routines...

This is weird and beautiful and worthy of being written into a poem.

Also according to our anatomy instructor: Desi Arnaz is apparently Mexican and preparing to celebrate Cinco De Mayo.

Um, yeah.

So Yeah, Every Once in a While He's Funny in a Way that Doesn't Make Me Wanna Stab Him in the Knee with a Fork

"There's only two things I'm afraid of in this world:
nuclear war and carnies..."

--My anatomy instructor